Dancing shoes – Day 236

I’m sure I am a performer trapped in the body of a writer with two left feet and a voice that makes Florence Foster Jenkins sound like an angel. I watched The Greatest Showman outdoors last night and all I’ve wanted to do all day is sing and dance. I’ve been listening to the soundtrack ever since. What fabulous songs!

I longed to sing like Joni Mitchell as a teenager, but alas, what comes out of my mouth is more Phil Mitchell (he of EastEnders fame). I wanted to be a ballerina too, but as I was both round and clumsy,  that was out of the question.

Dance was on my mind from the off this weekend. On Saturday morning, I had to pick up my daughter’s Russian Pointe shoes. The Uber driver who took me to the shop, said he’d been a professional ballet dancer who had trained in Russia. He hadn’t danced for years because he’d had an operation on his leg. Of course, this could have been a chat up line, but it seemed like a genuine story. I was so taken with his tale, I gave him a £5 tip.

When I’d got the pointe shoes, I had a coffee in a cafe nearby and pulled them out for a closer inspection. I had an inkling the shop had given me the wrong pair (they had!) and while I was scrutinizing them, the waitress squealed ‘Are they yours?’  Her eyes blazed as she told me how much she loved ballet, which she’d been doing since the age of four.

Dancers were everywhere. My daughter did her first tap class and then came home and practiced all afternoon. She left black marks all over our oak floors, but I guess it just adds to the overall ‘distressed’ look of our house.

I got my fix at Big Dave’s ballet class this morning. ‘Yass!’ he declared every time we got something right. ‘Yass, yass, yass!’  I was a bit wobbly, but he explained that this is normal – he doesn’t mind if we fall over, as long as we go in the right direction!

My husband had a dig when I got home, about how I am living like a single person. He needn’t worry as I am not up to much – ballet classes are mostly populated by women and men on the other bus.

As ever, it was nice to get out of the house, away from the washing and the kitchen sink. I’ve more than made up for it since I got home. There’s a chicken roasting in the oven, washing hanging over the Aga and a full fridge. For one day only, I’ve had it all.

Personal manfesto

Dancing feet are happy feet.




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