george.jpg       Taking a break from table dancing.

I’m somewhat unsure about Strictly Come Dancing. Apart from enduring Brucie’s jokes that get worse in every programme (perhaps I should offer myself as script writer, I couldn’t do any worse), it has advantages for a small dog. While Tina is fixated by swivelling hips and fancy footwork, there is an outside chance that she will drop her biscuit in excitement then let me clean up her crumbs.

However, there is a down side. Suddenly I am required to dance!  Now being a dog of Queen Anne legs and small stature, I might be built for the Jive, but the Foxtrot, definitely not. To me slow, slow, quick quick, slow means find a smell, chase a smell, stop and pee on it, then off again. But here I am scooped up, and whisked around the sitting room like a babe in arms being rocked violently to sleep.  

What is a dog to do? The waltz makes me dizzy, the salsa makes me sick, the staccato head whipping in the tango sends me cross-eyed and I dread the American Smooth. All those lifts – I was never meant to be that far off the ground! But the Pasa Doble!! Well actually I make quite a good bull to Tina’s cape. We do have some fun with that, and at least I can stay on the floor.  10! 10! 10! 10! Ole!