I’m known for many things. Most of them, of course, are not appealing. Not in any commonly held understanding of the term, anyway. Many of them are unfair, or at least uncalled for, or, well frankly, some people should just move on and forget about the whole thing - it wasn’t as though I deliberately glued the door shut - it seemed like a perfectly sensible way to retrieve a broken key at the time.
Anyway, despite winning a weekend in Morecombe for my disco dancing prowess in 1989, I am not renowned for strutting my stuff. Sometimes I walk a little oddly, I grant you, but generally I leave the hot shoe shuffling to people with hot shoes. So it’s a little surprising to watch Little S sometimes. She clearly has some twinkle toes. She barely hears more than a couple of notes before she starts Twisting. And she’s inherited from her mother a particular fondness for the sounds from the 80s.
But I’m not sure where she’s getting it from. It’s not me. Of course her mother’s a bit of mover. Maybe it’s Nursery. She’s already surpassed my appalling sense of rhythm and coordination. She jigs. She waves her arms. She even shakes her tiny tush. All in time with the beat. Quite remarkable. And the most delightful aspect of it all - it always looks as though she can’t help herself. It’s an uncontrollable outpouring of happiness; an instinctive, unconscious and unrestrained response to music. And seeing that forgotten pleasure makes me laugh out loud, not because I think it’s ridiculous but because the carefree indulgence of it all is infectious. Makes me feel like dancing too. Thankfully, I don’t: S has enough mental scarring already.
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