My Karma ran over my dogma

Last night I danced the night away with EMMA LEECH and 17 other people at the Royal Academy for Dance on Vicarage Road in Battersea.
Emma teaches the ‘Five Rhythms’, to people like me, young offenders and recovering addicts in Harley Street. She is totally lovely and I went along to her debut class in Battersea SW11.
Of course I was nervous, the last time I danced I cleared the floor, the organisers gave me a broom and told me to stop messing around and start sweeping.
Emma had the perfect music for the five states of dance. Which range from plinkity plonk to boom bang a bang, Burundi style.
I had filmed the creator of ‘Five Rhythms’ Gabrielle Roth twenty odd years ago when she came to England but I had never partaken. With the help of Emma and her incredible sound scapes I jumped and swung, swayed and shifted for a very long time. I think it was two hours but I was very tired, well I had returned to my beloved Bikram yoga at 6.30 that very morning – anyway I couldn’t see the clock.
The theory behind the five thingies is that you move out of the way of yourself using lyrical, stacatto, chaos and two more dances which I forget, to allow yourself to unblock.
I was new, a delightful witehaired woman from France was new, three blokes had done it before and a pile of partakers shed inhibition and moved around a real dance studio that Dame Ninnette de Valois would have been proud of, thats the dancing not the studio, although to be fair it is a lovely space.
I walked back to the flat and the ‘oosbind had arrived with glucose strips to measure my blood, a lovely little water bottle with it’s own filter which he bought me as a present and half a loaf of bread.
He looked lovely, makes a change for me to say that, although it didn’t stop us from having a ruck.
This morning my thighs feel like orange boxes but that didn’t deter me from having an ambulant Tuesday, with a really serendipitous set of events.

I only had the old git for one night. he drunk his coffee on the front balcony with me – which I’ve just discovered, after nine years, has really fierce sun shine till the afternoon – then packed his bag and left.
Poked out his tongue as he went through the door.
I put the paying-in-book, keys, and freedom pass in my bag and left to walk to Chelsea.
I forgot my phone, thought twice about going back to collect it and decided I needed the quiet in my brain so walked on.
The light was startling, the clouds two tone black and white Cummulus Nimbus the kind that kids paint, the sky a New York Blue and the sun so warm, so warm, I had to name it twice.
A heron stood stock still ankle deep in the mudflats of the Thames. Ducks squarked, seagulls screamed but the heron didn’t shake a leg, unlike me last night…
Further down a white hard hat sat firmly in the mud, water trickling round it, the sun shone on cyclists, joggers, buggies with babies and me. I walked on the west side over Battersea Bridge and got to the traffic lights quicker than a fleet of red buses.
Crossed over Chelsea Embankment and saw a graceful woman walking two dogs. One was white and looked like a raggedy cross between a mongrel and a dalmation whilst the other was a chestnutty dainty thing with the prettiest face. Chestnut’s collar was studded with big tourquoise stones and dalmation had a diamond collar. I asked the walker, not knowing whether she was the owner or not, if I could stroke them. So begun a mini adventure.
Lynne, her name, had rescued said dogs from Africa, had spent her life’s savings getting them to Spain, lived in Mallaga for a year so that she didn’t have to put them in quarantine, worked as an addiction councillor, then came back here and lives in a block of flats that she has been in since 1987. Th dalmation cross was in fact a mongrel who had had his ears cut off and his tail broken and chestnut, was so badly abused that Lynne wouldn’t tell me the story.
We talked and hugged and it turned out that she had listened to LBC, a lot, and had even telephoned to complain about my absence. She and her sister live over the bridge, we shared chicken soup recipes and marvelled at each others skin tone, eyelashes and ability to survive.
Whilst walking and talking we saw a wallet lying on the ground. A tenner sticking out of the pocket and we both moaned. Some poor sod had dropped it with everything he was in it, from his American Express card to driving licence to a comedy club pass. We were like Rosemary and Thyme trying to detect his whereabouts. I gave Lynne the wallet and left.
Looked at the sky and asked the angels – well it was worth a try – to help. I looked at every man who came towards me to see if he looked like Mr. Wallet. I was looking for somebody who was agitated and wore glasses like the geezer on the driving license. When, bugger me, just as I was crossing the Kings Road a beautiful looking man, the spit of the wallet only better looking (I told him so) dashed towards me. Agitated and worried I knew it had to be him, we said his name in unison! A lawyer, working on Beaufort Street, didn’t know what had happened. I walked him to where I thought Lynne lived we had exchanged everything but addresses but I had remembered her gateway.
Walked through the gate and called to a man disappearing down some steps into a darkened doorway.
‘Where does the woman with the dogs live? ‘ I shouted.
He didn’t hear, took one step into the darkness.
‘Lynne, the woman with the two dogs where does she live?’
I shouted louder.
‘In there.’ he pointed to a block of flats. A block of flats with a lot of dwellings all with a door number.
I looked at the brass plate and opted for fourteen. Why 14? Just because, I have my reasons…
No answer.
I pressed 13.
No answer.
I asked the lawyer ‘7’ he said.
He told me to go as he felt guilty holding me up and that he would work his way through all the numbers starting at number one.
We heard her but not the dogs, Lynne came rushing down the stairs.
She lives in number 14.
She had been on the telephone reporting the wallet when her door bell had rung.
Should I have said thank you to the angels? It all felt too bizarre.
The lawyer hugged Lynne, Lynne hugged me, I hugged the lawyer and then the lawyer and I left Lynne in her doorway and walked back to the Kings Road. We parted at the traffic lights, the lawyer said he owed me a drink and that helping him out would bring me good Karma. I nearly quoted Billy Connolly’s line. ‘My Karma ran over my dogma.’ but resisted.
Five minutes later a delicious woman muttered expletives under her breath about the miserable drivers honking each other. It was Cherie Lunghi, we had met professionally before. We had a chat, a hug a giggle and I told her I had wanted her to win ‘Strictly’, she said she got out at just the right time, but that’s another walk. She’s about to appear on stage with Sir Ian McKellen and was in the process of booking herself a little room at Cambridge University to stay in whilst they were performing in the flat lands.
Onwards to the bank where the woman beamed, under her breath she told me how her husbnad loved me and had telephoned LBC to find out where I was.
Across the road, past JIGSAW where my daughters flowery bag she made in Kew was hanging in the window, and into Partridges food store for a mooch, then Holland and Barratt – a total ripoff may I say – for a bag of nuts and then I proceeded to walk back to the flat.
Down Old Church Street past Manolo Blahnik’s darkened and understated shoe shop – I want to live there please, Old Church Street not Manolo’s gaff – and onto the embankment, up the stairs and there was a painter, opposite Whistler’s statue, doing a beautiful water colour of everything I was looking at, then it was over the bridge and back again.
The helmet was still in the mud but the heron had gone. The sun is now on the back balcony so I’m going out to read. Maybe the lawyer was right because my agent just called and told me I have a little job on Thursday.
Blimey my karma may well have run over my dogma…