Pour me a glass of vino rosso, sit me in a comfortable chair and ask me what my favourite film is. Truth is I don’t care much for films. I get bored quickly; fidgety – even quicker. So the thought of sitting through most films leaves me cold. But favourite films – that’s a different matter. As I swirl the wine around in the glass, pretending I know what I am doing – I’m letting it breath, right? – I will look up, with a dead straight face and say: “Either The King and I or An American in Paris”. Obviously there is a love for the Star Wars or Godfather series, but there is something magical that keeps drawing me back to the mesmeric
“I would only believe in a God that knows how to dance.” Friedrich Nietzsche I’m a private dancer. Not in the provocative, seductive way – in backrooms, where you can look but not touch. No, I am a private dancer; alone – often in the kitchen, with only a laptop as sound system and DJ mixes forming my siren songs. I dance alone because I rarely have call to dance in public these days. I gave up clubbing shortly before Lauren was born. The parties I get invited to are usually sit down, casual dining affairs. Dancing is now, almost, a thing of my past – as if all the podiums and terrace steps in the land have taken out an injunction against my moves.