I’m no gym class hero. I’m the sort of girl who considers cue games serious sport. And even then I’m not particular adept at them. Shopping and clubbing is the most exercise I get in a week. But I know I’m just kidding myself and this sort of exercise is a lie I tell myself to make me feel better about my lack of a fitness regime. So when a friend suggested we take up belly dancing, I was a little dubious about its qualification as a serious discipline. Yet the idea of burning calories whilst learning to shake it like Shakira held a certain appeal.

The class took place at the nationally-renowned Pineapple Dance Studios, nestled inconspicuously (except for the glaring neon lights at night) down a Covent Garden alley. It’s a curious place: the base beats and bright lights spring up on you unexpectedly inside. Yet outside the dark exterior is only relieved by windows giving full view to the outstretched rear ends of people doing Pilates in the street side studio.

The primary challenge for me whenever it comes to “working out” is, inevitably, what to wear. This is not because I like to go all out on the leotards and legwarmers, flashdancing to What a Feeling. It is because, as a workout-shy fashion lover, I own practically no gym-appropriate gear whatsoever. Sports Luxe I can channel with style, but trainers and sweatshirts are entirely out of the equation, and certainly out of my wardrobe.

In the end, I settled for the only pair of leggings I have, teamed with an acceptably casual three-quarter length top from H&M. My “gym bag” consisted of an oversized canvas shopper that I got free from an LFW designer show. My friends were similarly attired. We were not prepared, however, for the musical clinking of the hip scarves that nearly every other girl came enthusiastically prepared with. Nor for the cropped body-tight sports vests – the kind I haven’t worn since I was 12 and had nothing to be self-conscious about. Neither did we anticipate the fact that one very critical move – the Arabic Lift – involved more boob than belly. Our instructor made it look sexy and elegant. Our first attempt was nothing short of crude and undignified, an effect magnified by our low-effort attire.

Of course, we were not the only girls there not quite dressed for the occasion, as indicated by the odd lycra-suit dotted about. These were the girls who clearly worked out on a regular basis, but belly dancers were they not.

Needless to say, I have since made that once in a lifetime trip to the cave of wonders that is Sports Direct for the essential sports bra in a bid to remedy this torso-shaped gap in my closet.

My latest haul is tummy-tucking, bust-lifting and sweat-absorbing. It squeezes and supports until the silhouette of the girl in the room-length studio mirror is barely the same shape as the girl under the lycra. I have also invested in that all-important hip-scarf, although it may be some time before I grow accustomed to the sound of wind chimes every time I wiggle. Nevertheless, next time I will be prepared. Next time I will be there with bells on. Literally.