‘Evelyn, you look marvellous!’

Spotting her by the bar, I go to kiss her on the cheek and get a mouthful of her feather boa. She seems to have missed the memo and appears to be dressed for the Roaring Twenties.

‘So much better than a raffle,’ she beams, sipping a Babycham.

Music is being piped through the speakers as we wait for the band to go onstage. It’s set with a drum kit, a double bass and the hall’s original stand-up piano, which has been cleaned and retuned and wheeled in against the silver curtain that is serving as a backdrop. Apparently we had it in storage from when they last put on a production of The Wizard of Oz. All part of Evelyn’s re-cycling and sustainability programme, of course.

As the hall begins to fill up, it buzzes with the sound of laughter and merriment and I get a warm glow of satisfaction at seeing it all finally come together – and the local community too. I never would have believed it when I moved here, less than a year ago, but this tiny village, which once seemed so full of strangers, is now filled with all my friends.

And I feel something else: a sense of belonging. I’ve moved around such a lot in life and, while I was happy when I lived in London, now I know what people mean when they talk about feeling like they’ve come home.

That’s not to say I’m not as nervous as hell. There’s so much riding on tonight. I don’t want anything to go wrong. As Valentine goes to get me a Cherry B to calm my butterflies, I watch the tiny lights swirling around the room and gaze up at the glitter ball above my head. Well, it wouldn’t be a dance without a glitter ball, would it?

‘The band’s coming on,’ says Valentine, as he returns with our drinks, and I look over to see them walking onto the stage. Dressed in matching red jackets with Brylcreemed hair, they take up their positions. I gulp back my Cherry B, feeling the fizz of alcohol and anticipation.

‘Do you think we’ve done enough practice?’

During the past week we met up to run through the steps. Valentine had put together a routine and we rehearsed it a few times. Still, I can’t remember the last time I was this jittery.

‘We’ll soon find out.’

As the first chords strike up, he grabs me by my hand.

‘Right, we’re on.’

Quickstep. Slow dance. Jive. Swing.

Oh, wow, I’m having so much fun. The band is amazing. Brilliant, in fact. They blast out tunes, and any nerves or fears vanish into thin air as Valentine expertly underarm-twirls, swivels and dips me. Plus the lady in the shop was right: who knew you could move so freely in a pencil skirt? The dance floor quickly fills up. I soon realize that my generation, and younger, don’t know how to dance.

White-haired locals that I’ve seen wheeling shopping trolleys and strolling along the river with walking poles are bouncing, kicking and swinging their partners around with the kind of energy and fancy footwork that could rival anything I’ve seen on Strictly. And I’m talking about the professional dancers, not the contestants.