Rockin' to the radio

My daughter has helped whilst I prepare dinner - help, in the loosest sense of the word, you understand. Nevertheless, dinner is on.

As is the radio. A new song plays. My daughter starts dancing.

"Hey, did you know you can do a Military Two Step to this?"

She looks at me blankly. I remember she hasn't been brought up to Ceilidh dance.

"No, seriously, you can. Here!" and I take her hand. In about a square metre of space between table and fridge I demonstrate.

"Hold my hand. Right, now ...

Heel - toe - heel - toe

1 - 2 - 3 - turn..."

We hit the fridge.

"Heel - toe - heel - toe

1 - 2 - 3 - turn..."

We're back where we started.

"Right kick, left kick, twirl..."

I get sore shins; she loves the twirling.

"And polka for eight - da-di-da-di-da-di-daa"

Polka-ing is hard enough with a seven-year-old half your size. Throw in the two left feet, the lack of available space and me taking the man's role ... well, we collapse in giggles.

"Again! Again!" she says.

We are nowhere near the beat of the music, but try once more. More laughter, more giggles.

We stop, me panting for breath, her face nearly wet with tears.

"Alternatively," I say, "we could try head-banging."

Which is how we spend the rest of the song, waving our blonde bobbed hair madly in the air, narrowly avoiding the corner of the table, each other and the resulting concussion.

And what were we listening to? An all-time classic. Enjoy!