DANCING'S never been my strong point. As a child, I avoided school discos because I was too shy. As an adult, I've become a source of excruciating embarrassment to my family at wedding receptions and New Year's Eve parties.

But the past few days has shown me, for the first time, that I have dancing in my blood. There is talent swimming in my gene pool and it surfaced twice within 24 hours.

Twelve years ago, in this column, I was lamenting the fact that my only little girl didn't really look like a little girl. At three years old, her hair still hadn't grown, she had large, protruding teeth, and people thought she was a boy.

Last weekend, I sat entranced in the front row of a packed Darlington Civic Theatre as my 15-year-old daughter performed the lead role in a ballet production of Snow White. Her hair is long and shining, and her teeth have been straightened by a miraculous brace.

She looked beautiful, she danced like a dream, and I was overcome with pride.

When she and the Prince took their ovation at the end, I don't mind admitting that tears were streaming down my face - just as they did the moment she was born. Even Snow White's little brother, Max, ten, was moved to say: "Hannah was wonderful, wasn't she Dad?"

When she emerged from the stage door, she was swamped with bouquets, gifts, cards and more hugs than she could cope with.

You might think that such a highlight could not be bettered. But you'd be wrong. The night before Snow White, my wife and I had attended a Bollywood evening to raise money for the local hospice. A nice curry, then entertainment provided by a group of colourful and energetic Indian dancers. After their routine, they asked for volunteers to have a go and, despite doing my best to hide behind my menu, I was dragged on to the dance floor.

There are three choices at moments like this: (1) Run and don't stop; (2) stand at the back looking like a spare part; or (3) just go for it. I opted for the last one.

There were limbs everywhere as I tried to follow the real Indian dancers, but I couldn't find my natural rhythm and I was starting to feel like a bit of a pillock. Then, one of the male performers, shouted the instruction: "Just pretend you're changing a light bulb", and twisted his hands above his head in demonstration.

This proved to be the key to Bollywood dancing.

With my hands twisting madly above my head, I found an inner confidence. I realised that you can do anything else with your body but, as long as you're changing light bulbs, you suddenly look Indian.

At the end, it was announced that there was a prize for the best volunteer dancer and the words "In joint first place, Peter Barron" will probably stay with me for ever.

"I didn't know you had it in you," said my wife.

"You just have to pretend you're changing a lightbulb," I explained, breathlessly.

"How would you know? You've never changed a lightbulb in your life - you always leave it to me," she replied.

Great, isn't it? My daughter's dancing success is rewarded by flowers, presents, cards and adulation. All I get is a kick in the Bollywoods.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

AT the annual dinner of the Friends of Sunderland Museums, treasurer Bill Tye remembered the time a young priest at St Ignatius Church in Sunderland was asked by a neighbour to look after his daughter's rabbit while they were away. When the priest called round on the first day, he found to his horror that the pet was dead. A desperate search began to find a lookalike rabbit to avoid the heartbreak and it was duly placed in the hutch. When the neighbours came back from holiday, the little girl knocked at the priest's door and thanked him: "You've performed a miracle because my rabbit died the night before I went away," she said.

BILL also remembered the time the children brought all kinds of produce to the local Methodist church for the harvest festival. One by one, the minister lifted up a cabbage, carrots, sprouts, potatoes, and broccoli and asked the children: "What word would cover all of these?" A little lad's hand shot up and he shouted: "Gravy."

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