Carol’s Column

Eat your heart out Margot

SHE twirled, then pirouetted gracefully, sending the pepper pot flying.

Pointing her toes daintily, she arabesqued, then curtsied, dipping her derrière into the butter and displacing the decorative parsley.

"Is this necessary?" asked the head of the household, as an asparagus was knocked from his hand by a passing, swirling knee.

"I know we must encourage The arts — but don't you think it is excessive for Nicky to practise ballet on the diningroom table — especially while we're eating."

The ballerina, oblivious of the argument around her, proceeded to go through her balletic paces, causing further disruption among the eating implements.

The situation called for tact.

"Look, it's only for a few more days," I said pleadingly, catching a cut and buttered squash.

I wiped the pulp away and continued: "This is Nicky's debut, her first concert. This is what she's been working towards for a whole year. And you know the ballet mistress said 'practise, practise, practise . . . and then practise some more.'"

"Well, I think this is ridiculous, a man can't even eat a meal in peace," said my husband, and retired to the lounge scowling like a huge Cyclops due to the fact that one eye had been covered by a dollop of creamed spinach.

I gazed fondly at our miniature ballerina. It was extraordinary how like Margot Fonteyn she looked as she huffed and puffed through her dances.

Her knock-knees added a certain charm and there was no doubt that her buck teeth with the gap in the middle, looked especially cute.

She performed a final leap, missed the table and landed softly on the down-filled cushion in Licquorice-the-labrador's basket which had been placed there specifically for that reason.

"I'm exhausted," she wailed as she traipsed upstairs to a hot bath and massage.

So am I, I thought to myself wearily, as I joined my husband in the lounge for a quiet after-dinner chat.

Take the costumes.

"Ma, you have to make me a sailor suit," she'd announced two months previously. "I'm dancing the hornpipe and I must have a sailor suit. Pat says she'll give us the material and a picture of the costume. Then all you have to do is sew it."

"Fine," I'd said happily. "That sounds simple enough."

A few days later, she came home from ballet clutching a packet containing white material and what seemed like a kilometre of blue braid.

The instructions were simple enough. If your name was Greta Abrahamson or Peter Soldatos.

The obvious thing to acquire was a pattern.

For weeks I searched the shops of Johannesburg for a sailor-suit pattern and eventually found a suitable substitute.

"But Ma, this is a Wizard of Oz munchkin suit. I can't be a munchkin among the sailors, I'll look ridiculous."

"Don't worry, I'll modify it," I muttered grimly.

I sewed through day and night and the end result was gratifying I thought — until she tried it on.

"Ma, you've forgotten to leave holes for the arms and legs, and the legs end at my knees," she said.

"Well, you can't have everything," I murmured.

The following five attempts were no better and I gave up after accidentally sewing the tip of my amputated thumb into the collar trim.

It did not look nice.

I finally resorted to acquiring the services of a professional wardrobe mistress, Jane Fogg, who in 15 minutes or so, ran up a sailor suit without missing a stitch.

It fitted precisely, there were openings for the arms and legs, they ended at the correct place and the pants didn't split at the slightest movement.

The suit was a miracle.

Lately, the atmosphere at home has been tense but then all theatre people are temperamental and Nicky is no exception.

She shouted at her silkworms, had a tantrum when the dog chewed up her ballet pumps, cried when she lost a back molar and even threw an outdated banana at her older brother in a fit of pique.

Yesterday was the opening night.

What a magnificent performance it was. The ballerinas looked superb, each one tripping daintily across the stage.

Especially our eight-year-old apprentice Margot Fonteyn.

As my husband commented proudly: "Nicky really dances superbly. Have you noticed how every other sailor in the line is dancing out of time.

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