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MUSINGS Are those my feet?


no dancing

Are those my feet?

Diary of a homebird
Ciara Galvin

IT’S that time of year again. No, I don’t mean Christmas. I mean rehearsals for Ballinrobe Musical Society’s latest production. This year’s show is the jukebox musical ‘All Shook Up’ and a mammoth cast of 70 people will take to the stage in February.
For now, it’s blood, sweat, tears … and some more sweat.
Dancing wouldn’t really be my thing. Well, in theory it is, in practice, not so much. I wasn’t exactly born with natural rhythm. However, give me a sip of sherry and I fancy myself as a bit of a Ginger Rodgers.
This is my third show with the musical society, and to be honest, I only lasted in the previous shows due to the fact that there was probably only two dances to learn. And, despite a wardrobe malfunction here and there, I seamlessly faded into the chorus. This year, well, this year is different. The show is an all-singing and, much to my malaise, all-dancing extravaganza.
We are being put through our paces by the extremely talented choreographer, Aoife, and what lies ahead is a fairly gruelling schedule of singing and dancing two to three evenings a week.
My friend Colette is my dancing partner. It turns out she was lucky in the whole ‘limb department’ and has both a fully functioning right and left foot, unlike myself.
Each week the very understanding Colette goes through the routines with me at a slow-motion pace. She has even arranged for some ‘remedial classes’ for me before each official dance rehearsal. Result!
And, if those extra practice sessions weren’t enough, I decided to ‘bust a move’ after my niece’s first birthday party recently. I donned the dancing shoes and coerced the male roomie into dancing with me.
For how long you ask? Oh, just long enough for the band to literally stop playing, pack up their gear and leave. I’m still hoping it was due to pub licensing laws and not my atrocious attempt at becoming the equivalent of Jayne Torvill to the male roomie’s Christopher Dean.
The following day I felt like the recently berated FAI Chief John Delaney, as I too cursed the invention of the camera phone. You see, the very thoughtful boyf decided to document it all on camera, and show it to the rest of the family the following day.  
Another recent example of clumsy foot resulted in me nearly demolishing an entire kitchen. After a tasty Saturday-evening dinner rustled up by yours truly, myself and the boyf set about to clean the kitchen. Many hands make light work, or so we thought.
While the boyf dried the pots and pans I set about cleaning the work tops. Taking a cloth from the sink I turned around, and in one fell swoop there I was, on the floor, with a broken phone, a sore hip, and a bruised ego.
Yes folks, I had inadvertently tripped over an open drawer under the cooker and in an attempt to save myself I grabbed everything from the worktop and brought it with me.
The boyf ran to my side asking how I was, and through tears of laughter and pain I assured him I would be fine.
Ten minutes later I was still laughing, partly due to flashbacks of the stupidity of the incident and partly because the boyf offered to get me a high-vis vest and safety boots for the next time I attempt to cook and clean.
Who knew two left feet could cause such drama!

> In her fortnightly Diary of a Home Bird column, Ciara Galvin reveals the trials and tribulations of a twenty-something year old still living with her parents.