April - The Spanish Steps

Between you and me, I am ever so slightly confident about this evening’s Flamenco lesson.

You see, I had a Spanish Grandmother & to this very day the bog standard English & Scottish names littered throughout my family tree are interspersed with the exotic likes of “Auntie Pilar” (pronounced “Peeler” to a South Londoner I believe). So I’m banking on the fact that a lot of clapping and stamping and passionate prowling lurk in my genetic blood pool…somewhere.

The girls & one token lad in tonight’s class have gone to some effort on the costumes front. Other than the flash of my silver tap shoes (that are getting another airing), we have all opted for an indie-kid black long sleeved T shirt coupled with a long black flowing skirt. The adventurous wear tasselled head scarves. Combined en masse, we look like the hopefuls for the next Morticia Addams audition.

Obviously our token “senor” of the pack has left his skirt at home tonight, before tying his dark locks of hair into a greased-back pony tail and squeezing into a snug-fitting pair of (yes you’ve guessed it) black track suit bottoms. He’s pulled them up to a high waist as you might imagine a matador to wear his keks, & has tucked in an obligatory black spray-on top. This is a little like how my Grandfather used to wear his trousers. 

Our teacher for tonight’s class is a crazily passionate Spaniard. She is a tiny ball of joy with thighs as strong and as wide as two giant sequoias and the ability to call a spade a blunt shovel. I like her immediately. She lisps a rrrolled-“R” greeting to each & every one of her returning Morticias within one breath, leaving scattered thought & speech threads tangled around the studio.

I am one of two Flamenco virgins attending tonight’s dance session. The Senora looks concerned that two beginners are attempting a mixed level class. She explains to us earnestly & at breakneck speed that the art of Flamenco cannot be learnt in one sole hour length class & that the true art of the dance comes from within (cue thump of fist to her décolletage).

My fellow Flamenco newbie looks down-heartened & ready to get her coat. I’m still quietly confident - what with my “Auntie Peeler” connections.

And so with a clap of the hands and a stamp of the foot we are plunged with attitude into a fast paced Andalucian world of much noisy toe & heel stamping.  This is by far the most exertion I have experienced in my newly found world of dance & after 20 minutes alone I can now see how the Senora’s sequoias have grown to such a girth.

Our tutor’s pigeon English instructions falter at times as she grabbles to find the correct words of command. However, where words fail her, the power of mime, extreme facial expressions & visceral grunts take over, giving her the manner of a Spanish Marcel Marceau with Tourrettes.

“STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP!!!” she shouts in a frenzy.

The stamping gradually ceases and there is an eerie silence in the room.

“YOU!” (She dramatically points a finger & singles out a victim in the front row).

“YOU HAVE HOMEWORK TO DO!!!”

Senora approaches the quivering victim & begins to physically stretch out her posture.

“IF YOU WILL NOT STAND UP STRRRAIGHT, THEN I WILL HAVE TO…TO…TO…”

Language once again falters, so she finishes off her light-hearted threat with the mime of a gigantic cheese wire being wrapped around her victim’s torso, severing her into four pieces. 

We all stand up straight immediately & start stamping again on command.

“STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP!!!”

(We know the drill now…)

“NO SMILING!” “NO, NO, NO SMILING!” “WE ARE NOT HERE TO HAVE FUN!!!”

“YOU ARE MEANT TO BE VERY EVIL PEOPLE!!!”

Senora demonstrates the facial expression required of us all. It demands the psychotic, hacky look of a mass murderer. Think Mutya Buena with PMT. Fortunately this is the expression of how my face naturally falls. The expression which compels so many builders to shout out: “Cheer up love, it could be worse!” to help guide me past the building sites of life. I have never trusted folk who smile too much. Facially, with Flamenco I have found my niche.

The class draws to a sweaty and exhausting end & Senora struts her way over to us newcomers to check that we still have pulses & to drum up more business for her beginners’ class the following day. Personally I know that I’ll be walking like John Wayne for the entire weekend, so I start mentally preparing my excuses.

She targets my fellow newcomer first, stressing the benefits of the easier class for her abilities. Senora’s face reads “I told you so”.

It’s my turn now. But surprisingly I’m not invited.

“…BUT YOU, YOU ARE NOT A BEGINNER!!!”

“YOU HAVE NATURRRAL RRRHYTHM!!!”

Auntie Peeler eat your heart out.

Somewhere up high I can hear my late Grandmother stamping her heels in approval.

Obviously in time.

It’s in the blood you see.

March - More Belly than Dance.

I've got a gut (feeling); it's time to up the ante...

I am sat on a stairwell surrounded by chiffon-veiled harem girls, whose combined BMI fails to promote tonight's belly-dancing lesson as a cardio-vascular activity. Yes, for once I am not the fattest person in the class.

Our teacher this evening is a time-share tanned cross between Shirley Valentine & Debbie McGee. She accessorizes her top-to-toe harem look with a Farah Fawcett flick & the type of Queen Nefertiti pendant that you might pick up whilst working the cabaret circuit on a Luxor Cruiser.

She glides over to the "new blood" in the belly-dancing scene to interrogate me with a few bog standard health & safety questions; clearly annunciating each consonanT like only a Mills & Boons’ heroine could. Clearly, she is as mad as a haTTer

The other harem girls listen in to check out the new competition & to presumably make sure that my freshly painted toes don't carry leprosy. (To my knowledge they don't.)

I am told to join the other tracksuit-clad beginners on the left hand side of the dance studio by the windows. Those bejeweled with 18mths+ experience are allowed to take their place by the wall. I assume this is some sort of obscure rite of passage on the Egyptian dance circuit. Fortunately though for us beginners it makes jumping easier if things become too much.

We start things off with a bit of gentle posture control & a warm up routine. Valentine-McGee encourages her harem with over-zealous attentiveness each shimmy & wobble of the way. Her commands are delivered with a calm enthusiasm. They range from the practical: "Move lefT... turn righT!!!” to the more absurd: "Bazookas forward ladies!!!" And it is only when we are asked to clench in our nether regions "as though we are holding a pencil in our vagina", that I am momentarily & rhythmically thrown off course.

(I do imagine...

But I can't decide on which crayola pantone reference to chose...

So I opt for imagining something a little larger instead.)

Now that we are all nicely warmed up & have shed that extra layer of dignity, we begin by learning a few basic moves: the hooker hip lift, the Charlie’s Angels gun stance & the principles of a belly wave (or in my case wobble). I am clearly more belly than dance.

The music is turned on and our in resident drummer beats off some rhythms for us ladies to shake our ample folds of flesh to. The moves learnt are incorporated into a circular wicker-man-esque nymph dance. The girl in front of me is far too slow and holds up the round. Our jiggling circle bottlenecks. The more experienced dancers concentrically start over-taking on the inside to show off their moves in the inner chiffon sanctum. Things spiral out of control.

As a grand finale we are further encouraged to explore our own space with the music and are urged to add in our very own signature moves.

I don't have any moves; let alone signatory ones.

And I'm far too British for this sort of thing.

I'm bored with looking at proud rolls of flesh and ample "Bazookas!!!"

I'm bored with treading on costume beads and sequin fallout.

The window plummet suddenly looks more of an attractive option.

But I signature move my way towards the door instead.

February - Tap tap tap tap tap

FEBRUARY / TAP

MONDAY 9TH FEBRUARY 09


My tap shoes have arrived. They are silver. I have been staring at them for days like an excitable child. I admit that on occasion I have even worn them around the office. I kid myself that this is to break them in, but secretly it make trips to the floor-tiled toilet more interesting.

Tonight’s tap class is taken by London’s answer to Lionel Blair. My silver shoes act as a bedazzling bluff to my actual experience & capabilities and I “shuffle-ball-change” my way monotonously through an hour of foot-stamping noise. I like it.

Other shoeless beginners haven’t really thought through their first tap experience & sneaker-squeak their way across the floor like Michael Jordan.

There’s something strangely soothing about the ceaseless monotony of this foot percussion.

There’s something strangely soothing about the ceaseless monotony of this foot percussion.

There’s something strangely soothing about the ceaseless monotony of this foot percussion.

(You get the picture).

I seem to have found my recurrent niche & even leave wanting to repeat the experience - that is once I’ve checked out repetitive production assembly line job vacancies…

January - Simply Ballroom

SUNDAY, 25TH JANUARY 09

All aboard & destination dance school.

I am sat on a bus in the rain, at a time of day that saner mortals are still experiencing the pleasures of a double tog duvet & the Archers’ omnibus.

I have the sole company of my hangover. We don’t look our prettiest. We don’t feel our prettiest. In fact I feel sick. I’m not sure if this is nerves or the hangover grumbling.

I arrive amid a th(r)ong of lycra-clad umpa-lumpas, pushing to enrol on the dance class they have set their teeny Sunday hearts’ upon. They appear to have spent the morning trowelling on make up & blow-drying hair. I’ve let the side down & make my shabby way to the front of the line.

I fatalistically decide to take the very next dance class going. It’s simply ballroom. The receptionist is either confused by my decision making process or doesn’t see me as a ballroom dancer. I don’t see me as a ballroom dancer either.

Me & my partnering hangover secretly hope for a sedate waltz. We make our way to the dance studio, via a “warm up / chill down zone” where more lilliputs bend their limbs into unheard of positions. They are clearly showing off. I am too embarrassed to stretch (I regret this decision on Monday) & take my place at the back of the class like the jolly green giant.

Two miniature Croatian ballroom champions take the class. They wouldn’t look out of place singing for their country in the Eurovision song contest. I suspect they’ve cheated on their January tans. I’m not sure that their dance routine smiles are genuine either. But they propel a jive around the room like an orange pocket dynamo & it’s pretty impressive.

For a split second I catch myself marvelling at their moves…until, that is, it’s my turn to have a go & my marvelling is replaced by an instant flood of disappointment.

We move onto a tango.

Now I know this is a tricky dance to get to grips with & it’s made somewhat trickier without a partner to grip. There are a dutiful handful of “anything for a quiet life” boyfriends attending. Their girlfriends’ look like proud dog trainers. I’m intrigued to know who will lead.

But the majority of single girls like myself are forced to pair up together. The taller ones lead. I’ve been tall forever. Suddenly I have childhood flashbacks of having to play Joseph in the school nativity play.

Tall girls are always made to lead.

I like to think I’m no exception.