And so it’s over. My love affair lasted only a few months, and sometimes I wondered what on earth I was doing; I tried to tear myself away but I just couldn’t help myself, and now it has ended, as I knew it would, everything feels very flat. I’m talking of course about my really badly guilty pleasure, which is Strictly Come Dancing. Really, I am just a sad old tart.
If you had told me a few years ago that I would settle down every Saturday night to watch a game show hosted by Bruce Forsyth I would have laughed in your face. But I hadn’t bargained for my daughter, then aged 10 demanding that we watch it together. How could I refuse? We’d snuggle up in the armchair, and she’d provide a running commentary on everything that was wrong (and right) with the costumes, while I realised with some internal shock, that it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. Especially when I copped an eyeful of the male dancers. Occasionally we’d get up and do our own version of the cha cha cha, careering round the room with the dogs barking in confusion. Sometimes we would call in to vote for our favourite dance, and she was thrilled if that one then stayed in the competition. But life goes on. Now my eager little girl is a cool 17, and she views me with amused tolerance when I reach for the remote control on a Saturday night.
But hey, I don’t care. I am well and truly hooked. I love everything about it. I love the good dancers and the awful ones (Dave Myers, you are my favourite) I love the good humour of it all and I love watching celebrities (who unlike in other shows, are generally people I’ve heard of) get way out of their comfort zones. I like shouting at the telly, when things don’t go the way I want (Natalie, you were robbed). I even like Bruce Forsyth and his truly appalling jokes. So who cares about Christmas? Roll on next September I say.