Not on my grave!

This week's picture at Magpie Tales brought back a few memories!

Dancing is a funny old business when you think about it isn't it? You are kind of walking or jogging without actually going anywhere. You just jump or shuffle around on the spot, vaguely in time to some unnecessarily loud music. Why?

I’ve never been one for dancing myself. My first memory of dancing was when it was forced upon me at school  and it left an indelible smudge in my teenage mind which is there to this day. You see, it was awkward. I was at an all-boy’s school, and we had compulsory dance lessons in 'preparation for adulthood'. I ask you, can you imagine anything less romantic than doing the waltz cheek to cheek with a Spotty Simon or a Stinky Stuart? Then a year later we had to join up with the girl’s school next door once a week. The boys would line up in height order on side of the gymnasium and the girls would similarly arrange themselves opposite. I can still remember counting along the line to see which of the lasses would have the misfortune of being gripped by me before we given the order to forward march. You have never seen so many blushing cheeks in one room as you did back then. One two three one two three one... ‘whoops, sorry about treading on your toes’  And one two three one two three...‘no I didn't mean to touch you there, honest!’ (thinks...but you do have a lovely bum!) And as for the annual school dance..... no pop music there, just fox trots and not-so-quicksteps. If there had been tango, then maybe, just maybe it would have had more appeal, but nope!

I lived in London when I was in my early twenties It was the 60’s and we all know what went on then don’t we! But that’s another story. Thing is, I shared a flat with two other lads and none of us liked dancing so we did the next best thing and started a mobile disco. That way we could enjoy the parties at other peoples flats but could watch rather than participate. Clever eh?

A few weeks ago I went to my mates daughter’s eighteenth birthday party. A big do it was, complete with a live band. I was dragged up for a dance. I tried my best, but apparently flailing arms and hopping from foot to foot was not what was expected of me. Nor was the moment when I banged into the food table and sent sandwiches and iced buns flying across the dance floor. Nor indeed when I spilled my beer over not just one, but several other partakers. What a waste! Well, I wasn't going to leave my newly acquired pint on the table for someone else to steal so I kept it with me.

Dad dancing they called it. Dad dancing, I ask you. Bloody cheek. When I depart this life I’m having a fence around my little plot in the cemetery. There will be no dancing on my grave!