I’m standing in a dark alleyway somewhere in north London, my finger hovering over the buzzer in front of me. There’s a dance class here on a Thursday evening and some other version of myself – one I’m hating right now – has signed up for a trial session. But I’ve suddenly been hit by a wave of nausea and I can’t bring myself to press it.
Nervous isn’t the right word – fucking terrified is more accurate. It’s not that I don’t like dancing – far from it. I love cutting shapes on a sticky dance floor. But I dance ironically, like your dad, in dark bars and clubs and surrounded by friends. I don’t dance seriously. And I definitely do not dance in front of people who can actually dance. What was this other me thinking?