Five Six Seven Eight

Do you remember clock radios? I used to have one in the Eighties when I lived in a tiny, studio flat in Exeter overlooking the river. I would awake from my slumbers, taken on a third-hand Habitat bed settee to the cheery sounds of Simon Mayo and the breakfast show team on Radio One. We hadn’t heard of earworms back then, but I would frequently find a song burrowing its way into my brain as I hovered between sleep and wakefulness. 

All this week I’ve been humming “Proud Mary” (extended version) by Ike and Tina Turner. It won’t go away and that’s not a bad thing. It’s a cracking song, used by my daughter's dance teacher for the Finale of the dance show last weekend. I offered my services as a chaperone, which means the following: 

1.    You get to wear the Dangly Badge of Power, a plastic rectangle which means you can access all areas. In real terms, this meant I could scuttle through torrential rain from the Seckford Theatre dressing rooms (my base) to the Dome (home to about a million short people in tutus) in search of Sellotape and a hot glue gun to mend several broken cutlasses.

2.    You become a hairspray-wielding multitasker, pinning up dancers’ French plaits, adjusting costumes and accompanying them through the rabbit warren of staircases and corridors to the stage for the dress rehearsal.

3.    You get a sneak preview of bits of the show. In addition to Proud Mary, Everybody Needs Somebody, Minnie the Moocher, Wellerman and the theme from Pirates of the Caribbean are also firmly lodged in my head. 

4.    You are assured of the show’s success by exposure to the utter chaos of the dress rehearsal. As the sainted Miss Chloe attempted to do a real-time run-through of the Finale, the corridor filled up with a chattering, colourful blend of tiny people in tutus and flower head dresses, slightly taller people in glittery leotards and bowler hats and everyone else. There were about 120 students plus chaperones, desperately trying to get the correct group through the stage door, on to the stage to take their bow to the music then off again and out the other side. It was crazy, not helped by the fact that it was hammering it down with rain outside and the tinies were tired, wet and mostly clad in unicorn dressing gowns. 

Slightly boggle-eyed by exposure to Firm Hold Hairspray all day, my daughter and I returned home ready to do our thing the next day. My already busy mind was buzzing with ideas for the next Isabella book. Sitting in the stalls with my fellow chaperone watching our girls spin and step ball change across the stage, plot lines, narrative threads and dialogue exploded in my head. A dance show is a rich seam of inspiration. Isabella’s daughter Chloe, the shy one who bites her nails, has an epiphany in book two and stars in her school production. She'll be joining the local dance school, and just think how much content I’ll get out of this for book three.

The hairpins, fishnet tights and Lady Gaga feather headdresses were a welcome distraction for me. My elderly parents have degenerated significantly recently and my husband and I have been woken up every night for a week to go over there and pick Mum off the floor. The dance show weekend felt like a little oasis of calm before the storm. Sitting in the theatre waiting for the curtain to go up, I knew I would love every minute and wanted to hold on to it, to savour every last step and turn and twirl. All too soon I’d be over at Mum and Dad’s making difficult decisions. In the darkness as we listened to the sweet sounds of Fleetwood Mac’s “Everywhere”, I closed my eyes and asked for wisdom, and for the right thing to happen. 

The show was wonderful. Watching my daughter dance and hearing her laughing and chattering afterwards was balm to my exhausted soul. And that prayer was answered. We were woken at 6.30 on Monday morning and went over to find Mum on the floor and blood everywhere. Dad had fallen trying to help her and hit his head on the wall. The ambulance crew were amazing and just as I was starting to flag, lovely Lisa, a friend of ours and one of Mum and Dad’s carers, walked through the door. “I shouldn’t be here, Ruth,” she said. “I’m meant to be in Framlingham but my car broke down and so I had to do local jobs on my bike.” Because of her timetable changing at the last minute, she was able to stay on for an extra hour and make sure Mum and Dad could both have a bath and be given lunch. 

Strange, sad, bittersweet times, but there is such comfort in the knowledge that I am not alone. Every day is a mix of work, parenting and caring now, that period of life when you’re looking after your children and your parents simultaneously. As I go into each new day, I hold my head up high, put on a smile and walk from the wings on to the stage.

Five six seven eight.

Images by Pixabay

Ruth is a novelist and freelance writer. She is married with three children, one husband, two budgies, two quail, seven chickens and a kitten. She is the author of “The Diary of Isabella M Smugge” and “The Trials of Isabella M Smugge”. She writes for a number of small businesses and charities, reviews books for Reading Between the Lines and blogs at ruthleighwrites.co.uk. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter at ruthleighwrites and at www.ruthleighwrites.co.uk.

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[1] It’s to help the dancer at the front of a troupe to stay in the right place, everyone behind her radiating out in a straight line. That’s the theory, anyway.