My daughter suggested I write a post about this incident, and therefore without further ado I dedicate the following lines to her. Maestro please…….
My four year old grand daughter was performing in a ballet recital. We had tickets for the show which was held in a compact rural theatre, and ran for approximately two hours. My grand daughter’s involvement comprised five minutes on stage because several ballet classes of various ages were represented, but like good troopers we stayed until the bitter end. Poor little mites; they all looked very cute in their tutus, ballerina tights and enough make up to put Joan Collins in the shade. But just as well we weren’t judging them on talent.
It all began very civilized. Accompanied by my stepson and his wife we embraced our positions which left me sitting in the inner most seat of the row immediately next to a brick wall. It could have comprised another material or compound, but in the scheme of things the composition of the wall was irrelevant. It merely represented an obstacle to my subsequent actions.
Amidst a plethora of squealing the show began with a series of groups of little girls treading the boards attempting to remember their allegro from their arabesque. It was all very sweet and melancholy until I needed to go to the bathroom. Unfortunately I am of an age where bathroom breaks are necessary more frequently than I care to remember.
Luckily, according to the programme, there would be an interval where dinosaurs like myself could avail themselves of the facilities. I was nearing the abyss where crossing my legs and stamping my feet were having little effect on my unfortunate predicament. Reciting the alphabet backwards sometimes helped in these uncompromising situations, but my mental faculties were zooming in on a very active bladder which was about to explode.
Finally the interval arrived and I quickly rose from my seat with every intent on heading for the nearest rest room. To my horror Tom, Dick and Harry and their family ensembles rose as one blocking the central aisle to the exit doors. The people sitting in my row weren’t aware of my plight and were in no hurry to leave their seats.
There was only one thing I could do. I would have to climb over the wall. This wasn’t just a wall; a four foot steel fence was perched on top. Stepping on the three foot wall was easy, so straddling the fence couldn’t be that difficult. Could it? Okay, I hitched one leg and my torso onto the top of fence, but my trailing foot was trapped between two railings. I was frozen in time, and my aging joints were beginning to seize up and I was losing any trace of flexibility.
I suddenly yanked my foot out from the railing, and in doing so went crashing unceremoniously over the top of the fence landing in an undignified heap on the floor. Unfortunately when I hit the ground the momentum threw me back against the fence and I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder.
The adrenalin was flowing like a flooded Chattahoochee River and coupled with my humiliation, I ignored the pain and bounced quickly up off the floor, not daring to look back at a packed house, and made a bee line for the exit door and the rest room.
A few minutes later, I bumped into my wife in the foyer and she furtively asked if I was okay. I replied that my shoulder was very sore, but it didn’t hurt half as much as my dignity! She then mischievously asked: “Was that an attempt at a pirouette, a western roll or a Fosby flop?” I certainly didn’t score many marks for presentation or content, but I gather the entertainment value for a captive audience was priceless.
