Pique turns and deer-chasing

So ballet today was pretty good actually. After lying in bed for 2 solid weeks over the summer, and then (once I could eat again) doing nothing more strenuous than lift large amounts of food into my mouth, I had the strength of a baby hedgehog and could barely haul myself up a flight of stairs without a breather half-way up. So being able to grand jete and battement tendu semi-competently was a lovely surprise... as were Toby's yells of "GOOD Sian, now PLIE pique!!!!! PLIE!!!!" which nearly caused me to crash into the mirror, just when I was doing quite well. (Pique turns are twirly across-the-room-diagonally type things, and if you're me you get excessively dizzy and red-faced. In case you didn't know any of that.)

But I won't bang on about ballet too much; I feel it will become boring for those who don't really give a shit (most people). Therefore I shall reach into the deepest recesses of my mind and follow whatever stream of consciousness appears to bear us away first.......

So I was reading the title of this actual blog and thinking about stuff like where the fields have all gone, and actually there's one massive field 10 minutes walk away from my humble abode - namely, Richmond Park. I say field. It's got hills, woods, and streams in it (which remind me of home) and rugby pitches, the Royal Ballet School and deer (which don't, but are a nice added extra, especially when lots of lovely men are making full usage of the rugby pitches). A short stroll starting at Roehampton Gate and ending at the nearest bench with a view is a popular hangover cure amongst me and my housebunnies, and provides endless opportunites for jogger-watching, soul-searching and deer-chasing (illegal and therefore ill-advised, by the way - they probably belong to the Queen or whatever), and all whilst wearing the latest in snuggly winter fashions.

It's stuff like that that makes me miss home a lot. I mean, I don't spend my time in London chasing deer and perusing Vogue for the correct attire in which to partake in this most English of sports; what it does is make me miss good ol-fashioned countryside. Trees and fields and hedgerows and secret paths you only find when the dog disappears after a pheasant down them. Dad wearing a flatcap and wellies to walk the dog in and merely looking pleased about it when I laugh. Being able to sit with nothing except the grass and the sky and to know that there's probably no-one else near you. And being obliged to wrap up in the latest winter fashions, outside because Worcestershire winters bring with them a heart-stopping frost sometimes, and inside because dad's an eco-warrior and just tells me to put on some "proper clothes" (and yes, a knitted jumper dress, woolly tights and boots are definately proper clothes - you mean 80s has been in fashion for about a year now and it still hasn't reached Upton yet??).

I could go on... I won't. Not today anyway, unless I think of something else to say later, and let's face it, it's fairly likely with a brain like mine. Bon soir.