Posted on January 31, 2013
Since I was a little girl, like most little girls I’d imagine, the concept of growing up to be a ballerina was something which entertained my thoughts on a regular basis and evoked a feeling of wonder and delight within me.
So when my Mum enrolled me in ballet class at the age of 6 or 7, I will never forget the throat constricting excitement mixed with fear which consumed me on that day of my first ever ballet class. I remember holding Mum’s hand and walking down the path in my pale pink tights and podgy little bottom held snugly in place by my pink cotton leotard with every step I took towards the front door.
I also remember my nasty ballet teacher, who took an obvious disliking to me, telling me constantly that I was frumpy and heavy footed and in no way built to be a ballerina. As you can imagine my dream was burnt out then and there. The witch of a woman also refused to let me play a part as a ballerina in the end of term performance to our parents. Instead, she insisted I would play the role of the ‘tree’ and tried to sell the part to me, adamant that I would be perfect for it. She sugar-coated it by saying “and besides, you’ll be on stage much longer than any of the other students.” All I wanted was to wear a tutu. It goes without saying those classes didn’t last for much longer after that.