Learning to Dance

I never was a dancer.

I grew up among party piece singers, chancers, and paint artists. But the use of one’s feet was alien; a cold and barren planet that nobody spoke of, apart from a distant recall of my father’s flapping elbow-bird-inspired antics in 80s Christmas party sessions.

So there I was, on another cosy Christmas get together years later - I was thirty-four and the company I was keeping that evening were my soon to be in-laws! The evening had been progressing nicely in the home of Mary and Peter with whiskey and cheer and many musings and memories shared. The physical temperature of the living room was something Peter was renowned for. It was the kind of heat one could expect to find should you be the unfortunate fire fighter tasked with retrieving the last civilians from the carcass of a burning building - a petrol station....made from wood!!

The spectre of dancing didn’t arrive until my feet were so heavily sodden in Jameson’s finest malt …standing up was going to be a challenge. But that wasn’t the real challenge that evening. Instead, Peter was now kindly and publicly letting me know that my first dance lesson was imminent. This guy could dance! …and would have spent his younger days in country dancehalls wooing all around with his charm and grace. None of this is lost on me sitting there in the 100 degrees open fire with his farmer size hands now beckoning me up to my first dance lesson!

You want to make a good impression, don’t you! And it would be rude to decline such a kind and heartfelt offer. After all, he wouldn’t want to see his daughter engaged to a man who had little or no coordination in life! How would anything right transpire after all! I moved my clumsy Dublin size 10s inside of his perfectly poised, barn-dance-ready country brogues. His shoes were even staring at mine! The intensity and the fear of failure had somehow eclipsed that bloody fire. I was now the hottest thing in the room.

The audience of just two onlookers had the appearance of bystanders witnessing a plane crash from afar. Mary and Samantha did what they could to douse some calm on my obviously terrified frame! Saying things like “Just follow him” and “take your time” – something I heard, but instantly couldn’t remember.

The first instruction from Peter - and although I heard it - communicating with my feet was always going to be a bridge too far! At first my instinct was to try and show him what I had learned from my own father – or worse still – try something close to a Michael Jackson impersonator – who couldn’t get hired! …this was a waltz… and Jackson’s futuristic sliding feet were not going to work here – or impress my tutor.

I finally managed to get into hold and trip and stumble into Peter’s sharp and well-practiced manoeuvres – I was like a cat tied to the back of a sports car!

This should have been a nightmare – and indeed an evening to forget.

Only for the grace of a kind man – a perfect gentleman.

He knew dancing wasn’t for me…

He passed away last year and every time I think of him, I see his giant hands beckoning me up to the dancefloor.

Now, years later...that memory seems to be less about dancing lessons – and more about the kind of encouragement he always offered me.

Inklings Writing Group meets Tuesdays 11am, Annebrook House Hotel