Rhythm is a Dancer

Usually I approach any kind of rhythmic performance (yes, probably even that one) with the grace and poise of an average adult rhino.

After a few drinks I enjoy a boogie as much as the next girl but I would never go so far as to describe myself as a 'dancer'.

I purposefully avoid any kind of dance/routine-based exercise class on the grounds that I generally can't do half the moves, and if even I can do them, I'll forget which order I'm supposed to do them in.

So why was it that today, in my new class Body Combat, I suddenly morphed into a go-go dancer from the 1970s? I ponced my way around, hips wriggling, boobs bouncing and jazz hands a-plenty while while my fellow classmates snarled, kick-boxed and punched their way along to a series of aggressive house music tracks.

The instructor actually gnashed her teeth and made growling noises as I inadvertently sashayed through a succession of swing punches during a particularly nasty tune that was supposed to symbolise the metaphorical moment of the class's 'fight'.

'Left foot in the ring!' she shouted, resulting in me doing a pirouette for the first time in adult life.

The only possible explanation for all this is that I was temporarily possessed by Darcy Bushell. It was like the Moulin Rouge had suddenly rocked up in a Rambo film and neither one of us knew what to make of the other.

I think I'll stick to the treadmill from now on. Needless to say I'm not very graceful on that.