In my sixth decade, I do not dance!

How sad is that?

It would be amazing if I found my funky bone.

Grooved to a beat without compunction.

Swayed groovily to the sweetest dance track.

 

At home I twist and shout as I vacuum up dust.

Sing loudly in the car, tap a rhythm on the wheel.

Catch me singing to canned music in the supermarket aisle.

When a favourite tune pops up.

I push that trolley with a perky style.

 

But since I married in ’91, I have not danced in public.

I’ve been to several weddings, but I’m the boring one stuck in her seat.

And by extension, so is my husband who I’m sure would cheerfully stomp around the dance floor.

But he’s tethered by me.

Who he adores and promises ‘it’s no trouble’.

 

As I child I loved to dance. I’d cut the…