I was in a ballet class with other kids, boys and girls alike that are around my age, 13 or 14. It wasn't exactly a classical ballet school, we didn't all wear tights, especially not the guys. They are ever so sensitive about that at this age. I got into this school by writing a letter to the headmaster, who is a middle aged man with a balding headline and a belly like Santa Claus. He apparently looked once at my photo and granted me a full scholarship. I'd taken it just after getting off my bed, still in my crampled baggy clothes from the night before, with black bags under my eyes. I must have looked a sight.

We had a park at the back end of the neighbourhood from the dance school where the big kids used to hang out. It was a shady place, damp and dark. Mr S put a stop to that. He used to send us kids there on detention, to clean up the place. I remember us spitting cherry pits to his motorbike in spite, at his favourite parking corner on the way to the park.

Later on, we had cleaned the park really well. Us kids changed at that school. We became dreamers. Mr S helped sow them in our heads. The park is now our's, and after classes we all go over to take care of it. It's well protected from harm from malice, but has a nice green environment for pleasure's sake. Mr S got a compromise for us to only spit out the cherry pits into the garden, so now we have a nice cherry forest corner. On the outskirts are pots of greens that are really interesting. Seeing them grow is so amazing.

We are going to fundraise with the cherries from our park gardens so we get to go to Russia to have workshops with the famous ballet dancer there. It's all sweet :)