Dancing George The Obese Eskimo, Chapter 3 

          It was the night before the Grand Talent Competition and George's mum, Jackie Johnson, was darning  her son's furcoat, which was the fluffy white of a harp seal pup.  A  load-bearing seam had split because, if anything, George had gotten rounder and even more morbidlyobeser since he had handed in his entry form. She and Gunther had spent many a recent snowbound night discussing their son's lethargic attitude to studying choreography or burning the goo necessary to shake his Inuit booty with aerobic vigour, pessimistically concluding that George was going to take a short waddle to failure when he entered the competition. 
    Just as she finished her work with the whalebone needle, George came out of his icy bedroom in his thickest thermal longjohns, thanking his mum and squeezing into the repaired furcoat. 
    'I'm just popping out for an hour, Mum!' 
    'It's getting dark outside, well, darker.  Where on earth are you going at this time, George?' fussed his mother. 
    'I'm just doing a little last minute practice, Mum, don't get your snowglobes all a-flurry!  I'll be back in a hour, promise!' George promised. 
    Jackie Johnson nodded her consent, but reflected that George had left it rather late to think an hour's practice the night before would spare his blushes at the big talentshow. 
    George marched outside into an early evening so brass monkies it was bronze gorillas and made his way to the deserted ice-plain where the competition was to take place the following day. Next to the ice-plain was a mound of snow, and under that mound was a bag of grit that George had ordered off of Ebay and had delivered by Santa Claus (who works like a husky for 'Yodel' the other 364 days of the year). George had had to order the grit off of Ebay as bags of grit are contraband in the Arctic, for spilled grit can thin the ice pavements and ice floors until they can be as cracked as easily as 'salagok', the Eskimonym for  'fragile new black ice', not yet capable of withstanding a  snow-shoe stomped to the temperature-raising rhythms of Eskimusic, such as Eskimotown or Esk-Club 7.    
    George poured the grit into a pile, then proceeded onto his second task of the night. He waddled down to the Arctic Launderette which was only a few minutes' waddle away (one or two if one was walking rather than waddling). Now, tumble driers in the Arctic are constructed solely of components carved out of ice as that's the most plentiful material around. This means that a Eskimo tumble drier has a brief life-span of ten minutes before it melts and has to be replaced. A large proportion of Inuit GDP is therefore spent on tumble-driers (a chunk of that on launderette security to deter the various Arctic wildlife huddling around the tumble-dryers for warmth in the winter, well, all year round really). George whipped off his thermal longjohns like a corpulent Levi's model and bunged them into the tumble drier, then slotted a coin of Eskimoney, the coldest of cold hard cash, into the machine. He waited until ten minutes had elapsed, which wasn't difficult to discern because a steaming puddle was all that remained of the tumble drier  by that time, then pulled on on his scoldingly hot tho' now soaking wet thermal longjohns with as much celerity as an overweight Eskimo boy can muster. 
    He waddled out of the launderette at quite a pace, back to the waiting pile of grit in which he promptly sat down. He aggressively fidgeted his butt around in the grit, his longjohns still steaming, and then waddled out upon the lonely ice-plain. There, George plonked himself down on his fat arskimo again and commenced spinning on his tumbledried, gritcovered, thermallongjohned bottom in a bizarro little compact fatso breakdance. Just as he felt the ice beneath very nearly about to give way, he stopped and looked at the wafer-thin patch of the ice-plain he had created, an albescent ersatz salagok. Just right, George congratulated himself , but then sighed a cold sigh of condensation as he realised he had a very busy hour, or what was left of it, in front of him...
     By the time he returned to his igloo and to a telling off for being half-an-hour late by Jackie Johnson, George had repeated his tumbledrying-cum- fidge-gritty-breakdance routine another three times and left behind four wafer-fine patches on the ice-plain. That night he slept the deep satisfied sleep of one who has done the right amount of preparation for the day to come. And in his dreams the prizes and acclaim that would be his for winning the Grand Talent Competition in front of the Eskimo King glimmered like all the Inuits' gardens of patuqun put together ( 'patuqun' being the Eskimo word for 'frosty sparkling snow').