I really enjoyed going to the Salsa club last week – except for one thing. My feet. They hurt afterwards. No, they more than hurt, I was in a kind of isolated foot agony for days, and this restricted my enjoyment of the Brighton foreshore as they were still very painful right up until yesterday. None of the shoes I brought from Australia were really designed for dancing in and so my choice was limited to start with and obviously I chose wrong.
So last week I went looking for new shoes. I tried all the cheap stores, then the less cheap stores, and then all the expensive stores and finally came to one conclusion: if I was to find a pair of shoes that would a) survive a single night of dancing b) have a smooth enough sole to actually be danceable in and c) not kill my feet, then I would not find them in an ordinary shoe shop. So there was only one choice. I had to buy actual ballroom shoes. They are designed to be danced in, are built to withstand everything a dancer could throw at them and have the added advantage of being relatively comfortable. And they last forever. If I should decide to give up dancing after only a few weeks (which is not inconceivable), I can have them re-soled and they can then become excellent work / going out shoes that last forever. Ballroom shoes have suede soles you see – the easier to glide around in. I bought a pair of Character shoes for Gang Show as my ‘stage’ shoes and had them re-soled (I was never a dancer in the show), and used them for seven or eight seasons, and then for work, and I still have them back home. And they still look relatively new.
Anyway, having decided to buy real dancing shoes, I went looking for a shop to buy them from. Now, the West End being one of the homes of theatre, you’d think that finding a shop selling dancing shoes would be relatively easy. Not so. I may have been looking in the wrong place, but I only found two, and one had been turned into a web-only affair… the which I discovered after walking around looking for the shop for half an hour and then trying the phone number which had been disconnected. And I didn’t find the other shop on my first pass either. Bloody Stupid London Street Numbering - St Martins Lane has, if you please, numbers that go up on one side and then cross over and continue to go up down the other side. Number 94 is opposite 40 something. Bah!
But I did eventually find it. A place called ‘Freed of London’. A store specifically geared towards the dancing community, selling myriad ballet shoes, ballet costumes and dancing accessories. My first impression? It was very intimidating. The shop itself was austere and hushed, with deep-green real leather seats for the patrons, mahogany fixtures and luxurious carpet. There were pictures of famous ballet dancers on every wall and you can bet that they actually did shop there. A svelte dancer with an aloof air deigned to serve me. She was very foreign and very beautiful. And here I am broad and chubby. But I found a pair I liked, in the one small area of the shop designated to casual ballroom shoes, and I managed to try them on – I stuck a rod to my backbone and told myself I had just as much right to be here as anyone – only to discover they didn’t have the shoe in my size. So I got them to order a pair and made a hasty exit.
Today I went back to try on the new pair and had quite a different experience. But first to a little history; from the age of about 8 to about 11, I learnt ballet. My mum studied it for years, and I thought it very romantic – ballet dancers are so graceful and so beautiful – until I grew to size C cup and found it all horribly embarrassing. And at age 11, when you’re the only one in your class who is an early bloomer, it can be absolutely awful – children can be so very crewel. So I stopped. But for all that, I still found it very romantic. And until I ‘matured’, I really enjoyed it. I especially loved dressing up in a fancy costume, putting on layers of pancake and makeup and going out on stage and dancing in an actual production.
When I first joined the class, I liked my teal leotard and chiffon skirt, but looked longingly at the older girls who were allowed to wear pink, and I was ever so proud when I graduated to a pink leotard and skirt in my final year. But what I wanted most of all was to learn Character dancing. With their black skirts with bright ribbon piping, black classy shoes and black leotards, the Character girls could out-suave everyone in my eyes. I was over the moon when I got an actual Character skirt! I loved twirling around in that skirt, making the ribbons flicker and creating a 360 degree fan of material. I never got to wear the shoes or the leotard at that age, but made up for that later by buying the shoes for GS. I think I always secretly hoped that one year I’d get to dance on the stage again.
Anyway, going into that shop today, I felt like I was back in the ballet world and a member of the dancing community again. The lady who was helping me asked me to do a demi-point with my feet, assuming I’d know what that was – and I did! And I asked for a wire brush to look after the suede and she made me promise to clean my shoes after every class, because so many dancers forgot – as if I was a dancer! And this time I looked around, and remembered what it was like to be in a shop like that, buying ballet shoes and the ribbons separately and then sewing them on later, binding them on my feet in the correct fashion, stepping into the resin box at class and crunching around to make sure I had some grip. And there were teal and pink leotards and little chiffon skirts, exactly like the one’s I used to wear to class, along with the extra thick tights which didn’t hole so easily. And I saw a character skirt – I couldn’t resist touching it, and I know I smiled, and one of the other girls smiled too and said ‘Oh yes, the old character skirt. I remember that too.’ It was a moment of shared companionship, shared understanding.
I remembered how to stand correctly in that shop and I stood tall – I used to have good posture. And I walked tall all the way back to work. It was a lovely feeling.
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