Dance floors always remind me of ‘the first dance’ on my wedding day – and not in a good way.
I’d had lessons and received bespoke tuition to a specific track on Disque de Danse (volume 2). In fact, the dance studio gave us the record so that I could waltz to a familiar tune on the big day.
Nevertheless I froze and was dragged around the dance floor by Management like a fossilised log with all the natural rhythm of something that had been turned to stone over the millenia.
Consequently, a few years ago when Management and I were invited to a friend’s birthday party and the Tall Child asked if I was going to show off any ‘killer’ dance moves. I told him “Yes. People would die laughing”.
So imagine the amusement (at my expense, of course) when, several months after my sister-in-law’s celebratory ceilidh, Management’s oldest friend, with whom I’d danced an approximation to the St Bernard’s Waltz, wrote in a birthday card to her (in all seriousness) that:
“He’s a good dancer, that man of yours”
Laugh? I nearly signed up for Strictly!
