Friday, 10 February 2017

I will follow...

So the husband was true to his word on Wednesday night and came with me to Swing Dance Club.  We got there good and early (my fault again) and had to wait in the church hall carpark for half an hour while the twenty two dogs partaking in some classes of their own vacated the building.  Once we saw the mops and disinfectant come out, we knew it was nearing the time of our lessons.  The husband was as nervous as I have ever seen him (even more so than when we had the mouse in our bedroom).  On my advice, he had his best slippery bottomed shoes on, and taking a deep breath, we tip-tapped into the hall, and signed our life (or the next twelve weeks of it) away. 

The couple running the class were very excitable, especially the man, who reminded me of a fully charged Duracell bunny - he just couldn't keep still.  The lady was far more sensible, and it soon became apparent who the grown up was in that relationship.  He got told off several times over the course of the evening...for the over-fast music, the difficult steps, and for ad-libbing with his feet.  She then tipped the husband off at the end of the evening that the two of them hate dancing together which was a bit of a worry.  She also told the husband that he was in charge of the dance, and I should always follow - this was even more of a concern as I don't want the power ratio in this house to change at all.  He's taken this to heart however, and keeps muttering, 'I'm in charge do de doody do...' just loud and often enough to get my gander up.

As it was, the evening turned out to be brilliant.  To start off with, there were about fifty or so of us in a large circle, and we danced with one man, then the ladies headed off one place anticlockwise to dance, in my case, with the next unsuspecting victim of my size sevens.  Now when you have been with one man for a while, you kind of get used to the space they take up.  As I was partnered with various taller, wider, younger, shorter (that was interesting) chaps, my arm, which had to be casually draped over the man's shoulder, had an extreme work out.  By the time I had returned to the husband, there were several gentlemen nursing pierced shoulders where my nails had gripped so tightly, and one poor unfortunate chap with a hearing aid who had been subjected to a Vulcan Death Grip, such was the ferocity he threw me into a Charleston Walk. 

The husband was having a lovely time guiding various ladies around the floor.  Every time I glanced up at him, he was grinning like a Cheshire Cat - we may have to have a little chat about his over enthusiasm with the ladies.  But it's a small price to pay to get him there I suppose..

After an hour of lessons, and some free dancing at the end of the evening, the husband and I were broken.  Who knew a little bit of swing dance could be so demanding.  My feet felt like they were on fire, whereas the husband's, in his slippery bottomed best shoes were pinching a little.  We both agreed that some practising was required before we showed our faces again, so will be rock-stepping and kick-flicking over the next few days.

I would imagine that the dogs will stay out of our way while we're doing this.  Well no one wants a full kick flick in the kisser do they?

Especially the husband, if he doesn't rein in his boyish charm...



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