Reading about this little girl's first experience of going to the ballet reminded me of mine.
I was a little older than Yoyo, 8 or thereabouts, and had been attending dance lessons for several years. After one ballet class my dance teacher, Miss Ella, announced that we were being given the opportunity to see the Bolshoi Ballet performing Swan Lake. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. My dad had bought me a record of ballet music and the Swan Lake excerpts were my favourites to prance about to in our little living room.
All of us budding cygnets squealed with excitement and, along with the other mothers, my mum promptly paid for two tickets (which looked suspiciously like raffle tickets with a bit of handwriting on the back), one for me, one for her. It seemed like we had ages to wait but the date on the tickets eventually came round.
We'd been given directions to the venue which should have set the alarm bells ringing in the various mothers' heads. My dad worked in our shop which stayed open until 10 o'clock every night and as my mum didn't drive (remind me to tell you about her first, which also turned out to be her only, driving lesson under my dad's instruction), we had to get the bus. I remember it was dark and wintry as we set out and it took forever to get to our destination. But get there we did.
The venue turned out to be a tiny, ramshackle community hall in what was at that time an area of heavy industry (think ICI and strange smells) and where all of the houses had been demolished some years previously. The hall hadn't been in active use for a long time so it wasn't heated. Of course, there was no such thing as "refreshments".
As for the much anticipated Bolshoi Ballet, it turned out the mothers had paid for us all to watch an extremely poor quality reel of film. A silent film, I might add. This was fed into the projector by the caretaker who coughed continuously whilst chain smoking and who loudly bemoaned the fact that he'd had to leave his cosy fireside in the nearby town. It didn't appear to cross his mind that we were all equally if not more uncomfortable. (I suspect those of us who were gloveless were tempted to warm our hands over the lit cigarette ends).
I spent the rest of that night snuggling into my mum's coat sleeve (nobody was brave enough to remove their outdoor clothes), feeling so very disappointed (for heaven's sake, I'd taken my autograph book with me) and wondering how I was going to talk about "the performance" at school the next day. Naturally, I'd told my teacher and fellow pupils all about who and what I was going to see. My head mistress was very keen to bring culture into the lives of us little girls from the terraced streets so I'd been tasked with standing in front of the whole school to share my experience and maybe even give a little demonstration of some of the ballet steps I'd watched. It would have helped if I could have actually seen, through what seemed to be indoor fog, some of the dancing on the small white (ish) portable screen that we were all seated in front of.
Getting back home proved to be problematic as the buses ran infrequently. There was no way of contacting my dad to come and pick us up (we did have a phone at home but we couldn't locate a public phone in working order. Well to be honest, we couldn't locate any public phone, working or not. And anyway he'd still have been working in the shop). A bus did come along at some point (there were no street lights and I just remember us all huddled together, mums and girls alike, in what had been a bus shelter in a previous life) and we arrived home long after my usual bedtime. At least my dad had thoughtfully put the electric blanket in my bed.
As for school the next day, dear readers I blagged it. I pretended I really had seen the Bolshoi and managed to execute a few pirouettes and plies in my much admired pink satin ballet shoes. (I don't remember faking autographs to show people but, who knows, maybe I did). Anyway, when I finished everyone clapped so it must have been OK.
The whole experience didn't dampen my enthusiasm for ballet or live performance.
But I'd have to admit I've never felt quite the same about Swan Lake.
And I have an idea my mum gave Miss Ella an earful.