<p>It was the fag end of 1965 in the remote tea estate where I worked. I was overwhelmed with official work. I knew I wouldn’t be spending New Year’s Day with my parents as I always did.</p>.<p>However, I wasn’t alone. Hugh Muir, a 19-year-old Scotsman from Glasgow, had recently joined the tea estate as an assistant manager. With the typical aloofness and reserve of the British, he kept very much to himself, cocooned in loneliness and perhaps homesickness.</p>.<p>My colleagues and I sociably tried to befriend Hugh. However, his keen awareness of his status as an assistant manager and the rigid social barriers that persisted on plantations at the time seemed to be a hurdle. So we let the matter rest.</p>.<p>Soon it was New Year’s Eve. Our local staff club was splendidly decked out. A huge log fire crackled on the lawn as we members huddled around it, warming ourselves and chatting. It was to be a New Year’s dinner get-together.</p>.<p>In the darkness, I noticed a stocky figure hovering uncertainly near the club gate. It was Hugh, unsure whether to enter. I rose and invited him in. Grinning shyly, he joined us around the bonfire, the leaping flames lighting up his freckled face. He seemed pretty relieved to be accepted by us. Obviously, sheer boredom had driven him to hobnob with us.</p>.<p>Then someone turned up the music. Quite unexpectedly, Hugh rose and, shedding all his inhibitions, broke into what appeared to be an impromptu Scottish jig. He danced solo with gay abandon, blond head thrown back and arms swinging rhythmically. He seemed lost in a world of his own, perhaps living out his fantasies. But he did know how to shake a leg.</p>.<p>Infected by his enthusiasm, we joined in, trying hard to synchronise our steps with his. We must have looked bizarre as we let down our hair and danced unselfconsciously. When the music stopped, Hugh himself led the collective applause.</p>.<p>Bonded by a newfound feeling of bonhomie, more restraint-free dancing followed, this time with our arms linked like buddies. Then, as church bells chimed in the birth of 1966, Hugh burst into a solo rendition of Auld Lang Syne in a Scottish dialect that was Greek to us. Hearty back-slapping and handshakes followed before Hugh joined us for an alfresco dinner, his face flushing crimson as the spicy mutton curry took its toll!</p>.<p>Looking back, youthful exuberance had decisively edged out snobbery that freezing night.</p>
<p>It was the fag end of 1965 in the remote tea estate where I worked. I was overwhelmed with official work. I knew I wouldn’t be spending New Year’s Day with my parents as I always did.</p>.<p>However, I wasn’t alone. Hugh Muir, a 19-year-old Scotsman from Glasgow, had recently joined the tea estate as an assistant manager. With the typical aloofness and reserve of the British, he kept very much to himself, cocooned in loneliness and perhaps homesickness.</p>.<p>My colleagues and I sociably tried to befriend Hugh. However, his keen awareness of his status as an assistant manager and the rigid social barriers that persisted on plantations at the time seemed to be a hurdle. So we let the matter rest.</p>.<p>Soon it was New Year’s Eve. Our local staff club was splendidly decked out. A huge log fire crackled on the lawn as we members huddled around it, warming ourselves and chatting. It was to be a New Year’s dinner get-together.</p>.<p>In the darkness, I noticed a stocky figure hovering uncertainly near the club gate. It was Hugh, unsure whether to enter. I rose and invited him in. Grinning shyly, he joined us around the bonfire, the leaping flames lighting up his freckled face. He seemed pretty relieved to be accepted by us. Obviously, sheer boredom had driven him to hobnob with us.</p>.<p>Then someone turned up the music. Quite unexpectedly, Hugh rose and, shedding all his inhibitions, broke into what appeared to be an impromptu Scottish jig. He danced solo with gay abandon, blond head thrown back and arms swinging rhythmically. He seemed lost in a world of his own, perhaps living out his fantasies. But he did know how to shake a leg.</p>.<p>Infected by his enthusiasm, we joined in, trying hard to synchronise our steps with his. We must have looked bizarre as we let down our hair and danced unselfconsciously. When the music stopped, Hugh himself led the collective applause.</p>.<p>Bonded by a newfound feeling of bonhomie, more restraint-free dancing followed, this time with our arms linked like buddies. Then, as church bells chimed in the birth of 1966, Hugh burst into a solo rendition of Auld Lang Syne in a Scottish dialect that was Greek to us. Hearty back-slapping and handshakes followed before Hugh joined us for an alfresco dinner, his face flushing crimson as the spicy mutton curry took its toll!</p>.<p>Looking back, youthful exuberance had decisively edged out snobbery that freezing night.</p>
