Peter Windridge-Smith

The music shifts to a familiar beat and some classic opening chords. 'What the heck,' I think and step on to the boards, only to meet the girls coming the other way.

   “Come on, this is a seventies classic,” I say, but they shake their heads. I’m not giving up that easily and as the vocal starts I point towards Keith, who replies with that very English salute. Katri smiles but none of them rush back on to the dance floor. We’re approaching the chorus and I still have my back towards most of the dancers. Well, it has to be done, doesn’t it? “Y”, I stretch my arms upwards and outwards; “M”, I bring my hands downwards in front of my face, leaving my elbows raised; “C”, I make a the letter’s shape with my arms to the side; “A”, I make an arm triangle above my head. Now they’re laughing! I continue with the time honoured actions. In between, I beckon, but they just laugh more. John and Keith are grinning widely. Mark puts his hand to his mouth and then stretches out his index finger to point behind me.

   Have you ever been driving down a slip road to join a motorway? It’s busy, but, heck, you’re not going to slow down. You look over your shoulder to make sure you match your speed to that gap. Then you turn back and inexplicably, the car joining in front of you has stopped just before the white line. You’re heading straight for it and there’s not enough time to brake.

   I turn round. The thirty other people on the dance floor are all staring at me. They have either stopped or are moving very slowly. Just as I start to feel self conscious, the chorus ends and I shrug back to normal dancing. They all begin to move again, but as the next chorus approaches I can see people furtively glancing towards me. Rather than try to swerve, I decide to crash in a blaze of glory and gradually move to the centre of the floor. Before I’m half way through the second set of actions, I am alone on the dance floor. The embarrassment has reached that certain level where I might as well go for total humiliation and my arm movements become even more exaggerated.

   I can see it on people’s faces. They’re trying to decide if this strange bloke is drunk or mad; if they should laugh or stare at the floor uncomfortably. Apart from, that is, my dear colleagues who recognise a bloody minded Englishman when they see one and are virtually wetting themselves. As the song ends, I give them a little bow, but the DJ mixes straight into 'Love Shack' and I think, ‘bollocks to this, why shouldn’t I carry on?’, so I do. Two songs later, somewhat to my disappointment people start to drift back on to the dance floor, keeping well away, of course. I take this as my cue to exit stage left.

   “Well, I’ve never done that before,” I say joining the others.

   “Sometimes you really are indistinguishable from an elk’s backside,” says John.

   “We don’t do that here,” laughs Katri, making a little ‘Y’ with her hands.

   “Thanks for telling me that... now.”