Fiona Leith: Let’s give dancing a birl

BLINK and you would have missed it. Turn your head to check where the latest in a succession of champagne corks had landed and you wouldn’t even have heard it, such was its desire to fall under the radar of conversation and rocket through the atmosphere to my ear alone with a stealthy lack of fuss.

It was a bit like that time at the petrol station, when I thought the attendant behind the counter asked me to marry him. I know – I was as surprised as you, believe me. All the more so when we know that the filling-the-car-up look is never when you’re catwalking your finest sartorial flair. Funny, on reflection, how “Will you marry me?”, can sound so similar to “How would you like to pay?” when delivered in such a heightened environment as a fuel queue at the local garage, from the mouth of a dark-haired stranger. Lots of impatient onlookers, pressure to remember your words/pump number – it’s a wonder more proposals don’t take place between the Peperami and Tic Tac stands of life, really.

This time, however, among the corks, what I hoped I’d heard and what was actually said to me matched up. Much like the gag about me never being able to find my purse, there’s a bit of a running one about my straining eyesight and futile resistance to an eye test, but there have never been quips directed at my sharp-as-a-meerkat hearing. At least, not ones I’ve heard. So, when asked, “DoyouwanttodoEdinburghdoesStrictly?” with lightning delivery, there was no mistaking it.

And with that, hilarity, high-pitched gesticulations and a few renditions of my much-lamented Highland dancing high cuts circa 1987 ensued. And the deal was done. In the gaggle of noise from my dining companions, it was all I could do to form “every little girl’s dream” and “move over Flavia” into a sentence before saying, “I do”.

Because none of us dance as much as we’d like to. Let’s be honest, that little swagger in your step during the walk to work when a tune comes on the radio, or in to your head from nowhere, doesn’t quite cut it in the euphoria stakes. A triumphant little Travolta hip-shimmy or Newton-John foot-swivel when nobody’s looking in the workplace ends with its own comedown if there are no lights, camera (optional), action (essential) around. Yet we watch dancing in our millions as prime-time entertainment, all the more so when the participants are a long way off professional (which, even come the event in September, I’m sure I’ll still very much be).

When we hit our 30-somethings and beyond, however, our Saturday nights, when not spent in front of said TV, are much more about food, drink and conversation than unleashing our lawnmower or lasso moves. Yet dancing is so primal, such a great social glue, that it saddens me how seldom we make use of it. Take any work party or wedding where people aren’t that familiar with one another and need the wheels of bonhomie oiled. Ok, so the initial steps on to the floor may be slightly forced, but social dancing can mask much awkwardness and act as a propellant for communal happiness.

And I’m all for leading the charge (awkwardness in tow). If someone’s asking, then I’m dancing. Lasso ’n’ all.