Ballet

When I'm browsing for books in a charity shop I never have a fixed idea of what I'm seeking, only that I'll know what it is when I see it. Dangerous method. I'm left wide open to temptation and since I never leave the house without a sturdy book bag tucked into my satchel (student habits die hard) I can load myself up with as many bookish treasures as take my fancy. You have to be able to spot an interesting spine if you're after a treasure, with so many tomes jostling for space it's easy to miss something. This is where the head tilt and the sideways wander come into action and I spend the next ten minutes ear to shoulder; as though the wind changed and I'm stuck mid-stretch, it looks ridiculous but it's just so much easier to read the titles that way, I've made my peace with it. Sort of.
It was mid sideways wander that I found this very well loved copy of The Book of Ballet. I've never been the ballerina in my family - my little sister got that gene - but I do enjoy watching. My sort of freedom is found on the back of a horse or in the world of a book, that being said ballet has always looked so free to me; the sheer grace and range of movement. I know that in reality ballet is blood, sweat and tears - total dedication to perfection, though it still conjures such a beautiful illusion for the rest of us. I think that's why this book came home with me. It has definitely seen better days and some of the pages are making a bid for freedom but it is such a gorgeous thing to leaf through - page after page of elegance and loveliness. I wonder how many little girls hands it passed through before it came to me.