The Conscious Beginning

I remember it like it was yesterday – that Tuesday night many years ago in one of London’s Salsa clubs, a man’s hand stuck out in front of me, waiting for me to accept his offer and take to the dance floor with him. The dismay must have shown on my face as another man intercepted and swung me onto the dance space amongst the sweating, dancing bodies. He had a mound of curly ringleted hair bouncing around his back and was dressed impeccably in a white embellished shirt, ripped jeans and a pair of those long toed brown shoes that you could imagine David Beckham wearing. In hindsight the Latin dance was very fitting; he would put his hands on my hips to steady my movement, I would frown inwardly at his nerve to try and control me, he didn’t know I was a dancer and knew exactly what I...
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