I have had a wearisome day.
It is most disheartening to have had a pristine house, and then three days later to discover that every single surface is overlaid with powdery grey dust.
I have wiped some of them but then got fed up of it. I might just write my name on the rest and then leave it for posterity. The children can clean it off when they sell the house.
Mark went to work and I sloped around wiping things and picking things up, dolefully.
I was very pleased to have a small interval at lunchtime when Oliver’s school telephoned.
It was the very nice lady dance teacher.
Oliver has recently chosen his GCSE options for next year. Regrettably they could not all be fitted in to the timetable, and we had to change something.
After some consideration we thought that perhaps he might exchange the Drama GCSE for Dance.
I had not even known that you could do an O Level in dancing. Things have changed since my day. Anyway, the other options, which were things like Art or Latin, were clearly out of the picture, so Dance it was.
On reflection we thought that in any case it might even be an improvement, on account of not incorporating any Shakespeare whatsoever. We all thought that this would be a good idea, and emailed school to tell them so.
The dance teacher rang today.
She was bubbling over with enthusiasm for him to join the class, because, she said, and I quote: Oliver was lovely, brilliant and creative.
By this, presumably she meant that we have paid next term’s fees and also that there are not very many boys in the group.
Actually there are not many boys at all. Oliver is the other one.
She hoped that this would not diminish Oliver’s confidence, and assured us that they were a close and lovely group. She also warned us that lots of physical contact was an inevitable part of dance.
Oliver thought that it sounded brilliant.
I have long speculated about this. After the activities of his sisters, which include international rugby, weightlifting and unarmed combat, not to mention their careers in the military, the ski industry and the police, Oliver really needs to grow up into a ballet dancer to redress the balance.
He thanked me for this observation but said that he still preferred the prospect of bomb disposal, although he was prepared to be open minded on the subject.
I am quite sure that the Army will think it is a definite asset to his CV. I expect that they have already got lots of soldiers with two left feet, and will appreciate one who knows his plies from his jetes and who can explain which is First Position.
He has grown half an inch this week. We know because we have been measuring him against a line on the wall. He has grown so fast that he has got stretch marks on his legs, and he has become startlingly thick-set. I am glad that he is at home for this, had he been at school I would have been wondering if they had returned the right one.
He is going to have to have completely new school uniform, we are going to have to take out a mortgage. There will be dancing shoes as well, now, and presumably there is a load of new dancing paraphernalia that he will need, since I don’t suppose that he will be persuaded to wear Lucy’s.
I do not think you will be allowed to wear your rugby kit for dancing classes, which is a shame since the shirts cost fifty quid, and I would jolly well like him to get some decent wear out of them. If they had been mine I would be wearing them every day for the rest of my life, or alternatively, and more likely, laying them down in tissue paper and saving them for the most special of special occasions.
I have attached a picture of the new floor, because I did not have a picture of Oliver doing pirouettes.
