The Ballet Class Poem by Angela Wybrow

My head is debating with my two feet,
As I stride at pace along Oxford Street.
I'm off to a beginner's ballet class:
My very first session, which could be my last.
Having never done any ballet before,
I can't help wondering what is in store.
The dancing studio, I soon locate,
And the friendly reception, I really do rate.
In the changing room, I anxiously sit -
Should I face my challenge or simply just quit?
I repeatedly consider just slipping away,
But something inside is making me stay.
Outside the studio, I find myself queuing,
Wondering what on earth I am doing!
Soon we are trooping in through the door,
And inside of me, I'm still feeling a little unsure.
I wait in line to pay the teacher my fee,
And tell her it's the very first time for me.
Soon we are going through some manoeuvres,
And I'm taking it all in, just like a hoover!
The level of concentration is really high:
I'm not very good, but at least I try.
In a classic pose, I find myself stood,
As the teacher passes and tells me 'Good! '
The class I find is pretty fast-paced,
And I'm soon feeling lost and a bit out of place.
Most of the others are au fait with the moves,
So I just do my best to try and improve.
I try to copy and do exactly the same,
Feeling like a contestant on The Generation Game.
The barre's left behind for some centre work,
And by now I'm feeling even more of a berk.
The ninety minutes, they really whizz by,
And, by the end of it all, I'm on a real high.
The teacher passes and tells me 'Well done! '
And I have to admit that it has been great fun.