Tuesday, 19 June 2007

Nine: Go dancing

God how I love to dance.

Waltz, foxtrot,tango, samba, rumba, cha cha cha. I love the feeling of swirling round the dance floor in the arms of a (preferably experienced) dancer. NOT a klutz with two left feet. NOT a wooden form standing rigid in front of me, afraid to let go and give himself up to the sensations inside him.

Dancing is a form of foreplay.....

Some music can be slow and lengthy, drawing out the exquisite feelings till you can't stand it any longer. Other music is hot, tempestuous, crazy and wild. Well, I love them all. Why the hell am I not dancing every single day of my life? As I think about it right this minute, I ache to be on the dance floor, preferably with someone who makes me burn at his touch, going round and round again and again, till I can no longer breathe.

I learnt to dance when I was seven. Every Sunday night Dad would put some music on the gramophone (I kid you not), and he would patiently and slowly show me the steps. I would start by standing on his huge shoes while he moved slowly round the room counting for me: 'one, two, three, one two, three' until I felt slightly mesmerised.

Then I would hop off and try it without his help. 'An apple for the teacher' by Victor Silvester, or Mantovani's 'Begin the Beguine' would be played over and over and over and over, till I got sleepy and he got ratty.

This was a regular Sunday evening after supper 'date' and I relished these times, waiting all week for the day to arrive and then all day for it to be our time.

We used to go to Weddings or any celebrations that included dancing, where Ma and Dad would dance only the first and last dance. The rest would be for me and my beloved dad. Everyone in our small town watched us dance with enjoyment, as I was the only child they knew who could dance like a dream, with the only Dad who would let her.

Throughout my adult life, I have possibly had only two partners who were good dancers, and both were called Tony. I met and danced with them twenty years apart and neither were my husbands. Enough said.

One of the best surprises I ever got was a birthday treat to the UK Ballroom Championships in Bournemouth about 1992. It was a magical evening and I was enthralled by the whole spectacle. I also remember sitting there knowing that a) I would never dance like that and b) No one would ever make me feel as special as my daddy had all those years before.

Now the question is: Will I do something about it, or will I just sit sadly and remember?