My investigation into the most closely-kept secrets in the world of ballet began with a statement from Dr Glycol. We were taking a coffee at a location I have agreed not to reveal.
The good Doctor was looking even more morose than usual. Our casual discussion about mutual ailments was petering out, with a marginal edge for Dr Gycol for his badly sprained wrist. Sustained, he explained, as he was conducting one of his cooking experiments on the optimum stirring time for emulsifying gravy powder.
I offered my sympathy, adding that he should visit Physio Lindsey, who was a particular whiz at sporting injuries.
Every physical activity risks sprains to vulnerable body parts, he retorted. Reaching for a bottle on a high shelf … stretching out to buckle up your safety belt.
Physio Lindsey deals with sporting and non-sporting injuries, I said. She’s even treating someone from her daughter’s ballet-class,
I was surprised at Glycol’s reaction to my remark.
Ballet! He spat the word out with venom. Ballet, no more than disgusting exhibitions of of of. His voice had changed into a stutter.
He was so upset I allowed him to change the subject to the emulsifying properties of hydrocolloids and starches in making mayonnaise...
