The Dancer
He appeared, dramatically dressed in a flouncy and lace trimmed shirt, black kilt, big boots, long hair tied back in a pony tail. I was terrified that his flamboyant sleeves would catch in the fire, but I gave him the safety spiel and he took responsibility for his attire. He was an attentive pupil, made a beautiful S shaped hook then spent hours with the bronze brush, burnishing it to a fine shine.
When it came to a barter, he asked if I liked the ballet. To be honest, I can take it or leave it, but asked where.
“London.”
I explained that I lived in Wales so London was really out of the question. He bought me ice creams and I was happy with that.
When my son appeared later, he said,
“Mum, you know what you’ve just turned down? He’s a principal in the Royal Ballet! He was offering you a night at the Royal Opera House – and you turned it down for ice-cream!”
Hey ho! It seems I should have been more concerned about dropping hot coals on his feet than setting fire to his drooping cuffs!
But it was the start of a lasting friendship and as a mate of my sons he has since become part of the family – even though I never did get to see him dance.
Kate The Wordsmith 