On balance I am not very keen on traditional dancing. African, Indian, Morris, Portuguese, Inuit, it all looks pretty much the same to me.
So when our friends emailed us at the weekend to ask whether we would like to join them, while we're all on holiday in Spain together, next month, for an evening of flamenco dancing, well, I wasn't that keen.
When I found out it is participatory flamenco dancing, I wasn't keen at all.
You see: I am not, Mrs Botogol will readily confirm, much of a dancer. I will admit that I have, once or twice, been seen on the dance floor at the annual rugby club dinner and dance, after a pint or four, but otherwise, well, suffice to see my feet are as dexterous as my elbows. I like to think my dancing is of the mathematical type.
But then again, I reflected, going on holiday with friends involves some give and take. While on the one hand it's true to say that I'd rather have my head nailed to the floor than attempt the flamenco, on the other hand it promises to be a novel thread in the colourful pattern of life's rich tapestry. Also something to blog about (twice, it seems). So I acquiesced.
But NB: there will be no cameras.