A birthday present from Flora saw us spending 90 hot, humid minutes at the London School of Samba on Sunday with drums strapped round our necks.
There were ten of us on drums and percussion. Around fifty amateur dancers of every age, shape, size and ability were relying on us to keep the beat.
No pressure then.
I can sing, and I have a reasonable sense of rhythm. I just can’t drum. Thankfully, neither could Flora. Even more thankfully, the other eight were both louder and considerably better than us.
It was bloody hard work. The venue was gloriously scruffy, everyone was laughing, mistakes were celebrated rather than hidden, and somehow, despite ourselves, the dancers kept dancing.
Community doesn’t need perfect conditions. Sometimes all it takes is a hot room, a mixed bunch of people, a willingness to have a go, and enough good drummers to carry the rest of us.
I left exhausted, grinning, and with a whole new respect for anyone who can keep a samba beat.
People. Planet. (Not much) Progress.