When Sleeping Beauty was banished to eternal snoozetime, I doubt anyone took the time to make sure she was on memory foam.
I’d rather be Cinderella.
At least she has stories.
I went to the ballet last night, in case anyone’s wondering why on Earth I’ve chosen to discuss fairy tales.
When I got the invitation, I was less than excited. I mean, punk-shows are one thing, but the ballet? Anyone who follows me will recall my childhood ballerina nightmare. So it’s not surprising that I wasn’t overly ecstatic about the idea of watching a bunch of dancers flutter about onstage.
Turns out I was wrong.
With just the right amount of wine warming my cheeks, and the amazing set-design and choreography, Cinderella done post-modern was inspiring.
I mean, not enough to make me want to twirl about in slippers, but still.
The whole show took place in London 1940 and the stepmother was a drunken ballerina.
So that was fun.
They even did an inebriated dance which was pretty creative, all things considered. I walked in expecting Disney on Ice or some unholy equivilant, and was happy to discover art.
Just goes to show, I should be getting out more and trying new things.
No time to start like the present. I’m sitting in the Eurostar train station as I write this, awaiting the arrival of one very crazy, very witty, very good friend.
I’m meeting Man Shopper, and yes-we have a plan.
It involves characters, corsets, and my pledge to attempt an evening sans sarcasm.
Stay tuned. Like the ballet, this could turn out surprisingly inspiring.
Either that, or I’ll be forced to locate some memory foam, a hot water bottle, and my pj pants.