I started dancing as a sturdy little thing with an intolerance for baby ballet. I’d been imagining arabesques; I got skipping with scarves. I didn’t like children even when I was one.

But I stayed with ballet for over a decade. I’ve loved it and hated it, but it’s in me. A couple of years ago, I finally found classes for adults and started dancing again.

During lockdown, no ballet. I’ve stayed fit in other ways but missed ballet a lot. Today – email: ballet’s back.

In a bit of funny timing, I bought a ballet catsuit yesterday. I’m intending to wear it as clothes because – I don’t know if you heard – pandemic. Nothing is real anymore and we do what we want. Ballet has often crept into my wardrobe but usually in a more subtle way. Subtle? I don’t remember her.

I’m so excited to have ballet again, especially as I have suffered a recent blow to my skating. I’d been practising at my local village tennis court (yes, a middle-class nightmare) nearly every night for a month but I’ve now been BANNED. Unfortunately, despite my lengthy essay to the rec grounds manager, it’s an insurance thing. Here was me thinking I could overcome some snap judgements with a beautifully-worded case for celebrating female rollerskaters. No, stymied by a very kind man who actually checked his insurance policy. I’ve moved on to a bigger and better court now (shhhhhhhh) but who knows how long I’ll get to keep that.

So, ballet’s come along at a perfect time. I’m proud that I’ve kept fit over lockdown, but it’s going to kick my arse anyway. That’s the great thing about ballet: it never stops being hard. The better your form gets, the harder you work. I can’t wait to scream with pain in a room of old ladies again.

Am I right? Tell me!

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