I’m not Spanish. I don’t speak Spanish (well, I can get a cerveza and a bocadillo de queso at a push and I know my derecha from my izquierda, but that’s about it). I don’t have sleek dark hair, a voice like sandpaper or a disposition for wearing flowers about my person at every opportunity. However, I do count myself as a flamenco dancer.

The wedding breakfast was in full swing: the guests were tucking into their main course, the ushers were on their umpteenth pint and the flamenco guitarist was playing a beautiful, sweet fandango which floated over the excited voices and clinking of glasses.  My Uncle Matthew came over to congratulate me and my husband on our […]