A DREAM IS A WISH YOUR HEART MAKES

I have always had an air of the esoteric about me.  Long before "The Secret" or "Tony Robbins" I was chomping at the bit to make my dreams materialise.  Birthday candles were more than flickering symbols of my age. At 3, I wished for a baby brother.  He never came in a flesh form so to speak but my mother presented me with a doll called Billy Boy who became my pride and joy.  He also sparked my interest in medical wonders as I would crusade for a treatment that would ensure that Billy grew like the other boys. Billy Boy and I would sit and watch "Pinocchio" and I would lament with Gepetto where was my real little boy.

At 11, those candles burnt fresh desires.  Desires that leapt from the screen and crooned.  Desires from the stable of dream maker Johnny Young and his Talent Team.  I would sway along with Johnny as he sang "All My Loving" and wish I was Natalie and that Bevan Addinsall was my betrothed.

It was in front of the tv in my childhood home that I believed I manifested the little soul who would later become my all dancing, all singing, crazy eyed son, Cale. 

"To become a real boy, you must prove yourself brave, truthful, and unselfish."
— Pinocchio

Cale is all of the above but so much more.  If Johnny Young was scounting for talent these days, Cale would be a shoe in.  He has kept me entertained for 6 years.  Cale started school this year and as  his audience grew so did his fan base.

 

Fridays have taken on a whole new meaning for Kindy students as they await Cale's "NEWS ITEM" of the week.  Students have sat spellbound as "Bring In Something You Find in the Back Yard" became a window into the Life & Adventure of Cale's Magic Peach, complete with a spirited rendition of Pilot's "OH OH OH It's Magic." He has baffled them with facts, embellished some family "truths" and serenaded them with song.  The latest task was one that truly sent Cale soaring and despite my Bevan yearnings almost sent me toppling well over the edge.  NURSERY RHYME.  ahhh, you say, an easy feat.  Jazz Hands rise in fright.  Not so.  Cale had a vision.  His inner Andrew Lloyd Webber was driving him to new heights of whizz bangery.  It would not be as easy as merely donning a costume and raising his voice in song.

 

He needed "special effects" and if at all possible back up dancers.  As I had already lampooned his space ship idea ( something about invisible wires and pyrotechnics, I don't know, I was already a cask in, it was "eisteddfod" season after all) he then came to me with the notion that his performance would need me to secure some talent from my dance school and have them jig and cavort about as he belted out "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."

 

As a glass and a half kind of gal, I was by this stage, quite mellowed enough to entertain his pitch.  I sat back, smiling and nodding as I am prone to do and vainly searching for the mute button that must surely exist somewhere on my menagerie of children.  "So Cale," I ventured, "What would you have these back up dancers do?"

He looked at me like I was a crazy person.  ( I am)

"Twinkle!" he shouted and then did even crazier eyes of exasperation.

"Twinkle?" I questioned.

The crazy eyes fixed on me.  He lowered his gaze.  His tiny hips started gyrating and swirling.  His little jazz hands rose above his head and twinkled for all their might.  His crazy gaze never leaving my own.  I was both hypnotised and horrified.  The "twinkling" would best be described as "writhing."

 

Needless to say, I did not recruit any of my dance students for his Robert Palmer inspired staging of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."

 

He didn't need any back up dancers.  The stage was his.  We watched our little astronaut climb the stairs and stand before the microphone.  My Little Star was Born.