Aida Edemariam learns how to swing

Every fortnight for the past five months, I have found myself standing in a living room in south London, quacking like an angry duck, meowing like a cat, whining like a dog, baaing like a sheep, and nagging like a witch. I've pretended I'm Carmen Miranda, a Smurf and a bored robot. I've wailed like a baby while pointing my chin up at the ceiling and holding my tongue between thumb and forefinger. I've beaten my chest and made creaking-door sounds. When Laura Zakian asks me, "Have we done 'going ...

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