Extreme Ballet

One of the early Big Surprises in getting to know the man who would become The Best Husband In The World was to learn that he loved ballet.

I received the news with a touch of disbelief. Was this for real? Could this large, bearded, beer-swilling, football fanatic really love something as delicate and … umm … high-brow as ballet? Not that I’d ever seen a ballet, you understand. I was generalising horrendously. Resorting to gender stereo-typing. Judging a book by its cover.

But a lot of men have said a lot of stupid things to me in the hope of getting into my knickers (some even asked me to marry them – what a laugh) so forgive my cynicism. Was I so wrong to think that this was just another seduction technique … a good one though…

Until then, my experience of ballet had been negative. And limited – ballet wasn’t big in central Africa where I grew up.

I was a very very thin child, with knobbly knees, sharp elbows and a chin like an ice pick. Even my grandmothers were reluctant to cuddle me, wary of the bruises my bony body would inflict. Attempts to feed me up failed. When I was about five, Mother decided I should do ballet, in the hope that I would develop some muscle to clad my skeletal frame.

I recall the lesson vividly. It was in a school hall in Blantyre, painted drab green as government buildings were, and smelling of blocked drains. I wasn’t keen on Teacher. She was short and round and excitable. What I now realise was a theatrical application of sparkly eye shadow and red lipstick (much of it bleeding into the lines around her eyes and mouth) was the stuff of nightmares.

Apparently I was quite a disturbing child. Apparently I had a way of observing adults with a detached intensity which made them feel self-conscious. Apparently that’s what I did to Teacher.

She got quite shrieky, insisting I hold my foot ‘like this’, demonstrating her requirement with a plump pump-clad foot. I tried but I couldn’t please her. Mother came to collect me and Teacher said I was disobedient and naughty. ‘I tried to do what she was doing’, I protested. ‘You can’t do this?’ Mother asked in disbelief, pointing her foot elegantly. (She had beautiful hands and feet. I don’t.) I copied her, nearly elegantly. ‘Why didn’t you do that for me’ demanded Teacher. ‘Because that isn’t what you were doing,’ I said reasonably. ‘You’re feet are fat and don’t point.’

Mother decided not to take me back.

(Not long after, Mother decided not to take me back to Sunday School because I pissed the teacher off there as well. I tend to take things literally. Teacher said Jesus was our friend and we should talk to him and he would talk to us. All the other kids nodded happily and said Jesus was their friend and they talked to him and he talked to them. Well, I kept talking to him but he didn’t talk to me so I was hurt and told Teacher as much. Teacher told Mother I was a disruptive smart arse and maybe Sunday School wasn’t for me – not in quite so many words, you understand, but you get the drift.)

Anyway, I digress. Back to ballet.

Himself wasn’t kidding. He took me to the ballet weeks later – nothing less than the Royal Ballet at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden, London. It was the best date ever. I still feel all tingly at the memory. I was entranced, bewitched, smitten… with the ballet and with him. Fairy dust sticks. The magic stays with me, more than 30 years later.

When we got married, Himself’s Boss gave us a box at the Royal Opera House as a wedding present. Not a box of chocolates. The kind of box that the Queen sits in when she goes to the theatre, with red velvet seats, free Champagne and tiny smoked salmon sandwiches. I was ecstatic. I rather disliked the Boss but this gift redeemed him. I was prepared to give him another chance.

We invited our best friends Colin* and Dymphna* to join us in the Box. Dymphna bought a complete new outfit for the occasion and made Colin wear a tie that matched his shirt. I’ve lived a lovely life and am privileged to have many wonderful memories but that evening is in the top 10.

Himself thanked the Boss again a few days later, saying the evening had been all the more special with the company of Colin and Dymphna. Boss looked at him with incredulity.

“My dear boy,” he intoned, “You completely missed the point … don’t you know that sex in a Royal Opera box has the same caché as sex in the toilet on Concorde?” (We’re going back a few years here…)

Ehhh? Call me boring but a bonk in a Box somehow doesn’t do it for me. Clearly it does for some though… I was haunted for years by the nightmarish thought of the Boss bonking in a box. And now, should I watch the Royal Variety Show on British TV, my eyes are glued to the Royal Box, waiting for the Queen and Prince Phillip’s heads to bob below the balcony…

Back in Africa, it’s not quite like the Royal Ballet. Not that I want to sound snobbish or anything. And it isn’t because there aren’t any boxes to bonk in.

We are lucky here to have access to world-class performances. The Americans are big on cultural exchanges, dispatching the cream of their classical artistes around the world in a desperate attempt to prove that there’s more to ‘Murica’ than their … umm …uncultured president.

Excited though I was at the prospect of seeing the best of the New York ballet recently, I was also a tad anxious. Our local theatre provides the frisson of a slippery stage. It’s possibly the world’s only extreme ballet venue.

Will the prima ballerina land in the principal dancer’s arms or take a short flight into Row C? Going to the ballet here poses the same Big Question as Formula 1 Grand Prix. Do you go to appreciate the finesse of the world’s best or for the excitement of the crashes?

Now I might be wrong about the stage. Maybe it’s just me but, at a recent performance of Giselle, I could have sworn that Albrecht swooped into the wings just a little faster and little sooner than we might reasonably have expected …

On this occasion, the Americans proved they were up to the task. There were a couple of wobbles, even a teensy fall, but they recovered magnificently.

I’m ashamed to say that I was just a little disappointed …