No Rumba in Zumba

No Rumba in Zumba.

No Rumba in Zumba

As the door numbered 2011 creaked open, I gingerly poked my head around it and whispered into the unforeseen that I would aim to be a healthier person throughout the year. This was in no shape or form a New Years Resolution, those promises often a whim are usually broken within a few weeks and I want this year to be different.

It was a cold January evening, 5 days into the new year and I still hadn’t started my healthy living plan. As I say on the sofa, feet snuggled against the radiator with the tv remote in hand,  I caught sight of an advert for the latest fitness craze Zumba.  I had recently seen an advert in the local paper about it coming to the sleepy town where I lived, so I made the call and found that the class was starting within – yikes – 50 minutes!  So with no time to waste I got ready and went to the class.

As I entered the hall of the high school I attended many moons ago I instantly felt like I was gate crashing a party. Reggaeton was blaring from the instructors iPod wired up to some speakers “Caliente, Caliente!” (translation “hot, hot”) were the words I could hear from the artist playing, a sea of women lined the hall facing a female instructor jigging around on the stage.

After signing a declaration to say that I was “fit for purpose” I danced into line with the other women and looked to the instructor for guidance. Now instead of shouting out instructions and telling the class they were going to do a basic move which is just side stepping twice left & then right – the instructor commenced to dance around the stage doing a variety of moves and everyone was just expected to keep up and remember the routine. For me it wasn’t so bad, I mean I did stuff up a couple of times but luckily I don’t have “two left feet” and enjoy dancing so I was able to recognise the moves the instructor was doing and sort of keep up – I knew dancing in front of the mirror to Top of the Pops would pay off one day 😀 – but I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like for someone who had no dance experience whatsoever?

Zumba was discovered by accident by Alberto Perez who one day turned up to teach a fitness class without his music designed for the session and had to use whatever music he could find in his bag. This was a mixture of Salsa and Merengue, he changed his routine to fit the music incorporating Salsa moves into the workout and thus the concept of Zumba was born and now has become a worldwide success.

I glanced at the “hardcore women” at the front of the stage who had obviously been before and were up to speed with what was expected of them. One of the “hardcore women” even went so far as to wear a “nice” lime-green lycra crop top & shorts duo with the trade mark  “Zumba” blazoned across the front! Note to myself – never take it that seriously!

As I glanced further around the room I noticed one lone man, short and middle-aged, who was trying to keep up with the instructor but kept losing his rhythm whenever she suddenly switched a move. As I watched him I forgot to watch the instructor and carried on doing a combination for a few beats until I saw his perplexed face and realised I should really be looking ahead. In the end I saw that he seemed to lose his gusto and sometimes did his own thing – that made me smile. As did the woman behind me who really exerted herself through the routines, over emphasising on the moves and dripping with sweat.

It was hard not to smile throughout the hour, I was dancing, getting my heart rate up and letting the latin beats flow through me – I was enjoying the party/workout. Even when my thighs started to burn I kept going, twisting and turning, arms waving in time to the Reggaeton, Merengue and Salsa beats. It was fast, energetic, high tempo not a slow Rumba movement at all. At one point I heard some country & western track thrown in there for ‘bad measure’ which completely messed up my groove – I wasn’t impressed, it just didn’t fit in with the whole ambience, well that was my cue to get a sip of water.

I can honestly say though that by the time the workout had ended I felt a majority of my muscles had been worked on – shoulders, triceps, quads, hamstrings, calfs & even my gluteus maximus! they all felt the burn. I wasn’t even using the toning sticks – which the instructor says we will be using in a few weeks time once we have mastered the steps. I for one am looking forward to them coming into play and next session I’ll be dragging along some of my friends to  find out their verdict on this highly energetic, fast-moving and fun work out.

 

Ronnie Biggs, My Grandad – The Legend

If I told you that my grandad was Ronnie Biggs and that he was a kind-hearted man, full of life, a joker and always ready to lend a hand to anyone in need, I’m sure you’d either give me a strange glare or a piece of your mind on the crime he committed. Perhaps you’d try to sympathise with me regarding his injustice and tell me how he really should have been freed sooner, having done his time.

Well I’d listen to you with a wry smile, for the reason I talk about Ronnie Biggs with admiration and in the past  tense is because my Ronnie Biggs isn’t a gang member of the great train robbery in 1963, who escaped from prison and went on the run to Paris and Australia before settling in Rio De Janeiro. No my grandad also known as Ronnie Biggs was born in Manchester, Jamaica 1930.

My grandad came to Britain with his wife in 1967. The infamous Ronnie Biggs was on the run at the time having escaped Aylesbury Prison in 1965, but little did my granddad know how much trouble and fun his name would cause him.

It all began when he went into a bank to open an account and deposit some money. The teller, a young lady, asked him for his name and address details. When he told her his name she seemed to freeze for a moment, mouth ajar, then she snapped shut the shutter which sat between herself and him. Racial discrimination was not uncommon at that time in the 21^st century and so my grandad thought she was being rather rude.

Next the manager of the bank approached him and again asked for his name and address. When my grandad confirmed that his name was indeed “Ronald Biggs” the manager turned on his heels and went into an office. The next thing my grandad heard was a screeching of tyres and before he could get his head around what was happening, four policemen rushed into the bank to apprehend the most wanted man in Britain.

When they realised that my grandad was not who they wanted and more to the point he was a black Caribbean man, they laughed and laughed as they thought they’d caught the real Ronnie Biggs trying to deposit some of his loot. They then brought him up to speed with who Ronnie Biggs was and how badly they wanted to catch him.

Luckily my grandad, who had a great sense of humour,  immediately saw the funny side and told them that he was not a robber but a Vicar who would not be stealing anything, and so began the stories.

Another incident occurred when one particular summers evening  he called the police to report a vicious and stray dog that was in his garden, barking and snarling at him and his family.

Three police cars and a riot van pulled up outside his home. The police in full riot gear, surrounded the house and ordered him to surrender.

Knowing what trouble his name had caused him again, my grandad came out of the house with his hands up. When the officers asked him who he was and he told them his infamous name they assumed he was lying and ridiculing them. My grandmother had to bring his passport out of the house to prove his name.

A steady crowd was growing outside the house, cars stopped on the busy road to see what all the fuss was about and curtains twitched as the neighbours who didn’t want to seem nosey peeked out.

As this was happening, the chief of police came forward, he was round bellied and stern looking, everyone was silent. He looked at the passport then at my grandad, he took off his police hat, doubled over and laughed so hard and for so long that my grandad didn’t know what to do.

Slowly the other officers joined in, not only laughing at his name but at the fact that they thought they had just made history and found Ronnie’s hideout. Incidentally the stray dog disappeared during all the commotion and was never seen again.

Throughout his life, he brought a smile to the faces of all the people who he came in contact with. He prayed for the sick and was always on hand to help anyone who called upon him.

He had a wealth of stories to tell about his name, and how people thought it ironic that they should share the same name yet one a thief and the other a vicar.

Sadly my grandad passed away in October 2000, but the fond memories of him will stay with me forever, for my Ronald Biggs, My Grandad is a legend.

Welcome to My World…

So I’ve finally decided to join the world of blogging “Hello World”,  my blogs won’t be on any particular subject – although I do love cooking and I also have a major passion for perfumes, not to mention a nice glass of Baileys on ice…