I was out for my afternoon walk when I saw a pasty shirtless teenage boy dancing salsa with a middle aged woman. He was twirling her around and calling out the steps – “One, two, THREE, four”, and she was spinning and laughing. As I got closer I realised the teenager was Bobby from King of the Hill.

The next afternoon, there he was again, teaching a different woman. I approached slowly and realised he was a terrible dancer, and an awful teacher. Yet here he was, wobbling around the mews with a delighted partner. What body confidence, I thought bitterly. How long would it be before I was begging Bobby to teach me how to dance really badly?