our own dance.’
He took my hand and we started a tango which segued into a waltz and being Tony he did a surprise lift, which I didn’t feel I was ready for – but apparently I was. It all came so naturally to me which gave me confidence to carry on. So as the music played we just went with it. We swivelled and strutted and spun around the room and when we landed together, me clinging to him, one leg wrapped around him, my whole body alive with movement.
‘Now you can all do that,’ he started, but they were shaking their heads and saying how they’d never be able to dance like that; ‘I’m a great grandmother,’ said one of the ladies, I can’t make my legs do that!’ At this the others laughed.
‘Yes you can – everyone’s at a different... level, but what I want to do is give you the basics and you can then dance your own dances.’
There were now five couples in the class including me and Tony. One of the couples was two older ladies who Tony called the Golden Girls. ‘Come on Blanche,’ he shouted, ‘get those legs up... you didn’t have any problem getting them up for that silver fox you were with last night did you, love?’
Blanche and her friend (Tony christened Bea after the tallest Golden Girl) would scream with laughter at his cheeky comments.
‘You should be on telly, Tony,’ Bea shouted back between giggles.
‘I am love – I’m on top of that telly when Poldark gets his shirt off!’
The other students were two married couples in their sixties and a slightly younger couple who wanted to learn to dance for their wedding. And like Tony said, they were all at different levels, but the best thing about the class was that we all loved dancing and it didn’t matter how good we were.
Tony went back to basics with the steps again, but adding more moves as we went along and turning a few simple twists and turns into a dance. He was such a brilliant dancer he made me a good dancer – and whizzing along that floor I felt light and beautiful and young again. He was funny too, and when he wasn’t addressing the rest of the class directly and making hilarious comments, he was whispering in my ear as we went. ‘Lola – I reckon the Golden Girls are lipstick lesbians, what do you think?’ he hissed.
Tony had a theory about everyone – insisting the two married couples were swingers with each other and the younger couple weren’t even in love.
‘A lavender marriage, Lola, mark my words,’ he hissed while sweeping me across the floor.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. He’s so gay he can’t drive straight!’ he sighed, twirling me around. ‘He’s only here because he wants me.’
‘Wishful thinking,’ I laughed.
O ver the next few weeks dancing began to seep back into my life like chocolate fudge sauce on ice cream. It melted into each day, bringing excitement and happiness I’d never known before – and I couldn’t take the smile off my face.
Dancing helped me to lift the dullness of my life, like wiping it clean and sprinkling on some glitter. I could also see how dancing helped my parents forget their problems – it was pure escapism. Dressed in their dancing finery under a glitterball, they could forget about the unpaid bills and the bailiffs at the door. If Mum ever showed concern about money, Dad just told her she was beautiful and bought her another dress. We often had no electricity – but I had beautiful toys and we dined in the finest restaurants. I learned how to say chateaubriand before I’d learned to say ‘cat’ and an ‘amuse bouche’ was something I came to expect before the beans on toast when having tea at friends’ homes after school. I remember one particular occasion that sums my Dad up - we had no food in the house and Dad had just £5 in his pocket until pay day; ‘I’ll pop out and get a loaf or something,’ he’d said. In those days £5 could have bought a couple of basic but nutritious meals for a family of three, but Dad came home with three of
He took my hand and we started a tango which segued into a waltz and being Tony he did a surprise lift, which I didn’t feel I was ready for – but apparently I was. It all came so naturally to me which gave me confidence to carry on. So as the music played we just went with it. We swivelled and strutted and spun around the room and when we landed together, me clinging to him, one leg wrapped around him, my whole body alive with movement.
‘Now you can all do that,’ he started, but they were shaking their heads and saying how they’d never be able to dance like that; ‘I’m a great grandmother,’ said one of the ladies, I can’t make my legs do that!’ At this the others laughed.
‘Yes you can – everyone’s at a different... level, but what I want to do is give you the basics and you can then dance your own dances.’
There were now five couples in the class including me and Tony. One of the couples was two older ladies who Tony called the Golden Girls. ‘Come on Blanche,’ he shouted, ‘get those legs up... you didn’t have any problem getting them up for that silver fox you were with last night did you, love?’
Blanche and her friend (Tony christened Bea after the tallest Golden Girl) would scream with laughter at his cheeky comments.
‘You should be on telly, Tony,’ Bea shouted back between giggles.
‘I am love – I’m on top of that telly when Poldark gets his shirt off!’
The other students were two married couples in their sixties and a slightly younger couple who wanted to learn to dance for their wedding. And like Tony said, they were all at different levels, but the best thing about the class was that we all loved dancing and it didn’t matter how good we were.
Tony went back to basics with the steps again, but adding more moves as we went along and turning a few simple twists and turns into a dance. He was such a brilliant dancer he made me a good dancer – and whizzing along that floor I felt light and beautiful and young again. He was funny too, and when he wasn’t addressing the rest of the class directly and making hilarious comments, he was whispering in my ear as we went. ‘Lola – I reckon the Golden Girls are lipstick lesbians, what do you think?’ he hissed.
Tony had a theory about everyone – insisting the two married couples were swingers with each other and the younger couple weren’t even in love.
‘A lavender marriage, Lola, mark my words,’ he hissed while sweeping me across the floor.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. He’s so gay he can’t drive straight!’ he sighed, twirling me around. ‘He’s only here because he wants me.’
‘Wishful thinking,’ I laughed.
O ver the next few weeks dancing began to seep back into my life like chocolate fudge sauce on ice cream. It melted into each day, bringing excitement and happiness I’d never known before – and I couldn’t take the smile off my face.
Dancing helped me to lift the dullness of my life, like wiping it clean and sprinkling on some glitter. I could also see how dancing helped my parents forget their problems – it was pure escapism. Dressed in their dancing finery under a glitterball, they could forget about the unpaid bills and the bailiffs at the door. If Mum ever showed concern about money, Dad just told her she was beautiful and bought her another dress. We often had no electricity – but I had beautiful toys and we dined in the finest restaurants. I learned how to say chateaubriand before I’d learned to say ‘cat’ and an ‘amuse bouche’ was something I came to expect before the beans on toast when having tea at friends’ homes after school. I remember one particular occasion that sums my Dad up - we had no food in the house and Dad had just £5 in his pocket until pay day; ‘I’ll pop out and get a loaf or something,’ he’d said. In those days £5 could have bought a couple of basic but nutritious meals for a family of three, but Dad came home with three of
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