Sinister: picnics, protests, past stories

[idleberry]

hello all,

Hope everyone is doing ok and tickity boo.

Theres a variety of things for me to tell you today,
so best to get started I guess...

*****NEWS FOR PICNIC WHORES******
there are approximately two more scottish picnics in
the pipeline for this summer, following on from the
highly successful "goodbye, Mr breams" picnic just
over a week ago. Obviously, news of our ability to do
it so well has spread far and wide, not unlike the
legs of Ulrika Jonsson, that people want to come up
here and get a whiff of some HARDCORE scottish
sinister picnicking pleasures.

The first will take place on the first weekend of
July, when Mark HOTPOT Cassarole will be gracing us
with his hip thrustin' Elvis-like presence somewhere
in glasgow, I suspect. 
Throwing knickers and swooning is optional.

The second is towards the end of the month, and
looking likely to take place in Edinburgh, cos Gordon
says so. Which is fair enough really. Plus you know,
like, us east coasters are getting a bit fed up with
having to do all the hard work and travel through.

Oh, and are we having a game of football? hmm? or is
tennis the new world cup now? If sports are on the
menu, please don't forget your gym kit, or I'll make
you run round in your bare feet, vest and pants.
Even if you've gone commando.


********Work stuff news*********

I like telling this story, cos it makes my life seem
that bit more interesting. 

I went and sat in to listen to Tommy "The Commie"
Sheridan (SSP) Free school Meals for Children Bill
getting debated in the Scottish Parliament last week.
I went along, becuase I wanted to get a "feel" for the
passion of parliament debates at their most heated. 
I expected all the fireworks, and verbal wrestling to
take place in the chamber, so I sat up in the public
gallery, watching as if it were a roman colusseum with
the gladiators and lions and stuff. 

Well, it wasn't far off.

The thing is, you're supposed to be respectful of the
flow of democracy in the public gallery. 

But i soon realised, that down in the debating chamber
was the better place to be, as the crowds took to the
parliament like a bunch of middle aged over excited
parents at a pantomime. The jeered. They hissed. I
expected them to say "hes behind you!". And the Deputy
Presiding Officer gave them a few fair warnings about
their behaviour. Feeling a little less than
comfortable, surrounded by irrate middle aged oddballs
in garishly coloured lycra leggings and sandals, I
made an early departure, heading back to watch it on
telly, from the safety of my desk, away from all those
nasty voters.

Plus, all that talk about chips and cheese made me
feel hungry.

As it happens, the Parliament had to be suspended for
ten minutes, as the protesters were escorted by police
and security from the public gallery. 

*************************************

A few days ago, I started emailing someone on this
list who responded to one of my previous posts. I was
telling them about when I used to be a dancer, when I
was a little girl. So I thought I'd tell you too.

When I was a kid, my mum used to send me off to do
various activities. dancing, swimming lessons,
operetta (a drama club), brownies, gymnastics.

My best friend, when I was 7, was a girl called Ruth. 
She went to dance classes, and the dance classes I was
attending weren't going so well, on account that it
was ballroom dance classes (if you can count dancing
to "Agadoo" as ballroom- that was more a warm up
exercise though, but hey, at least I learnt to jive
and to cha-cha) and my "dance partner" was more
interested in sitting in the corner eating ten pence
sweet mixes from little white square paper bags than
getting up and dancing with me. 
My dance teacher had words with my mum, and they
decided it was for the best I didn't attend anymore.
But Ruth went to dancing, and invited me along too.

She went to "Miss Clarks School of Dance" in Hamilton,
and my mum signed me up to join.
I remember the first day. The dance lessons were held
in a building, a grey terrace row, on John Street near
the town centre and you had to walk along this dingy
little corridor into the dimly lit cloak room that
smelled of sweat and damp, where you got changed. 

All the other little girls were skinny and petite, and
I was never a skinny and petite little girl, I wasn't
over weight, but I wasn't like those little porcelain
featured girls, who had been learning to demi pliea
(or however its spelt) before they could walk. 
Ruth ignored me right from the start.

I went in, and met Miss Clark. I can tell you, I hated
that woman. I despised her. She had a sharp, snarly
glaswegian accent, and always had a cigarette dripping
from her wrinkled lips. 
Her saggy eyes drooped, like Paul MacCartney's do,
from behind tinted lenses of her glasses and she hd a
short grey crop. She wore black sweatshirts over
leggings, and she wasn't very tall. She was like a
cross between Pasty and Selma from the Simpsons, and
Wee Jimmy Crankie.

But she was a nasty woman. A cruel, evil hearted
woman, who obviously hated children and had fallen on
hard times, earning her money teaching little girls to
dance and all she could get out of it was to crack a
stiff smile at their parents who paid the annual fee,
and then snarl, like a rabid dog at their children as
soon as the money was in the bank.
She growled, and barked, and shouted at you if you
forgot. Even the plump middle aged pianist lady with
the red curls looked frightened, bowing her head,
down, and peering over  when Miss Clark told her to
stop, as she came stomping across the wooden floor
towards some unfortunate child who had made a wrong
move.
I didn't exactly know what she meant when she told me
to point my toes. How do you point your toes? Well, I
splayed my toes. And she shouted at me. And she
grabbed my foot, and pushed my toes together, and
roared "POINT!" ,at me.
The first day, I held my little ballet shoes in my
hand. I didn't know where to put them, not somewhre
that they'd get lost or mixed up, so I pushed them
down the front of my leotard.
Miss Clark walked over to me, every footstep clipped
and sharp.
She looked down and smiled. Then her face turned into
the darkest expression I have ever seen. Then she
growled. And then she called me stupid for sticking my
ballet shoes down my leotard, and showed me off to the
other girls, who all laughed.
She called me "kirstin" and then I made next my
mistake. My mistake that would stay with me for the
three years I attended her classes.
I corrected her pronouciation of my name.
"Its Kristin" I said.
>From then on, when she talked to me, her voice would
resonate around the room, for the next three years,
she would talk to me, putting on a mock-posh accent
and patronising me "Krrrrrrrrrrristin!" she would say.
Rolling her r's tighter than a rizla cigarette paper.

I wasn't very good at ballet.

The other little girls weren't like me. The class was
split into two. Mis Clarks favourites- the porcelain
china dolls, who went onto perform in pantomimes, and
one little girl even got a bit part in Emmerdale,
which made her the starlet for weeks to come as she
talked about her showbiz career, Miss Clark washing
her with compliments and asking her what it was like.
Then there was me, and the other dumpy little girls.
The little girls who didn't look like pretty little
ballerinas. The less than graceful children. The
little girls who tried hard, but really, we didn't
stand a chance. The little girls who weren't very good
at ballet. The rejects. The oddballs. The girl who was
taller than the rest, and akward. The girl with the
frizzy curly halo of hair. Me. We hated it there. 
My friend Ruth woudn't talk to me during the breaks.
She would glance over at me, and turn back to the
porcelain children and giggle. 
I befriended those odd little girls, we were like
rejected doll parts., thrown down the chute into some
cellar.
We couldn't dance to save ourselves, we boundered from
one foot to the other, flapping our arms, and the
other little girls, those perfect little girls with
the upturned noses, the rosebud lips, and baby blue
eyes would scowl at us.
When we had shows, every summer, in Hamilton town
Hall, we were put at the back. Out of sight. 
the pretty ballerinas at the front.
But we had our talent. One that made us good.
We could tap dance.
You see, theres no point in being patient and delicate
when you tap dance. The aim of the game was to move
quickly, and to make noise. And thats what we did,
every saturday. Toe tapping, heel clipping, not
standing there at the bar getting tired from holding 
your leg in the air, worrying that you might fart, in
those little soft shoes.

I wasn't in Ruths class, but I loved tap dancing.
Running around... shuffling hoping, ball-step, shuffle
hop ball-step, getting some faster more fun music, not
that classical mozart ballet nonsense.
I even got to be in the opening sequence to one of the
shows. That put a few noses out of joint. Miss Clark
shouted at me less on Saturdays. 
My parents got a laminated wooden floor in the hall
way, and I would practise there, for every lesson.
I didn't have to remember stupid french names like the
Bra Ba or whatever. (I never did french at school, so
forgive me for my awful phonetical spelling). 
It was exactly like it was told. Shuffle. Fast
shuffle. Ball step. All the steps had proper names.

My last show was in 1989. I moved to Livingston that
year, only weeks before our annual performance. So my
parents would drive me through to Hamilton, twice a
week, to dance. Ruth had even less to do with me after
I moved.
She stuck to the other little girls. At school, she
was my best friend, but at dancing, she didn't like me
at all. 

We had three shows in a week. I had to have my hair
tiedback into a tight bun, and sprayed mericlessly
with hairspray. I hated having it tied back like that.
I didn't mind  when we got to dress up. For one show,
we dressed up in black leotards and leggings, with
white tap shoes with white satin ribbons and little
orange skirts with sequins on them, and a headband
with a feather- we were supposed to be a little tribe
of American Indians.
Another show, we wore green leotards and chiffon fairy
wings with ballet shoes with ribbons wrapped up our
calves. You can bet I was tucked away at the back for
most of that one.

After the last show, as I got ready to go home, Miss
Clark walked across the changing room towards me, as I
put on my jacket and stod next to my mum. 
She gave me a gift.
A little pair of three inch long pink satin ballet
shoes, in a clear plastic tube.  She said thankyou,
and told me good luck, then she grabbed me and pulled
me close to her for a hug, holding me so tightly, I
spluttered on the smell of her cigarettes and could
barely breathe. 

I didn't go to any more dance classes after that. The
doctor said I had flat feet, and that ballet shoes
weren't suitable for little girls with flat feet,
since they had no support. 

So then I took up swimming, and recieved praise, and
enthusiastic words of encouragement.
Besides which, if people shout at you, it doesn't
sound quite so bad under water.

love

idles
xxx






=====
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/corduroysmoke/ starting playground gossip and passing notes

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