12) Lindy-Hop
September 2, 2006
I wish I had rhythm. I’ve been aware of my lack of rhythm since I was 14 when I bought a drum kit and formed a band with some of the girls from the Convent. The band was called The Revenge of the Stoned Flower Children. We specialized in The Cure covers. We practised in my bedroom. I didn’t understand my role as drummer. I would drum along to the tune. The rest of the band would scream. “No Lucy, you set the tempo. We do the tune bit. Let’s try Boys Don’t Cry AGAIN shall we.” Like all things I’m rubbish at, what I lacked in flair, skill and competence, I made up in rampant enthusiasm. I would bash away at the drums until I got bored. Then I would say. “Can we smoke out of the window now?”
Having no rhythm is a bit of a bugger when it comes to dancing, especially as I love dancing and always wanted to be a dancer on Top of the Pops. Nowadays, I need to remember the formula Alcohol+Music=Dancing The alcohol means I can forget the fact that I look like a haemorrhaging goat on the dance floor and imagine instead I’m Beyonce.
One day Male Friend calls me. He sounds as excited as an untethered bull in a field full of pretty Frisians. “I’ve just been to Lindy-Hop. Oh my God. It’s amazing. You have to come next week!!” ‘He’s finally lost it,’ I think. “Windy what??” “Lindy-Hop. It’s a type of dance.” “Great.” I mutter disinterestedly, getting back to Eastenders. “No. You HAVE to come. ‘Fortune and love befriend the bold.’” Now if there’s one thing that makes me madder than Male Friend ordering me to do things. It’s Male Friend quoting dead people in order to make me do things. “Honestly, it’s AMAZING!!” “Mmmm.” I murmur, thinking ‘how come there are all these new people in it and I NEVER KNEW THEY WERE CASTING?’ “Great let’s go on Tuesday night!” “Mmmm” I say thinking, ’Pauline’s leaving maybe I could get her job at the launderette.’ “Fantastic, Tuesday night, I’m excited for you!! You’ll love it. There’s lots of nice men there too.” “Yeah ok” I say with about as much eager anticipation as I might muster for the new Tatu album “Awright then, Tata!!” I add in my best cockney. I judge ‘Maybe I’m a bit posh for Eastenders. I wonder if they need anyone in Midsomer Murders.’
Tuesday comes, I’m just practising my “Full load or half love? Shall I put the kettle on? Oi! Is that you Sonia you little ccawww??” Male friend texts, “wear flat shoes and a skirt. Balham 7.30 DON’T BE LATE”
I dress in a black twirly skirt from Next, a frilly pink T-shirt, a sensible minimal bounce bra and my stinky, flat, Marks and Spencers waitressing shoes. I put on a sparse amount of make-up as I imagine I’ll sweat it all off. The look is “Pauline Fowler’s long lost cross-dressing brother on his way to Sing-a-long-a The Sound of Music” I hope I don’t bump into anyone I know. 
Of course I’m late. It takes less time to fly to Denver than it does to travel from North to South London against your will. However I’ve started to embrace my tardiness. High Powered Political Friend thinks that lateness isn’t such a bad thing. She maintains that some people are just easily deflected. I like this. I don’t know whether I’ll vote for her party though. 
I arrive. It’s a lovely pub despite being in Balham. The room where we dance is an old, beautifully decorated ballroom. It is gorgeously dimly lit and a glitter ball twirls on the ceiling. A lovely lady takes £7 from me. If I wasn’t dressed like a Christian Children’s TV presenter I’d think I was in Flashdance. The class has already kicked off. It is packed. I am shocked it is so popular. I spot Male Friend clutching a pretty girl. He’s waddling as though he’s been for a poo in a cubicle without loo roll and he’s shuffling about to see if he can find any.
As I am late there is no partner for me. I start the class dancing on my own. Late and alone. I try not to dwell on the fact that it’s an apt metaphor for my life, and concentrate instead on picking up the Charleston step.
I’m not on my own for long. A nice older man approaches, introduces himself and puts his arms around me. Now if only this could be the new metaphor for my life. We have a little dance. Well, he dances. I trip over myself and say bugger a lot. Then everyone in the room rotates. He thanks me and disappears. I get a new one. And so on. Within half an hour I’ve danced with about 30 men. Blimey. 
One tall, handsome man appears next to me. ‘Hi,’ he smiles, ‘Have you done this before?’ I wonder whether to tell him now that I’m contemplating stalking him for eternity. I decide not to. If I talk I’ll lose the 1,2,3,4 count in my head.
My alcohol levels are perilously low for this time of night. Male Friend appears. He asks me if I want a drink. Some strange words come out of my mouth. “I’d love a pint of water.” Male Friend looks momentarily concerned then realizes that it will be a cheap round. He dances to the bar.
The men are taught to lead the women. As an independent woman, I don’t know whether I want to be led by a man. I practise with Male Friend. I especially don’t want to be led by Male Friend. Whenever he manipulates me to go anywhere I rattle, “Yes, yes, I know!! Don’t push me..I was going there anyway!” I don’t do that when Tall Man I Intend To Stalk leads me though. I find I’m quite content to be steered in the right direction by his strong large hands. After the class it’s the Lindy-Hop Disco. Some of the couples are incredible. They’re mesmerizing to watch. I spend my time counting in my head and practising my one step at the side of the dancefloor, Tall Man I Intend To Stalk starts shuffling beside me. I look at him. He says. “Would you like to…..um…dance, er, with me?” I bounce my head up and down in time to the music to indicate a “yes.” . We practise the one step we know repeatedly. We touch each others’ sweaty backs’. After the fourth dance, he says. “I’ve got to go now. Will I see you here again next week?” “Cor blimey, don’t mind if do, guv’nor…” I reply. As I watch his sweaty back retreat at an alarming pace, I muse that it probably wasn’t the best time to practise my Paul Fowler.
He leaves me, tired, sweaty and alone (a much more familiar metaphor for my life) Nevertheless I catch myself smiling with pride.
“This character has really entered my psyche,” I think as I adjust my imaginary packet.
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25) Guardian Soulmates Online