Me Life Story by Scarlett Moffatt (pdf e book reader .TXT) 📕

light she started howling with laughter. The reason my bum hurt so much was because a couple of false nails (they get everywhere) had somehow ended up being embedded into my arse cheek from the fall. She had to literally prise them out.

Saturday would come, first day of the competition weekend. We’d had our fun on the Friday and now it was time to put everything we had practised in the last year into these two days. My competition ritual would begin with me eating my own bodyweight in breakfast (I’d buzz if there was black pudding) at the hotel, knowing I’d not be able to eat anything else for the rest of the day as I’d be so nervous. This would be followed shortly after by a dance poo – a nervous poo that can only be described as shitting through the eye of a needle. We all may look glamorous in our beautiful gowns and 1950s Hollywood glamour make-up and hair but let me tell you, every dance competition’s toilet absolutely stinks and is stained with dancing skid marks.

I’d also love to buy or find a lucky charm: a penny, a stone, a hair clip, which if I didn’t come first would be quickly thrown away as that would be the reason I didn’t win – I’d found a jinxed charm, just my luck. Blackpool Nationwide weekend was the biggest competition of the year (although it felt like the biggest weekend of your entire life). Me and me mam would laugh at what we would call the Blackpool bun brigade. At about 7.30 a.m., the Winter Gardens was just swarmed with an army of girls with buns in their hair and you could literally smell the Elnett hairspray before you could see them. Everyone was the colour of antique mahogany furniture with their hair slicked down (a little trick we would do is use black shoe polish to make your hair shinier), and you’d see kids as young as five with more make-up on than Lily Savage. It truly is a spectacular sight.

It’s only as I’ve got older that I have realised just how many sacrifices were made in order for me to dance. My mam would work her arse off in Etam for a whole month and a half and that wage would go on a dance dress that I would wear twice. My dad would work overtime to pay for private lessons and trips to competitions. I mean I sacrificed my skin – my skin is literally stained orange from all the tan. But to me, winning or getting in a final was my way of saying thank you to my mam and dad, because if it wasn’t for them I wouldn’t have been able to do the sport that brought me so much happiness, and has given me such great memories and lifelong friends.

My favourite memory of a dance competition was when I had just turned fifteen and we were at the nationals. This is the day I remember changing how I presented myself to the world – not just the dance world but school too. It’s the day I grew in confidence. I was tanned up to my eyeballs as per usual. I had a beautiful monochrome dress covered in Swarovski crystals (a second-hand dress but no one needed to know). My make-up was inches thick. I had gone for the theatrical look and admittedly I was looking more like Marilyn Manson than Marilyn Monroe, but I wanted to stand out. There were just under a hundred people in my section and we were whittled down throughout the day. When they called my number for the final six I was overwhelmed. I had never made a national final before, only ever the semi-finals.

I waltzed, foxtrotted, tangoed and quickstepped around the dance floor. I was in my element. Then it came to the Viennese waltz – this dance is basically spinning on a constant loop for three minutes. The speed we danced I thought at one point my actual head was going to come off, we were literally going about 90 mph and I feared my head was going to spin right off and roll off the dance floor. Luckily for me, necks are quite sturdy and as you know my head is still intact to date.

When the dancing was over and all 2,000 spectators were on their feet ready to find out who had won, I grabbed my mam and dad’s hands. ‘I’m not bothered where I place, I just can’t believe I got in the final,’ I told them. When they announced sixth place and it wasn’t my name and number I remember squeezing my mam and dad’s hands. ‘This will be me next.’ But it wasn’t. They announced fifth, fourth, third and now it was time to find out who was runner-up. Now I always say in dancing I would rather come third than second. The reason being, you get the applause of the person’s family and dance school who have just found out they have won. Also rather than people congratulate you they are almost sympathetic: ‘Aahh, next time maybe,’ or ‘Oh, you were so close.’ It’s like, HELLO! I just came second!

They announced second place and I couldn’t even hear who they announced for the thunderous noise of clapping from my dance school. My dad, who never gets emotional, definitely had a little tear in his eye (either that or a sudden case of conjunctivitis). I had won! It’s been the only time I have ever won the nationals but I don’t care. I feel so lucky that I got to have that feeling of picking up that trophy.

Dancing was my escape. When times were hard, when the bullying started, when I felt alone, I would dance. It’s like I would plunge into a fantasy world, escaping everyday worries and stress. I didn’t become a different character or an alter ego like Beyoncé and Sasha Fierce when