October - lame & bad

We have reached the back end of October already and I’m a recovering cold-aholic. Yet despite thundering sinuses I am determined to crashdance before the month is through.

I decide upon the Lambada. I’m not exactly sure why. In fact I have absolutely no idea what the Lambada is. (Retrospectively I’m still not sure I could enlighten you either). The dance school brochure informs me that it is in fact not a model of car, but a passionate and graceful Brazilian party dance. Nope I’m still none the wiser.

I arrive punctually and take my place in the stairwell. There’s a Samba going on in the next classroom. It looks hectic and my sinuses pulse in time to the Latino beats.

We wait.

We wait some more.

We wait some more still.

I am told that this is the “Brazilian way”.

(It’s the British way to be punctual… I’m just saying).

To break the monotony of waiting, up bounds Kitty - a blond, athletic, tall and eager first-time Lambada dancer. She is giddy with excitement in a half dancer, half Labrador kind of way.

Kitty is a trained dancer but similarly doesn’t have a clue what the Lambada is. And despite already establishing myself as a first-timer too, I suddenly become the Lambada expert. She excitably fires off questions. These quickly bore me, so I less excitably make up answers.

We eventually are allowed into the classroom. There’s not many of us present (some presumably have perished with the wait & the incessant questions in the stairwell). To compensate and pad out the numbers we have been given two tutors who launch us immediately into a warm up comprising of the basic Lambada steps.

It’s tragic to say but I am instantly lost in the warm up alone. The problem stems from the fact that I can’t even see the tutor’s feet beneath her unfeasibly long trousers. So in my imagination the basic Lambada steps consist of a moon walk. Upon request she hikes up her trouser legs like a Brighton beach paddler. This doesn’t give off the graceful air of “Brazilian party” dance attire and after checking herself out in the mirror they are promptly rolled back into place.

We get to work mastering the three beat steps – leading from the right / no the left / no the right / did I say right? I meant left… To be honest no one including the tutors seems to know which foot to lead from, which keeps us on our toes (literally) in a kind of Russian roulette kind of way.

Not having mastered the basic steps we are then paired up with partners. I pull the short straw and get a sweaty, shouty man. I always thought the true art of leading a dance was meant to be subtle and implicit - not through the means of hollering the words “RIGHT” and “LEFT” to the follower.

I holler back.

My holler does not contain the words RIGHT nor LEFT).

And just before I can get into the full swing of my hissy fit, a mass exodus begins from the classroom. We have literally been saved by both the bell and a throng of African dance enthusiasts eagerly waiting to get in.

“Was this your first time?” One of the tutors inquires.

Either she is impeccably polite or she has had worse first-timers than me.

I think I know which option I’d place my bet on.

Similarly you can bet your life it will also be my last time too.