Strictly Looking Like a Twat

On a whim, and to stop the sister figure from complaining, I went to a Ballroom and Latin class yesterday evening.
Now, being fairly game, I thought that the most I would be required to do would learn a few steps, embrace a leggy female dancer (preferably Eastern European and blonde), and whirl her roud the room, pausing only to wink at the astonished onlookers.
Astonished onlooker 1: "And this is only his FIRST lesson?"
Sister: "Yeah, he's annoyingly good isnt he?"

What followed was a tiny bit different to this delusion; I was assigned to the novices, to practice the Rumba. I picked up the basic steps fairly well, except for one endearingly called "the whisk", which was a lateral step with a tiny jink and a fast changover to the opposite foot.
Done well, it looked quite remarkable, requiring a blend of speed and grace that I quite obviously lacked. I looked something like a man who was discreetly trying to shift a troublesome house rodent from his trousers while keeping his hands free. I started to perspire from the sheer concentration of keeping my feet in the right position at the right time, as if a large male-part was stopping me from doing anything I might regret.
What was quite awe-inspiring though, was when the experienced dancers all took to the floor with some 1920's ballroom music playing over the tannoy. It seemed, just for a second, that I'd stepped back in time and was voyeuristically seeing something quite lost forever as a popular hobby. The older ladies moved with an economy of energy that was in itself quite exquisite, their wheeling steps following a groove in the floor that had clearly survived many years, the ballroom staying constant while outside all sorts of changes permeated.