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.