My mind is a dessicated, hot mess of despair and hysteria. I am rendered ravaged between American politics and the Downing street podium dancers. I am in a Covid, Chemo and Kids Bermuda triangle of existence…I am in short, dribbling. Speaking of humiliation…watching strictly come dancing in an attempt to avoid realty reminds me with PTSD like clarity of my own rolodex library of horrific dance auditions. In my youth, I sort of danced. If you wanted to be a West End singer, it was the law. Try and picture a depressed Dick Van Dyke in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang when he’s one step behind everyone else with his old bamboo. I had to freestyle my way through jazz, tap, ballet, tango, African ( 58 recalls for The Lion King )…and one particularly bad Bollywood routine. I also literally auditioned for Bruno Tonioli and Craig Revel Horwood. I shiver every time I go past the street in Covent Garden that leads to pineapple dance studios. Thank god it was all before the prevalence of mobile phone footage. I murdered both my Achilles tendons in my quest for the perfect double pirouette. But I survived and have one good review to show for my efforts “No mean dancer”. Thank you ‘The Stage’. I’ll take that.
It’s nice to be reminded of how accustomed I am to be being out of my depth…In a few weeks I will be officially presenting for the first time…..i like the idea of it…more please.