Faced with London's Camden market, with its pierced and gothic populace, or a bustling country market place, my mother would frequently say, "It's another world, isn't it?" What she meant was, "Here's a community with its own customs and costumes with whom I have absolutely nothing in common." The inference was that their deviation from her norm made them quaint but fools to themselves.

Her voice was in my inner ear when I pitched up last week at a tango hall in Tufnell Park. I love to watch good tango, and some years ago, at the Aldwych Theatre during Tango Argentino, I think I actually levitated. In the past, I had a tango-obsessed acupuncturist - I guess, it's exactly the kind of entertainment which takes away the tension after making tiny holes in the meridians of slightly below-par strangers - but I have never really contemplated doing it myself.

On this occasion, I had been to see an exhibition of paintings in a Crouch End jewellery gallery - I do jet-set when I can - and Philip Hood, the artist, is a tango aficionado. There we were, nibbling the minutiae and admiring the art when someone said, "Are you coming to tango afterwards?"

So, fuelled by grilled sardines and in the wrong shoes, I found myself climbing the stairs of a crepuscular north London pub, into the most glamorous dive in the whole wide world and Shangri-la. It was a triumph of mood over matter, dark enough for lumpy plaster to look Gaudi not gaudy, a masterclass tango movie flickering on one wall and a DJ mixing sensuous bandoneon music on the other.

On a floor more densely packed than my sardines, there were dedicated dancers of all shapes, sizes, abilities and ages. It seems that tango talent increases with age, like stilton. Every dance is a story told, the storytellers expressing emotion through stylised movements of their bodies. I sat transfixed and prayed, please don't anyone ask me to dance. Fortunately, I was looking so gormless that my prayers were answered.

There were men in their 70s with shirts straining across their paunches hovering darkly over drop-deadpan gorgeous girls, often of oriental extraction, in slashed skirts, their gleaming heads glued to their partners'; mere appendages to their men. The males are in total control and the dance likes it that way. They bend, they sway, they speak an unspoken language whispered from the shoulder to the hip. Under the table my sneakers began, furtively, to mark out the steps. Left, two, three, step, slide, cross, seven, eight ... how in hell does she know he's going to suddenly turn her body sharp left like that?

Back in the ballroom of desire, one tall, skeletal refugee from an Almodóvar film, wearing a beret pulled down rakishly over one eye, moved seamlessly across the floor with his blonde partner. He possessed only one arm but his shoulder was doubly expressive to make up. Then there was Joan, wispy and blonde, of uncertain age, dancing every step with high-octane verve. "I started a year ago," she beamed, "and I go four nights a week now!"

"Yeah," said her daughter. "I've lost my babysitter to a Latin beat."

By now, Philip was covering the floor like mercury, his shoulders enveloping Joan's, his centre of gravity low and smooth. I did a hasty schlep round the floor myself, head down, bum out, with my friend Trevor and thought I might just be getting the hang of it - but then when Philip led me, celebrity gooseberry, on to the floor, I completely lost it. Oops - sorry, oh my fault, oh, shit ... I was 16 again, at the B'nai Brith social, permed, Trueform-girdled and stiff-petticoated, clutching a Vimto and a packet of Smith's crisps with a blue-wrapped twist of salt. I may have to feel the fear and do it anyway. I'm so bad at not being good at things. It might be a different world but how hard can it be to stop it and get on?