By Victoria Jackson
Somewhere in my parents’ house, in those thick family albums everyone used to have before digital photography, there are photos of a very young version of me. They show a chubby little girl, hair tied back in thick bunches, wearing a leotard in a rather unlattering shade of gr een. I was about four years old and dressed up ready for my dance class. I remember liking ballet more than tap – and not just because the black ballet leotard was a more becoming colour! In my childish imagination I saw myself in full ballerina glory, a dancing princess, loating gr acefully acr oss the stag e, all lightness and poise. I thought I was like the little twirling igurine in the musical boxes my friends had, which tinkled out the swan lake theme when you opened the lid.