Life is short, the world’s too serious - it must be time to don a red dress
Wednesday, 15 July 2026
Ben Kepes is a Canterbury-based entrepreneur and professional board member. He is a regular opinion contributor.
OPINION: Indulge me for a moment while I wander off on a self-absorbed literary detour. Those who know me will recognise this as not entirely out of character.
My working life has zigzagged between trades, technology, business, governance and the outdoors. Threaded through all of it, though, has been a long-standing affection for books and stories, which is mildly ironic given that by most objective measures I was a fairly dreadful student. I devoted considerably more energy to avoiding schoolwork than engaging with it. Every now and then something cut through the fog. English managed that, largely thanks to a teacher named Miss Battersby.
Miss Battersby was a feisty, red-headed feminist teaching in an extraordinarily conservative suburb during the 1980s. Looking back, I suspect she was far more interesting than any of us appreciated at the time. Teenage boys are not renowned for their curiosity or emotional intelligence, and I was no exception. We worked our way through Shakespeare, Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby and Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird - all books I still think about from time to time. One notable omission, however, was Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights.
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I discovered it later in life and remain slightly astonished it never appeared on our reading list. It's haunting, obsessive and gloriously untidy - the sort of novel that lingers long after you've finished it.
The story of the Brontë sisters is almost as remarkable as the books themselves. Three women growing up in relative isolation in a Yorkshire parsonage somehow produced some of the most enduring novels in the English language. Emily wrote just one novel before dying at the age of 30, yet Wuthering Heights alone secured her place among literature's immortals.
But this article isn't really about the novel. It's about the Kate Bush song it inspired - the haunting (and, to be fair, slightly weird) 1978 hit that introduced generations of people to Cathy and Heathcliff without them ever opening the book.
July 30 marks the birthdays of both Emily Brontë and Kate Bush. Around the world, people celebrate this curious coincidence by gathering in parks dressed in flowing red dresses, faithfully recreating Bush's wonderfully theatrical dance from the music video in what can only be described as a gloriously eccentric flash mob.
Viewed from the outside, it is undeniably ridiculous. And that is precisely why I find myself increasingly drawn to it.
As middle age tightens its grip, I've become more aware of how easy it is to retreat into safe identities and predictable routines. One gradually accumulates responsibilities and expectations. There are businesses to run, governance papers to read, lawns to mow and lower backs to protect. Somewhere along the way, many of us quietly stop doing things simply because they're joyful, absurd or faintly embarrassing.
Which is a shame.
Because if Wuthering Heights reminds us of anything - both the novel and the curious cultural tradition that has grown around it - it's that creativity and passion are rarely tidy. They exist outside comfort zones. They're emotional, irrational and occasionally just a little unhinged. The world would be a poorer place without people prepared to embrace a bit of silliness.
This year, for reasons I'm still not entirely able to explain, I've decided to attend one of these gatherings. Yes, this may involve a red dress. Yes, it means dancing in public. There is something faintly alarming about typing that sentence as a reasonably conservative middle-aged bloke from Christchurch.
But perhaps that's the point.
There is a peculiar freedom in choosing to look slightly ridiculous. The world currently feels relentlessly serious. We consume a constant stream of outrage, anxiety and division. Against all of that, a few hundred people gathering to dance badly in honour of a 19th-century novelist and a gloriously eccentric musician feels oddly restorative.
So if you're a fan of the book, the song, Kate Bush, Emily Brontë - or simply the idea of abandoning your dignity for an afternoon - seek out your local Wuthering Heights flash mob and join in.
Worst case, you'll look faintly ridiculous.
Best case, you'll remember that growing older doesn't require growing dull.