After discovering, in a fairly wild and mischievous way, earlier this year that I had apenchant for Aerial Hoop (before your naughty minds go any further, it’s a circus art, nothing sordid) I’ve reignited a childhood dream to run off and join the circus. So, this week I’ve signed myself up for an induction at the appropriately named Circus Space: (check it: http://www.thecircusspace.co.uk) it’s like a big-tent nestled into a warehouse in the back of Hoxton. So far, so cool.
When I arrive, we’re sat down and given the health and safety t’s & c’s. Which, thankfully, for all those that were worried, included a note about thin straps and boobs popping out. I feel smug, I’ve got 3 layers on AND a bra. We then move in to one of the awesome sweeping spaces alarming called the Generating Chamber. Feels more SyFy than children’s party. First we warm up; the particularly hot guy leading it gets us to do some skipping, arm swinging & hopping. Ah, now it’s a bit more children’s party. So much for clowning around though, I quickly find myself panting and I must be grimacing as the hot boy grins at me and suggests I smile. I blush instead.
Afterwards, we’re split into two groups. Half for ropes, the other traipeze and the plan is to swap half-way through. In my foursome are two lovely, bubbly girls and a boy; we’ll call him Paul. Seeing as that’s his name it would be odd to call him anything else. Paul is clearly a dancer; he has that walk that looks like someone’s stuck a rod between his bum cheeks, marrionettish. He’s obviously fit and in a group full of girls reckons he’ll be a bit of a dab hand at this circus malarkey. It’s true what they say though, pride comes before a fall off the traipeze.
We learn quickly: Circus is hard and it hurts. A lot. I also notice that one girl might have been particularly nervous about the whole exercise as she swings above our heads and make a mental note never to wear light grey. The lady teaching us is fairly kooky and she seems to take great delight in our inexperience. I like her though and she knows her stuff. After we’ve all had a chance to flail about on the traipeze and tie ourselves in knots on the ropes we’re told we are good enough to sign up for the Circus Arts course. Hurray, I’m in.
Now all I need is a spangly leotard and a ringmaster boyfriend.