It was three very personable and attractive young ladies who patiently taught my three regular mates and 'yours truly' to dance. We were about sixteen, and being able to dance was vital if one wished to have female acquaintances. Like most young men, we were rather backward when it came to the male prerogative, and what dancing taught us also turned out to be an enjoyable pastime. It certainly helped counteract the occasional female rejection and having to sit glued to one's seat at a dance while others enjoyed themselves (something the uninitiated suffer until they get over their inhibition. Some never do.)

Saturdays were always special, the climax of the week. At noon, after work, it was: Home sharpish, a scrub, and on with the immaculately ironed white shirt, white starched collar and cuffs, matching tie    tied with an impeccable Windsor knot    and a pressed handkerchief showing discreetly above the top pocket of a handsomely pressed suit. We usually commenced the evening listening to records to get us in the mood, then out to a number of pubs (Caerphilly is still littered with them), and ending up in one near to the local 'Palais-de-Dance'. Then, en route to the dance, we'd go through a sobering-up process, so that we were able to stand firm and erect before the penetrating stare of the doorman. And if you didn't come up to scratch in your speech and gait, it was a few choice words and back to where you came from. We usually scraped in. Our optic nerves then got busy eyeing the ladies, followed by subtle positioning to get dances, and 'butter wouldn't-melt' expressions for weekend dates.

In our teens we went through the usual teenage angst over spots, nervous tics, female rejection, and so on. Between us    and I smile about it now    it was Derek with his bad attacks of acne and constantly checking his zip fly to assure himself it was still fastened;  me with my hair back-flicking, nervous tics, and feeling self-conscious about my protruding ears; Billy with his incessant wit to make up for his lack of altitude; and Pearson with his tie-adjusting complex and curbing Billy's tongue, which often led to the threat of physical confrontation. Playing records in our front room was the first leisure activity before going to the dance. A typical evening began with:

"Put on Phil Harris's 'Down Town Poker Club', Ron, after Nellie Lutcher's 'Fine Brown Frame'.  Pearson wants Doris Day's 'Wild Again'.  Derek, one of Sinatra's and a Glen Miller, and you can put what you like on," ordered Billy, smiling cheekily.

"Oh, thanks Bill.  And then can I sit down?"  I replied sarcastically.

Pearson, glued to his usual seat, was sitting bolt upright with a pained  'I've‑been‑waiting‑for‑ages' expression.

"Is that the same darning needle in the gramophone, Ron?  I mean, we wouldn't want to see your records spoilt, now would we?"

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