Electric Legs (and Arms)

Like most people I’ve had a few regrets, but then again they’ve been too few to mention.

One that is mentionable though is realising that I can dance just as well/badly as everyone else almost before it was too late. Once this realisation descended on me I found myself able to fling limbs around with reckless abandon, though sadly, by that time, my dancing days were already numbered.

Now, being in my early 30’s and finding myself in the glorious circumstance of fatherhood, my dancefloor escapades are likely to be confined to weddings, in which I’ll dutifully embarrass the kids in the traditional manner.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to indulge in any body-popping (as these days the only thing “popping” would most likely be my ball joints out of their sockets) or don spangly unflattering leotards and smile toothily, pirouetting around to rapturous applause. Even the simple act of getting out of bed in the morning causes a multitude of joints to click, so any attempt at tripping the light fantastic would probably sound like gunfire (or ironically, applause).

So for all self-conscious individuals of a reasonably youthful age who spend evenings stuck to the walls around the periphery of a dancefloor like barnacles on the hull of Hagar’s longboat, I’d urge you to venture into the throng, no matter how much courage or alcohol you need. You’ll never look back (apart from to see if someone’s nicked your pint).