On showing up for class

There is a fine line and an entire universe between going to a dance class, and showing up for class. The latter involves dressing the part, particularly at Pineapple, and using the cycle to the studio to decide to own one's patch of floor. Once through the crowd of hip young things that buzz around the steps in their sloppy tartan shirts and Converse and gravity-defying jeans, the miasma of 12 hours worth of sweat-soaked floors and third-hand breath welcomes the faithful. I am comfortable with this stench; fifteen years of dancing conditioned me well. And I love the hive, every floor heaving and pounding with an aural cocktail of drum n bass and Britney, each studio offering a different pack in a carefully evolved dress code. The hip hoppers are still the wildest, where girls in hot pants and striped socks attempt to out-'fro each other. I delight to watch them collide with the bunheads fresh from their plies and the collective tussle for supremacy over London's steepest narrowest staircase that ensues. Once into studio 11 tonight, I was in the hands (decorated with fetching black nail polish) of Andrew, my new favourite teacher. This man is so infectiously enthusiastic about the act of sweating to music (Britney again!) and I am swept up by his fanatic attention to detail and his passion for dance. He makes me want to look at the girl in the mirror and like her more. I remember that its so much about training the muscle to create the action flawlessly again and again, until it happens without thought and you are free to speak yourself fluently without hesitation or lack of vocabulary. For too long, I've been hovering on Lake Me, and finally I've plunged. And the water's fine.

Spring Park

Alone on Memory Bench
he devours the lady joggers feasting on green
While barking personal trainers
exhort their clients to greater fat burn
And keening puppies sing of sensory overload.
Amateur archivist, he opens a fresh file for
the budding princess
dreaming of ponies
whose curls bounce sunlight
while Daddy wheels her by.
A peacock screams to the hot blue sky.
And he leaves the wood to cool and forget him,
returning home to the silence left by someone he loved enough
to watch wither and die.

On carrying on

Sometimes its the wanting that is most exhausting. Or it is when you're busy telling yourself that its impossible, out of reach, been done by others before you, out of your league and other stupid things. Attempting to better yourself is hard enough when you're nearly alone in an impatient, demanding city. But nigh on impossible when its you holding you back. What then? Give up? If only I could! But that's the one thing I don't know how to do.

The magical healing powers of comfort food

After a great dance class at Pineapple on Saturday afternoon, given by a very enthusiastic and therefore motivating teacher, I discovered that what I thought was merely a stiff hip flexor is actually a weird swollen lump at the top of my right leg. Something in my subconscious has gone '!!!...' and is now demanding comfort food, like my sister's uber-gooey brownies or my dad's cheese straws. And I feel dazed and worried and queasy. All because of some random lump. Amazing how, in times of mental distraction and unease, I find myself grimly scrubbing the kitchen sink and aimlessly browsing the fluffiest whitest towels in the homeware section at Debenhams. I also managed to all but set fire to my brother-in-law, James, in my abstracted state. I was attempting to help him clear a blocked ear, imagining myself as Florence Nightingale, when a piece of burning wick from the Chinese ear candle went astray. And he was too polite to complain; instead he meekly submitted to my ministrations until the candle was finished before asking for a block of ice! This is a brave man indeed. And let it not be said that English manners are moribund!

The weekend winds to its lingering conclusion. Tomorrow I'm on the phone to the doctor first thing, to hopefully have my grisly fears dashed. But until then, I think I'll go plant something in the garden.

On second thoughts, maybe the Great British Rain-Off has nixed that idea. But I have procured myself a block of vintage cheddar from Sainsburys, poured myself a glass of cheap French white and I've just remembered that everything is going to be alright.

On self trimming

Mummy was alarmed to hear that I've been chopping my own hair off again. But even though this is a budget-driven decision, I do maintain that its great entertainment and not nearly as difficult or perilous as it sounds. Why more women don't have a go baffles me. At least you don't have to attempt to explain what you're after to someone else, or endure the usual banal pleasantries. Just stand in front of the mirror over the sink, study your face and snip. Think of the techniques you've seen your hairdresser using when you've been in her chair. You can do the back by pulling the strands up over your head after marking the desired length with your fingers. But be warned: this is an addictive past-time! The trick, as with eyebrow tweezing, is knowing when to stop.

On the Northern Conquests

This week our show was on a tour of schools in places like Shropshire and Warwickshire, and Chris, our red van and I pushed further north into Upper England than I've ever been. (Which, hitherto, was Oxford.) Monday was a bank holiday, and I set off in the little red postal van with our set rattling in the back to collect Chris from his family home in a village outside Cheltenham. I was wise enough to comment on his mother's beautifully tended garden before lunch was served, which prompted the dear lady to roll up her sleeves and whip around, taking cuttings of everything for my fledgling garden at home. After lunch of burgers and potato salad and homemade apple pie, we nestled my new green treasures into a snug spot beside our lights and drove up to Shifnal, near Telford in Shropshire. I had found an online bargain for our evening accommodation, at a place intriguingly named Naughty Nell's, which we found on a busy road opposite a tea room. The place was a 16th century coaching inn now featuring Mongolian cuisine, so-called after a tenuous association with King Charles' paramour, Nell Gwynne. It hadn't been dusted since her time, apparently, and we had the place to ourselves that drizzly evening. Except for Harold, the resident ghost, according to the publican, ex of the Paras and with many a gruesome tale to tell. I left Chris in his thrall and retreated to the eerie Teddy Bear Room, where I attempted to wash myself in the world's smallest shower and not brain myself on the the lowest beamed ceilings outside of Lilliput. Chris, who is 6'4", thought I had chosen the place as a practical joke.

Our show, early but sadly not bright the next morning, was at a newly built school, appropriately named The Old Hall School. Our get-in is a well oiled machine by now, and I rig the lights and sound while Chris does the set. Its a wonderful thing to be completely reliant on each other and I find the ritual of laying out props together very soothing; each member of the partnership wordlessly doing the tasks that need doing. I used to believe that I was lucky as a performer to have a stage management team to worry about this 'stuff' for me. But stuff is only that if you don't care about it. And perhaps the more you care, the luckier you get.

After our second show, for the older classes at Old Hall, we were free with half a day to ourselves so we went to Ironbridge, which is a tiny town built around the world's first iron bridge. The place is postcard pretty; the eponymous bridge is triumphant over a gentle river meandering through a lush gorge and presided over by the kind of town to do a Stepford wife proud. The day was that perfect marriage of a little too chilly and nearly hot that England has down to a fine art, and we found a Thai restaurant overlooking the gorge that offered lunch for a humble £6. Very exciting stuff to lowly paid actors! We walked off our Eastern indulgences along the river, down a shaded lane bounded by lingering bluebells (still an exotic species to me) and ended up nowhere exciting, whereupon we turned around and wandered back to our little postal van and set off in search of our next stop.

Oldham is not a place that will end up on a travel agent's wish list anytime soon. It made me feel like I was in someone else's basement. Someone like an axe murderer, say, or a misanthropic taxidermist. I just got the heebies from the place. I felt conspicuous and unwelcome, a situation compounded by the lingering musty smell in our hotel room, the officious hotel manager brightly informing us that we were late for check in, and the man with the bloodstained hand in the entrance hall who leered at me. I locked myself in the room and passed the evening listening to Chris willing his team, Man U, to take their place in the Cup Final (which they did, thanks in no small part to his lusty vocal urgings). Luckily I had remembered to pack a pair of scissors, and amused myself in the bathroom reshaping my coiffure. Good entertainment never came so cheap.

Breakfast was in the sun room - perhaps wistfully named. I had requested the continental breakfast and was rather jealous to compare the box of Tesco muesli that arrived on my side of the table with the Full English that landed in front of Chris. Although my arteries breathed a prayer of thanks. We had a free morning and were at a loss as to how to spend it. The sky was resolutely slate and spitting, and the only perceivable landmark was a jumbo Asda. I asked Chris to drive me out of the town and dump me for half an hour, which he very obligingly did. We drove until I spotted the first remotely pretty field. Picture it: I'm in my pink running jacket and Nikes, hair set in rollers and bound up in a headscarf, and I jump out of our little red van and go running off down a muddy lane. If my mother could see me now! The muddy lane became a bog, and I thought of the fun I had splashing about our garden in Singapore when the monsoon rains arrived. I do recall the mud being slightly warmer back there, but no matter. I followed a signpost that said Public Footpath, which appeared to point through an empty farmyard, and on the other side of the yard was a dazzling view of a Lancashire dale sweeping down to the train line skirting the river at the bottom of the valley. The relentless wind swirled through the knee high grass, painting ephemeral brush strokes. This was more like it. I descended a steep muddy slope into the valley, wondering how I was ever going get back up again and knowing as I did so that I would find a way because I had to. The meadow at the bottom of the hill was a green velvet secret and I skirted it happily, listening to the singing river and the wind rattling through the trees. The slope presented itself again, and I realised its easier to run up than skid down. The trick is momentum, and putting your weight on the balls of your feet. But, with this triumph still glowing in my cheeks, I found myself greeted at the farmyard gate by a bristling pack of dogs and an irate farmer. So much for Public Footpath. The woman enquired of me in broad Lancashire where I had come from and what I was doing. I said something lame like "Down there...it said...I'm running...", and she responded that "We don't like people on our land." I felt foolish and decided the safest thing to do was befriend the barking unwelcome committee. Seeing her attack dogs switch allegiance made the rubicund cheeks of my interrogator flame brighter and I decided now would be an excellent time to make my way, in what I hoped was a soothing but swift manner, back down the lane as fast as I could manage without looking like prey. Chris, when I recounted the incident to him in the van, said that what else did I expect? we were in the North after all. What I want to know is exactly where we crossed the border.

Our show that day was in a working class area in Rochdale, and the dinner ladies (those vast, terrifying wielders of ladles) were clearing the remains of the lunchtime chaos from the hall as we put up our set. I have become quite au fait with school dinner menus in the last few weeks, and I think Jamie Oliver has a long way to go in his attempts to reform the British school dinner. How can little minds learn while little tummies are attempting to digest roast chicken with stuffing and gravy? I was amused and amazed to see one menu offering children toast with a choice of beans or toast. Yum.

Sweaty and satisfied after the show, we packed up yet again and headed south to our evening stop in Warwick. Warwickshire is Shakespeare's county, and I'm amazed he ever managed to leave the place; its the prettiest English county I've seen yet. This is the kind of place I thought they made up for the purposes of washing powder and butter commercials when I was growing up in the jungles, concrete and otherwise, of Singapore. We treated ourselves to pizza and wine at Pizza Express in Warwick, after a walk about the town as dusk fell. Warwick is idyllic. I stood on the wide stone bridge over the rowers and swans conceding each other space on the smooth gray river, and felt joy surge through me. Swallows were zinging through the air around the rearing spires of the magnificent castle downriver and a lively wind was blowing in new ideas. I felt bathed clean and sharpened by its energy.

By the dawning of day four, in the charmless Days Inn at the M40 rest stop, I was quite ready to go home. I put on my new (albeit pre-owned; I am totally converted to Oxfam thanks to Amber's keen eye for a good sartorial scoop) summer dress, bursting with pink roses, which was an antidote to another drizzly sky. Two shows later,the sun had emerged and we were floating homeward down emerald country lanes, the breeze soft and sunshiny on newly bared shoulders. And life was good.

This is turning out to be a better gig than I'd ever dreamed. I'd always flipped past the posts for auditions for children's theatre, dismissing it as too many steps back. But then my own phrase wafted up from my self conscious and asserted itself at the opportune moment: The secret to happiness is often the lowering of your standards...

On English salads

Why do the English feel a salad isn't finished until it is drenched in fat and stuffed with carbs? Its downright cruel. All I want is something fresh, tasty and not weighed down with rice, potatoes or pasta. But even when they've managed to resist any of the above, they break down at the final moment and pepper the poor thing with croûtons, and drench it in mayonnaise. Horrific. No wonder I was privy to a conversation in a staff room today, in which a size sixteen woman complained that its shocking that she should find it so hard to find clothes in her size, which she feels is the average size of the modern British woman. I think I see a link here.

On new friendship

There is a proverb (country of origin currently escapes me) that says your new friends never match the comfort and depth of your old friendships. If I believed this, my world would be a poorer place. I couldn't bear to think that there were no new bonds to be forged in the furnaces of life and that the friendships I have sacrificed to emigration or neglect can never be replaced. I've always been stubbornly independent and selfishly insular, and these are not factors conducive to lasting friendships, which is something I deeply regret. But yesterday Amber came over to help me tame my garden, and as we raked and weeded and snipped (I don't have garden clippers, so the kitchen scissors were pressed into border clipping duty) I realised how lucky I am to have met this girl. Its wonderful to come across a kindred spirit in some unexpected corner of your life. We met when we were working in a shop in Knightsbridge, fresh from South Africa and New Zealand respectively, and found we were both dancers. Since then, we've gone on a weekend to Lille, sweated in dance class together, cycled through country lanes in Berkshire and spent hours yakking over bread and chocolate spread in our favourite coffee shop in South Kensington. But it was while we were gardening in our matching gloves yesterday that I suddenly appreciated how wonderfully lucky I am to have stumbled across her path. Its a joy to discover how a mind works, or what a certain expression means, or to be able to start an inventory of a person's many different smiles. And to realise that yes, old friends can never be replaced. But new friends can be just as wonderful. And someone who is willing to give up her Sunday to help you trim your borders with the kitchen scissors is a great friend!

On self-immolation

There's a word you don't hear every day. Did you know that 59 women (if someone between the ages of 13 and 25 can be called a woman) have committed suicide by setting fire to themselves in Herat in the past year? Before I read Christina Lamb's article in the Sunday Times, I would have been wrong if I'd said I knew what self-immolation really was. I thought it had something to do with harming yourself in the way that I've been doing lately, lifting heavy pieces of set and bruising myself on the furniture in my madcap show. Every new day, a new bruise. But how could I even compare the pain of a scraped shin to a strangled soul, so despairing and hopeless that flames seem a peaceful way out? I can't. It chills to think that as I type this, there are women and girls out there under a foreign sky who could only dream of being able to write away their miseries, or lose themselves in a good book as I am privileged to be able to do. There are somethings I believe a human being should be able to take for granted.