Loving the sky background – I’m like a floating princess.
I can hear you say it, why ballroom and Latin dancing? Well, my mam had a love of Come Dancing, the original. The huge dresses, the old-time music, the grandeur of it all. My mam would have loved to have learnt to dance so she took me along to her dream hobby. I thought it was the greatest thing since sliced bread. Yes, it was not the coolest of hobbies to have at that time as the kids at school often taunted me, ‘You do old-fogey dancing, granny dancing.’ But I didn’t care; I couldn’t wait to get this medal test over and done with so I could start going to competitions. I’d show them kids at school when I’d waltz into the classroom and paso-doble past everyone to the front of the class to show the teacher my huge first-place trophy (at least that was the dream anyway).
The medal test was as terrifying as I thought it would be. There was one sole judge sat behind a pine desk at the bottom of the dance floor; she was sipping black coffee which smelt so strong I felt like I was getting high from the caffeine. She had sparkly glasses on, red lipstick that bled into her creases and her face looked like she had just smelt dog shite. She had an ‘I’m it, you’re shit’ sort of look. You know the type of woman I mean – mid fifties, wears nothing but beige cardigans and white trousers. Miserable she was. I remember thinking a woman with such an angry face should not be allowed to wear nice sparkly glasses. With trembling tot fingers I handed over my dance sheet and I danced a cha cha cha and a foxtrot, smiling through gritted teeth all the way through and trying to forget I felt as if I was going to throw up. ‘Highly commended’ I was awarded. Not quite a distinction but I was on my way.
Now I am not meaning to sound a bighead; as you know I am not one to boast. Saying that, I must admit I got canny good at dancing. I won lots of regional competitions so I got to represent the Tyne Tees at nationals. I got into quite a lot of national finals and I did pretty well. I have around 600 trophies and shields. And where do you keep them, Scarlett? Pride of place on the mantelpiece? Maybe a few in that drawer everyone has that’s full of old batteries and mystery keys? Nope, they are all collecting dust in the attic. There is no trace of my dancing days in my mam and dad’s house, what with my mam’s love of minimalism.
When I was younger, my dad put up some varnished wooden shelves above my bed to display some of my more impressive trophies, so until I was about eleven my bedroom was like a little dancing shrine. Sometimes paranoia would kick in on a night and I’d lie awake staring at the trophies thinking, God, if these shelves broke all of a sudden I’d be disfigured or even killed by a mountain of my own trophies. I’d literally be a victim of my own success.
My first ever memory of a dance competition was when we had a fun competition at Redcar Bowl (by fun competition I mean it wasn’t for a title, but believe me what with all the dance mams it was never particularly fun – it was more friendly competitiveness). My mam spent the whole of the night before the big comp sewing red sequins onto a black skirt. Bless her, she had plasters on her fingers from where she had pricked herself but she knew it was worth it as I was so excited to wear the outfit. However, nothing is ever plain sailing for the Moffatt family and once we got there we were told it was regulation dresses only and no one could dance with sequins or crystals on a dress. I had to borrow Debbie Brown’s dress which was far too big for me and I just look back now and feel so bad that my mam’s efforts were never seen on the dance floor. I do remember coming fourth that day though and standing in the line-up and seeing my mam’s smiley face, it made me so happy inside.
As time went on and I got older, I realised that winning at competitions wasn’t just about how passionate you were about dancing, or your efforts, technique or your presence on the floor, but you also were judged on how you looked (similar to life really). So when I was about twelve or thirteen I told my mam I didn’t want to look washed out under the glaring lights of Blackpool’s Winter Gardens ballroom. So I was ready to try a product that is now one of my best friends: fake tan.
The first time I properly fake-tanned, I’m not talking about a bit of bronzer, I’m talking full-on spray tan. Me mam bought a spray tan machine and the solution, and I stood in the bath while I was sprayed to within an inch of my life. I remember going to bed and feeling like a professional with my little golden glow. However, the horrific sight that greeted me in the mirror when I woke up on the morning was not golden. I was glowing all right. A radioactive glow. I was luminous. I wasn’t even orange, I had literally invented a new colour. A cross between David Dickinson’s mahogany tan and a jar of piccalilli. (That said, it wasn’t as bad as the time I used moisturiser before getting a spray tan and it went green. I was dancing around the dance floor like Princess Fiona from Shrek.)
If you’re reading this and you’ve danced before or still dance you will understand the importance of making sure that
