Just write about dance

I’VE always fancied myself as a bit of a dancer.

I wanted to do ballet as a child and while my parents turned a blind eye to my furious pirouetting, I learned the basic steps with a book and a bedroom mirror.

So when we staggered around the training room last week, learning how to waltz, I nodded sagely as the instructor commented on how quickly we had picked up the moves.

“That’s because I’m a dancer trapped in a journalist’s body,” I thought.

But seriously, I have always enjoyed dancing. How good I am is another thing entirely.

My partner – who is quite positive about lessons for our upcoming wedding – still cannot comprehend my unbridled enthusiasm for all things rhythmic.

A preview for the lastest Antonio Banderas movie came on and honestly, it looked like a cross between Strictly Ballroom and Dangerous Minds but that didn’t stop my immediate affinity with it.

There was dancing.

What else mattered?

“How many times are they going to make movies like this?” Commented my partner.

By “this” I’m presuming he’s referring to the story where some gangsta kids are to taught to respect life through the power of dance.

What? It could happen.

They did say it was based on a true story (an argument that never holds water at our place).

Allow me to demonstrate (adopting deep cinematic voice): “The story of a gung-ho reporter who left a life of journalism after her third Pulitzer Prize to take the crown of Dancing Queen.

“Based on the true story of Peta Johansen – an Ipswich journo who was nominated once for a Walkley but didn’t win and likes to think she can dance.”

You see my point? Almost anything can be based in fact.

Anyway, it seems I’m not quite as robust on the dance floor as I originally thought. Sinking a few drinks at a local pub recently, I enjoyed the live entertainment by dancing along to about five or six songs.

So it was quite depressing when, the next morning, my calf muscles were taut from the exertion.

Obviously, I need a few more lessons.


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