It is 1980. A country club somewhere in mid Cornwall is the venue for a half remembered family wedding. The dance floor is empty; the guests sit chatting around the edge. The DJ puts on 'Upside Down' by Diana Ross. A girl of seven, tiny for her age and shy, with braces on her teeth, white knee socks and tan sandals, walks calmly onto the dance floor. And then gets down. I mean really gets down. She dances like she's in a trance, completely lost in the music and totally oblivious to the astonished and amused faces of the adults.
That little girl was me.
Adulthood was a dream come true. In school life I struggled. Not academically perhaps, but I was never one of the popular kids. I was very small and thin, wore braces on my teeth and limped ever so slightly due to being born with Congenital Dislocation of the Hip. I could draw on a talent for mimicking people, which kept me out of the ranks of the bullied, and usually had a few wise cracks on hand. Generally though, I was quiet, reserved and pretty much invisible. But I had another life. My dancing. I did Ballet, Tap and Modern, but soon dropped the tap dancing which was way too Lionel Blair for me.
I always loved the discipline of Ballet, and had to work harder than everyone else to compensate for my hip, which although long since fixed, affected my posture. 'Anaïs!! Tuck that bottom in!! It is sticking out again!!' Miss Rose would shriek at me, banging her pole on the floorboards like something out of 'Fame'. I loved the thick, seamed ballet tights, the satin ballet shoes, and the dirty pink ribbons, fraying at the ends. I can recall the smell of Freed leather, new Lycra and sweaty changing areas. I loved dancewear (and still do) preferring the rehearsal clothes to the performance costumes. My pocket money would always be spent on leotards, legwarmers, and dance books. I fell in love with Baryshnikov and danced my way through childhood.
In my teens I fell out of love with the discipline of dance, the exams and the constant demand for perfection. The lure of the nightclub became far too great. It was the era of Rave, and I took to the podium and danced at some of the biggest nights on the South Coast. The drugs of the day were Ecstasy and Speed. I took neither. I never needed to. 140 bpm was no problem for me; I could dance longer and harder than anyone around me. I had a ball, this time in cycling shorts and kneepads, lighting my cigarettes in the lasers and knocking around with all the gay-boy dancers.
This then explains my enduring love for Madonna. Her choreography and dance influences take inspiration from the same people that fascinated me as a child. To this day, though I like her music, I love to watch her dance most of all.
It is said that in dancing you reveal yourself. And maybe that is why lots of people don't ever dance in public. But I always feel suspicious of those who never ever get lost in a groove. What are they hiding? For me, friendships are cemented on the dance floor and my closest friends will all be either dancing to the music or playing it. A couple of weeks ago at a street party I found myself dancing into the night. Under a mirror ball, and a heavenly shower of rain, I danced with some of my oldest and dearest friends. There were a couple of missing faces, but nonetheless it was one of those perfect moments, and the little girl in braces and tan sandals was no longer dancing alone.