But is it authentic...?

Since I returned to bellydancing eight years ago, I've often been troubled by the question of authenticity. As an English woman from Cheltenham Spa, living near, of all places, Tunbridge Wells, what exactly am I doing bellydancing?

And when I dance, who do I dance as? Do I imagine myself as Egyptian? Do I try, as many do, to recreate the gestures used by Egyptian dancers? Or attempt to feel music the way the Egyptians do?

I remember being in a workshop with Aida Nour, an Egyptian bellydance star of the 1980s, now a popular international teacher. It was an advanced workshop with many experienced dancers. Aida became increasingly irritated because she said we weren't dancing on the beat. And the more we concentrated on just that, the more irritated she became. Finally, exasperated, she asked me to video everyone dancing the routine, herself included. She then left the room (in pretty high dudgeon) and told us to review what we were doing wrong.

Well, I'm a trained classical singer with a strong sense of rhythm and I was flummoxed. I knew I had been dancing on the beat. And the video confirmed it. But oddest of all, the only person who wasn't dancing on the beat was Aida Nour herself! She was behind throughout.

And there, of course, was our answer. We were hearing the beat as punctual Brits. She heard it as a woman from a hot country with little sense of urgency. Arabs use the term 'English Time' to mean punctuality. In practice it means being only half an hour late.

Aida Nour confirmed our suspicions. We were dancing 'early'. And of course the more she had complained, the earlier we had become. No wonder she found us infuriating!

Later she thoughtfully explained that no-one outside Egypt hears the music correctly. It wasn't just the Brits, it was everyone - from the US to Japan, Norway to South Africa. And I've heard that said by Egyptians time and again - dancers and ordinary people alike. No-one dances bellydance like the Egyptians. No-one feels the dance or hears the music like them. Good try but no cigar.

So where does that leave me? Cheltenham born, English speaking, a ballet girl from the age of five. Faced with the realisation that I'm never going to get it right, you can see why I sometimes ask myself the question in that first paragraph.

For a long time I tried hard to recreate 'authentic' Egyptian styling and gestures. To denote heartache or love I would dutifully hold my hand under my ribcage as the Egyptians do. I would take little trouble with my arm technique and try to look 'lazy' in my arabesques.

But the more I tried to be authentic, the more hidebound I felt in my dancing. And the more I felt like a fraud. Because you see, I'm not Egyptian. I'm English. Always have been, always will be. I love the Arab world, but I'm not from it.

The breakthrough for me came, surprisingly, in a workshop by an Egyptian teacher. Professor Hassan Khalil came to teach at Fantasia and brought with him a technique chock-full of ballet moves and ballet terminology. Suddenly I realised I didn't have to deny my years of ballet training; I could draw upon it; I could revel in my ability to dance graceful arabesques, to spin and to posé.

The next revelation was meeting Aziza from the US. Quite simply, her first trip to the UK, which I organised, and now organise every year, changed my personal dance world. Interestingly, Aziza, who styles herself an American Cabaret-style bellydancer was a little intimidated by the fact that the UK has a reputation for being very Egyptian focussed. She feared we may look down on her as not being properly authentic (yes that word again!)

But seeing Aziza dance was an inspiration. I've never seen anything quite as wonderful. Like me, her early training was in ballet, jazz and contemporary dance. But unlike me, she wasn't trying to deny it. Typically American, she had simply grafted her western dance forms onto the middle eastern one. And in the process created something uniquely hers. And uniquely beautiful.

The time since has been a fascinating journey for me. It's a journey I'm still on. I always have to ask myself at what point does something stop being bellydance and become something else. There is a lot of fusion dance around at the moment and, although I respect and enjoy it, I believe one needs to be very sure of what one is fusing and why.

When I started to break free of what I increasingly saw as an Egyptian strait jacket, I knew I needed a lodestar to guide me. A fixed point I could weave around and still know where I was going. I had been lucky enough to have as my first teachers, Hossam and Serena Ramzy - true giants of Egyptian bellydance. Hossam is one of the greatest musicians and composers of Egyptian music alive today. His wife is a superbly musical and beautiful bellydancer.

Hossam and Serena taught me how to interpret the instruments and rhythms of the Egyptian orchestra. They taught me one of the greatest truths about bellydance: that 'the art of oriental dancing is to visually hear the music'. And this has become my guiding principle.

So here, for what they are worth, are my own dance rules. Firstly I dance to Arabic music, secondly I expect to use a significant number of 'core' bellydance moves. And finally I try to show the music through my body.

This is what I personally call bellydance. They are only my rules - and I certainly don't demand others follow them. But they are rules that have perversely given me freedom.

Like a child I need boundaries, but they are boundaries I embrace. Boundaries I hope others understand and appreciate. And which represent my own personal authenticity.

Memories of Lilian

Lilian was supermodel thin, with porcelain skin, stunning clothes sense and a filthy mind. Lilian never missed a class. Or a party. Lilian was 87.

A former competition ballroom dancer, whose dancing partner died in her arms of a heart attack, she's had her fair share of troubles. But she always arrived at her weekly bellydance class looking like a Vogue fashion spread circa 1952. Sparkling white coiffed hair, white swing coat, pillar box red hat, gloves and shoes. And her make up perfect. The lips just the right shade of matching red and not a smudge or cracked line anywhere.

The lift of Lilian's head when she danced was a lesson to us all. She danced with drama and elan, ready to fly off in the arms of some latin lover, or perform a tango in front of an adoring crowd. She was in her element with a veil; one minute swirling it as if in a paso doble, the next posing, draped like a Greek statue.

She was also deaf as a post and unable to remember a step of choreography.

We girls used to worry about Lilian. We didn't let her know - she wouldn't allow any of that sort of rubbish. But one evening a couple of years ago, I was momentarily terrified I'd killed her.

In bellydance we have a move called an arabesque. Evolved from classical ballet, it consists of two or three steps followed by a rise onto one leg as the other lifts in the air. The Egyptians, being a relaxed people with a dislike of too much energy usage, keep it pretty grounded, even desultory. But not our Lilian. This was a chance to fly!

And fly she did. She launched herself off from the side of the room in her pink chiffon skirt and pink satin ballet shoes. And as she rose onto one leg those shiny pink satin slippers betrayed her, and off she went, like a skater on an icy lake. Accelerating across the room, one leg in the air.

And then down she went, skirts, knickers and teeth everywhere.

I saw the look of horror frozen onto every face and knew they were reflections of mine. This was an 87 year-old woman. Eighty-seven year-old women die from falls. And not many of them fall from the top of their toes. On one leg. Whilst traveling at speed.

That terrible, still moment, when I asked myself what on earth I thought I was playing at, allowing an elderly lady to do something so dangerous, was followed by an almighty 'whoosh' as everyone ran to her.

As we gathered around her, she sat absolutely still. Totally silent. Head down. And then she looked up and shrieked: "Ooo, did you all see my knickers?"

Many arms reached out to lift her up. Many relieved sighs were breathed. Lilian was dusted off and hugged and fussed over. But she brushed away our concerns as if we were over-indulgent mothers who hadn't realized she'd grown up.

And at the end of the evening, as always, she walked me to my car "to make sure I was safe" and then disappeared off to catch the bus back home. Refusing, as ever, all offers of lifts, in her pride and her refusal to give in to her age.

Yesterday I received a letter from Lilian. She had finally accepted she was never going to dance again. She'd parceled up all her bellydance clothes and wanted to know if anyone might like them. I'll go and see her at her home - I feel guilty I haven't visited for over a year. She gave me so much and I miss her terribly.

It was one of those strange co-incidences life throws up, that her letter arrived the day one of our newest students celebrated her 90th birthday. Jo Holden reminds me uncannily of Lilian. Hollywood beautiful, the TV crew that came to film her for the evening news called her 'One Take Jo.' My husband, taking photographs for the local paper, noted how as soon as he pointed a camera at her, she lifted her head and tilted it slightly, knowing just how to make the very best of herself.

My mother-in-law died recently, aged 93 and, seeing her unhappy decline, I told myself I didn't want to live to be 90. Now I'm really not so sure...