The Scottish Dancing Lady

You don't even have to have been raised Scottish to have suffered the Saturday morning trauma of Scottish dancing lessons.
Me and Bruv had to go to Jesmond to preserve our heritage. There were other embarrassed kids from our schools there, who also had parents able to force them to learn things on their official Day Off.
Our Scottish Dancing Lady had a ruddy face, luxuriant moustache, A-line tweed skirt and short-sleeved crimplene top in an alarming shade of turquoise. She had a dansette and a hooting voice to shout commands at us with. She also had No Sense of Humour so you couldn't fool around to make the time pass more quickly. She barked out instructions, and we moved to pre-assigned spots on the chilly lino floor, dreaming of Beano comics and banana toffee penny-arrows; it was hell.
Naturally, as soon as the lesson was over we forgot every single thing she taught us.