I'm actually a really, really good dancer.

I like to think what I lack in ability, I more than make up for in enthusiasm.

The family doesn't see it like that of course; they blame So You Think You Can Dance for my (so-called) delusions.

What they don't realise is that there's a lithe young dancer trapped inside this cumbersome body of mine, and she's busting to get out.

It's true that the show should be held partly responsible.

It wasn't until I became hooked on the series that I discovered my inner b-girl/ballroom/ballerina (I don't like a specific label, my dances are so diverse).

Initially I just watched in awe as these talented young things leapt about gracefully.

I marvelled at their beauty, strength and co-ordination, and dreamt wistfully of being the same.

Then I realised my own lack in these departments needn't preclude me.

Now if I feel the urge I'll shimmy down the hallway or do a mean booty-shake for the hell of it.

And don't even get me started on the jazz hands.

The children are generally horrified by this behaviour. The older ones avert their eyes and plead with me to stop. At least the youngest appreciates me (if laughing uproariously can actually be considered appreciation).

What they don't realise is that I have a dance history.

Being an only daughter, I was enrolled in ballet classes at a very early age.

At the end of my first (and only) term, I distinctly remember my teacher complimenting me on my ``beautiful ballet smile''.

It wasn't until years later I understood this meant I lacked skill and poise, but had the facial expressions down pat.

See, even back then, a lack of encouragement didn't deter my enthusiasm, and it doesn't now.

At least in private. Public scrutiny is another matter. I'll probably need some yoga classes (so I can get really bendy) before I'm ready to audition for my own spot in the top-20.

Then there's the little matter of finding someone who can lift me over their head.

Until then I'll have to restrict my audience to immediate family members only*, whether they like it or not.

(*Historic episodes of cocktail-fuelled dancing not counted).