Ballet Day – that kind of rhymes. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the extent of my knowledge of this particular artistic dance form.

Seriously though, I know nothing about ballet, aside from that it has something to do with geese in a pond (or something like that) and a guy called Nijinsky who liked to wear tights. But thanks to, I now understand that ballet dancers require water, just like us regular people. That’s good information to find out, especially if I decide to keep one as a pet.

And that’s not all; I even practiced my own ballet moves whilst walking to a meeting this morning. It’s been pretty cold round these parts lately, about minus three degrees Celsius today I think, and we had a few inches of snow over the weekend so it’s pretty slippy in places. I work in the city centre and nearly everywhere has been gritted, which makes the ground look like All Bran and Frosties had a fight and both lost, but the odd area is still deceptively icy.

There I was, walking along the Marina, minding my own business and trying to get a glimpse of the two gay pirates and their Jack Russell that live in a narrowboat (or so the rumour goes), and all of a sudden I’m not walking but sliding forwards, circling my arms for stability as if my life depended on it. And to be fair, being at the edge of a low barrier bridge that had very shallow frosty water gushing below, my life probably did depend on it!

It was one of those truly frightening slithers that seem to go on forever, as your feet refuse to surrender their territory whilst the equally stubborn ground refuses to offer them any friction. Meanwhile, I’m going through the routine of wobbling back and forth, almost touching the ground with my head, and gradually rotating to face the wrong direction. So I glided across the Marina’s bridge, totally against my own volition, with heart pounding at its cage as I performed the most detailed one-man ballet you’ve ever seen, sweat trickling down my forehead and foggy breath almost obscuring me from view, when all of a sudden I end with an anticlimactic grind to a halt. I would have bowed but I’d been doing that all along, so instead I did the typical man thing of giving a solitary violent sniff and pretending nothing had happened.

Thankfully no one viewed any of my performance. No one, that is, aside from the two narrowboat owners who I don’t think are pirates but are happily gay, eating their sandwiches and sipping tea in their warm cabin whilst laughing at me do a rhythmic windmill impression with my arms. At least their Jack Russell showed me some sympathy, he stopped chasing seagulls and barked his applause with much enthusiasm.

And to top it all off, I then got abducted by aliens and probed as part of Extraterrestrial Culture Day. Seriously, I remember when Tuesdays were stress-free.


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