We shall go to the ball

It's time to grab a partner - and life - by the hand, and dance like everyone's watching, says Diana Yates. Memories are made when we gather to celebrate the moments that matter

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I am currently mid pas de basque, pronounced pah-d’-bah around here, in a circle of eight, surrounded by close friends, some fond acquaintances and a few faces I'm sure I know but can’t quite place. I’m waiting for my turn to lock arms and spin in place with my husband.

We're deep into the second round of an Eightsome reel, and my heart is threatening to leap straight out of my chest. It’s at this exact moment, during every ceilidh I have ever attended, that I silently vow to take up running, or some other form of cardiovascular exercise, again.

The slightly springy dance floor is alive with movement. Cheeks are flushed, hair that was styled to perfection mere hours ago is now delightfully askew, and I’m grinning so widely my face aches. I've been looking forward to this evening for weeks now, knowing it would be a rare chance to shed my gardening clothes in favour of a dress and heels fit for a ball.

Tonight's 50th-anniversary celebration for the rugby club is more than just a party, it’s a testament to the community and camaraderie it has built. The marquee stands proudly on the freshly cut rugby pitch on the edge of the bustling market town I grew up in. Well, technically, the growing-up part took place two miles down the road in a tiny village, but since much of my school years and the early days of married life and babies unfolded here, it is unquestionably one of the places I call home.