The best dancer on Earth

With the forthcoming end to this lengthy spell of summery weather and a return to a climate more typical for a British spring (cold, wet, disappointing, like a cup of old soup) I have had to think of other ways of taking exercise than my usual daily walk. I usually start the day with twenty to thirty minutes of yoga followed by some Alexander Technique constructive rest and meditation (no, I don't have kids, why do you ask?), which is all very pleasant, as well as a useful way of discovering all the movements that make my body hurt, judder or click alarmingly (which is all movements, as it turns out), but it's not enough to work off my current daily build up of frustration, anxiety, boredom, howling loneliness and so on. I need a bit more cardio for that.  So I have discovered online dance classes. Actual live classes with a teacher at the other end of Zoom showing you what to do. It's really fun - an hour of upbeat songs and choreography that is either increasingly hard to follow or exactly the same to follow throughout, except that I am increasinagly tired. The protocol is that you switch off your camera and microphone so as not to distract the teacher or the other dancers, which is fantastic news, because then nobody will ever know if you get the steps wrong / stop even trying to do the steps and just bounce around like a hyperactive hippopotamus / stop dancing entirely and go and make a cup of tea.  The camera-off system is particularly welcomed by me because I have recently discovered that I am not as good a dancer as I think I am. How good a dancer do I think I am? I think I am the best dancer on Earth. What evidence do I have for this belief? None whatsoever, and that's the way I wanted it to stay. I came to the belief that I am the best dancer on Earth because the better a dancer I believed I was, the less self-conscious I got, and the less self-conscious I got, the more I enjoyed dancing, and the more I enjoyed dancing, the better a dancer I believed I was. There may have been some flaws in my logic but I didn't want to know. I am the best dancer on Earth.  Or at least I was. There was a risk of a wobble twenty years ago or so when I visited my sister who was living in Kampala, Uganda, and who took me to the Ange Noir nightclub. The walls of Ange Noir are (or were) lined with mirrors and the Ugandans like to dance facing them, unlike in London where you'd have to pretend to not be the least bit interested in your reflection, so there was a high risk that I might catch a glimpse of my dancing at a very formative time when I might not yet have been certain that I was the best dancer on Earth; fortunately, we arrived late enough that there were no coveted spots in front of the mirrors left, so I remained secure in my belief and expressed it to the full by teaching everybody there to dance the Macarena. If they still dance the Macarena in Uganda it is thanks to me.  Yesterday, though, my (other) sister invited me over to practise the Uptown Funk (Tuxedo Version) dance that I mentioned a few emails ago and which we both have been diligently learning since then. She set us up with twin mirrors at a safe distance from one another and off we went.  Oh. God.  I look really fucking stupid when I dance Uptown Funk (Tuxedo Version). I look, in fact, like a stork. It's all flailing arms and legs, my torso is completely off balance, my facial expressions are abysmal, I am not smoother than a fresh jar of Skippy, I am lumpier than Jif Peanut Butter Extra Crunchy. Is this how I look whenever I dance? Do not answer that, particularly do not answer that if you have ever seen me dance. It will be a hideous downward spiral. I'll get self conscious - the dancing will get worse - I might even have to renounce my most cherished dream: publish international bestselling novel, achieve JK Rowling levels of success, become famous, go on Strictly Come Dancing, partner with Johannes... 

  ...and win, of course, wowing everyone with our finale showdance, a Paso Doble to the theme tune from Succession. As it is, I'm having to adjust to the fact that I will not be considered a ringer from week one of Strictly but will instead be a "dark horse" who goes on a "Strictly journey". But I refuse to be knocked out by a nineteen-year-old YouTube star in the semi-finals. There are limits.  Still, you have to start somewhere, so I had better get on with writing that international bestselling novel, as well as doing my online dance classes. With the camera switched firmly off.