The first Montreal Wobblesnake Ball began with a crooked invitation and a promise nobody understood: “Come dressed for an evening that refuses to stand still.”
By sunset, a line of curious guests had formed outside the fictional Lantern House, a narrow brick building tucked behind a bakery. Some wore velvet jackets. Others arrived in rain boots decorated with ribbons. Everyone wanted to know what a wobblesnake was, and whether it would be attending.
Inside, the answer hung above the dance floor: a green fabric snake, forty feet long, suspended from wooden hoops. Its body curled between chandeliers, while its enormous yellow eyes watched the entrance. Every time someone opened the door, a hidden pulley made its tail shiver. Children laughed. Adults pretended not to be startled. Near the coatroom, a handwritten sign explained the evening’s only rule: nobody was allowed to take themselves seriously.
An Invitation Sent by Mistake
According to the event’s entirely invented history, the ball was the idea of Mireille Plouffe, a retired umbrella repairer with a talent for organizing unnecessary celebrations. She originally intended to host a quiet winter supper for twelve neighbours. Unfortunately, her invitation printer confused “welcome, small gathering” with “wobblesnake ball,” and Mireille decided the mistake sounded considerably more interesting than her original plan.
Instead of correcting the invitations, she ordered another three hundred. Her nephew painted a snake on each envelope, although his snakes looked suspiciously like smiling cucumbers. By the following morning, invitations had appeared in bicycle baskets, apartment mailboxes, and the pockets of coats hanging at the bakery. Nobody knew whether attendance required dancing experience, snake knowledge, or permission from a responsible adult. Mireille answered every inquiry with the same cheerful sentence: “Comfortable shoes will be enough.”
Building a Ballroom That Wobbled
Preparing Lantern House took nine days and nearly exhausted the neighbourhood’s supply of green thread. Volunteers stitched the giant snake from discarded curtains, theatrical costumes, and one unfortunate tablecloth. The ballroom received paper stars, mismatched lamps, and a ceiling full of silver ribbons. Someone suggested installing a conventional stage, but Mireille preferred a circular platform that looked like an overturned teacup.
The floor itself did not move, despite rumours circulating outside. Its wobbling effect came from painted spirals, unevenly spaced lanterns, and musicians who deliberately changed rhythm whenever dancers became too confident. A carpenter named Luc built twelve chairs with curved backs resembling snake tails. He insisted they were perfectly stable, then spent the entire evening checking them. The thirteenth chair remained ordinary because, as Luc explained, every room needed somewhere sensible to sit.
The Dance Nobody Could Teach
At eight o’clock, the orchestra introduced the official wobblesnake dance. Its instructions sounded straightforward: three steps forward, one sideways, a gentle turn, and a bow to whoever happened to be nearby. In practice, nobody agreed on which direction counted as forward. Within minutes, the dance floor resembled a friendly argument conducted entirely through elbows.
The orchestra’s leader, Odette Belliveau, stopped trying to correct anyone. She announced that mistakes were now part of the choreography. This decision transformed the evening. Shy guests joined the circle, experienced dancers abandoned their careful posture, and a delivery driver invented a sideways shuffle that became unexpectedly popular. By the second song, the wobblesnake was less a dance than a shared agreement to keep moving and apologize whenever necessary.
By the second song, the wobblesnake was less a dance than a shared agreement to keep moving and apologize whenever necessary.
Supper at the Long Green Table
Dinner arrived on a table decorated with paper leaves and tiny wooden snakes. There were roasted vegetables, warm bread, mushroom pastries, and a mountainous bowl of potatoes prepared by three neighbours who disagreed about seasoning. Their compromise involved serving three smaller bowls beside the large one, each labelled with the cook’s name. Guests sampled everything and diplomatically praised the butter.
Dessert was stranger. The bakery supplied a twisting cake covered in green icing, with two sugared pears forming its eyes. Cutting it required considerable discussion because nobody wanted the portion containing the face. Mireille solved this by removing the pears and placing them beside the cake. They spent the rest of the night watching people eat. A small boy named Étienne claimed this made them the evening’s most distinguished guests.
The Mystery of the Missing Tail
Shortly after supper, someone noticed that the giant hanging snake had lost its final section. Its tail, previously dangling above the musicians, had vanished. The orchestra denied involvement. Luc checked beneath the chairs. Mireille questioned the coatroom attendant, who reported that several guests had collected scarves but none had requested a twelve-foot reptile accessory.
The mystery lasted twenty minutes. Eventually, the missing tail appeared in the courtyard, where a group of children had turned it into a tunnel. Rather than confiscate it, Mireille declared the courtyard an official extension of the ballroom. Adults soon crawled through the tunnel too, though several regretted wearing formal trousers. The tail returned indoors before midnight, carrying a little snow and a great deal of applause.
A Crown for the Least Graceful Guest
Every ball needs an honour, and this one awarded the Golden Wobble to the guest who demonstrated the finest cheerful clumsiness. Competition was fierce. A poet bowed to a coat rack. Two cousins tangled their ribbons together. One dignified gentleman spent half a song dancing with his own reflection in a darkened window, convinced he had found an unusually attentive partner.
The winner was Luc, whose inspection of the curved chairs ended when he sat on the ordinary one and missed. He landed safely on a folded curtain, rose with a flourish, and accepted a cardboard crown shaped like a spiral. His victory speech contained only six words: “I would like a lower chair.” The orchestra immediately composed a short fanfare in his honour.
When the Lanterns Went Out
By morning, Lantern House was quiet again. Volunteers collected ribbons, wrapped leftover cake, and folded the enormous snake into three laundry baskets. Guests walked home carrying crooked invitations as souvenirs. Mireille promised nothing about another celebration, but she kept the cardboard crown on a shelf. Whenever someone asked what the Montreal Wobblesnake Ball had meant, she pointed toward the empty ballroom and said, “For one evening, everybody found room.”