Having two left feet, I prefer to look at text. But the letters dance before my eyes, as if to show me other times. I am working off a grudge: I tried walking it off, but that only gave me the feeling that I belonged in ancient times. Amongst the things I was given to read, in times which feel so distant I recall them as through someone else's mind, was how a country-boy can be told apart from a city-bred one, by the matter of how far he holds out his hand in greeting. But the shaking of hands was largely obsolete when we were going through school: we made up what we might as well call jigs.
On the whole, we came out of school thinking we were pretty cultureless, which condition we guarded jealously with expressions such as that which indicates our lack of dancing skill. There may be a reason that schools held an annual dance for final-year students, but I'd rather just call it a quaint circumstance. Dancing lessons were part of the education of those who could afford it, within Christendom.
Allowing Christendom to end with universal education, to give ourselves a convenient definition, a sharp blade gleams at us from a height which we're trying our best to dismantle. The minimum width, and the arm around the waist (or the hand on the face), seem to be rules too hard for setters of them to describe, let alone adhere to.
So I'll just sit here looking archly at a guillotine-obsessed penguin, waiting for better days when the form may be continued naturally; and when I'm bored I'll keep up my own efforts with regulation uniforms.