Strictly Ballroom and me

I saw Strictly Ballroom when it first came out, when I was living in Australia. It took me back in time, and I swear that parts of it are serious documentary than affectionate comedy. I have met an awful lot of Shirleys and Tina Sparkles in my time! I love it, and it is one fim that can be relied upon to perk me up when I am feeling down.

I love it even more because I have had two of my own Strictly Ballroom moments. The first mirrors the scene when Fran thinks that she has lost her big chance to dance with Scott, but he surprises her on the steps and begs her to take to the dance floor with him. Surprise, surprise, her grandmother fishes her frock out of a bag (brought along "just in case") and there follows a mad scramble, via clever editing, for her to rush to the dance floor, appearing moments later, resplendent in red.

Years ago, when I was 12, I had the chance to dance at the international championships at the Royal Albert Hall. It was to be the last chance to dance with that particular partner, as he had told me a few weeks before that he was giving up dancing. I was devastated, because being 12, and blessed with an over active imagination, I believed that I was in love with him, and that dating, engagement, marriage and babies were but a few steps away, if only we could keep dancing together long enough for him to realise the inevitable.

I had convinced myself that during our last competition, he would look into my eyes, finally realise the truth, and sweep me off my feet. Participating in this one last competition had therefore taken on a much greater importance for me. It wasn't just a dance contest, it was about my future happiness and the entire course of the rest of my life!

Unfortunately, we got stuck in terrible traffic on the drive up to London. The first heat was scheduled for 10am, and I stared at my watch, horrified, as we were stuck in the interminable suburbs. 9 o'clock went past. The hand on my watch seemed to gather pace, and so 9: 15 went past, 9.30 went past. Still gathering pace, and as 9:45 sped past, I gave up all hope, tears trickling down my face.

The car screeched to a halt outside the Albert Hall at 9:50. My mum and I flew up the stairs, into the hall, to find my beloved, waiting at the edge of the dance floor, so handsome in tails. But it was too late - my dress was in the bag, along with my shoes, my hair a mess! So near and yet so far.

And then the ballroom mothers pounced. Right there in the aisle of the Royal Albert Hall. No time for false modesty. Someone dragged my jumper off, and plonked my dress on over my head; someone else was pulling my trainers off, and substituting gold sparkly high heels; zip pulled up; lipstick smeared on; tangled hair combed; the flurry of activity was over, and I was propelled onto the floor, with ten seconds to spare.

Waltzing around the Royal Albert Hall like a dream. It's kind of hard when you realise that your life peaked at 12, and it's all been downhill ever since. I loved that day; I loved my moment; even though we didn't get a recall to the next round, and as for snatched kisses, declarations of eternal love, and proposals, there were sadly none. But dance has stayed with me, whereas the boy's face, once so vivid in my feverish imaginings, is but a distant memory of a 12 year old's first crush.

My second Strictly Ballroom moment came this summer, when performing a solo at a friend's dance party. The dance was going well, the costume was looking good, and then the music started having a "moment". And another one. And yet another. The track was sticking, the lovely fluid sounds becoming a scratching cacophony. It jumped, it stuck, it jumped again, and I was about to give up the ghost. Then the clapping started. First one person, then another, then a whole table. Soon the whole hall were clapping the beat, keeping the rhythm, willing me on to finish the dance.

Strictly fabulous!