Shall we dance?

As I mentioned several weeks ago, I have booked myself and himself onto a course of Latin American dance. Held in a college hall of our local town, a small group of us are treated to wise counsel in all things Latin American, by tight trousered Guido, and his “tits and teeth” wife Stephanie. Now I have not been to a dance class since primary school, where I was mentally scarred when asked to portray a dancing light bulb in some bonkers amateurish production dreamt up by the loon of a teacher who happened to be taking the class.
I love to dance, and will willingly dance with anything that moves at parties, sometimes even my husband. Although the period when he is actually able to dance sensibly is all too brief, and is closely linked to the speed at which he is chucking wine down his neck, moving from a sober measured shuffling, to a slightly tipsy gentle shaking; a short five minute period where I think we may be getting somewhere follows, which is quickly overtaken by leery arm waving, an unbuttoning of the shirt and a fixed gaze at the nearest cleavage that happens to be on show. This lasts for roughly an hour before he announces that it is time for us to go home. I reply that I will be over after one more song and direct him to the nearest comfy chair where he will be fast asleep within a minute with his head rested up against one of the DJ’s speakers. I continue to dance well into the night, with whomever I want before carting him home.

It was with some form of marital reconciliation in mind that I had booked us onto this course of lessons; a shared interest, nothing to do with sport, an activity in which we would have to make physical contact with one another, and one that would keep us fit.
Husband was gently informed that trainers and football shirts were not suitable for dance, he must wear shoes that slide, and a shirt slashed partly to the navel. I would be wearing heels, an irksome item for Sir as they make me ever so slightly taller than him, tight black trousers and a flame red frilly open blouse revealing an eye-popping décolletage.

Arriving early, we crossed the road to a pub, where, despite being sited in such a hot bed of the dance world, where thirsty hoofers popping over for a pre dance livener must be a common sight, we drew admiring glances from all at the bar. After preventing my husband from making a getaway through the toilet window we crossed back to the college hall, to find the rest of the class already in place. Guido stunning in shiny black, Stephanie a vision in Fuchsia; the remainder of the class drab in sports gear, and at least ten years younger than ourselves, one way or another we were going to make an impression on this lot.
Today we were to start the Pasodoble, a lot slower than originally intended, but nevertheless a pucker pasodoble. Guido and Stephanie guided us through the steps, and then set us off to music. My husband was getting quite carried away by it all, the technicalities of the dance, the positioning of the feet, hands and back, the careful movement across the floor, it all had something of the dreaded football about it. After a short while Guido and Stephanie, who had been working with each couple, moved in our direction and started to add a little polish to our performance. Guido took me in his arms and began to take me through the next few steps of the piece, holding me close and tight with his leg thrust through my thighs, I could feel my performance reaching a crescendo, when a huge crash behind my head broke my Guido induced trance. All eyes in the room fell upon my husband grappling with Stephanie, as a defender would a striker at a corner, a lighting unit lay smashed on the ground, and my husband, stunned by the focus of attention meekly mouthing “I was never any good at twirling capes” Grabbing my bag and apologising to Guido we hastily left the room to start an argument in the car.
My husband explained that Stephanie had whispered in his ear something about being hung like a bull, and suggested he have a go at some teasing and twirling with the cape. He had backed away to do some solo cape twirling and taken out a lighting rig, all at Stephanie’s suggestion. Of course I didn’t believe him and accused him of not trying, he replied that dancing was for girls and if he wanted to do sport he would stick to football and cricket, and so it went on, finally resorting to a tis, tisn’t debate over whether dancing is a sport or not. As he ranted on, I drifted away at the wheel, fighting back mentally as I selected a football team entirely made up of dancers, who would beat any team he could put out on a football field. In goal I immediately selected Rudolph Nureyev, a man who could leap the width of the goal and tip the ball over with the greatest of elegance. The entire defensive line would be made up by the cast of Riverdance, linked at the arms kicking and flicking at any ball or player that came close to the eighteen-yard box. In central midfield I would couple the experience of Bruce Forsyth with high kicking Rosemary Ford. Babs from Pans People could do her best on the left of midfield and may even cause the opposition trouble with some unexpected moves that no one would see coming. The Christiano Ronaldo role on the right would be filled by the Lord of the Dance himself, and possible Lord of the stepover– Michael Flatley; while the striking partnership of Ricky Gervais in his MC Hammer role and bad boy Brendan Cole, would give any defence problems. Fabio Capello look-alike - Lionel Blair would manage the side, Angela Rippon as assistant, Anton Dubeck would provide emergency back up on the bench, alongside the boogey babies. I would be Chief Executive with Irene Cara as my technical director. Side selected, my husbands rage had moved away from football, and was directed at what he called the smug grin on my face, putting it down to Guido being a little too “hands on” during the Paso.