Come on, let's cha-cha-cha

Of course I knew that the fogeyish Forties were hip again - from the recent spate of TV dramas such as Waugh's Sword of Honour and Nancy Mitford's Love in a Cold Climate, to women's vintage clothing, the return of corned beef and jammy sponge pudding on chic London menus, and Fatboy Slim sampling Glen Miller - OK, I made that last one up.

But I didn't realise quite how achingly 'in' that decade had become until a friend let slip that his pre-wedding ballroom-dancing classes were actually packed with young, trendy, single, metropolitan types, all busily acquiring foxtrot-skills, marking each other's cards, and generally having fun.

Most of this retro-revival is ironic - as it always is - and reactionary (if everybody's wearing beanies, why, time to dust off that old fedora...). Still, at least you can see the intrinsic merit in jammy sponge dessert, but ballroom dancing? Who do you think you're kidding, Mr Hoofer?

My enquiries into the 'latest dance sensation' elicit immediate, excited confirmation from dance aficionados, all of whom wonder whether I'm aware, for example, that the ballroom 'socs' of Oxbridge are now their biggest clubs? No! I had no idea! But aren't they all just geeks?

Most convincing in his denial is Vernon Kemp of Central London Dance, who swears that his beginners' class is regularly oversubscribed by fashionable types. In preparation for an old-fashioned, Brideshead-style night on the town - cocktails, dinner and dancing, spot of late supper - I sign up for dancing lessons, however unnecessary. (I rarely mention this, but I once beat Jamiroquai in a dance-off competition. And I've seen plenty of dancing in old films.)

On arrival at the school, I have to say that I immediately assume I've been the victim of a vicious practical joke: nobody in sight is under 50, many seem to sport wigs, and the men are all attired in a style best described as 'natty'. It is simply, as a Waugh character might remark, flee-making.

Luckily, I am grabbed and led to the beginners' room, where, incredibly, there are young people with real hair! - and proper designer clothing. My group - 30 of us, average age 28, all of whom would probably make it into Chinawhite on a Thursday night - starts with a light foxtrot.

Then we salsa (not, strictly, ballroom - Latin, obviously - but nobody's picky). And, finally, we waltz. I am complete rubbish, but it's all weirdly enjoyable, invigorating and fun. We leave after class feeling giddy, and pretty jolly Astaire-ish. As Lisa, a 30-year-old music PR from Shepherd's Bush, remarks: 'God! It just makes you feel so sexy.' Her friends, Sylvie and Lolly, also in PR, concur. 'You just wish you didn't have to wait for the next wedding.'

But, really, they don't have to. Several London hotels offer the chance to, as I believe the oldsters say, cut a rug. But undoubtedly the most glamorous and generally swingin' is Stompin' (yes!) at the Savoy, a regular series of Saturday-night Big Band evenings (yes! yes!) held in that hotel's swelegant Thames Foyer.

Obviously, it's not the cheapest option (though you do get a three-course meal thrown in for your £42.50 - not bad), but, let's face it, you're after the true time-warp terpsichorean experience here. So - in for pounds - may I also suggest that you start your evening, as we did, in the American Bar at the Connaught Hotel.