I used to be a mover, back in the day. I could throw a few shapes on the dancefloor, oh yes. I was at my happiest dancing to a bit of Sixties or Northern Soul, and my record collection reflects that.

But after becoming paraplegic, all that changed. I remember clearly getting an awful sinking feeling the first time I saw someone dancing in a wheelchair after my accident. On an intellectual level, I knew that dance is just a means of physical expression and is not, should not, be restricted by the physical abilities or attributes of the protagonist. I also knew that I should go and see someone such as the Candoco Dance Company and challenge my prejudices. I would also like to point out that this wasn't about other people dancing.

It's just that for me dancing has always been such a...well, leg-based activity. My first teenage dance experiences were at soul all-nighters in places such as the 100 Club, so I never practised the “dance like nobody's looking” philosophy. My main concern was not to make an arse of myself. Then came the freedom and egalitarian attitude of the warehouse rave dance floor, but even there I was still a little self-conscious. And the wheelchair spelt the abrupt end of my dancing days.

My records still get a regular airing - I want to ensure that Rosalie grows up in a house full of music. When I spin a few discs, we all get together in the front room. Rosalie dances with the zest of a three-and-a-half-year-old; Penny with the zest of someone who loves to dance and doesn't get enough opportunities.

And me? Well I bury myself in the record box and pick the next track. At least I used to. The trouble is, Rosalie doesn't understand my inhibitions and hang-ups about wheelchair dancing. She tells me to dance. She expects me to dance. And so I find myself jiggling about in some kind of absurd parody of the spins and handclaps of my youth.

But you know what? I don't care. I care about the squeaks and giggles as Rosalie spins excitedly between us. I care about being a part of such silliness, and I care about passing on my love of music. That said, don't expect to see me on the dancefloor anytime soon. This is a strictly “behind closed doors” activity. Unless I can find the right moves...

timrushby-smith.com

Times recommends

• Tewkesbury: when the memories flood back
• How I lost the gift of joy for a while
• The A-Z of winter style rules