Sunday, 5 February 2017

Dance, dance, dance...

The husband and I have decided that at the combined age of 107, we are going to go to dancing lessons.

I'll just give you a chance to compose yourself as I am expecting morning tea to have been spat across who ever is sitting opposite to you currently, or for you to have mascara running down your cheeks...

So.  Dancing lessons.  It's my fault really, and because the husband loves me so much, he is just happy to muddle along with anything I suggest if it keeps me smiling.  Some time ago, we went to a night out 1920's style, and the I fell in love with the dancing.  The husband, who is to dancing what Sweeney Todd is to a short back and sides, seemed to get the hang of this frenetic dancing pretty quickly, and we both had a brilliant time. 

I had tried suggesting learning to do this dancing a couple of times with no joy, but I have been very firm with the husband this time, and told him that I won't go back for another 1920's night, until we can do the moves.  As he is desperate for a repeat performance, the race is on to learn a reasonably gentle Lindy hop before we go again.

Yesterday morning, the husband suggested seeing whether there was anything we could watch on the internet which would show us what to do.  Before you start worrying, I am still talking about the dancing here...  After looking at various inappropriate websites (it's amazing what putting 'Swing in Oxford' in Google's search engine brings up) we eventually found the site of an American ex Swing/Lindyhop champion who, in 36 short videos, would show us what to do.

We brought my laptop into the kitchen, and set about lesson one.

Now.  The husband has legs and arms which are able to work independently of each other, even working at completely different beats, and I needed to clamp his hands by his side while we concentrated on the feet.  It looked so easy, but after thirty minutes of rewinding, replaying, rewinding and replaying, we accepted that unless there is a dance hall which is happy to have two old farts shouting out to each other "Step, kick, step, kick, lift, steeeeeeeeeeep (two beats)" then we weren't going to be cutting a rug any place soon. 

But we persevered, and after another ten minutes of hoofing round the kitchen, we were still no nearer to anything even vaguely resembling what Mr Lindyhop what demonstrating. The husband looked like he was suffering from St Vitus' Dance while my legs were so stiff that you could have hung a week's washing on them.

So we have decided to go to lessons. The first one is on Wednesday evening, and is in the Church Hall.  I am expecting lukewarm tea and soft biscuits, whereas I think that our dancing will be vastly improved with a swift intake of alcohol in the carpark before we go in.

Cinderella, I'm not sure you're going to be going to any ball soon...

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