A pack of anchovies, and a delayed train

I am officially late for rehearsal.

Against my will, all sad and moody, I am waiting for a train that will take me to London. The train station is packed with people, walking briskly towards one of the eight available lanes.

And yet I am not one of those human anchovies — I have alienated myself to a safer place, the Coffee Stand. In really bad timing, Lane 9 has decided (a very opinionated one) to “be closed until further notice”. And thus I have no where else to go until further notice.

I was four when I got my first tu-tu. It was not for dancing (at that age the only things I cared for were eating cookies and cuddling my teddy bear regularly), but a fancy costume. I remember getting those digested cookies for public display (that is, on top of my mum’s new carpet) after piruetting sixteen times without spotting. You might think this would have deprived me from any sort of ballet. Far from that, in 22 summers that I have lived, I have darned as many pointe shoes as the number of angry costumers that are waiting for that delayed train. And yet that would be underestimating it.

I am leaning against the flimsy walls of a coffee stand. The wall is my bar, and I attempt a couple of stretches here and there, trying really hard to make it casual, and avoid looking like a twat. But I must have the attention of a dozen, who are possibly enjoying my silly improvised rehearsal. Always thinking of other people. I am so generous I can’t cope with it.

Ten minutes later, you may wonder if I am still here. ‘Yes, I am’. Bending my knees. Turning my head to the audience, to the coffee stand; to the audience, to the coffee stand. For a moment I prayed not to repeat the Cookie Exhibition incident. But there is no need for that, as we can’t call really this exercise.

I must say, though, that whilst one waits at a train station, one can capture a rather impressive picture. Lost in our mundane adventures, we forget to contemplate our specie. And we are something quite unique (but you may like to use a different non-specific adjective here).

Let’s take that man, standing behind me. Marching behind me. I can sense he is even more nervous than I am. Probably waiting for his brand-new date (inferred by the bouquet of flowers). And a man carrying flowers is: a) repented and trying to fix something, b) celebrating a festivity and preventing having to fix something, c) has a date with someone exciting, hair-rising. It made me think of the flowers that I will not get after my performance tonight. But nevermind, poor kid has chosen the most bad-looking flowers that have ever existed (all green, far-too-long-stemmed, with only three minuscule pink petals peeking on top; rather modest, you will agree). Well, at least she will receive flowers, I might have exaggerated the unattractiveness of the bouquet out of jealousy. What a nasty, childish trait.

There is also a dog, just to engross that list. Looking at me with those puppy eyes. One eye showing a disturbingly enlarged pupil, the other eye with the pupil on holidays and just a grey mucus curtain on display. And I am not sure how do I feel about that. But other than his troubling pupils, that Pomeranian is making me uncomfortable because he is copying my stretches. The poor thing cannot bend his knees. He looks rather ridicule, if you think about it. But he is trying really hard. So I will give him that.

I look away from that absent pupil, but lane 9 is persistent in making me be late for rehearsal. I roll my eyes, huff like a horse (as well as I can imitate a horse, that is), and bend up and down like a lift. I am making a fool of myself. I will soon start mumbling some extravagant nonsense (I speak nonsense when I am nervous. I do that since third grade. I can’t help it).

The owner of the bouquet has made her appearance. The male conqueror looks exceedingly happy, with his heart pounding like a hot popcorn. In a very manly manner, he takes her by the hips, and stamps a kiss in her lipstick-painted lips. But she was not expecting this, as this excess of affection startled her, and the suitcase that she was carrying (the size of a wardrobe with four wheels and a rectangular shaped stick) hit the floor with a terrific thud. Echoing like the sound of a thunder.

It is all very calm and gentle around here, as you can see. And the smell of coffee ground, coffee beans, and the melted croissant that goes with it, just exacerbates my locomotor agitation. Worse than a kid, on the edge of his seat, counting the seconds for bell to ring, and race to the morning break.

I look at the fluffy dog. He looks back. But I am not sure where he is really looking at. That makes me a bit uncomfortable. But, again, he is trying.

I can now hear the white and black keys of a piano bouncing up un down. It is one of those modern art things that happen to be on vogue those days. So, as it happens, they planted a piano in the middle of a train station for the use of human subjects. And it is actually embarrassing how well some of us can play.

The voice of my aunt is now accompanying the piano, very loud inside my head, reminding me of the importance of practising for achieving. She would began by talking about her mother Ninette, an orchestra pianist, mother of three, single, in times of war. She once was given a silver tray, a silver tea pot, a silver sugar pot, a set of silver spoons, a silver milk jug (all very silver-like, really). And she rejected it. Because she did not have the time to polish it. “Sugar plum”, she would say, “if you accept something precious, you must make sure you find the time to polish it”.

So please do hurry up, lane nine. I have a train to catch, and a silver tray to polish.