I danced mid-week.

On Wednesday I was caught-up in some dancing.

OK – it only lasted for five minutes,

But, I gave it a go.

I was at the B:Friend training session in Doncaster College, where I participated in some early-evening chair-based dance exercise, to the tune of the Jacksons’ Blame It On the Boogie.

I haven’t danced in a while.

I can actually remember the last time I danced was during Richard Coaten’s Dance Movement Psychotherapy and Dementia Masterclass a few years ago.

Prior to that you probably have to rewind my life to the late nineties somewhere in Dundee, or perhaps the Highlands.

Dance is interesting. Funny.

Some people do it all the time.

Others, never.

My mum loved to dance; my dad was like me.

Perhaps it is genetic.

They say that dancing is good for you, it releases endorphins, it connects people, it raises your heart rate. We, as a species have been dancing in some form or other for hundreds of thousands of years.

Yet, today, you wouldn’t say it is central.

Why don’t I dance more? Mostly self-consciousness.

When Michelle, Karen or Julie were singing and fox-trotting or waltzing with the patients on Mallard I invariably stayed out of the way, yet, I know, had I joined-in I would have enjoyed the experience.

Why do we stop ourselves doing what we want to do and what we know is good fun?

I watched a programme on the iPlayer last week with Rhod Gilbert where he explored his shyness. This, interpreted as a state whereby a person wants to join-in but is too anxious, worried or fearful to do so, compared to either solitude, where folk enjoy time-out alone or misanthropy.

Is perhaps the word, dance-shy?

The answer?

Probably, find someone, turn on the music and get with it.

You cannot dance when you are dead.