GOOD grief, call the police, someone. I am sitting here on a Wednesday evening in the centre of Stornoway and I have just witnessed a man in tight trousers come up behind a wee girl, yank her backwards and wheech her upside-down.
Wow, now he is twirling her round his head. You can see her panties and everything.
If I tried that, I’d have my collar felt and be frogmarched up to the nick in Church Street.
Just because these two are prancers with Scottish Ballet, is it really OK for them to do that sort of thing without any fear of prosecution?
I must try that excuse.
Who decided we should go to the ballet, anyway? Maybe it was me. I am quite arty, you know. All it took to turn me into a culture vulture was a poster of a fit bird being held upside down with tomorrow’s washing in full view.
I thought: yes, I’m having some of that.
Now, I’m a balletomane. That’s a fan of ballet and not, as I thought, a sufferer of the kind of medical problem which makes one walk funny.
There is greater interest in ballet among boys now, we were told at the pre-show talk. The Billy Elliot effect, you see. They’re always looking for young men. They must have presence on stage, apparently.
For instance, a male dancer can’t be shy, but has to be prominent. Yes, dear, with tights that close-fitting, I know exactly what you mean.
There are all sorts here. Gosh, there’s Norma Scobie, my former music teacher. Notice, I said former, not old. I think I was in third year. She was great fun and made music come alive. I loved her in that way that third-year boys do. There was no doubt in my mind; she was looking at me in a special way.
It’s not even 40 years since that Music of Spain lesson that is burned deep into my subconscious. Our eyes met over a pair of hot castanets. I was shaking so much they were click-clacking even after everyone else had finished playing.
Just when I was going to tell her we had a future together, Miss Scobie announced she and her family were moving away to somewhere horrible and far away. Was it Grantown? I think so.
I mean, who wants to go to Grantown? Isn’t that the wee place that had two cemeteries in its list of attractions?
Furious, I was. Miss Scobie wouldn’t just go off and leave me. Someone made her.
But now she’s back. Sitting there in front of me, a shimmering vision of serene elegance. I knew she would come back to me one day.
How will I get her attention without Mrs X realising that she must henceforth take second place to the divine creature who was my first love? Ach, she’ll understand. She was the same with Cliff Richard.
I’ll cough. A gentle splutter close to Miss Scobie’s ear; not enough to flatten her exquisitely-coiffured hair, but enough for her to wonder if I am in need of some medical attention.
Arouse feelings of pity in a woman and you’re on a winner. It worked with Mrs X.
Leaping sideways to avoid my germs, Miss S turns and flashes that stunning smile again. I beam back like Tiumpan Head Lighthouse, turning slightly so Mrs X won’t see I’ve transformed from Victor Meldrew into someone who would put a Cheshire cat to shame.
But Miss S turns away to speak to someone else.
Aaargh. She’s forgotten me. She has torn my heart. Again.
Oh well, just as well I found Mrs X, then. She’ll do for a few years yet, but I have learned a valuable lesson. I am going to have to clear out some of those Cliff videos and CDs she has under the stairs.
Pensioner or not, if he ever gets a gig in An Lanntair, I could be history.
We were lucky to get tickets tonight. I don’t think there’s a seat free. From where I’m sitting I can see teachers, hospital workers, some shellfish factory processors and a surfing instructor.
There’s a sheriff and his good lady over there. The forces of law and order are always on the alert.
Very sensibly, Sheriff Colin Scott Mackenzie has come in plain clothes. He’ll have seen the poster, too, so no doubt he’s here to make sure there isn’t too much of that pantie-flashing stuff.
I’m taking notes too, m’lud.
Five short contemporary performances are on the programme. The first one, Chasing Ghosts, has lots of leaping, grabbing and twirling. My sister-in-law, Sandra, seems transfixed by one hoofer. Does she not know I can hear those wee gasps under her breath as the fit fellow flings a twirling ballerina skywards?
Shocking behaviour, and her in the Free Church. Good job her poor husband is in the Far East. He would be devastated if he knew.
Mrs X is little better. We have just got to the Balcony Pas De Deux from Romeo and Juliet and she has obviously taken a wee bit of a fancy to one of the chaps lolloping about on the floor.
Suddenly, he springs up and Mrs X gets such a start she loses control of her plastic wine beaker. The plonk goes scooshing over my startled niece, Kirsty, who looks bewildered before tasting it and announcing that it is raining raspberryade.
I think the wine shower also splashed the girls in the row in front with some of the finest Cabernet Sauvignon that An Lanntair’s budget can extend to.
Don’t blame me. Send the bill to Mrs X. Better still, send it to Cliff Richard.
The night has been an eye-opener. I shall come away from the ballet seeing all these dancers in a new light, as well as having seen, in a few cases, rather more than I expected, or wanted, to see.
