Because I danced to the Nutcracker and used to perform the imaginary role of Schéharazade in my bedroom (I secretly really loved the ballet: not something you admitted to at the school I went to), when I was nine, my mother took me to see Coppélia. What was to have been a magical night at the theatre though, was me, mortified; slumped in my seat at the sissifying shame of being a boy – a ‘ponce’ – at the ballet. Deep down I was thrilled, ecstatic, but I watched the stage, throughout, in mortified paralysis. Slumped in my seat: dying, with embarrassed, glandular, feverish cheeks.
The excitement of the big night out is something, though, that stays with you; when you close that front door behind you and go out, dressed up; to the theatre: the darkness……….. that red-ruched, velvet claustrophobia.
And this perfume by Hermès – much under appreciated, in my…
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