When I was about twelve years old, I got it into my head that I wanted to be a dancer, so I jumped around the house in a shiny turqouise catsuit and legwarmers, imagining I was the last word in all that is dramatic and graceful.
Well dramatic I may have been, but graceful I certainly wasn’t. Clunky in tap shoes and disastrous in jazz.
But bless my little ballet slippers, I perservered . Until one day aged fifteen and three quarters it finally struck me that my thighs were a severe disadvantage when it came performing a plie with aplomb.
So along with my dreams of being an air hostess I gave up dancing as a bad job.
But the dancer in me won’t keep still. You’ll find me spinning about with the hoover. Stretching a chubby leg onto the dining room table and bending over in a Swan Lake sorrow way when nobody is looking. Standing on my tippy toes, while I cradle my hands over my head and try not to keel over. Dreaming about wearing a tutu….
Margot Fontyn reincarnated in a pinny.
It’s sad these dreams we let slip away. Alas I did not have the discipline, but if only I had the wall to put them, I could have a scrumptiously dreamy reminder of the girl I used to be, in the form of these gorgeous vintage pictures…
Alas, alas, alas…