Latest backyard dance craze is the ants pants

THOUGH never one for dancing, there have been times throughout my life that I’ve had the art of dance thrust upon me.

And, it happened as recently as last weekend.

I fear my neighbours in the ghetto must think I’m a huge fan of Michael Jackson’s dancing style so often do they catch me in mid moonwalk.

However, far from being a Michael Jackson fan, there is always an explanation for my impromptu gyrating.

As you will recall, last Saturday was a hot day and I had been doing my house chores including my washing.

Because it was so hot, I was dressed in shorts, t-shirt and thongs (the ones you wear on your feet).

Hanging my washing on the clothes line, suddenly felt an excruciating stinging to the tops of my feet as if someone had applied a magnifying glass under the bright sun to my tootsies.

I looked down to find a colony of what appeared to be dark-coloured ants having a party atop my feet.

Obviously, whichever ant was responsible for bringing the snacks had been derelict in its duty as this mob were chomping into my flesh like sumo wrestlers at a smorgasbord.

I threw the wet jocks and pegs to the heavens and started gyrating about like a skinny drunk trying to hold in a pee with all the loos taken.

Do you know how hard it is to grab both feet while remaining upright?

I was mid-moonwalk trying to flick the ants off my feet when I looked up to see my neighbour, hitherto mowing the lawn, doubled over in laughter.

And, that was only the first load of washing, I still had another two runs.

What’s the world coming to when I have to wear steel-capped boots just to hang out the washing?

‘‘ I WONDER IF JOHN TRAVOLTA BASED HIS DANCE MOVES FOR SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER ON OLD TAPES OF MY MISHAPS.

As I write this days later I’ve still got red bite marks across the tops of my feet and for the first two nights the pain was so great I had to get out of bed and apply papaw ointment.

Unfortunately, episodes of dancing under attack are nothing new.

A few years ago one September morning I was walking up the steep hill that is Bridge St west of Mort St where a particularly cranky magpie resided in a tree on the footpath.

Although I knew it was around somewhere, this maggie was pretty sneaky and would dive-bomb from great heights, scaring the living daylights out of me and sending me into a dance of flailing arms above my head and Fred Astaire like dancing steps.

Of course, my predicament was a moment of amusement for the passing motorists who were beeping their horns in audience appreciation.

Adding to my pain and embarrassment, in those same days just 100m further up the hill was another tree, a hole in which had become home to a hive of wild bees.

No sooner had one warded off the diving magpie than you found yourself back in disco dancing mode under attack from a swarm of bees.

All this when I was on my way up the hill to Holy Name for Mass. Perhaps, that magpie and the bees were under some sort of satanic possession.

Yet, “dancing under attack” actually dates back to my early childhood.

When I was five, we lived in a North Queensland school house which was surrounded by sugar cane paddocks full of wildlife. I had a habit of carrying around a cane knife with which I’d chop into long grass or anything that took my fancy at the time.

This particular day I spotted a piece of bark hanging from one of the two tall pine trees that towered over our back yard.

Naturally, I gave an almighty swipe of the cane knife which smashed into the piece of bark.

Of course, I had no idea there was a wasp nest behind that very piece of bark and wasps don’t particular like having their home smashed thus.

Within seconds I was dancing about and screaming in a high pitch that Michael Jackson couldn’t have reached as I raced back to the house, my back covered in wasp stings.

I wonder if John Travolta based his dance moves for Saturday Night Fever on old tapes of my mishaps.