I can’t dance. The cliche is that I have two left feet. I just don’t have rhythm.
I’m musical in a clinical way. I can play tunes on the recorder, clarinet and piano, but I can’t dance.
I tried learning; I partnered a young lady on her debut when we were both in Year 11 (1983).
She might have been good, but I wasn’t, however we got through without disgracing ourselves.
I memorised the steps to the “Pride of Erin” which held me in good stead at country balls for the next decade or so. I even bluffed my way through a foxtrot, since forgotten.
After a few drinks I’m John Travolta when it comes to disco.
However, the fact is I can’t dance and don’t really want to.
Juliet wants to dance though. I’ve disappointed her in that regard. She has the natural Afrikaner love of dance.
Our daughter Maggie goes to dancing lessons and has already appeared in two concerts. She’s got talent.
Maggie was grooving with her twin brother Jim tonight and he’s pretty smooth.
Maybe he’s got the dancing gene, because it skipped me and Jim’s older brother Michael.
