It is Saturday and 7pm. I am doing my lunges in the lounge. I have my rehydration liquid (wine) and energy food (kettle chips) on the coffee table next to me. It is exercise time.
*sits down and turns on BBC1*.
Lets Dance for comic relief is back on TV. It is primetime TV in my house. Like Countryfile. It is 7pm, the kids are in bed, I am still awake and will be for the next 90 minutes.
I watch the dancers…I start to feel the music in my body…My limbs start to move…I start to reminice of when I was almost a professional dancer. And this happens…
Husband – “you are such a big head Hannah. Can’t I just WATCH the programme without you flouncing around in front of it? You ALWAYS dance by the side of the TV saying “LOOK AT ME!”.
Me – “Whatever”. I am wounded inside and moonwalk out of the lounge.
This. THIS WAS ME! This was where it all began.
Look beyond the scribbles. I left it on the table and Ed tried to colour me in. With a pencil. So, it is a black and white photo, coloured in…with a lead pencil. (he has regressed back to his angry scribbles again – hope that me being the one he scribbled on doesnt show some kind of inner rage directed at me. *makes a mental note to buy him the new Cbeebies magazine and a packet of chocolate buttons*)
Before it was scribbled on my husband saw it on the table and pointed at it.
“What the bloody hell is THAT?!”.
“Me” I say, transported back in time to when it was taken. I can hear see Timmy Mallet by the surf as he sings “Itsy Bitsy Teen Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini”. I start to hum it.
“Gross. You look like one of those little freaky child body builders”
“Well” *turns on her heel and says over her shoulder, smug at her come back* “You married it”
*rushes back in to kitchen* “Sorry love, didnt mean to call you a pervert”.
Ed really got into Strictly when it was on last year. Much to the dislike of my husband. Ed was ALL about the jazz hands and the sparkly dresses. It was nothing whatsoever at all at being allowed to stay up late, sit under a blanket during the speaking bits eating twiglets and drinking warm milk. Nothing at all. Whatsoever. At all.
I would always make sure I shut the lounge blinds firmly before 7pm so there would be no witnesses to Ed and I jumping up and down during the routines on the telly, mixing up the twiglets and warm milk in his stomach until he went pale and started to retch a bit. It wasn’t so much “dancing” maybe, more like, holding hands and jumping up and down like when you were 10 and at a disco in a youth club bopping to Yazz.
I was the only dancer in my dance class allowed to dance with a boy. It must have meant something. I could have had it all *clasps fists together and bangs them on the table*.
Or maybe not.
Maybe less this…
And more, this….. (fast forward to 2mins 31 seconds)