Open Writing

My terpsichorean skills are non-existent. I can’t even do aerobics. I once sidled to the left, waving arms about in the approved manner, when the rest of the class were sidling to the right. I tried to change, got my feet in a knot and – fell over.

But the quesdtion above has stuck in my mind ever since my schooldays, when our wonderful but very alarming music teacher, Miss Narcisse-Mair, set us the task of composing a melody to that little phrase. I must have managed something passable, as I didn’t fail the exam.

It’s reminded me of the days when Mum, God bless her, thought it would be a good idea for me to learn ballroom dancing. I was about eight, and by then the Twist, the Frug, the Hully-Gully and the Stand On One Spot and Twitch already held sway. But she thought it would stand me in good stead for “when you get old enough to go to dances”. Dances? Oh dear, Mum – you were out of the swim! And – the kid up the road was going. Mum was far more competitive with this kid than I was, and convinced I ought to outdo her in anything she chose to do. Daft. We got on OK, but we were very different in our tastes, aptitudes and interests.

Incidentally, both my parents were ace at ballroom dancing, and I used to love to watch them at the works dances. A good-looking pair too. It filled me with pride to see them as they swirled and glided (or should that be glid?) round the floor, the stars of the show.

Any old how, once I found out that my cousin Barbara was going too, and would introduce me to her pals from Chatham (who sounded as though they would be fun), I capitulated. The class was held in a dancehall above the local fleapit. As I was already going to Saturday morning pictures, Mum supplied me with an extra two bob for the entry fee, and off I went.

It was murder. For a start, the instructor obviously didn’t Bath with Breeze (blimey, I’m showing my age there). For those too young to remember, Breeze was a brand of soap, a bit like Lifebuoy, which was supposed to have a built-in deodorant. He wasn’t quite as mephitic as Brown Owl, Bucket and Smell, but definitely had a problem. As well as the one he had, trying to teach me to waltz. There I was, mouth-breathing and trying not to tread all over his feet, while he counted “one-two-three, one-two-three”. To no avail. The record might as well have been in nine-four, for all the use I was.

Odd, really. As a singer, I can feel, and handle, pretty well any time signature and tempo. But I can’t bloody dance! However, I’ve asked around a few musicians and found I’m far from alone in this. Some just WON’T dance as they consider it only fit for punters, of course. With one exception – I’ll tell you about him later.

Mercifully, Pongy Percival had other students to teach, so he handed out the gas-mask and swooped off with one of them. I sloped off to a dark corner, where Barbara got busy introducing me to her pals. One called Paul, I remember. Even at my tender age, I thought he was quite fetching.

Then – the whole mood changed. No, Pongy Percival didn’t put on a Beatles record. It was “Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue”, but we twitched, twisted and hully-gullied for all we were worth. One part of the lyric stuck in my mind:

“Could she love
Could she coo
Could she, could she could she coo
Has anybody seen my girl?”

It could have been “coochy-coo” of course. Whichever, it was downright silly, and I was giggling as I twisted. A good trick if you can pull it off, as Kenneth Williams used to say. Next record was a rocked-up version of “In the Mood”. I thought it was dire, as I rather liked the original, Glenn Miller version. But it was good for twisting to, so there we all were, in danger of spine dislocation.

I spent the rest of the session getting to know Barbara’s pals – one of whom was a pleasant girl of Polish parentage. She was wearing a lovely blue coat, which I coveted! The conversation went like this:

“What’s it like in Poland, Helena?”

(Broad grin) “Dunno. Never been there!”

The family was planning a trip later in the year to visit Helena’s grandparents, but I lost touch with her so never got to find out (from her, anyway), what Poland was like.

I went to the dancing class a couple more times (under duress) but eventually Mum accepted I was never going to be a dancer, and let me off going. There was two bob saved, at any rate.

And the musician who liked to dance? His name was Ken and he was a trombone player. Once he was doing a gig somewhere “oop North” and spotted a beautiful girl from the bandstand. “She was like a young Elizabeth Taylor” he told me. Reluctantly, the bandleader let him off playing the next number, and he promptly asked her to dance. She nodded, and smiled a Mona Lisa smile. Ken propelled her round the dance floor, attempting to get her to say something. But no matter what he said, he only got the Mona Lisa smile in response. At the end of the dance, piqued with curiosity, he said to her:

“You don’t say much, do you?”

She opened her mouth, revealing some pretty gruesome gnashers, and replied in finest gormless fashion:

“Aah’ve got nowt te seeah….”

Poor old Ken! Another fine romance bit the dust as he hurried back to the bandstand.