Rehearsal 2

Back to the ballet class at 4pm for another hour of torture. This time the loathsome Miss Tuzy shoves a letter in my hand demanding a contribution of £26 for a cloud costume which, so says the letter, need not be returned because it is fitted exactly to Squirrel's size.

Fitted, my backside. They do not want it back because they jolly well know that by the end of performance three the cloud costume will be covered in make up and Squirrel dribble, along with splatters of apple juice and glued on bits of carrot cake because we've all had to hang about for so long waiting for rehearsals and performances that we've missed tea and, driven by starvation, had to eat junk food in the dressing room. By Saturday night's performance Miss Tuzy may have had to take out a restraining order on me to prevent me bringing along a plate of spaghetti and tomato sauce and thrusting it into Squirrel's hands in an act of open defiance.

There is so much wrong with all of this kiddy ballet malarky that I could go on and on about it, despite having my mouth full of foam at that. So I will from this point attempt to be restrained and only comment on Squirrel's ballet where necessary or driven there by madness.