Carol’s Column

Everyone loves a swinger

"CONGRATULATIONS Modom," said the voice at the other end of the phone.

"You are the lucky winner of a free course of dancing lessons at our studio.

"Your name has been selected from hundreds to come and learn how to do the latest dances in the comfort of our airconditioned, modern, glass-lined studio."

Great.

You've got to keep up with the times.

Armed with thick stockings to keep my varicose veins from sagging and flat mushpuppy shoes for easy movement, I set off expectantly for my first lesson.

"We will make you a social success" proclaimed the large poster above the receptionist.

"Let us dance you into the swing of life," said another.

Heady words these, I could hardly wait.

"I've come to swing," I said to the hatchet-faced receptionist with the dyed teeth and green nail polish.

"I'm a lucky winner of a free course of dancing lessons," I added rather bashfully.

"Just swing right in," she answered jerking her head spastically towards a anonymous-looking door.

I entered the studio, a vast room with mirrored walls, bright lights and a sprung floor that positively vibrated to the sound of swinging, stomping feet.

There were 10 of us — beginners like me — six women and four men all keen and eager to become party swingers.

My first partner had a problem.

"So where did you lose your leg?" I asked him politely as we stood waiting for the music to begin.

"In Bronkhorstspruit," he whispered in my navel. That was another problem. He wasn't tall.

"My name's Arthur . . . call me Arth," he hissed as the music began to play.

"Bend your legs and clap your hands in time to the beat," said our instructor — a thin blade of a girl — or was it a boy?

"This isn't easy," muttered my partner as his false leg refused to bend.

"The bloody spring's playing up again," he grumbled as the leg completed a 360° turn under its own steam.

"Mind you, I can't complain, I'm lucky I'm here," he confided to me.

"I nearly didn't make it. I left my leg in the washroom on the Cape Town train last week."

My mind boggled.

"Luckily I have a spare — it's a little rusty though," he said.

My next partner — for we swopped each time the record changed — could be described as spare and wholesome.

Nearly two metres tall, she towered above me and looked as if she'd have been happier in a cowshed or alternatively playing front-rank against the New Zealanders.

She pushed me around like a supermarket trolley.

"Great fun isn't it," she laughed, twitching and shaking in time to the music.

I ducked my head to avoid her snapping teeth.

Fortunately, before I was crushed to death, I found myself swopping partners again.

This time I drew a man.

Of sorts. An octogenarian with a charming smile and a broken earphone — he insisted on waltzing in time to the heavy rock beat.

"Way out, way out," breathed our instructor as she shook and shimmied her torso past us.

"Just go with the music."

We danced the night away.

I almost fractured my tibia — not to mention my fibula — when I accidentally made contact with Arth's spare leg.

It's not easy being a swinger when you're past the age of eight.

The evening progressed and the pace got hotter and hotter.

The latest dance, called "new wave", is not for one-legged people.

It requires the dancer to stand in the same position for a long period of time, spasmodically jerking first one leg upwards in a scissor-like movement, followed regularly by the other.

Arth just couldn't get it together.

Things came to a head when Arth's leg parted company with his kneecap and flew across the floor — felling the two-metre tall, cowshed Amazon.

We propped her against the wall and continued with the lesson.

I had no idea swinging was such hard work.

Later, much later, I gave Arth a lift to the station — he'd discarded his leg and taken to crutches.

It was only when I got home that I realised I still had his leg on the back seat of my car.

My husband had the last word: "What a lame story," he said.

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