Tiny dancer...

I am not a fan of Sir Elton John. In fact, I can’t stand his music. ‘Your Song’, ‘Rocket Man’, ‘GYBR’, and all the rest (particularly his more recent Disney rubbish) leaves me cold and I can’t even begin to comment on ‘Goodbye English Rose’. No, I’m not a fan, so despite this post’s title I’m not going to mention him.

This is my smallest snow globe. It’s about the same size as a thimble. I found it at a car boot sale one summer’s day in Exmouth, Devon where my parents used to live. We used to visit regularly. Back then it was one of those quiet seaside towns where nothing seemed to happen much. You could go back to the same shops year after year and, instead of finding them closed or a charity shop, find them open so that you could buy the same things all over again. Each Sunday there was a car boot at the Elizabeth Hall and that’s where I found my Tiny Dancer.

Of course I had to haggle for her. I found her hiding away at the bottom of a chipped china bowl, buried beneath a mess of broken jewellery, keys, stopped forever watches, single earrings, French franc coins, and all manner of draw-tipped detritus. I offered ten pence for her. The car-booter wanted a pound. I offered twenty pence. She wouldn’t take less than fifty. I offered twenty five. We agreed on thirty.

If you look closely at the bottom left of the picture you’ll see some red. I’ve often wondered what it is. It’s raised and painted so it is intentional. I think it may be an item of clothing, not a scarf or gloves, and not a coat - it isn’t big enough for that. I don’t think it’s a handbag, it hasn’t got the shape, and I can’t imagine a ballet dancer dancing around her handbag except maybe at a ballerina’s discotheque.

Only thirty pence for my flirty, winky-eyed, Spanish ballerina – what a bargain. I don’t know why I so sure she’s Spanish, but I am. Maybe it’s the dark hair, or the red tutu, perhaps it’s the flamenco style headdress. Either way, when I proudly showed my thirty pence purchase to Gaynor she called it tacky, sniffily commented that my ballerina was obviously a tart, and then walked away in a huff leaving me open-mouth and bemused. Now tell me how can a tiny plastic woman inside a bubble of water possibly be a tart? And why walk off like that? Just how does woman logic work?

I’ve never pointed out the item of clothing to Gaynor, It’s probably best not to draw her attention to it. Who knows, she might get all huffy again. In fact, I’ve never mentioned Cristal (yes, I gave her a name) to Gaynor since I bought her. Instead I keep her tucked at the back of my highest display shelves hidden from criticism, my own little private dancer.

Cristal? You want to know why I call her Cristal? I named her after Linda Cristal who played Victoria Cannon in the High Chaparral. Well, boys of all ages have dreams.

Don’t tell Gaynor though she’d probably call her a tart and walk off in a huff.