Self -improvement and why Darcey Bussell has nothing to worry about......

I need a hobby. Having moved just over a month ago, I've still not figured out what is going to engage and amuse me here yet. Obviously 4 children do a pretty good job of that, but I’ve always been a keen advocate of ‘me time’ and besides, I like to counteract my unhealthy lifestyle with a couple of hours self-improvement each week.

Before arriving in the UAE, when the plan was to live in Abu Dhabi (pah! in a bedsit maybe), I had done all my research and had identified many classes and courses to interest me.

Unfortunately, all this research went to waste when we ended up in Al Ain where I realised there was very little on offer other than trawling the mall or going to the gym. I pride myself on never having been to the gym. The idea of exercise being an end in itself horrifies me. I'd rather do something pleasant that may hopefully result in my becoming toned, slimmer with an adrenalin buzz. The thought of pounding away on a machine with no objective other than getting fit seems slightly soul destroying, much like taking Slim Fast rather than eating a yummy salad.

To keep me entertained and buy me some time away from the house for a few hours as week, I undertook a TESOL course (teach english to a speaker of another language) which was useful in this country and even found me a teaching job for the summer.

My father always sagely said 'education is no burden' and I like to live by this doctrine. Whether it's an intellectual, spiritual or physical pursuit, I find learning something new quite life affirming.

In my time, I've attended classes in yoga, pilates, interior design, desk-top publishing, Italian, ballet, editing, jazz, belly dancing aerobics, flamenco, typing, shorthand, water aerobics, public relations, pyschology..with varying levels of success (and these are just the ones I can remember)

I like the camaraderie of these classes, particularly the dance ones. Ballet is my favourite. There is a quaint, ethereal quality to these classes, besides, where else are you going to find a room full of thirty-something women (and on the rare occasion, men) trussed up in pink tights, satin slippers and leotards attempting battement tendus and plies to the tinkling notes of Chopin? There is a safety in knowing that no one is laughing at you (well, not overtly) as you attempt to pirouette across a studio, an act which can leave you so dizzy that the walk back to the barre resembles the walk home from a tequila slammer contest.

When I first moved to Galway my daughter started ballet in a school which also advertised ballet classes for adults. Thrilled at this news I signed up immediately.

On arrival at my first lesson I was vaguely aware that there wasn’t anyone over the age of 12 in the changing room. Presuming I was simply late I tentatively opened the door to the studio and peered in.

Now, this was before I started wearing contact lenses so my sight was pretty blurry without my glasses; I say this because had I been able to see clearly, I would have simply closed the door and tiptoed away.

Squinting, I noted that the rest of the students appeared to be quite short but since I couldn’t see too clearly I reasoned, Father Ted like, that ‘small just means far away’.

A dozen pre-teens watched me approach the group with undisguised curiosity.

Standing there, aged 33 in my ballet tights and leotard I suddenly felt ridiculous.

-‘err, I thought this was an adult class’

-‘It is, it is, come in and join us, the others will be here soon’ purred the Russian teacher.

-'Well, if you're sure....'

Feeling like Dawn French in a tutu, I made my way to the barre sucking in my stomach and trying to appear nonchalant, hoping that the students would assume I was a colleague of the ballet mistress. But inside I was dying.

Dawn French in a tutu

Now, at my age I’ve come to terms with my body issue demons, but trying to compete with a group of prepubescent dance students is humbling to say the least.

The ‘adults’ never showed and I spent a humiliating and exhausting hour avoiding the wall length mirror whilst being put through my balletic paces with a bunch of giggling school girls. I never went back.

One ‘group’ or ‘class’ I’ve always given a wide berth is that of the mother and baby/toddler variety. I despise the idea of getting together with a group of women purely because we’ve all given birth within the last couple of years. And the thought of discussing breastfeeding and pureed organic broccoli is enough to send me sprinting to the nearest night club.

I suspect that this is partly due to a subconscious fear that I can’t compete with the way these women totally surrender to motherhood for the first couple of years, eschewing fun in favour of being the best possible mother they can be.

I’m too selfish for that. I love my children passionately, but they’ve never interested me to the point that I wouldn’t rather go out to the pub with DH.

That said, I recently attended a mother and baby music group with almost 3 year old, in a misguided attempt to ‘make friends’.

Sitting cross legged on the floor in a circle, the leader sang a little ‘hello’ song to each child there, which the rest of the group joined in on. ‘Hello Cressida, hello Cressida, let’s all clap our hands’ they sang. Almost three year old gave me a withering look that said 'you gotta be kidding' as he wrestled his Spiderman action figure out my hands.

The following hour was spent skipping around in a circle with flowing chiffon and tambourines invoking little Cressida, Tarquin or Samir to connect with the music. As the mothers became more competitive, the babies became increasingly disinterested and the whole thing finally ended when more than half the class were crying. Seeing the ordeal was over, almost 3 year old made a bolt for the door as I politely explained that we wouldn't be returning, thanks all the same.

I tried, but really, competitive parenting isn't for me. I'd rather throw almost three year old in a creche in the mall and spend an hour lazing over coffee. It's a win win situation. He gets to play with blocks, dress up as Spiderman and roll around in the sand while some adoring creche assistant follows him around. Me, I get to drink cappuccino undisturbed whilst scouring the local paper for prospective evening classes. So far I've come up with conversational Arabic, cardio dance classes and tai chi..... watch this space.