Pope Francis died on Easter Monday, the day I had two hours booked in the parish hall for a waltzing and ceilidh rehearsal. After various emails and phone calls with advisors, I postponed the event until June.
However, as usual, I am having trouble engaging a waltzing tutor, so I asked a great swing-dance teaching couple if they could come. They were available this Sunday, so that is when I had my party.
It was not an ideal date, for two of our keenest supporters were away at Catholic conferences in England. However, without a spreadsheet of everyone’s calendar (which I admit would be a good idea in future) and a shortage of teachers who are willing to instruct on Sunday afternoons, I had to go with our instructors’ preferred date, send invitations through the usual channels and pray for the best.
As it turned out, Sunday morning was emotionally challenging, as the taxi my disabled husband booked for 11 AM didn’t arrive until well after noon, we were sufficiently late for Mass not to have fulfilled our obligation, and an examination of the tearoom revealed a distinct lack of dancing women.
“Where is [your sister]? Is she in London?” I wistfully asked another keen supporter.
The keen supporter replied in the affirmative and disclosed his own family obligation that made it impossible for him to stay for the party.
I was beginning to have tense cancellation thoughts when my fellow dishwasher asked if his wife, a swing aficionado before their first baby arrived, could come to the dance. I invited her with enthusiasm. It is a myth that these parties are only for the single or under-30 set. Any faithful Catholic who will put up with our archaic rules is welcome, as long as we are introduced.
Young Mother + Hostess = two women = no cancellation. I was sorry, however, that I had not leaned on more men to stay, as two other young women turned up later . Thus, for once we were 2 men and 4 women, plus the two instructors. The gentleman instructor danced with a spare woman, but the lady had an injury that prevented her from leading, so occasionally one of us women had to sit out.
I had an injury too, as a matter of fact, from gardening, but it was so trifling that I didn’t think of it until an unlucky turn made it rather more serious. In short, I have an LCL injury–in laymen’s terms a knee sprain—the NHS doctor said the next day, and I should come back in 2 weeks if it doesn’t feel better then.
However, before I hobbled off to evening Mass (Polish) behind Mr McLean’s wheelchair, I learned the basic moves of the Collegiate Shag, a fun dance with, if you live in Britain, an unfortunate name. It can be danced to very fast swing jazz and the basic moves can be summed up as SLOW-SLOW-quick-quick-SLOW-SLOW-quick-quick. And it is very good to start earning Collegiate Shag as simply as possible because it would be rather daunting to try to do all this in the first session:
I should add that the performers above are among the best shag dancers alive today, and we should not feel intimidated. I see many lesser mortals dancing the Collegiate Shag on Friday Jazz & Jive nights at Heriot’s Rugby Club (Edinburgh). There It’s merely a fun thing to do when the music is too fast for a given lead to feel comfortable dancing the Lindy Hop.
I will be at the Edinburgh Jazz & Jive Club Summer Party on Friday, having already bought my ticket (and a membership to boot). If any readers would like to go, tickets are now available to non-members. I probably will not myself be dancing, thanks to my sore knee, but I will be a friendly face in a crowd of friends you haven’t met yet.