When I grow tired of London

The house that squares up to the mountains

I’m going to live in a manse in the Scottish Highlands, within striking distance of a Victorian railway station, with glass canopies and pillars with cast iron flowers. I want an honest granite house that squares up to a view of mountains and water. Fit for a minister, his wife, four children, and domestic, the manse has grounds (unmaintained), outhouses (unconverted), and fishing rights (mainly pike). The chimneys lean towards Charles Rennie Mackintosh, but the architect is unknown. The rooms are generously proportioned, and sparsely furnished. There are more bedrooms than a bachelor could need, and not quite enough bathrooms.

The manse is set well back from the road, invisible to traffic on the A9. On rare days when the clouds have lifted, the view of the Cairngorms makes you want to stop and stare. There is no heating to speak of, and lighting fires between March and October is forbidden. There are potholes in the unmetalled track to deter visitors. I am furious when intruders come to picnic by the river. The midges drive them away.

I will have a manservant called Duncan who seldom speaks. Duncan does everything. He runs the house, grows vegetables, chops wood, and fixes the car. Duncan knows what I am thinking before I do. Duncan reads books about the Second World War, and keeps a firearm that he knows how to use.

I will drive a beaten up second hand car, a Bristol, or some classic tourer that has not been driven by James Bond. For entertainment I drive recklessly into Inverness, and drink gin at the Station Hotel. I post letters in the antique post box. Sometimes I enjoy myself too much to drive home. The hotel staff, who all know me, arrange parking for the car, and a bed for me.

I am on speaking terms with my distant neighbours, most of whom could be extras in the Carroll / Donat version of ‘The 39 Steps”. We hail each other at the annual Highland Gathering, and, more often, at Tesco’s in Inverness, when I am stocking up on malts, and other essentials.

People bracket my name with Fitzroy Maclean, Patrick Leigh Fermor, and Compton McKenzie. I have Whisky Galore in my cellar.  I write prickly prose and poetry in 72 page notebooks bequeathed to me by Muriel Spark from the stock she acquired from James Thin in Edinburgh. People think I am writing a great work. I will never complete it.

Increasingly, I am absent from the manse. People say I am doing something ‘hush hush’. In fact, I am sailing around the Mediterranean with a troupe of dancers from the Royal Ballet, drinking gin martinis with friends up at their villas. I repay their hospitality with advice on what to plant in a hot border. When it comes to drought tolerant plants, I am a fount of knowledge. Small wonder I never made much of the bog garden at the manse. I’m going to give up the manse. It’s just not a realistic proposition.

Dance with a Stranger: how do you nurture talent?

Earlier this year a young dancer from the Ukraine resigned abruptly from the Royal Ballet. He was scheduled to dance a number of leading roles, and had recently been described as “better than Baryshnikov”. “Now I know how it felt when The Beatles split” tweeted one of his fans.

“Where were you when you heard the news?” asked a journalist. Like many people, I read the news on Twitter when I was settling in for a performance of new works by some of his (now former) colleagues. Monica Mason, Director of the Royal Ballet, looked grim in the bar afterwards. It was reported that the now ex-Royal Ballet soloist had gone up to Dame Monica at the end of a rehearsal and told her he “didn’t want to dance anymore”. In a press release Dame Monica said, “This has obviously come as a huge shock”.

A Star Turns

I was shocked, too. Not want to dance anymore, he who could land on a sixpence and give meaning and purpose to every gesture? I, who know nothing about ballet except that I find it rather a challenge to maintain the ‘Dancer’s Position’ in my yoga class, had identified the Ukrainian as one of the most exciting dancers in the company. Other dancers might get name checked more often by the critics, and on Twitter, but I was always rooting for the Ukrainian. Like a fond parent, I glowed when he was given new roles. I basked in his reflected glory. When he became a world star, I, for one, would not be surprised. 

Stage Twitterers

What happened after his departure was interesting. Regular Twitterers from the Royal Ballet said almost nothing. One well-known dancer tweeted that the Ukrainian needed a spanking. A number of journalists and bloggers speculated why he had resigned? Was he rebelling against years of discipline at the Royal Ballet? What was known about his family, education, health and hobbies was sifted for clues about his emotional and mental state. Some of his tweets were discovered to be alarming. Were his tattoos really misspelt? Had the golden boy become the Amy Winehouse of ballet?

‘I think I jumped a little bit higher than Ivan!’

So far, so painful. What to make of the whole affair? Should one feel sad that someone with so much potential left the company that nurtured him so abruptly? Or should one be grateful for the joy that his dancing has given already, and be glad for him that he jumped? What is the real story? How do people at the Royal Ballet feel about his resignation? What was done to help him? What is going on in his head? We know from his Twitter account that he still takes pride in jumping higher than Ivan.

“4 controversial years left!!!!”

I work in learning and development as a facilitator and as a coach. One of my main pleasures is to watch people grow in confidence, and to see them become the person that they want to be. I want the people I work with to be happy and successful. I think this is what troubles me about the Ukrainian: that he may not know who he wants to be, that he may not reach his full potential and that he may not be happy.

What is the best way to support people with exceptional gifts, and how do you nurture talent in a hothouse environment like the Royal Ballet? I don’t have any answers. Maybe my reaction to the Ukrainian’s departure is selfish. If he wants to be a tattooist, then let it him. But please let him learn to spell.

“I was impressed to watch your stage in Tokyo”

The good news is that the tattooed one has danced recently in London and Tokyo. He is scheduled to dance in London again, though not with the Royal Ballet. I will go to see him for as long as he wants to dance.