If you happened to be passing a village hall late last Saturday and you noticed a little trickle of perspiration leading from the main entrance out to the car park, that was probably me.
Now, several days later, my leg muscles are still tightly clenched and my ribs still shaking – the latter from laughter. Have you ever been to a barn dance?
‘Oh do come,’ said these friends of ours. ‘It’s all good homely fun with lashings of cider and sausage rolls and things.’
What they didn’t tell us was that one has to be fit. Our friends play squash about four times a week, when they aren’t sailing or cycling or doing off-the-cuff press-ups. So, it appeared, do barn dancers. While they all tripped-to-the-centre-one-two-three, with no more than rosy cheeks to show for their exertions, I staggered clammily up and down, praying for the music to stop or at least slow down. I nearly fainted twice.
It wouldn’t have been too bad had I been able to cling to my spouse for succour but we kept on having those progressive dances. So while David, all flashing blue shirt and red neckerchief, skipped stylishly up towards the good guys, I blundered about down among the baddies. We were the ones with the hot hands, the uncontrollable giggles and the steaming temples.
‘Oh, we must stand up for this one,’ I heard someone say. ‘It’s so pretty when they weave under and over the arches.’
The idea, apparently, was to clasp one’s partner’s hands and make an arch. Theoretically, the next couple would then bob under it and make an arch themselves, so that we then went under theirs. Then, with lightning reflexes, we would make our frantic arch again for couple number three. And so on.
Are you with me? Well, neither was the rest of our set. For obscure personal reasons none of them wanted to make arches. They all wanted to dive under them. There was a very nasty moment when, head down and skipping like mad, I found myself charging straight towards a huge young police cadet, also with his head down.
‘But you’re our arch,’ I screamed at him in mid-swerve. And of course the two little old ladies who were now charging towards us were supposed to be down there but by the time I’d grabbed my cringing partner and we’d made another arch it was too late.
Just then someone’s husband galloped past wearing a fixed smile.
‘Hello, where are you off to?’ we called, but he couldn’t seem to stop galloping and in fact spent the rest of the dance as an odd extra man somewhere down by the cloakrooms.
‘Where are you, partner?’ the other half of his original arch kept calling, but he seemed to be past caring. And so, towards the end of the evening, was I.
‘Come on, you must join in this one,’ said David. (He swims a lot and plays badminton and was still appallingly lively.) So I kept on lurching on to the floor for just one more ‘doh-se-doh’. By this time I’d slowed down so much that we had to leave whole movements out in order to catch up with the others.
‘What a splendid evening!’ I gasped, as David helped me out to the car afterwards. But on the whole I think I’m more suited to the gentler, more rhythmic dances.
Actually, I enjoy all types of dancing but until recently there has been a longish gap in our dancing days. Now suddenly we seem to be trotting off to quite an assortment of dinner dances, local hops and dark discos. And it is immediately noticeable that things have come a long, long way from the old slow-slow-quick-quick-slow.
In fact, on current dance floors it seems perfectly possible to stand on one spot all evening merely undulating upwards from the pelvis. (In infant drama lessons this used to be known as ‘being a tree’.) In the very trendiest circles it even seems to be considered smarter to do this just off the beat. But either way it can be soothing.
All the same, I wonder more places don’t cater for those of us whose dancing style hovers somewhere mid-way between Come Dancing and Pan’s People.
One older friend has worked out a splendid routine which sees him through any current pop sound. He clenches his fists, raises his shoulders, looks blank and marks time with his feet. Somehow he manages to make this look amazingly trendy.
I find a long skirt a great help. As long as one looks confident no one knows for sure what is going on underneath. It also solves the problem of what to wear.
‘Come to our club disco – just wear any old thing,’ may mean any old thing. Or it can mean that they are all wearing frightfully smart gear which just looks like any old thing. The first time I went to the expensively rough-hewn old mill with the latest sound, the swirling rainbow walls, the deeply fringed Tiffany lamps, etc., I wore something neat and dark and horribly noticeable. The second time I wore my Ossie Clark patchwork.
But for the barn dance, comfortable shoes are what matter. Roller skates even. And something to mop up the sweat. Plus some sort of advance assault course. As for me, I’ll be just fine once I get my muscles unclenched.