In an effort to keep Scarlett occupied during the winter, in absence of an open air pool or ocean warm enough to swim in, she has started a new term of gymnastics once a week. She loves it, works up a good sweat and is very good at listening to the teachers, if not us. Something goes wrong whenever we try ballet, however. We have already had to get a full refund from the first ballet school we tried, when after begging to do ballet for about a year, she refused to join in after the first class. A good deal of stroppy arm folding and marching away accompanied any attempt to persuade her to go into the school hall where the classes took place. We suspected the problem was either the formality of the lessons - which were very much of the 'first position, second position' variety - and the fact that parents had to wait outside during the class.
Last weekend at the local market, we bumped into a friend of a friend who told us about a local ballet school that sounded much more Scarlett's pace and that would appeal to her sense of humour. The class is run by 62-year-old Barbara, who looks about 45, who has run the classes since 1972, prompted by a sense of community instilled in her by her old Welsh commie dad. Wearing just a pair of tights with knickers over the top and a woolly jumper, she and her sister (in her late 50s) run about like fairies, followed by a parade of small girls in fairy and ballet dresses. It's hilarious. Again for reasons unknown Scarlett refused to join in... until Rob agreed to join in too. It was agreed by the rest of the parents in the room, that this was the best laugh anyone had had in years, as Rob was put through his paces. One of the other mothers there is the director of Play School and suggested Rob would make a great Play School presenter. 
On Saturday night Rob and I booked our babysitter and went out on a date. We realised recently that it had been years since we had been out for dinner when we weren't with other friends or the girls or reviewing restaurants. We booked two seats at the counter of the fantastic Glebe Point Diner, a new place in Glebe that has received terrific reviews since it opened. High demand meant earlier attempts to get in were impossible. We started off out on the deck with blankets over our knees sipping champagne before going inside for duck, rabbit, chocolate mousse and other comfort food. Apart from the food, what we enjoyed the most was that, as it's only a suburb away from our house, we were able to walk there and back through a lovely harbour front park.
This morning, we were out and about again, this time taking a stroll down the hill to the local football pitch for the soccer skills class put on every weekend for free by the local football club. Being Australia, 'football' means rugby league or Aussie rules, so what we poms call football is known as soccer here. Attempts to educate Aussies otherwise is met with laughter and name calling. They are not interested in hearing the words "world game".
Once again, Scarlett was really looking forward to it and was great practising her ball control skills, but as soon as the kids were split into teams to play she was having none of it. While she stropped about the edges of the pitch, we caught up with some mates and drank coffee. Florence in the meantime seems like a natural, and I am officially a 'soccer mom'. The weekend finished with our friends the O'Briens and the McPhersons coming over on Sunday afternoon for drinks. 
It was perfect for a morning of shell collecting, sand castle construction and paddling and, for Florence, her first walk along the beach since getting on her feet. Here are a few pix of our beach trip and our house.
