Strictly come dancing with Karen Hardy - the other one

It started back in October 2015 when I was tagged in a tweet about Strictly Come Dancing, a British reality television series like our own Dancing with the Stars. Karen, the real Karen, was in pictured in a tweet from the official Strictly account, in raptures over a dance (if you Google Jay McGuiness jive you'll see the one) from that particular season. Only trouble is they tagged my Twitter account and not hers.

Flattered to be mistaken for @the_karenhardy I wrote #twoleftfeet

Let the dance begin.

So every now and again, I'll be tagged in a tweet. There I am encouraging women to be more active in Breast Cancer Awareness Month (I would be doing that anyway), or being begged to come back to Strictly Come Dancing because I'm someone's #favouritedancerever.

Things have heated up in recent months as there's some kerfuffle about whether or not I should replace some long-standing judge on the show. @GrumpyLGoodman is a legend but @KarenHardyCT for next head judge, someone tweeted. More than happy to help out if you'd like guys.

Because I do know something about dancing.

My dance story, more like Black Pelican than Black Swan, began back in 1976, East Orange Primary School, when we'd regularly have ballroom dancing as some sort of physical activity. Our dear teacher John Bowyer, one of those teachers you remember forever, thought that all young people should be able to dance a waltz, should be able to hold a member of the opposite sex without fearing boys' germs, should be able to coordinate their two left feet.

And so we danced. Waltzes, the Pride of Erin, Canadian Two Steps, the occasional barn dance.

Weird, but dancing stayed on the curriculum right through high school too. And those of us who had attend East Orange were a (two) step ahead of everyone else. We knew the moves so we had more time to concentrate on how to rig a progressive dance so we'd end up with the class spunk at the times where you got to do more holding.

I also attended a few ballet lessons, a cousin of my father's ran a dance school in Orange, and she let my sister and I come along occasionally for free. And was quite open with my father about my ability. Tell her to stick with hockey. And I'm not much of a hockey player so that gives some indication of my ballet skills.

When I got married we thought it would be fun to do a proper bridal dance. We took some lessons, spent a few months learning a samba, how racy of us.

But alas, the summer of 95 was wedding season in our group of friends and we were all out shone but a couple who had perfected a tango for their bridal dance. Sexy blighters that they were, and still are, tango-ing four children and life changes, 20 odd years down the track.

I often lament that people don't hold each other any more when they dance. Disco, for as much as I love it, killed that. John Travolta was much sexier when he was holding on to Lady Diana dancing at the White House than he was on the dance floor in Saturday Night Fever …. Hang on, no he wasn't … but you know what I mean.

So if the real Karen Hardy ever wants a break from whatever dance related activities she's doing, I'm more than qualified to step in. I could help run her dance studio in a swanky part of London, help judge on the show, help with celebrity appearances. I would be more than willing to step in any time her handsome husband Conrad Murray, a New Zealand born dance champion who plays rugby and cricket (could a man be more perfect? I wonder if Richie McCaw can dance?) needs a partner and his wife is busy. More than willing.

But alas, I know I am doomed to a dancing life that is strictly in my lounge room. I don't mind cutting a rug, shaking my booty, or getting jiggy with it. What's that saying … dance like no one is watching?

In my case that's true. No one is watching but plenty of people are still tweeting about it.