No longer the Dancing Queen

I gave up dancing a long time ago. I can almost remember the night in question: I was 32-ish, and throwing some shapes in Carter’s bar at Wafi when I looked around and realised that, not only was everyone a good 10 years younger than me, but their thighs were a good 10cms thinner.

And, having never truly been the sort to go clubbing anyway, that was effectively the signal to me to stop dancing and start staying in with a nice dinner and a bit of telly instead. No-one wants to look like an old lady on the dance floor.

Mrs D makes a scene on the dance floor. Oh yes.

So it was with some surprise that I found myself once more on a dance floor at the weekend. DH and I had gone to the Help For Heroes event at the British Embassy. And what a lovely night it was, too: Twinkly lights, great people, moving speeches, lots of fund-raising, a slap-up supper, and more drinks than I could shake an empty glass at.

But, after the speeches, the auction and the dinner, suddenly there was a DJ and a dance floor under the trees on the Embassy’s lawn. And, even more suddenly, I was on it. Dancing!

I don’t know who was more surprised, me, DH, or our friends who have (for good reason) never seen me shake a tail feather. They played “Moves Like Jagger”, “I’m Sexy And I Know It”, “Mr Saxo-Beat” and countless other songs that had me leaping about like a 7-year-old.

And then on came Abba’s “Dancing Queen” – and what 40-something Housewife on a rare night out doesn’t like that song? Arms in the air, hips creaking, panting a little, singing along, I was off.

“Friday night and the lights are low… Looking out for a place to go….”

It was all going well until I got to the chorus. “You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen” I sang to DH. He shook his head in mock sadness.

“Not seventeen, darling,” he mouthed. “Not by a long shot.”

Love, eh?