Heavenly Beverley : Performing the Watusi Quickstep.

Michael and I are not dancers. At all. And how the ex and I created a passionate ballroom dancer as one of our children is a complete mystery. Callum began dancing at twelve years of age and before he retired from competitions, he and his partner Francesca reached the top 10 in their level at the Australian Championships.

I think Callum has finally given up his quest to teach me to dance. I live in hope. Our last altercation about dancing was when Cal tried to persuade us to learn the waltz for our wedding. Michael and I refused point blank. Callum countered that he wanted to wear a jacket to give me away to Michael. And so my son wore his suit jacket in order to escort me to our ceremony under the shade house. Thus, Michael and I were saved from a fate of dying of embarrassment.

Occasionally, I convince myself to try a "Dancing for Dummies" class locally. Ten years ago, I loved Ceroc classes. I even bought dancing shoes. I felt safe and confident in the Beginners' group. Then I was pressured to move into Intermediates. Naturally, the pace was faster and more complicated. All my comfortable pleasure vanished. I never went back.

There are a couple of local dance options here in Beverley. I am still hemming and hawing about giving a dance class another go. I know dance is great exercise and I am less likely to hurt myself than I would at boot camp, run by the inimitable Lyn. So I just keep vacillating and enjoying my evening strolls.

There is one dance I am proficient at performing from time to time. The Watusi Quickstep is a naturally free-flowing dance with changeable steps and an absence of all rhythm. Think Isadora Duncan crossed with Animal from the Muppets and that is the basis of the Watusi Quickstep. There is no need to have lessons and the dance will occur quite spontaneously in the most unexpected locales.

Michael has also learnt the Watusi Quickstep by osmosis. He insists he was quite controlled and steady on his feet prior to meeting me. Now he is as professional as I am. The only explanation is that he has absorbed my disaster genes.

Let me elaborate. The other night Michael retired to bed, having spent the evening enjoying some very good red vino. Just a tad too much. Over the course of a couple of hours, he became very chatty and animated. The climax of all this activity was the appearance of the Watusi Quickstep. Our bedroom fan had been emitting a repeated vibration on oscillation which was increasingly annoying to Michael's somewhat inebriated mood. Launching forth out of our bed, he resolved to restore the fan to a customary quietness.

I was only vaguely aware of Michael's movements as I was endeavouring to become unconscious. I caught a glimpse of Michael attempting a quasi-tango with our standard fan. The fan appeared to be resisting his advances. Then, resigned to her fate, she became putty in Michael's hands and relaxed. My last view of Michael and his impromptu dance date was of them both descending to a horizontal position, accompanied by a suitably spectacular crash. The Watusi Quickstep had struck again.

I'm afraid I may have uttered a few choice words in response to this episode. Michael was uninjured. The fan was not so lucky. The occasionally irritating noise had become a full blown protestation of a wounding assault on her being. The following morning, Michael was required to take the fan apart in order to restore her to full health. And eat humble pie.

Smugness is not one of my better traits. And I really should learn never to be smug, as the universe always retaliates in kind. Yesterday, I unsuccessfully tried to enter the Residence without performing the Watusi Quickstep. Epic fail. Somehow, my feet, the dog leash and the Beagle all joined together, like a whirling dervish of entities hurtling towards a most unpleasant fate. I grabbed desperately for the wall to break the inevitable fall. My pose was that of a stricken lover who was sinking into quicksand. Rather rapidly. My left knee was first to make contact with the very hard and uneven concrete floor. Then, in a sequence of moves, not unlike a dance choreographed by the frenetic Martha Graham, I writhed and rotated into my end routine of coming to rest on my back and head.

Michael, hearing the series of thuds and my response of expletives, was quickly on the scene. He hauled me into the upright position, examined the graze developing on my knee and commiserated with my other aches. He knew better than to laugh. Clever chap.

This has been a most memorable couple of days. Maybe I should give away all thoughts of joining any form of exercise class. Obviously, movement is not my forte. Unless, like my darling husband, I have consumed a suitable volume of acceptable vino.