Dancing Queen

Kat described it as a cabaret evening, and in my mind, cabaret has one association and one association only: arseless chaps.
I've always known Kat was into dancing, but I'd never seen one of her performances before. I've never really been intrigued by dancing as a spectator sport, but in the interests of supporting a friend and trying something new I said I'd go along. When she said it was a cabaret act there was, as I said, an association. When I was young and impressionable I went to see a cabaret act. The only thing i can remember about the whole thing is that there was a fellow there wearing black leather chaps that were missing two very important pieces of material. I wasn't scarred by that sight exactly, but it still created an indelible mental link.

The performance was in the Preston Town Hall, and I showed up half an hour late due to underestimating the time it would take to get there. My (very inaccurate) mental map placed Preston as fairly close to the city, but this was actually completely wrong.
Kat had reserved a table for us, so I joined the rest of the group, opened a beer, and then the show started. Or so we thought. The lights dimmed, people turned to see the stage. A few minutes passed, then the lights went back up again. False alarm, we continue chatting.
A few more minutes and the lights dim a second time. This time, the curtains open as well.

Seeing dancing in a nightclub and seeing a professionally-choreographed and thoroughly rehearsed dance are two entirely different things. It's like the difference between watching your local pub five-a-side and Inter Milan. The dancers do all these crazy dance moves which is impressive by itself, but then there are eight of them, all doing the crazy dance moves, all in perfect synchronisation.

The first dance goes by. I'm impressed, but also distinctly aware of my ignorance. I realise that these moves all have special names, and that some are more difficult than others, but all I know is "ooh! Cartwheel!"
The dance finishes and the performers file off. The performers for the second dance come on stage. There isn't much of them.
Sitting in a darkened room, drinking beer and watching a couple of eight year olds dance to MC Hammer is a unique and slightly discomforting experience. I will say no more.

After a few more dances we reach the interval. One of our table, Adam, has brought smoked oysters, so I put one on a crisp and try it - very nice.
The dancing continues. I find out afterwards that some of the dances were improvised, but it all seemed smooth and professional to me. Kat herself is incredibly confident on the stage; her movement and expression show absolutely no doubt at all. She tells me afterwards that I am hugely mistaken in this. Modesty on her part, I think.
The performance finishes and Kat joins us. We give her the congratulations and applause she deserves, and she accepts it all very graciously. Plans are made to go out, but I have to bow out due to work the next morning.
The group hops on the train and I get off at my stop. To bed after a fun and unique night with, thankfully, no nightmares of men in arseless chaps.