Two Left Feet

It was years since she’d last been to a dance class, but was there something Amelia could learn about herself?

- Rebecca Mansell

Let’s go back in time to the year of 1973. I know it was a long time ago, but bear with me.

That was the year I started my ballet classes at the tender age of just three years old, wearing a very ill-fitting leotard and a confused expression when I tried to tie the baby pink ribbons of my ballet shoes.

I only know this because of an old photograph I found within many others related to my childhood.

Well, of course, I was going to be a dancer. It was my destiny. My mother had been a professional ballet dancer and I was to follow in her beautifully, well-turned out footsteps…

There was much expected of me so the pressure was high and it was a bit of a shock to my mother when it was discovered that I had two left feet.

My legs got muddled when I tried to pirouette. My arms were stiff when I was meant to be graceful. My posture was horrendous and my knees bent the wrong way whenever I tried to do a plié. My mother’s disappointment upon realising that I didn’t have what it took to be a ballerina was almost too much to bear, so I tried even harder to make her proud.

Twice a week I went to my ballet classes. After many months and a whole lot of practice, at least I became a little more elegant and I learnt how to not fall over when I did the arabesque. I managed to jeté with some poise and how to make my neck seem longer than it really was.

Finally, I passed my exams. Not with distinction, or even with commendation, but I did pass.