It's Thursday, it's the Northgate Arts Centre so it must be jazz dancing and I fully expect to be learning a few Charleston steps from the roaring 20s. As I hear disco classic "Jump To The Beat" by Stacy Lattisaw booming out of the studio however, I think again and furtively slip my spats back into my sports bag before stepping inside.
I am the only man in a class full of women, I have never danced like this in my life and it's all being filmed for a promotional video so there is no pressure -obviously.

 Dance East promote events across the region and aim to encourage more people to get involved in all styles of dance either as an audience member or a participant. The enthusiasm of the class is infectious but as we begin the warm up exercises I suspect I am in over my head.
We start with some basic moves and stretches and at first I am fine. I fully believe I am Mr Supple as we raise our arms and "reach for the sky" it's when we have to bend over that my view of the world changes dramatically. It's not the fact that my bottom is pointing clumsily skyward in front of a room full of ladies but rather the slow, creaking effort it takes to get even

half way down that convinces me that I should not sign up for A Chorus Line just yet.

We begin to learn the steps of today's routine; our instructor Wendy is wonderfully chatty and informal although with the class about to take an eight-week break she is determined to work us hard. We are taught the routine a step at a time, repeating each new addition until we are familiar with it. I am busy concentrating when I remember that there is a chap in the corner filming the whole thing. As the routine progresses my attempts to avoid the lens of his camera result in some ninja inspired steps of my own invention. 
Along the wall in front of me is a huge mirror and although I try my best not to look, my eyes are drawn to it and the terrifying reflection of my own performance that owes more to John Prescott than John Travolta. 

At one point, trying to master the increasing series of moves gets too much and I develop a form of dance overload, moving my arms and legs randomly like a deep sea fisherman fighting his way out of a miscast net. Simply clicking my fingers in unison with the rest of the class produces a warm glow of achievement. Gradually I start to get it, my classmates have been coming for anything between a year and two weeks and they all look really good, which is tribute to the level of teaching. The fact that I am turning in the right direction and ending up on the right foot in such a short amount of time is nothing short of a miracle.

Because of the popularity of the class, space is tight so I have subtly positioned myself at the back, next to the open door. My enthusiasm gets the better of me however; as we begin "Stepping to the right two, three, four" I dance myself completely out of the room and into the adjoining corridor. This I feel is a good time for me to take a well-earned break.
I chat to Gabby Cox from Dance East as I watch the class dance up a storm out of the corner of my eye. She is encouraging about my performance and stresses the health benefits of dancing for everyone. Dance East itself is a registered charity that runs training classes and workshops for people of all abilities. They also work in hospitals, with the elderly and with people who have learning or physical disabilities and if you do not like going to the gym I can think of no better way to keep yourself fit.   

As the class finishes they give each other a well deserved round of applause, I have had a great time and hurry off to try and persuade the video guy to edit me out of his footage. I never did learn The Charleston though, maybe next time.