“Adonis said to tell you that there’s a new dance exercise class at the Leisure Centre tomorrow night at six o’clock,” our good friend and neighbour, Martin, told me with a smile yesterday afternoon when I was doing a bit of gardening.

Martin was laughing because the “Adonis” of whom he referred is none other than lovely Brian, one of the managers at the centre, who I’ve told you about before.

“How do you know I dubbed him ‘Adonis’?” I asked surprised (because I couldn’t imagine Martin being sharp enough to follow my brilliant blog!).

“Catherine told me,” Martin insisted (rather too quickly – maybe he’s a secret follower…).

Well, with an invitation like that, coming from Adonis, I simply had to attend. Besides, I have been feeling rather chubby recently as my most recent Dukane Diet stint lasted only five days (if only I had had the willpower to continue I would be nearly slim by now!). So I put on my fluorescent green keep-fit top and Lycra black bottoms with a slash of green at the waist, so they match (even if no-one but me sees it); and, running late as usual, I accepted Chris’s offer to drop me off.

As soon as I walked through the sliding doors I was captivated by the party atmosphere – and that was only at reception! There was a long queue of women with their money in their hands, and they all seemed excited. Had Adonis invited them all? He was busy at the counter, collecting names on a list and answering questions. The receptionist slid my member card through the machine and Adonis must have noticed my nice fluorescent ultra-fit top and looked up at me.

“I’m so glad you made it. Martin gave you the message then?”, he smiled and handed me the pen to sign on the list.

Then he gave me two fluorescent green things (lucky match!) which appeared, to my untrained eyes, to be pens also.

“What are these?” I queried.

“You just pull the tags off and you’ll see,” he was vastly amused at my old-fashionedness (if there is such a word).

“What is the class called?” I asked.

“Club Aside,” he said, “and hurry up and get in there.”

My goodness! The room was dark save for the fluorescent pens (or torches) held by the throng of mostly women and a few men, and some floor lights on the platform where two young men – our leaders – wearing fluorescent face paint, vests and shorts, were about to begin the dance class. It was more like a party on a dance-floor than a dance class.

After a stiff and dodgy start – I was still quite stiff from Zumba yesterday (well I am trying) – I soon got into it and was able to follow our leaders to the degree that my torches were going in the same direction as them even if my body wasn’t. The beat was great and the ladies were vociferous; they seemed to know when it was appropriate to scream and for a while I felt like something of a fuddy duddy. Happily, by the end I was able to scream and jump around on cue like the rest of them – this “Club Aside” music was most infectious.

At last, we all clapped ourselves and the lights came on. I went over to thank the leaders and a lady wearing face paint came over to me.

“Hello,” she said, “I knew it was you in that glamorous outfit!” (So glad I wore my fluorescent top!)

It was my Zumba teacher! One of our young men leaders turned out to be Charlie, the student Zumba teacher who joined in taking our class yesterday at Mamhead Village Hall (the centre of the universe!). Isn’t it a small world?

Back out in reception Adonis was on the phone talking to an ambulance paramedic while a group of staff and other ladies surrounded a face-painted lady who had fainted (as well as painted).

“Will she be alright?” I asked.

“Yes, but we have to sure,” said Brian.

At that moment the lady looked up and said:

“Oh hello Sally!”

“Hello Sheila,” I said. We been friendly acquaintances for many years.

Well, I had to leave – I was starving after all that exercise – so, as walked towards the door, I turned and asked again what the class was called, for it seemed to me that “Club-Aside” was an awfully strange name for a dance class.

“Clubb – er – cise”, Brian said slowly for me.

I ran home feeling exhilarated. Then I had toast and cheese and biscuits – not very slimming. I do hate dieting but I love Clubbercise!

Getting into the hammock was easy enough, although it was completely unlike the one we had  when I was a child at Wynnum. My big brother Bill made that one, which was of the conventional flat hammock style with a piece of wood at each end and was hung between the mulberry and mango trees, and long grasses grew up around it making it a place to hide away from a big family – we always knew where to look when we couldn’t find Mum.

No, the hammock here at Charis’s house, where Chris and I are house-sitting, is a modern variation which takes into account that people may not have the appropriate trees or even a garden to swing the cat in; in fact it’s probably designed for a verandah, which, indeed, is where this one normally resides. However, yesterday I fancied to do some sun bathing to top up my tan so Chris and I moved the hammock to where there was a little dappled sunshine by the fence. Happy and dainty as a lamb I gambolled – or was it more of a lollop? – into the strange canoe-like hammock. The striped canvas either side of me rose like walls as my weight found the centre and, ironically, sheltered me from the sun; but I found that if I pushed my elbows out at right angles and spreadeagled my legs I could make the walls recede enough for the sun to shine on me whilst still affording some modesty from any interested party in the neighbourhood (not that that has ever been of paramount importance before). In truth, from the neighbours’ perspective I must have looked like a giant stripey cocoon suspended in a metal frame.

After ten minutes of baking in thirty-six degrees my head and shoulders emerged from the canvas oven and I had to consider how to get out. At first I tried swinging my knees over the side from the middle but, in spite of the close proximity of my bottom to the ground, my feet were a good deal higher and, after a bit of pushing, urging and flailing, I just sat there like a stranded witchetty grub. I was reminded of the time my sister Mary and I went canoeing with our nephew William at Gumdale Creek and I was on the hard plastic kayak raft thing whilst Mary had drawn the short straw and was in control of the blow-up canoe with the soft bottom and high sides, which made it mighty difficult to paddle… and even harder to get out of! (I seem to remember that at length we had to tip her out rather inelegantly from her jumping castle that had come to rest on the mud. We laughed so much. Happy memories… for some!) Actually, it didn’t seem so funny now that I had to extricate myself from the hammock.

The memory gave me an idea. You don’t get out of a boat from the side – do you? (Yes, I know I tried it once, got my foot stuck on the rowlocks and nearly did the splits! So embarrassing.) I wriggled my way up as far as I could to the end of the hammock and swung myself over the side. Success!

“How did you manage to get out of the hammock yesterday?” I asked Chris when I appeared triumphantly at the screen door.

“Oh, I had a little difficulty too. I think I just rolled out lengthwise over the side,” my husband confirmed his method was somewhat similar to my own.

There you have it, how to get out of one of those deep hammocks. And if you have found that helpful I have another bit of useful information, this time regarding hair cutting… Should you ever need to trim off a scraggly piece of hair from the end of your plait or pony tail do not open the kitchen drawer and pick up the first pair of scissors you come to – put on your glasses and find conventional scissors with two blades, not six!