The pity party

When I was a kid I loved to dance. Anywhere. Almost as much as I loved to read. I danced in the street, on my way to school, in the local shop and at the back of the smoke-filled bingo hall where I tagged along every Thursday night with a neighbour who had no kids of her own.

Old women on their doorsteps would shout small encouragements as I counted out beats with my toes to tunes only I could hear and as I lunged left or right, pointing my hands towards the sky and gazing earnestly upwards. Every now and then, I’d convince my friends to allow me to choreograph them. (Until they became bored of being directed a bit too enthusiastically.)

I was seven or eight when I knew for sure I wanted to do more than dance in the street. One Saturday afternoon I asked my mum and dad if I could go to dance lessons. I’d heard about them on the TV. Someday, maybe, they told me. There just wasn't the money for luxuries like that.

I couldn't let it go, so when I heard disco dancing classes had started for 10p every Tuesday night at the church hall, there was no stopping me. It was exactly the amount I got in pocket money of a Friday when my dad came home from working on the building site. Each week until my early teens I walked the mile to the church hall where I handed it over and danced my heart out for 90 minutes to the records played by Sammy and Peggy, two old-time ballroom champions.

‘Can You Feel It’, ‘Stayin’ Alive’, ‘Don't Stop ‘Till You Get Enough’ sent me into paroxysms of concentrated delight.