Line of Dance/Line Dance July

Today I am babying my left ankle, which I have re-injured. One of the drawbacks of being an "unpaid carer" is that we aren't usually trained and so we sometimes get hurt. Some days ago I learned the hard way that it is a bad idea to operate an electric wheelchair in a tight space while wearing sandals. Crunch. 

Still, it beats having a stroke; I found a study that says carers are more likely to have strokes. In fact, we are more than twice as likely to suffer from poor health than "people without caring responsibilities." And as 5 million people in England and Wales--and 800,0000 in Scotland (!) are unpaid carers, this is surely a serious problem. That said, it's better to be an unpaid carer than stuck in a wheelchair.  

Benedict Ambrose came along to this month's Waltzing Party in his electric wheelchair, and a kindly janitor met us at the usual entrance to the hall and directed B.A. to the ramp on the other side and the accessible door. The sun shone through the Gothic windows on the golden wood of the dance floor, and it was only 2:05 PM, which meant that I could just relax and dance a few steps on my own. 

B.A. drove into the other hall, formerly the nave of a Victorian-era Presbyterian church, and sang Marian anthems to the excellent acoustics. Then the professional ballroom dance teacher I had managed to inveigle into coming into Edinburgh on a Sunday arrived, and there was some low-key fuss about wi-fi and how the background music would be played, etc. (Note to self: write to office for wifi password.) When the majority of the guests were assembled, B.A. (senior male present) led us in the Prayer to St. Michael, and then I handed over the company to the waltz instructor at 2:30 on the dot. 

To my great delight, there were 20 of us dancers this time: ten men, ten women. The teacher is used to teaching couples, and there was only one among us, so I got everyone else to pair up by height, as usual. 

The first thing the teacher did was ask us to waltz, so she could judge where we were in our knowledge. What concerned her most, it turned out, is that we weren't traveling around the room but more-or-less just waltzing on the spot. Thus, the first thing she did was teach us how to turn in the corners, and then she worked us into dancing a proper "Natural Turn--Close Change--Reverse Turn--Close Change" according to the Line of Dance.  

"I feel Judged," I joked to a dance partner--although as usual the person judging my teaching skills was myself, for I was not able to get my head around the dance floor compass diagrams, when I first found out about them, and so ignored them. 

We were worked very hard for an hour, and then we had a short break for squash, banana bread, crisps and cookies. I ran about replenishing the plastic jug I had borrowed from the parish hall. (Foreshadowing of drama, one made more acute by a too-long story about the second borrowed jug.) Then I handed the floor over to our swing-dance teachers, and we were instructed in the mysteries of the Shim Sham, a handwritten list of the steps blue-tacked to the wall. 

When the teachers first proposed teaching our group Solo Jazz steps, I thought uneasily about the strictures of Dr. Peter Kwasniewski as tabled in his excellent Good Music, Sacred Music, and Silence. Swing-dance is just on the line for what Dr. K believes is acceptable, and the disintegration of proper partner dancing into everyone doing their own thing is to be deplored. However, I recalled that some Solo Jazz is actually done in groups. A memory of feeling confused, left-out and then wistful at a standard Edinburgh swing-dance social popped up: all the old hands had suddenly broken out into the Shim Sham, and it looked fun. 

The Shim Sham started life in 1928 as a tap dance, and in 1932 it was adapted for the Lindy Hop. In the 1990s, it basically became the Lindy Hop World anthem. (No matter where you go in the world, it is always the same, which reminds me of something...) It contains a routine of 4 patterns, which are repeated with "freezes", and then there are two "boogie back and boogie forwards", followed by two "boogie back and Shorty George forwards". Then, for the rest of the song, the crowd divides into partners and dances the Lindy Hop. 

Not pondering how difficult it would be to teach several Solo Jazz steps in 50 minutes, I requested the Shim Sham, and the Shim Sham we got. It begins with a sort of stomp, and to the accompaniment of enthusiastic Trad Catholic stomping, I re-hurt my poor ankle. (Moral of story: Don't actually stomp.) But the important thing is that my guests seemed to enjoy it. And we will review the Shim Sham next month, and then play "T'aint What You Do" at parties every month until the Shim Sham is firmly embedded in our muscle memories. 

It would be very amusing if the Dance Party party did a flashmob Shim Sham in the car park after Mass one day; that would certainly startle any regular (read: Novus Ordo) parishioners still about. Would they read a theological-liturgical message in the expression "It ain't what you do, it's the way that you do it"?  But what is more likely is that my young friends would find themselves well-equipped should they find themselves in some foreign dance hall when everyone else starts to paw the floor like counting horses. 

After class was Free Dance time. Free Dance time is an exercise of Men's Liberation. Men are free to do what they like. They may ask ladies to dance, or they may sit around chatting, or they may stand by the refreshments table and eat a lot of crisps. Naturally, this staggering license is tempered by chivalry or having a sister with power to command. 

Personally, I fiddled with the music and a borrowed speaker and fielded the suggestions and critiques of our new waltzing teacher, whose own phone contained many, many pop songs in 3/4 time. My beloved Miłość Ci Wszystko Wybaczy  ("Love will forgive you everything") is apparently Not Ballroom. "Vito's Waltz," however, is Ballroom and was indeed more popular with the group--and the teacher, who propelled me around the room, offering excellent advice. 

"The Blue Danube" was next--the teacher made a face. "This is Viennese Waltz," she said and told the gaily dancing brother-and-sister duo that they weren't dancing fast enough. ("We're tired," they cheerfully replied). Alas, this incredibly knowledgable teacher cannot come next month, so leading the review will probably be up to me. 

We ended with a swing tune, which was ably provided by the Shim Sham teachers. Free Dance time is regrettably short, although this particular hall janitor was very nice about our tardy leave-taking. I ran about some more, washing jugs and packing up. Benedict Ambrose socialized, and afterwards he told me how impressed he had been by the whole thing. The waltz he saw akin to a feast and the Shim Sham to a delectable dessert pastry. 

We had this amiable conversation on our way back to the parish hall, where I hoped to sneak in the two borrowed plastic jugs. Alas, the door was open, and my Opposite Number of the Novus Ordo Mass was doing an inventory. Apparently she had just sent out an email asking where the jugs were. 

Busted. Totally busted. Really, I need to buy my own plastic jug, but I can't find one I like.

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