LAST weekend eight of us descended on Arran for a girls’ weekend. It had been booked some time ago, but with the impending virus scare, naturally some of the girls were reluctant to go.

“Let’s just go and enjoy ourselves girls, because after this weekend the chances are, we won’t be going anywhere for quite some time,”

I suggested.

Eight of us were sharing a lodge set in acres of beautiful grounds and were excited at the prospect of spending a few days together.

However, after the first night, it became apparent that some weren’t used to living in such confinement with others.

“Did you use the last of the milk?”

“My, you can certainly snore.”

“Do you always get up as often during the night for the toilet?”

So, day two in the Big Brother house was quickly becoming a bit of a challenge for some.

However, that evening as we returned from the restaurant, Yvonne, who is a qualified dance teacher, decided to keep us all occupied by having some fun and exercise.

“Right girls, I have made up a dance routing for you all, so get up on your feet.”

“Alexa,” she roared.

“Play Pussycat Dolls… Don’t Cha.”

Next minute, music blared and everyone, now wearing their jammies, sprung to their feet.

“Right,” roared Yvonne as she attempted to get us all to pay attention.

“Mae, you are the sexy one everyone wants to be like, so stay upright in the middle of us while we are all hunched down, and when I say change, we all swap over.”

This seemed like an easy enough instruction, and finally we all got into position in a circle around the living room coffee table, with Mae in the middle also.

“Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?

“Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me?” the Pussycat Dolls blared.

“Don’t cha.

“Don’t cha.”

Next minute Yvonne bellowed.

“Down Mae, down.”

Mae was swaying from side to side like an exotic belly dancer as she attempted to lower herself, but being rather unsteady on her feet, she had to grasp on to the coffee table and Yvonne didn’t’ look very amused.

The Pussycat Dolls sounded all around us, as the rest of us attempted to get up on our feet again.

“Oh, ah, oh...” Even the lubricant Pinot Grigio couldn’t help my aching and creaky knees, and I too had to grasp the coffee table.

“For goodness sake girls, you’re making this look difficult.”

Our dance teacher was getting more frustrated.

Up and down we went as we attempted to mimic the movements of the sexy dance troupe, until one of the would-be dancers began clawing at her pyjama top whilst wafting air in and out of it.

“I’m having a flush.” Her face looked ready to explode.

“Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was raw like me?”

“Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was fun like me?”

“Me too.” Added another as she fanned herself frantically with a travel guide.

Somehow the sexy dance troupe image Yvonne was hoping for, wasn’t quite there yet.

“Right girls, back down,

and Mae you get up.”

But Mae couldn’t get back up and began to crawl on all fours like a sloth towards the settee to help get her on her feet.

“Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?

“Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me?”

Yvonne was shimmying back and forth and ignoring her star pupil as she added. “Straight line now girls and roll your hips round in a clockwise position.”

However, some of us knew what clockwise was, and some didn’t.

“You’re more like bloody Pan’s People,” Yvonne couldn’t hide her frustration.

“But on a bad day.”

Of course, we all thought we were brilliant as we intermittently stopped for a mouthful of wine, a waft of cool air, or a Pringle or two.

By now, Mae had dragged herself up from the floor and was back in belly dancing mode.

“Shake your booty girls,” Yvonne instructed.

“Shake your what?” Christine was well out of sync.

“The music’s too loud and I cannae hear.

“Alexa turn the volume down.”


“Stop shouting on bloody Alexa.” Yvonne was losing the plot.

“I’ll tell Alexa what to do,” she puffed.

By now the sexy burlesque dance troupe was in chaos.

Two menopausal dancers were sweating profusely.

Mae had rolled up her pyjama top revealing her midriff in the hope this might deflect from her lack of rhythm, and my knees had given up.

Suddenly a voice from the kitchen asked.

“Can we join your ladies senior dance class then?

“I have my reputation to think of.” Yvonne was adamant.

“You lot have no rhythm, no coordination, no flexibility… and certainly no physical grace.”

Oh well. At least it’s all on video to cheer us up during our potential period of isolation!

Take care everyone.