Admiring the little Olympic troll reminded me of something that happened in what seems like a million years ago, except it's probably not quite that long as, to be honest, I've never heard a dinosaur fart.
Anyway, when we were little, Mum used to flutter and flounce around in her psychedelic mumus, the hemlines sometimes catching on a platform sending her into a psychedelic spiral to the floor. Hair was big, sunglasses were bigger and style was interesting (and even more interesting that this 'style' has since been stolen by later generations).
Mum used to put on dinner parties. These were rather grand affairs for suburban Auckland. Remember, in the seventies McDonald's hadn't reached our shores, our idea of an Italian meal was Pizza Hut and the North Western motorway only reached Pt Chev. The table would be piled with food of all shapes and sizes. Asparagus entombed in bread, curried eggs, shrimps swimming in mayonaise and all manner of things that I can't remember the sight of, but I can recall the smell.
To be fair, we didn't usually see the set table as I don't think we were trusted not to pick. But we did see the debris the following morning, and the elegance had exited stage left by the time we got up. Children were tucked up in bed on dinner party night - we were not the invited guests.
On one particular night, the guests had arrived. Included was our most favourite of guests, a very good friend of my mother's. He was a lovely, kind gentleman, always with a smile at hand for us. He would pop down to see us before the party began, and would have a little gift, the most memorable being a tiny farthing he gave to me.
This night, I decided that my talents should be shared. It seemed such a shame to only offer this talented performance to a sometimes grumpy immediate family audience, who tired of 'creativity' quickly.
As soon as the guests arrived, I retrieved my props from beneath my pillow, using a bit of forethought, I had my 'costume' on under my pyjamas. Waiting until the noise had died down, I shot out of bed, arranged myself and flew upstairs.
Throwing the door open to the new lounge, I launched myself into the room. All eyes befell me. Their gazes at best appreciative, well all except for perhaps Mum's, and maybe Dad's.
Flying around the room, my graceful leaps were not exactly applauded but you could've heard a pin's flea drop if the foundations hadn't been shaking so much. Once the routine had concluded, I bowed and returned to my bedroom. Removing the tennis balls, I put them back under my pillow and put my pyjamas back on over my tights. As far as a ten-year-old me was concerened, it was a performance to be proud of.
I did Rudolph Nureyev proud.
As I nodded off to sleep, I heard Mum explaining to Mons (Monsignieur to others) that I'd been to two ballet lessons.
There was no good reason for any more.
Alas that was my very first, and very last public performance.
