A stuffy room above a west London pizza restaurant, a pale pink tutu, teetering through primary positions, that siren song of ‘Good Toes, Naughty Toes’. My memories of childhood ballet lessons are hazy and fragmented. Like many, I dabbled in the practice as a toddler — more as a way for my parents to get an hour of respite each week than anything, I suspect — before abandoning the practice altogether after a year.
At the end of last year, it had been more than two decades since I last donned a pair of ballet slippers. So when I signed up for a ballet retreat in the Maldives at Avani Fares Resort on Baa Atoll, I was met with an unfamiliar mix of anticipation and nervousness. But what attracted me to the trip was actually a sentiment not usually associated with this form of dance — mediocrity.
