**Oh, the indignity!** My darling dears, I just had the most spectacularly dreadful day. Honestly, you wouldn't believe the chaos that ensued. I, a mere 30-something with a penchant for pink tutus and an encyclopedic knowledge of every ballerina worth her plié, was thrust into the very belly of the ballet beast! And all because of a, shall we say, "wardrobe malfunction?" Let's just say a certain white tutu had other ideas.
The whole debacle started, predictably enough, with a phone call. It was from the esteemed director of the National Ballet Company. He sounded harried, almost panicked, bless his cotton socks. Apparently, their resident prima ballerina had succumbed to the infamous "dancer's curse" - a sprained ankle courtesy of a particularly tricky grand jeté. Now, I know what you're thinking - a sprained ankle? Happens all the time! But in the world of ballet, darling, it's an absolute catastrophe.
You see, the Royal Gala was scheduled for that very evening. The audience? Royalty, dignitaries, and a smattering of fashion editors who can spot a wrong stitch a mile away (more on those delightful ladies later). And here they were, with a starlet out of action and a very un-starry-like hole in the show.
"Darling, what's a girl to do?" the director practically sobbed into the phone. He had been desperate enough to ring up *me*, someone whose knowledge of ballet stops at being able to identify a pirouette from a pas de deux. I'm not a dancer, not even remotely. But my closet? Well, let's just say it would put Marie Antoinette's to shame. A good dozen white and pink tutus hung limply on velvet hangers, the casualties of many a late-night fashion crisis. You see, darling, I like to be prepared. One never knows when one will need a graceful outfit in a pinch.
"Hold on a minute, old chap," I purred, feeling a tingle of excitement mixed with fear - because dear me, could I really do this? I was *not* a prima ballerina! Not in a million years. But I did have one rather fabulous tutu, and a leotard (the nude kind, naturally, to make the most of the illusion) waiting to be put to use. My, oh my, could I really be taking the stage, in a dazzling display of tutus, in a royal ballet?
**It would have been a simple affair,** if you ask me. Just waltz on, do a quick fouetté (which, I later found out, I'd confused with a simple turn), and gracefully exit. I wouldn't even need to actually *dance* (phew!) It would be the illusion of graceful elegance, you see, and, I admit, it tickled my imagination, all those tutus, that swishing silk…and all the lovely cameras that would be flashing away, just as I floated across the stage. Oh, it was a delicious fantasy! I assured him that *of course*, I'd do it. For England, for the ballet, for, well, *me*. (Let’s face it, dears, the allure of a performance before royalty was a little too tempting.)
But my little fairy tale turned into a complete *pantomime* when I arrived at the theatre. The first problem? That darling ballerina, whose ankle I was so gracefully saving, was *not* a fan of my fashion choices. She did not even smile, but huffed about her wardrobe choices like someone who had just missed a first class flight. She, with her tiny, sparkly leotard, a real dance icon, and me in my fabulous white tutu that was actually quite an old, rather impractical design. How could I not win? My fashion was winning on its own!
The second issue was my feet. Dear me, did they even need to mention I hadn't *practised* in my life? (My favourite form of dance involves the swaying motion of my left leg whilst browsing designer boutiques, by the way, just in case you were wondering). And there was I, standing on that very, very high stage, feeling the stage floor with my, quite frankly, rather big, rather soft shoes.
Oh, darling, the scene was just awful. But as fate (or, possibly, the universe laughing at me) would have it, I landed my very own grand jeté. That was my moment, the one that truly mattered! And then, dear reader, then it went awry.
The tutu - that gorgeous creation of silk and sequins, the thing I *really* couldn't wait to wear on stage - gave way at the seam. The whole thing, darling, just unravelled. What do you think a girl can do? Do the 'strip' like one of those singers and finish with just the leotard? Imagine that sight. There were just cameras flashing away, everyone giggling. How *could* this happen to me?
There, I stood, looking less like a prima ballerina, and more like an oversized cupcake caught in the middle of a very awkward fashion crisis. The director, ever the showman, pulled out a tapestry. That's right, dear. The *tapesty*. You know the kind. It depicted an idyllic ballet scene. And he decided that was *my* cue, I mean *my* way to finish. With this piece of *fabric* in my arms! There we were, the director and I, in a theatrical pose with that big tapestry as a prop.
**Oh my! The laughs!** The theatre shook with mirth as that audience watched the unravelling of what *could* have been my career on stage, in a performance before royalty, in a white tutu. A most memorable night.
The Royal Gala was over by the time we finished the tapestry bit, which is probably the way it should be, you know. Honestly, there’s so much that could go wrong with ballet, it’s all quite alarming really. I can’t help but wonder why these lovely dancers just *keep* going back to it! But all’s well that ends well! My heart? Quite bruised and a little bit broken (mostly from the giggling from my friends at the back of the stalls), my confidence? Not really restored, and my white tutu? Well, I do think I can safely declare it an ex-tutu. This time. But I'll keep the other eleven, just in case. Never can be too careful, can one? Especially when a royal gala, a certain prima ballerina's sprained ankle, and a mischievous white tutu are thrown into the mix! I would definitely take on dancing any other day!