“Would you like ballet lessons, Debbie?” The question was thrown at my 7-year-old self, by my mother who stood chatting to a neighbour, in the street. I was playing hopscotch on the broad paving slabs that lay beyond our gate, at the time and stopped, wide eyed at the prospect set before me. I had harboured dreams of becoming a ballerina, ever since reading “Laura of the ballet school.” “Yes please!” I breathed. They both laughed and turned away. I threw the pebble with renewed vigour and practically pirouetted across the slabs. I was going to have ballet lessons! I was beyond excitement. My mother, chatting away to her friend,…