I can't dance to save my life. It took many years before I finally admitted I don't have the requisite skills to hit the dance floor.
Despite possessing a keen ear for music, I lack the fluidity and finesse to relax and sway rhythmically. I was first warned at boarding school to stop embarrassing myself. It was on a Saturday night when curfew was extended to midnight and a DJ would be invited.
Black Box's song Get Down was in vogue when I decided I'd show some deft moves, in a forlorn attempt to impress the girls.
Unfortunately, I crouched in a manner that concaved my back and alerted the spectators to possible spinal injury. They dragged me kicking and screaming from the dance floor.
Perhaps this was the reason I settled on hitting the books even though the highest grades seldom land you the crush of your life.
Small wonder Strictly Come Dancing and Jika Majika haven't come knocking on my door.
I could not even pull off the Madiba shuffle since I could not align my shoulders in proportion to my body.
Deep House came to my rescue because it meant I could enjoy the music by tapping the table and harassing other patrons by anticipating a loop. This means ensuring that anyone within hearing distance in the club knows that you know the song and they do not.