When I was seven, my dad taught me how to dance. I loved those Sunday evenings twirling round poised on his shoes, feeling the rhythm, and then practising it myself, without his feet under mine. Eventually we danced together every chance we got. Then the bombshell was dropped. My cousin Terence was having his Barmitzvah in Pretoria and they were celebrating with a Dinner Dance for hundreds of people. What a silly idea. But even more silly was the two sisters getting together and deciding that Terence and I would dance the first waltz together. I didn't know him well enough, and certainly didn't like him. And the six year age difference yawned between us too.
On the night, with sweaty palms and a pink frothy dress- what could be worse?- the music started. I swear it was a Strauss tune, probably 'The Blue Danube'. He kept shouting in my ear 'go faster, faster, faster,' and I kept saying' that's not right, we have to go slower'. What a nightmare. I remember that dance as if it were yesterday. It's a wonder I still love dancing.
