I’m currently visiting my sister in Western Australia. She lives in a new apartment block with its own private gym and Jacuzzi. Her flat is minimalistic retro chic, with black marble worktops, a formica dining table and a pair of mustard bar stools. It feels as though you are permanently on holiday here.
Yet impressive at it is, I am more in awe of the flat’s location. There isn’t a view of the Swan river, Scarborough beach or bushland with kangaroos; but it is next door to the Western Australia Ballet Centre. Every time I walk past and hear the crescendo of the piano and the shuffle of ballet slippers over a sprung floor I come to halt and listen. As I listen I imagine walking up the steps at the front of the majestic white building and pirouetting into one of the studios.
Dancing is where my story begins. My first memories are of sitting in a circle with my legs stretched out in front, pointing and flexing my toes in time with the other girls in pink leotards. As I grew up, dancing was my one constant. I thrived on hairspray, fishnet tights, bright lights and sore muscles. ‘A dancer’ was my answer when people asked what I wanted to be or who I was. It was part of my identity.
As a teenager, I was plagued with self-doubt. I am not special in that respect, in fact I think it is something most people experience as their body changes, their opinions form and responsibility beckons. Preparing to leave sixth-form, nothing made sense. I had a place at university to study law but I had no real understanding of what this involved, other than it being seen as an appropriate choice for someone predicted a string of As in their exams. After doing the rounds of careers advisers, university open days and psychometric testing, my hopes of making it on the stage as a dancer seemed childish and futile.
When the opportunity arose to join the Royal Navy I saw it as a get out clause; it was a career with prospects which had accommodation, food, physical exercise and ready made friends thrown into the bargain. I could earn money rather than saddle myself with student debt. And to be a pilot, well that would show everyone I could be successful in life, wouldn’t it? So I thrust myself into a world where the lights were significantly dimmer and the shirt sleeve creases significantly sharper. The colour pink was ridiculous, make-up was frowned upon and fishnet tights – well they were for hookers.
I danced as much as I could in the navy. Constant relocation made joining civilian dance classes more difficult but not impossible. I tended to go to salsa classes where I could just turn up as a one off and dance with whoever was willing. Once during officer training, I arranged a hip hop dance class for my division as an alternative to an early morning run. There were a few dropped jaws, several nervous giggles and the odd obscenity when people realized that they were expected to dance, at 6am, in the Royal Navy, without so much as a whiff of alcohol. However, towards the end of the session when the sweat was dripping and hearts were pounding no one could deny that dancing was as exhausting as a cross country run but a lot more fun.
An Officer and a Lady 