I don't dance. Strike that. It's not so much that I don't dance. Let's face it. I can't dance. And like other activities at which I'm rubbish, such as swimming, cross-country running and solo choral singing, I tend to do my utmost not to partake of them. Cue the thin white duke:

Dance with me - don't dance with me
Beep beep
— Fashion, David Bowie

So, there I was on Saturday night at a bit-of-a-do, a combined silver anniversary & 18th birthday party, complete with live disco (thanks to the Burwell Bentleys, by the way, for a fun evening). Pretty good selection of music for the occasion, in my humble opinion, from Madonna to Mud to SClub7 to Tom Jones. Admittedly, I had to seek advice on most tunes more recent than 1995 - what is this macarena thang, fr'instance, and what is Lolly? - and before too long the dancefloor was filling up. I remained firmly seated.

In the privacy of my own home, with the gramophone pumping out the Stereo MCs, a transformation happens. I become Travolta, Robin Cousins and Jennifer Beals rolled into one, though that's not the Travolta from Saturday Night Fever, but Pulp Fiction. Arms move in a wild flapping fashion, head spins, and even legs jerk unpredictably. Typical of the avant-garde, you wouldn't know quite what to make of it, and you certainly couldn't take your eyes off it. And you wouldn't want to be too close to it.

For a few minutes on the night, the genie was let out of the box, and I did my best to get down on it, cut a rug and shake my moneymaker. Everyone, not least myself, was hugely relieved when I back sipping a cold non-alcoholic beverage one more time. Get your back up off the wall, indeed.

Be seeing you!

Ed