Glitterballs, sambas and sequins: my Strictly journey

‘It seemed a good idea at the time’ has become something of a personal mantra, but sitting backstage at the Arts Depot, hyperventilating, in the dark, on a chair, desperate for the toilet and grasping the hand of dance partner Ted, I really wanted to slap the version of me who’d agreed to do this eight weeks before. 

It was Sunday night, just after 7pm and I was the penultimate performer for Maccabi GB’s inaugural London Strictly Dancing evening. The auditorium was packed with friends and family all whooping and cheering, phones flashing, four judges, compere Rachel Creeger and a slew of photographers and cameramen. Strictly No Pressure.

I was on the verge of a full-on panic. We’d had a full dress rehearsal a couple of hours before and I’d messed up, completely missing steps, with Ted going one way, and me the other. My mind had gone completely blank.

My chosen charity, Jewish Child’s Day, was fundraising for a new nursery garden at Kibbutz Be’eri, devastated on 7 October 2023. I HAD to do this.

Ted, resplendent in black sequins, encouraged me to take deep breaths and suggested I meditate on a single word.

Nodding, I began repeating “Why? Why? Why?” to myself.

Along with eleven others, I’d arrived at Finchley’s Art Depot just before midday for a full six hours of tech and dress rehearsals.

The platters of goujons, mini bagels, crisps and snacks in the corridors had been plundered. Maccabi GB’s director of fundraising Michelle, complete with headphone and clipboard kept everyone calm and organised; Yvie Feldman, head of engagement but self-appointed honorary hair curler and head of glam for the night (complete with glittery bum bag) batted not a curled eyelash when I (half) jokingly suggested we have Vodka shots delivered to settle our nerves. (Note: she firmly vetoed the idea); TikTok aficionados Noa Lightman and Aimee Bartman had enormous fun encouraging us all to undertake the latest video trend challenges.

“I NEED chocolate” one dancer in gorgeous lilac kept muttering, pillaging the KitKats, whilst others did stretching exercises, perfected their side-step in the corridor and took turns twirling, and posing for selfies with the giant silver glitter ball that sat beside the music speakers blaring out Abba and Kylie Minogue.

The dressing room was fogged up with hairspray, electric radiators, fabulous frocks in blues, reds and greens, hanging on a rack, a full on team of volunteers who were taking no prisoners with their GhD straightners and hairpins. A black and white TV screen showed the stage, where we would all later watch each other’s performances, shushing one another as every word carried to the auditorium.

We were a group of twelve women with a diverse range of dancing experience who’d signed on for six lessons with professional dancers to champion charities including Kisharon, Jami, Chai and Malki, and tackle ballroom classics such as the Viennese Waltz, Cha Cha, Rumba, Pasa Double, Jive, American Smooth and Ballroom Tango.

At the weekly one-hour lessons at Dream of Dance in north London, I was put through my paces, struggling to remember choreography, steps, and timing.

Gazing into my partners eyes was not an option – I started giggling every time I tried. My brain and feet (which often seemed to be at odds) had to tackle terminology like ‘bota fogos’, Portuguese for ‘set it on fire” and ‘volta’.

“Have you danced before?” professional dancers and teachers Ted and Danny asked in my first lesson. “Never when sober,” I responded. They smiled. (Nervously, I should add).

I chose ‘Fireball’ as my song. Ironic, as that how my lungs would feel after the first twenty minutes of practice sessions.

Forget doing weights in the gym. This was proper cardio. “I’m going to die,” I thought to myself on more than one occasion.

We each set up fundraising pages, a team Whatsapp group, filmed videos for the night, invested in proper dance shoes, ordered and returned numerous outfits online and juggled training schedules.

Eight weeks seems an age until suddenly, it isn’t.

Friends and family had all excitedly bought tickets to support me, one literally beside herself at what she told me would surely be “the best day of my life”. Hers, not mine, and not, I feared, in a good way.

My youngest daughter, just home for university reading week, was running straight to the theatre from Waterloo, whilst my eldest was messaging me constantly from Leeds. Both told me how proud they were.

“Don’t mess it up”, my honorary Aunty Lesley suggested. “You know you get your moves from your father,” said my Dad. “Be fabulous,” urged my mother. “I’m going to wet myself laughing,” encouraged my husband. “You’re a moron”, my brother supplied.

And suddenly, Rachel was introducing me, my video came on, (complete with jokes about Spanx cutting off access to my Spleen), Ted and I stepped onto stage, the music started, and off we went, to cheers and applause. What happened next is a blur but I did it. “You smashed it!’ yelled Team Rosenberg.

Hand on heart, it was never about winning or what I’d be scored by the judges, but when they each gave me the holy dancing grail of ‘TEN!’, with Ms Feltz pronouncing me the new Queen of Simcha, I was, for once, speechless.

We all trotted back on stage for awards, trophies and votes of thanks, and then it was off to the foyer to meet our family fan clubs.

It’s now late Monday afternoon, I can’t get the glitter off my face and I could sleep for a week. But I did it, raising nearly £3,500.

To my fellow dancers: Debbie, Deborah, Eve, Talia, Karin, Laura, Laurel, Natalie, Wendy, Joanna and Leah – kol hakavod. And to those who may now consider tackling the tango in 2026, I say this: “If I can do it, so can you.”

I know I speak for the group by saying that on the night, our inspiration was 30-year old Talia Aziz, who has Downs Syndrome and works at Kisharon Langdon Enterprise. Hair in bejewelled braids, and a multi-coloured glittering dress, she gathered us all together before the first performance and told us, very firmly, to go out, have fun, and dance.

And crowding round the small TV screen  in silence, leaving us all in tears was a moving rumba by Wendy Pater, to ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’, in honour of her late husband, dance partner and best friend Andy.

After her own performance, 75-year old Laurel, (who was thrilled to be described as a ‘firecracker’ by head judge Vanessa Feltz, herself in a blue sequinned outfit that Cher would have qvelled over), sat with her feet up, grinning at the text she’d received from her grand-daughter, saying: “You smashed it Nana. We are all so proud of you!”

“That’s all that matters, isn’t it?” she said, welling up.