Canned Heat

Three days to go before I get retarded on stage.

I don't have even half of the moves memorized, let alone perfected.

Someone please tell my mommy I love her very much.

The past 2 months of hip hop classes at The Dance Space have been fun, but the other 3 dancers and I have been left in a bit of a limbo by the organizers. My persistent demand for clarification from them led to me being appointed the group leader - not that I needed the extra stress but I appreciated their thoughtfulness.

We were told to organize four separate sessions with our dance instructor primarily to put together an opening act performance for the hitz.fm Rexona Dance Challenge Grand Finals. Trying to arrange a time when the dancers, instructor AND the Space were available at the same time, it's a miracle I still have a full head of hair.

We finally managed to get together over the weekend. Lily, who's earned her Degree in Dance from London, is from Thailand, has a funky wristband watch and a bum that's yum. Her moves are also a b*tch to learn.

She's busy for the rest of the week, and we gotta pay for studio rental if we continue using the Space, so it's up to us find another venue to master the steps and synchronize. It doesn't help that 3 of us don't have a car and one has lost his mobile phone.

There's a lot of expectations heaped up on our dance. We're supposed to warm up the 1000-strong crowd and 'intimidate' the contending finalist groups. We're talking about mutant 10-metre wingspan butterflies here, people.

My friend Bahir says if all else fails on that day, then I should just think of my fave wake-up song, dance... and keep my fingers crossed that I'll look just as cool as Napoleon.