The day I put a foot wrong in barracks

MY NATIONAL Service in the Royal Air Force taught me a lot, including self-discipline. And I loved drilling on the parade ground — it was the rhythm, and the sound of the boots. Marching in formation was a bit like being on stage with a huge cast of dancers, though they weren’t as beautiful or scantily dressed. I managed to keep my civilian job a secret, until I met a chap who had returned from the Far East and had a pair of shoes, which were standard issue, he told me, in Burma. I must have looked envious, because he offered to swap them for my boots. That evening, I laid out my kit for inspection, and the officer spotted the shoes. He wasn’t pleased, and I had to explain in a hurry: ‘I’m a tap-dancer, sir, at the Windmill Club, sir, and when you tap-dance, you need flexible ankles, sir — but the boots were killing my ankle joints, sir.’ Somehow, I got away with it. But now the boys all knew I worked at the Windmill, which meant naked girls, and the questions and the teasing were endless.