If I told you I was at a BBQ on a November Saturday night in Scotland, you'd think I was fibbing, right?
Well thanks to the bonkers weather we're getting these days, we were actually living that dream. It was a great chance to meet more of the neighbours, sink a few mulled wines and, so I'm told, 'freak out' with Mr Slimma to some good tunes.
We're a bit out of practice, but fortunately my neighbour 'two down' is quite keen on throwing a few shapes and before long we were all convinced we could 'J-set' better than Beyonce.
It was all going fabulously...until I woke up the next morning in a cold sweat with a very troublesome thought.
Did I really agree to go with my twinkle-toed neighbour to a 'real' dance class on Tuesday night? Oh boy, I think I did.
What was I thinking?!
Apart from my pathalogical fear of lycra, the words 'at the end of the class we do balletic jumps in pairs' keep returning to haunt me.
So I've now got a 'Kids from Fame' scenario spinning round in my head - the only difference being the Kids from Fame weren't totally off their tits on mulled wine when they were dancing.
Suddenly I fully grasp what their teacher meant when she said...
'Right here's where you start paying!'
3 November 2009
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