For the adrift prima ballerina with a ruptured Achilles tendon

a ravishing hunger had brought her to a seedy transport café

aside the London bound A13 trunk road, a time honoured haunt

for lorry drivers, suited and booted villains and chipped enamel mugs

she favoured a bacon butty, lashed up with red sauce and strong tea

over the fat laden this, greasy spoon that traditional full English


Tucking into her highly calorific, yet in the light of her injury allowed

sandwich a brash scallywag sat at the window table caught her eye

“Crikey luv, your stomach must think your throats been cut” served

to remind her she was scoffing her sandwich as would a ravenous hound

aware that her propensity toward flippancy was and always likely would

be her ruination she kept schtum, compelled her to suppress the ever

so dire need to convert a wry smirk into an audible embarrassing giggle


Her foot encased within a plaster of Paris cast itching desperately again

the black reflection struck that she might never dance that ‘one more time’

yet this chance visitation born of famishment was to provide the solution

for away from the hubbub of the city there was potential for clinical thought

in an instant she fathomed a plan that would ensure the Royal Opera House

Sadler’s Wells, even Moscow’s Bolshoi Theatre would be hers for the taking


“I’m guessing yours is the red Audi Roadster given that none of my regular fly-be-night patrons could afford one of those…nice motor luv” the proprietors passing shot as she hobbled back to her car and off home to her Knightsbridge apartment and her Lenny


Lenny was born an invisible mute, became the long-time lover of our ballerina

the pair had met at Professor Burp’s Bubble Works dark water ride where

Lenny was once employed as a ‘scare the pants off’ voiceless poltergeist

an ideal job for one with no shadow, who could not be seen with the naked eye

She had phoned ahead, “I’ll be back in about fifteen, put the kettle on I have a plan!”

he wondered, incorrectly as it turned out, if that plan would be a reprise

of the night she applied dark indigo body paint to his entire being for what was

quite the most erotic, if a tad messy, of carnal experiences they had shared


Unaware of the tantalizing effect of her twiddling a chunk of hair around her forefinger, “You know Lenny I think I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’ll never dance again to the standard I once did yet with your invisible assistance dancing with me, holding me, lifting me, twirling me about I’ll be able to perform like never before. A whole new world of choreography will be possible and not a living soul will realize my little cheat”


And take the world of ballet by storm she did, plaudits worldwide

until that is Lenny evaporated as invisible mutes are prone to do

giving rise, by necessity, to this prima ballerina’s premature retirement


A few years later in the elite bordello of perplexed ingenuity

audacious scholars, acknowledged protagonists to a man

hypothesize enlightenment, take liquor, offer critique

fulfil censurable yet nonchalant hankerings

in the firm knowledge that deaths door escape from

it all is just a pocket handkerchief cyanide pill away


It is within that sticky place of preponderance

the blushing undemonstrative ex-ballerina bewitches

nudged she will reluctantly chat about this and that

these days wholly unaware she remains a tale still in the telling

pity some say, she aborts eye contact, censors untamed dreams

rather than don the siren’s devil-may-care scarlet gown

yet always she has her irreplaceable Lenny on her mind

how she misses his silence, his imperceptible perfection


Yet the power of a true love so cruelly removed in just a breath

ensured the God’s gift trophy brigade, dexterous bumbling buffoons,

rakes and gamblers to a moonlighting pigeonhole man cannot touch

Lenny’s prima ballerina, a dazzling pièce de résistance even now




  1. That does remind me of a genuine experience of mine in a transport café beside the Fulham Road

    ME….. Two, eggs, sausages, two slices

    Waiter “Two sausages, beans. eggs and two slices ( I nod my head )

    Waiter walks to the door of the kitchen and shouts out in broad and brazen tones, “”Two Sausages, beans, eggs and two slices” and with a brief towards my personage then walks into the kitchen where he cooks the meal himself; him being the boss and there being no one else there,

    After a pause he leaves the kitchen with a plate of breakfast food and says in delicate tones, “Two sausages, beans, eggs and two slices

    1. Thank you Leslie…by the way I was itching to support you on political matters on FB today yet felt it was not my place, and boy can you handle yourself…well done young lady.

      1. Thank you. It’s nice to know I have angels watching over me. My biggest struggle lies in not going ballistic. I can get really nasty if I’m not careful.

      2. I know very little about this Cruz bloke save for his Bible quotations…lost on me somewhat my a nation where only 2% still go to what few churches are not converted to posh flat type dwellings. I must read up more about this chap. America, top nation, totally has my respect, deserves better than this current bunch…I rather liked Clinton and how he was integral to peace in Northern Ireland…someone like him would make me sleep a little easier. On that note sleep well I’m off to me bed knackered.

      3. I must add my apologies for going on a tad re politics last evening…we’d given up cigarettes just yesterday and an insanity afflicted me generally…back on the wretched things again this am! How weak willed is that!

      4. Oh! No apologies necessary. I’m kind of obsessed with politics. Wish it wasn’t so.
        As for the cigarettes–please do try to quit! I lost both parents to smoking related diseases.

      5. I remain so very sorry…politics I now determine to leave well alone. Tomorrow we are both off to an expert on ‘vaping’ whatever that is…my eldest claims it eventually got him off the dreaded fags (oops, fag this side of the pond means cigarettes, although I guess you know that!)

      1. I don’t think he wrote any other novels. I must confess I stole some of its tone in my One Life novel about Chester Knowles and his reincarnation.

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