Picture this. It’s early evening on a Friday night and I’m dithering. Do I make a Christmas pudding or soak my feet – or both? With a scintillating evening like this to look forward to, imagine my delight when Ian and Tristan – the boys upstairs – invite me to a jive session at our local ballroom. ‘Let’s go’, I exclaim gaily, ‘I fancy a bit of a twizzle’. First shock, on arrival at the King Alfred’s Ballroom is the proliferation of men (most dance classes are devoid of ‘proper’ men ie normal height and non-dribbling). Second, is that this is an intermediate class, ie for those who know what they’re doing. I do not know what I am doing! Anyhow, I’m willing to give it a shot. Keith and Michelle, our jive ‘instructors’ are on stage showing off. They take us through a very complex routine that involves memorable instructions like ‘ after three, open up your lady, take your backwards then slide in’. Keith, a slippery-looking character in Elizabeth Duke pendant and black, highly-inflammable slacks, warns the ‘gents’ not to show ‘who’s the daddy’ by pressing themselves too close when dancing as this can make the ‘ladies’ feel a bit uncomfortable. I am now on high alert for fast and loose genitals. Most of the men are over 60 and taking it all rather seriously. Most of them seem a. intimidated by my height and b. exasperated by my Bambi limbs and screams of hysteria. However, they all want to know if I’m here alone! When the class finishes, we are left to our own devices. After a quick fling with Tristan who is pleasantly bouncy and Ian, who isn’t, I am approached by Dave, a many in his late thirties with bulging eyes and a smirk that says he’s ‘the daddy’. I don’t feel him pressing but I do feel sick as, despite my pleading for a gentle sashay, he insists in churning me witless with a succession of complex twirls. No sooner have I sat down that Colin whisks me away. From the look of him, I have a feeling he’s Eastern European. However, it turns out he’s from Worthing and just some sort of throw-back. Colin has a mullet and one leg longer than the other. However, this doesn’t stop him from mauling me. We twist, we turn. He has me in a head-lock. I have him in a head-lock. Then, thank God,  it’s time for tea and biscuits. Dare I go back?�