Dearest Ms. Mac, my Number One Fan,

So, à propos of nothing: yesterday I saw a tiny, fluffy, white kitten running along the footpath underneath a massive, voluptuous, overhanging bank of blowsy, pale pink roses atop a garden wall. It was a beautiful, and rather unusual sight. A fleeting glimpse, a picture postcard moment, fit for a Hallmark card and it touched my artist’s soul.

Of course I know that you prefer your fluffy kittens nicely browned on the spit, with the skin extra crispy, and served with Thai Sweet Chilli sauce. But even so. I simply felt compelled to share that moment with you. I can’t explain it. So sue me, Bitch.

Now, here are the statistics from Wednesday’s fraught Dress Rehearsal of the ballet school gala:

- shrieking, over-excited prima donnas running round the stuffy, echoing theatre for six hours straight: 141

- costumes hastily sewn by myself and the Chief Seamstress while the little ones danced: 1 kajillion

- number of helpful mothers who spontaneously got off their arses and offered to help in the sewing on of buttons, epaulettes, apron strings, etc.: ZERO

- number of helpful mothers who were cajoled and pleaded with by myself to help sew on buttons etc.: 3

- mistakes made by the Sound Engineer in the order of the music: 42

- Chief Seamstress’ fingers slashed to ribbons by accident with sewing machine: 1

- drops of Chief Seamstress’ blood cleaned off floor and sewing machine: 27 (none on the costumes, thank the Lawd)

- dancers' left knees swollen to the size of a grapefruit and the colour of an uglifruit, caused by endless repetition of graceful, swivelling movement in a kneeling position: 1 (mine)

- foul and evil curse words uttered by ballet teacher at every single dancer’s ineptitude and lack of synchronisation: 728 BAZILLION

- migraine remedies consumed by Yours Truly at bedtime: 1 (but it was a biggie)

- level of my emotions as measured on the Cool-Calm-o-meter: RED ALERT

Achey-boned love and cracked-voice kisses,

Dame Margot Fonteyn

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