Once upon a time there was a girl who indulged in a little regression and was bestowed with a fairytale treat. All Princess attributes were accounted for in this great gift magically conjured by her Fairy Godmother: Beauty, Grace, Wisdom, Grandeur and all-out oppulence of the most decadent degree. Scrubbed and shining after immersion in rivulets of steaming water in a vast sparkling bathroom, and clothed in spanking new gown of lacy detail, she was swept into the fading evening light for a night of enchantment.
Residing in red velvet and gold embellishment, she fell in love with the Handsome Prince, as Princesses are accustomed to do. She tried hard to ignore the cut of his luxurious jacket that acted as a blatant arrow to his already prominent nether regions, as if they were not glaringly distracting enough (what with the tights and all), and was instead captivated by the solo bearing of his soul during the effortless leaps, bounds and emotive choreography of his movement. She sat, awe-struck, listening to the swelling of the orchestra and catching the flick of the conductor's wand in the corner of her rose-tinted, blurred and glazed eye, and was drawn under the Wicked Fairy's spell, destined to favour this imaginary, flawless, lavish world over the reality that must be borne outside of the Royal Opera House for all time. Once in a white overshirt that fell in soft folds about his shoulders, the Prince proceeded to charm and whoo the girl, making her yearn to be in the pink satin pointe shoes of the Spanish ballerina he twirled and kissed the hands of.
Though they bowed, gracious and autocratic, and left the stage in a haze of flowers, sequins and closing of thick velvet curtains, the dancers, fairytale characters and Prince did not cease to be. They lived on in the eulogistic gushings of the girl and her Fairy Godmother when sipping from goblets of chilled white wine, over plates of hot pasta and ornate bowls of Italian ice cream in a candlelit restaurant named 'The Ballerina'. The romance continued as the rain poured and the pair had to gracefully leap and skip back to their dwellings to avoid the cascading droplets. Swaddled in thick dressing gowns of the most luxurious fibres in the land, the girl, sleepily drunk on spectacle, excitement, Princely love, and white wine, laid her head on the pillow and slept for what felt like one hundred years. Dreams of Nureyev, Tchaikovsky, Aurora and Prince nourished her unconcious mind.
The spell has not lifted, and nor would she want it to.
Residing in red velvet and gold embellishment, she fell in love with the Handsome Prince, as Princesses are accustomed to do. She tried hard to ignore the cut of his luxurious jacket that acted as a blatant arrow to his already prominent nether regions, as if they were not glaringly distracting enough (what with the tights and all), and was instead captivated by the solo bearing of his soul during the effortless leaps, bounds and emotive choreography of his movement. She sat, awe-struck, listening to the swelling of the orchestra and catching the flick of the conductor's wand in the corner of her rose-tinted, blurred and glazed eye, and was drawn under the Wicked Fairy's spell, destined to favour this imaginary, flawless, lavish world over the reality that must be borne outside of the Royal Opera House for all time. Once in a white overshirt that fell in soft folds about his shoulders, the Prince proceeded to charm and whoo the girl, making her yearn to be in the pink satin pointe shoes of the Spanish ballerina he twirled and kissed the hands of.
Though they bowed, gracious and autocratic, and left the stage in a haze of flowers, sequins and closing of thick velvet curtains, the dancers, fairytale characters and Prince did not cease to be. They lived on in the eulogistic gushings of the girl and her Fairy Godmother when sipping from goblets of chilled white wine, over plates of hot pasta and ornate bowls of Italian ice cream in a candlelit restaurant named 'The Ballerina'. The romance continued as the rain poured and the pair had to gracefully leap and skip back to their dwellings to avoid the cascading droplets. Swaddled in thick dressing gowns of the most luxurious fibres in the land, the girl, sleepily drunk on spectacle, excitement, Princely love, and white wine, laid her head on the pillow and slept for what felt like one hundred years. Dreams of Nureyev, Tchaikovsky, Aurora and Prince nourished her unconcious mind.
The spell has not lifted, and nor would she want it to.
