Shiny new Narnia's spill out from the boxes, temporarily distracting me from dancing on the stage. It's enough. My little ballet slippers crack from the pressure and I collapse. Everyone is staring at the too-old ugly duckling who didn't get Clara and, oh gosh, they are in the audience. I fight the urge to stay. Shame! I am barely concealed among the scenery with the snowflake girls.

"What are you doing?" whispers the boy. He is in charge of throwing glitter.
"I want to be the swan queen!" My eyes look into his but they are strangely devoid of passion. It was just the same at the track yesterday. I know there's something, something that came before..

"Oh," I say suddenly. The scenery falls before I can speak, the curtain muffling my cries. Back-stage is a jungle of magic and props and forest. I search for the boy, eager to tell him all about the ghost princesses and the dreams and how, actually, this was probably a dream but

I suppose one of these days he'll have to be told. Not now, though. Such is the case with dreams. As soon as lucidity takes over one awakens. Bad luck bad luck bad luck, but I admire lucid dreamers ever so much.