OK, I'm finished on this one

Well I've pissed off the ballet mums big time.

Today it's rehearsal with the piano. In Squirrel's case, it's the rehearsal with that annoying piano music crashing on in the background which stops her from concentrating hard on what she's learned to do, and marching through her dance sequences at a furious pace. Dutifully, like a good ballet mummy, I've reminded her a zillion times that Twig keeps saying part of her mark comes from her interpretation of the music, and that actually when the piano does the tinkle tinkle tinkle bit that's telling you it's time to point your foot out and tap three times. But by the time we get to the the tinkle tinkle tinkle bit, Squirrel's already done that and is off galloping about as if it is the crash bang wallop bit.

We are doomed, so I have reminded myself it is not a scholarship exam for the Royal Academy, it is a primary class for seven-year olds and Squirrel enjoys it, so that's that. In fact I have reminded myself so much about this, that by the time I get to the rehearsal today I look like a woman who doesn't care whether we even turn up.

This is the last rehearsal we get to watch before the exam on Wednesday. As I sit there watching my little girl all dressed in pink with a face of concentration, trying to remember which is right and which is left, I'm sort of proud of her in a strange, motherly way. Squirrel wanted to do this exam to find out what exams were like. That was her decision, and she's stuck to it. She's actually managed to get herself out of bed every Saturday morning and off to the exam classes with never a word of complaint, reluctance or hesitation, unlike Grit. And even though her timing is crap and she's got her left and right the wrong way round again, well, it all doesn't matter, and in my eyes she's done the course, stayed with it, and passed. So I have a little glow and feel glad and feel that really it's all over. The exam bit on Wednesday feels unnecessary.

When we come down the steps from watching in the big hall, it's clear the other ballet mums haven't got to Grit's relaxed point of thinking yet. They are hand wringing over the steps and the sautes and the demi-bits and fretting about this and that. And then Mrs Pushy Ballet Mum says 'Are you worried?'

Grit shrugs her shoulders, and says, 'Well, it's not a scholarship exam for the Royal Academy, it's a primary suburban class for seven-year olds'.

Oh dear.