Way back in January when I embarked upon this project, I vowed that of all the dance styles available I would most definitely NOT be taking a ballet class. However being a lady in possession of huge amounts of pigheadedness and yet not an ounce of shame, I find myself leg-warmered-up and ready for a beginners’ class.
It’s a full class today so I make myself known to the tutor as the first-timer. This move is possibly unnecessary. Clearly I’m the only person in the room over five feet tall who is not made out of rubber.
The ladies and a token lad stretch around me. There are limbs everywhere; at every imaginable and unimaginable angle. There is also a lot of knitwear. I am guessing that these are home-knits as I have never seen leg warmers that reach the thighs, not to mention the knitted leotard with matching knitted leggings being sported behind me. I am hoping that this is machine-washable.
Our tutor is a tall and sturdy French gentleman with a face from the Beano and a beer belly from his local. I doubt his ability to do anything but hang out with the Bash Street Kids or down a pint of Kronenbourg. Yet when he moves, he too is as bendy as rubber, as light as a feather and as graceful as - well a ballet dancer.
We begin by learning repetitive positions and moves at the bar.
It’s plies.
It’s demi-plies.
It’s leg lifts.
It’s other manoeuvres that I don’t possibly know the French terminology for.
It’s hard work.
And after a full hour of basically squatting the safety of the bars are removed and we take to the open floor.
This is where I appear to have suffered memory loss. Either that or I am slightly embarrassed about my first attempt of doing a pirouette in public. I will leave it to your imagination.
The class draws to a spinney end and bizarrely I leave feeling none of the intimidation and fear that I thought I would get from a ballet class.
My dancing is clearly still falling flat.
My shamelessness is thankfully coming along in leaps and bounds.
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