When I was a kid I loved to dance. Anywhere. I danced in the street, on my way to school, in the local shop and at the back of the smoke-filled bingo hall where I tagged along every Thursday night with a neighbour. I was seven or eight when I asked my mum and dad if I could go to dance lessons. Someday, maybe, they told me. There just wasn’t the money for luxuries like that. I couldn’t let it go, so when I heard disco-dancing classes had started for 10p every Tuesday night at the church hall, there was no stopping me. It was exactly the amount I got in pocket money on a Friday when my dad came home from working on the building site. Each week until my early teens I walked the mile to the church hall where I handed it over and danced my heart out for 90 minutes. Peggy said I was good, that I should enter the regional disco-dancing championships. I ran home to tell my mum, who was peeling a bag of potatoes in the living room as she watched the TV, with a baby and a toddler. My other siblings were… Read full this story
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