I wouldn't mind, but ....

.... I left the cinema today after watching the film 'Jig' with a realisation that I had let down the Irish nation. This documentary about the Irish dancing world took me right back to the one and only lesson I myself had attended.  I was 10 years old and I guess my Irish parents decided it was time.  Off we went to the local church hall and opened the door on a moment that many years later would torture me whenever Riverdance was on TV. 

I suspect my mum had high hopes of polishing trophies and bulk buying sequins, while I clippety clopped round the world bringing back the brass.  I stood in one corner of the long rectangular church hall, conscious of a nation's expectations bearing down on me as I was instructed to 'GO'.  This was my cue to 'Irish dance' diagonally across the length of the room.  Irish mothers looked on, clutching their little Siobhans, Marys and Eileens as they watched this little Junebug cross the room like a pony thumbing a lift to the slaughterhouse.  St Patrick was surely turning in his grave, but we couldn't hear him over the cries of 'Bejesus' echoing round the hall. I was never going to bring Michael Flatley home for tea.  He and I would never cross ankles together. My dancing career died that night. 

We never spoke of the class again and the following week, mum took me to the local Brownies instead. We went from a world of green to a world of brown.  I won't go into details, but I only every attended one Brownie class.  And there you have it, a pattern emerged that continued into adult life.  I started many an endeavour, but never ventured beyond one attempt. 

I've decided to lay the Irish dancing ghost to rest and redeem myself in the eyes of the Irish nation.  I'm currently googling the words to 'Danny Boy', ordering a six-pack of Guinness and checking out recipes for potatoes.  Bejesus!