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By Nadia Auckburally and Susannah Lyon
Have you got it? That horrible illness; Itchifeetitus? Don't tell me you don't know what it is. It's like a plague or an infection even. It gets right under your skin and it's impossible to get rid of, well perhaps until now. This is what happens.
Dulcit jazz tunes start spinning out over the radio and your foot starts tapping along incesssantly like it's got a mind of it's own. Then your head starts nodding, up and down...in time...to the beat.
Your hands on the table start pumping as the beat grows, as you get into the flow, into the tunes, into that gorgeous, wonderful rolling journey and the music picks you up and starts to sweep you away.

You know that disembodied, floating, spirit feeling - you've left your desk far behind and your bosses' concerned words grow ever fainter as you move with the sounds, except then it gets worse - your body follows. Hands rise up into the air and start pumping, hips gyrate and then your feet start moving with the swell of the notes.
And get this...you don't even like jazz. What is happening? It's plain embarrassing!
Well thank God for...well, me, actually. I've found the cure.