Don't look at my thighs. No, I mean it!

I have come to realise that this blog lacks a certain 'class'.  "No, Jane!"  I hear you cry.  "Surely, yours is the classiest blog on the net!"

Alas no, my friends. So, this week I had a brainwave, and decided that this week's blog is going to be classy and elite and refined, and will therefore be coming to you through the medium of ballet.

I realise this is going to come as a shock to you all, but I've been practicing 'en pointe' and I think I can carry it off.  So. First - the dance floor.  Rural Yorkshire villages aren't known for their sprung-wooden dance floors, or indeed much other than sheep and incest, so I had to obtain a floor in order to be able to bring you this Festival of Footwork, so I decided on a barn door propped up on bricks.  The Royal Ballet would be proud of me!

I don't have a barn.  But I did find a shed.  Some nifty screwdriver work, four breeze blocks and we're good to go!  They'll never miss it - they had gnomes!  Honestly.  Shed doors are too good for people like that.

Now, I don't really have the thighs for ballet, so you're going to have to avert your eyes from any action which takes place from the knees up, all right?  I shan't be wearing a tu-tu, because they don't fit and anyway would show my thighs so I shall be performing for you in a seven-seven, which is a lot larger.  Neither do I have ballet shoes, reckoning that anything that involves winding ribbons round the ankles and yet has nothing to do with bondage is just a waste of money, so I cut a couple of inches off the tops of my wellies and they fit perfectly.  As long as you ignore the kind of 'flop flop' noise.

Right, so, just to recap.  You're not looking above the knee and you're ignoring the noise, all right?  Okay.  Here we go.

Hneeryeerr! Jump jump, left leg bend, veloute...chassseur...

Oh, whoops, sorry, I'd forgotten about the hinges.  Ah well, never mind you can grow some new teeth can't you? And, honestly, your nose looks better like that.  There's far too much fuss made about noses being straight and not being able to breathe round corners, I think it's an improvement.

Right.  Here I go again. 

                                                          Like this, but in wellies. 

Canape, canape, bouillon...twist, wiggle.   And rest.

There.  I hope you all feel culturally enabled and that you all enjoyed that little thing I did with my elbows.  I know some of you think the music lacked a certain 'something' for ballet but I prefer to think that performing ballet to the output of Mister Wagstaff's Amazing Flatulence Orchestra shows a dedication to my craft, don't you?
 

Now if someone could find my wellies and bring them back, that would be marvellous.  And stop looking at my thighs.