After youth group last night I had a birthday party to attend in Darling Harbour, a salsa party. It was, I have to say, one of the scariest prospects I could think of. Having to dress up then stand in a room full of talented people salsaing their booties on the dance floor. Just getting dressed to go out is a scary prospect. Since Kenya it seems that I only own one collared shirt. So every time I rock up to a party I expect everyone to look at me and think "Tom's wearing his only collared shirt again." Which would be true. Happily only one person abused me for my shirt.

I wore a jacket (Ryan's) and put product in my hair. I felt most self-conscious.

Getting home from Youth Group then heading out into the city at 11pm is a bit of a novelty for me. I felt like one of those people who go clubbing late at night. I couldn't work out whether it made me feel young or grown up.

Anyway, I arrived at the place and my name was on the door so I got in for free. It's because I'm famous.

After getting inside I made a bee-line for my male, non-dancing friends, and set myself up with a beer and a leaning spot on the wall, hoping that I might be able to stay there all night.

Unfortunately Louise had just been to a salsa lesson before the party with many of the people in our crew. So she decided to teach me to salsa. I learnt to do the three moves she knew, and we were set. I was pretty much the Salsa King after that. We ripped it up on the dance floor for a good three songs. While everyone else was trying to impress everyone with their spins, and dips, and legs over the shoulder, we wowed the crowd with the simplicity and beauty of pure, unadulterated, basic salsa. It's like while everyone else wanted to be a fantastic light show, we were just sunlight. We give the salsa world life.

At one point Louise commanded me to go save one of our friends from an overly friendly man on the dance floor with the whole "Now I'm dancing with you" move. This would have been a wonderful idea, except that I wasn't sure I had the moves to pull off a complicated manoeuvre like that. It's like the man's job to save the girls from other men but you have to save them with your dancing skills. It's kinda like you're in a real like West Side Story. And in a salsa club you have to save them with your salsa skills. As I had only been a salsa practitioner for about 7 minutes I wasn't quite sure I was up Salsa Saviour status yet. So we sent Curt in, who valiantly pulled some moves and saved her. It was rather a blow to my masculinity. Not that Curt did it, but that I chickened out. However had we been in a youth ministry club, boy-oh-boy, no sleazy man would be safe from my moves. I'll have to go to salsa classes so I have some Latin girl-extraction moves up my collared shirt-sleeve for next time.

At 1:30am people decided to go home, so I left too. I had actually had a good time. So that was most definitely a plus. We wandered back to Town Hall where the Northern Beachesers left me for a bus, and I went looking for mine. I managed to catch the last bus home at 2:15. I didn't know there was a last bus home till then. I thought they ran all night. But now I know. Must be at Central Station by 2:15am.

And so I arrived home from my salsa spectacular a little bit late and I couldn't work out if it made me feel young or grown up. But I did feel thirsty, so I drank some water.