KERRE MCIVOR

SOME THINGS ARE BETTER DONE WHEN NOBODY’S WATCHING

Finally, finally the call came. Well, not so much a call as a text. It came while I was having lunch with an old friend and although I don’t like responding to my phone when I’m with my friends, somehow I knew this one was important. The ping of the text alert seemed portentous. So

I excused myself and opened my messages.

And there it was. A short text asking if I’d consider putting up my hand to join the cast of Dancing with the Stars.

It was a dream come true. Other reality shows have asked me to participate in the past and I’ve had no trouble saying no to them. Celebrity Treasure Island?

No thank you. The last thing the nation needs is to see me in a bikini, abandoned on an island and deprived of creature comforts. Hangry Kerre is not a nice person.

But Dancing with the Stars!

I’ve watched the show since it first screened. It’s my one guilty pleasure. I love seeing the men and women transform, to face the very real fear of looking like a fool on TV, and to overcome those fears and become dancers.

I squeaked in excitement and told my mate, who was very supportive. The Irishman was less supportive but then he’s not a fan of the show. The entire weekend, I allowed myself to dream. I dared to believe that a professional dancer – I was hoping for Jonny or Aaron – could take this stocky little body, one that was strong and efficient but hardly elegant, and make it a thing of grace and beauty. That me, Kerre Maree McIvor, who’d never had so much as one single ballet lesson, who had learned the Gay Gordons in time for the Sacred Heart/St John’s school ball and that was it, would be able, at the end of three months, to call herself a dancer.

I saw myself in bejewelled chiffon gowns, floating around the dance floor in the arms of a handsome man. I imagined an exuberant jive and a sexy tango. Camilla and Julz, and even the caustic and beautiful Rachel, would rise as one and applaud me before giving me perfect 10s. The glitter ball would be mine!

I was setting myself up for a future in which the very next time a man approached my husband and asked “Permissio?”, I’d be able to take to the dance floor and wow him. Admittedly, it’s only happened the once, about 20 years ago when we were holidaying in Cuba, and there have been no further requests, but still, the next time it happened,

I’d know what I was doing.

People seem to make lifelong friends when they go on as well – and who doesn’t want to make more friends? Previous competitors have raved about how much they enjoyed it, and every time I’ve been asked to do something out of the ordinary – a marathon for instance, or writing a book, or climbing Kilimanjaro – I’ve done it and it’s turned out to be an incredible experience.

But then reality kicked in.

This was a fantasy. A glorious, long-held fantasy. And just like the fantasy of me and George Clooney on the shores of Lake Como, it should stay in my head. I probably wouldn’t be brilliant. I’d probably cry when Rachel criticised me. I’d be exposed as a fraud. And yes, while I have always wanted to learn to dance, there’s a far easier way than doing it in front of the eyes of a nation. I could sign up for private lessons, as I’ve been saying I’ll do for years, and bring the same level of commitment and training that I would as one of the cast.

So, on the Monday, I returned the text and declined with regret. Very real regret. And signed up for dance lessons the very same day.