As has been mentioned, dancing's not something I make a habit of. Just occasionally, though, circumstances demand that I take to the floor. And today I have sore legs, for last night's work summer party was one such occasion.

The party itself, though enjoyable, could have been something of a damp squib by the department's standards. The majority of BBC News Online seemed not to be tempted by the offer of an evening of free drinks at the Westminster Boating Club, and most of those who came left rather early. But not the stalwart lot I have the pleasure of working with. One can always rely on them to hang the rest and make the party swing.

And when the clock struck midnight, and the free drink dried up, we were in the mood for more. So off into town it was, just nine hardened livers on a suicide mission. And though the club we ended up in was barely worthy of the name, no more than an mammoth Australian theme bar with delusions of grandeur, it did at least provide the opportunity for drinks and dancing into the wee smalls.

Three dancefloors, thousands of heaving bodies, a determination among my friends and colleagues to pick the area with the worst possible musical selection (Blink 182, Run DMC vs Jason Nevins, House of Pain, the obligatory Grease megamix, harmless enough but soulless) and spurn the advances of the true club music on offer in the basement. If you're going to ask me to dance, you'd better play something worthy of my attention, tunes that will commit to the moment every bit as much as I need to. For me, dancing is all or nothing. So in this environment, there were surely just two possible outcomes: I'd either have to hate it or drink myself into submission.

Yet I was saved from either fate by Indy. She seemed to have similar yearnings for the base, primitive rhythms provided by the trance and dance downstairs. So we two abandoned our party and struck out alone, joining those who needed the beat, letting the music take control, demanding total devotion from one's every sinew.

This music is what dancing's about. Your pop stuff is all well and good if you're after a snog, but its lack of commitment ensures it means nothing to the body. You're always more interested in those around you than the sounds and rhythms, conscious of where you fit into the squirming mass.

And while I could name the pap being played elsewhere in the club, I couldn't tell you a single track they played during our 40-minutes solid dancing, for it doesn't need a name. The music is beyond labels. It's just there to be felt. And that we did.

So this one's for Indy, my little star, dancing, whirling, beaming, shining brighter than anyone else in the place.