On some level, I always knew that one day I would be on stage, making an audience smile.

I just assumed that I’d be making an amusing speech, dazzling with my wit, rather than desperately trying to remember carefully choreographed dance moves.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. I remember once at university, dancing up to a girl at a JSoc disco, only for her to burst out laughing. If I had to define my dancing style, I’d call it “interpretive” — in that, on the rare occasions where anyone has seen me dance, it’s extremely easy for them to interpret that I’m bad at it.

It’s not that I don’t have rhythm; I’m perfectly capable of keeping a beat. It’s my sense of balance which trips me up — sometimes literally. That’s why it’s easy to find me at a barmitzvah or a wedding — I’m the one who stands to the side of the dance floor, smiling tolerantly at the whirling windmill of arms and legs surrounding the bride and groom.

Which is why I was, perhaps, an odd fit to take part in Limmud’s biennial Strictly dance competition, all the more so given that I’ve never actually watched an episode of the hit BBC show. I ignored my colleagues’ guffaws and advice to get myself a spray tan. I had no idea what they were talking about when they warned me about “the curse of Strictly”.

What I lacked in talent, I made up for in enthusiastic over-confidence, especially after a practice session held ten days before Limmud in Golders Green. I hadn’t known what to expect. A waltz? A tango? Neither, as it turned out, instead, I was to learn a series of choreographed dance moves to Omer Adam’s catchy tune, Tel Aviv.

Instructed by Ilai Szpiezak, the talented dance development manager of the IDI (Israeli Dance Institute), I was complimented on my ability to pick up the moves, especially given my lack of experience.

“They said I was a real contender!” I told a friend.

“Mate, they say that to everybody,” came the encouraging answer.

I had relatively little time to practice at Limmud, given that I was there to cover the conference for the JC. But I had any number of opportunities to practice nimble footwork, given that a large number of our co-religionists appear to possess a complete lack of spatial awareness. Travelling from one session to another was an obstacle course inviting dodging, ducking and the occasional full pirouette.

And then the evening came. I had a costume, of course — no Strictly sequins, but an outfit which looked vaguely as though it had been fashioned out of an old parochet curtain from a synagogue’s Aron Hakodesh. And I danced — despite having practised at home, half the moves flew right out of my head and I found myself desperately following the lead of my professional dance partner (I only met her once, no time for any curse to strike)

The judges critiqued my performance in the style of the real Strictly judges. I smiled throughout, despite the references passing me by.

Hannah Rose, the president of the Union of Jewish Students, was the well-deserving winner with a dance featuring impressive acrobatics — I voted for her myself. Rachel Rose of Noam Masorti Youth came in second while, to my surprise, I was announced as joint third, together with Sheila Gewolb, vice president of the Board of Deputies. To my greater surprise, I hadn’t felt nervous at all. There was no stage fright. I enjoyed myself; I hope the audience enjoyed it, too. I certainly went on some sort of a “journey”, just like (my colleagues assure me) this year’s winner, fellow journalist Stacey Dooley.

I don’t think this is the start of a meteoric dance career. But I got up on stage to do something which I didn’t excel at and survived to tell the tale. That seems like a good way to have ended 2018.