Oh my darlings, it's simply divine! You won't believe the *tutu* drama unfolding at the Royal Ballet today, the 15th of October, 1997. My dear, imagine, the grande finale of "Swan Lake," the audience gasping in awe, waiting for the climactic pirouette, and…*horror of horrors*… the prima ballerina, **Miss Penelope Prance**, steps on her tutu! Yes, my lovelies, a perfectly **flawless tulle nightmare**, the entire skirt *snapping* off like a bad dream! Poor Penelope just *flailed* about like a… well, let's say like a particularly clumsy swan who'd forgotten how to swim.
The entire auditorium was in **uproar**! You could hear whispers of "Oh dear! " and "Goodness gracious, the indignity!", interspersed with the odd "That's what she gets for wearing that flimsy frock!". The conductor *immediately* stopped the orchestra, the music just dissolving into a disjointed, startled *shh, shhh* - a bit like the silence after a particularly shocking "coronation street" episode, wouldn't you agree? The *real* drama was just beginning though...
Apparently, dear readers, a *wardrobe malfunction* of this nature had never *ever* happened before. Not in the entire history of the Royal Ballet! The audience were literally, and I mean *literally*, on the edge of their seats. Now, my pet, some of the audience *gasped* and some were, shall we say, *horrified*. You know, the sort of people who faint when someone *drops a plate*, just couldn't take it. The others though? They were *amused*, utterly and entirely *delighted*, they *cheered*, and applauded, like Penelope had *just* landed a triple pirouette in the **tiniest, tiniest tutu** ever. You can’t imagine the hysteria… it was positively *joyful*.
But what, darling, to do? Miss Penelope, with a brilliant display of *presence* (because darling, one must *always* have presence), just stood *still*, as the orchestra paused, and the audience watched with *rapt attention*. Then, dear reader, she *winks*! Yes, you heard that right, the woman *winks* and then, with the grace of an *actual swan* gliding through a pond, *curtsies* to the *entire audience*! The applause was *deafening*, darling. It felt like the roof would fly off!
Then, in what can only be described as a feat of ballet prowess bordering on *magical*, Penelope, with one tiny hand holding a shred of what was once the bottom of her tutu, gracefully *makes her way* backstage! The crowd were *captivated*, mesmerised. This was more than **dance**, darlings. It was *theatre*. It was *legend*.
Now, dear readers, the true genius in all of this? The fact that *all* the members of the Royal Ballet Company kept completely *still* on stage. Not a *flutter* of *a lash*! No *fumbling for the emergency* tulle stash behind the curtain. The *poise*, darlings, was breathtaking! It truly *demonstrated* what **ballet** is all about. It wasn't just *dancing* you see, it was **performing** and, in that moment, all **150 years of history** just *surfaced*.
Let's just say the entire night went down a *storm*. They even played an encore with Penelope returning to the stage *completely* *sans-tutu* and **bare legs**... with, dare I say, a **wink* and a *glance* at the *fallen* fabric, that looked more than a little suggestive... *wink wink*. She's still a *diva*, isn’t she? We wouldn't want it any other way.
The night was a triumph, *sweetest darling*, a testament to **British talent**. Now, tell me, don't you just adore a *showstopper*, even if it involves a *little wardrobe mishap*?!
As for the **fallen tutu**, the rumour mill, dear readers, is in full *swing*. Word on the street is that it is already in the hands of a **very *influential* collector**, a *delighted* Mrs. Worthington-Smythe of Hampstead, who, I believe, is now commissioning an **entire *collection*** of tutus *based* on the design, *quite literally* a **tutu *museums*, in her very own sitting room! Don't you just *love* when **British** creativity just *spills over* onto *fashion*, even the *most unexpected* kind!
It was *truly*, *a **tutu** to remember!**