We are now being 'entertained' by Dancing on Ice 2011, which has arrived here quite quickly after it was shown in Britain. I won't look anything up because I hate spoiling it for myself - I want to know who wins, but only when I've seen all the dances and outfits, the lights and the sequins, the thrills and the spills, the spins and the jumps. So please don't tell me the outcome, as we're only four weeks into it and I've got heaps of time to waste on the sofa yet. I love the fact that a rider appears on the bottom of the screen reminding viewers not to phone up as 'voting has now closed'. Several months ago. In another country.
I was discussing the dancing phenomenom with friends. As I don't watch any programmes about singing, cooking, decorating, surviving on tropical islands (or even a house) and all the other things that TV producers think we find interesting, it is odd to me that I am so intrigued by the dancing programmes. Perhaps it is because I can't dance to save myself but have always loved the combination of strength and fluidity of movement (being called a 'sugar plum elephant' when I tried my own childish version of galumphing didn't help much, thanks Dad!).
I didn't have the heart to tell her that my dancing generally consisted of raving in a field with a glo-stick or leaping up and down in a mosh pit with lots of other sweaty types. I did go in for country dancing when I was a kid (I liked all that heel-toe stuff) but my sisters took the piss. And I once stopped Levellers fans in clogs from stamping on my friend's head after he fell asleep during The Fall at Reading Festival. But I'm not sure that counts. Perhaps that's the trouble with me, too.
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