Being a dancer in the 1950s was probably not too hard. If you could Charleston and waltz you were well on your way. Dancing in the noughties, however, is a different matter. Clambering, squatting, running, bouncing, ducking, weaving, jumping, crawling-under, jolting, bolting – these are the requirements of the contemporary dancer, as I discovered when I took to the stage to audition for the West Yorkshire Playhouse’s winter production of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe.

In mid-October the Leeds theatre was looking for extras to perform in its stage adaptation of C.S. Lewis’ classic novel. They put out adverts, including one on television, appealing for “dancers and physical theatre performers, possibly with acrobatic or circus skills.” They were not looking for experience, rather members of the community with enthusiasm and a desire to be involved in a large-scale professional production. With a background in juggling (socks in my bedroom) and a sense of adventure, I answered the call.

What seemed like a good idea in theory was terrifying in reality and as the big day neared the sense of dread evolved. It was hard to know what to expect. I was fortunate enough to have some moral support in the shape of Dave the photographer. He sat with me in the minutes before the audition, comforting me, coaching me, psyching me up, convincing me everything was going to be ok. I text a friend, who studies this kind of thing for a living, seeking some last-minute advice. He replied cryptically: ‘Stay grounded in your own body, hum down your vocal range, just play your intentions.’ As if I wasn’t nervous enough already.  We were called. A number seven sticker was stuck on my chest to distinguish me from the other hopefuls – ‘lucky number seven’ according to the woman who put it there. I said a reluctant goodbye to Dave. The door shut. He slivered out of view. I was on my own.  We were led down a corridor within the bowels of the theatre and into a large dance studio. It was one of those studios with a big mirror and a bar running along one wall, the kind on which dancers pique and pirouette. Some people changed into leotards and dance shoes. Some warmed up by shaking their limbs and stretching. I took off my shoes and hovered, full of trepidation. Ben 0, Fear 1.  Including the painful farewells and the terror of abandonment the experience was a bit like a first day at school. Luckily, our auditioners were complicit in the comparison and were as comforting and welcoming as the best primary school teachers. I started to feel better.  

In fact they decided to make it as much like a reception class P.E. lesson as they could. So, after a simple round of names they organized us into a game of Grandmother’s Footsteps or, as it is known in some quarters, What’s The Time Mr. Wolf? So far, so good. I was feeling confident. Ben 1, Fear 1.

This was of course the point at which it took a turn for the worse. Suddenly we were in front of the huge mirror, dancing to a song I believe is by Kanye West. Whoever it was, it did nothing to put me at ease. I was back on edge and hopelessly struggling to overcome my self-consciousness and deafness to rhythm. Ben 1, Fear 2.

Thankfully overcome it I soon did. What came next was right up my street. Something I could do: Walking. I walk to the shops. I walk to university. I walk very well; it is a field in which I am experienced. Walking around a dance studio: Easy. Backwards: Less experienced, but still no problem. To the right: Fine. To the left: Even better. Running, strolling: Great.

Twenty minutes gone. Twenty minutes to go. Half-time. Ben 2, Fear 2.

Luckily the audition was a delight from that point on. We were instructed to use movement to fill the studio space. This is where all the squatting and the crawling, the bobbing and the weaving, the ducking and the running, came into play. We moved around the room however we fancied, using for inspiration and aid anything and everything there. I found myself belly-down on the dusty floor one minute, underneath a chair the next, atop a sofa soon after, chasing fellow auditionees, being chased, slowing down, speeding up. It was a free-for-all. None of the pressures of dancing in a nightclub or to hip hop. Unfettered fun, and brilliant. There was no ‘good at it’ or ‘bad at it’. Free of inhibitions you couldn’t go wrong.

And then – as quickly as it had begun – it was all over. One final game to warm down, a declaration of our theatrical experience (the most impressive of which coming from a unicycle-riding sixteen year old) and then out of there. Safely returned to Dave. Not as the slightly nervous reporter that had entered the rehearsal a mere 40 minutes before, however, but buzzing with adrenaline. Perhaps this was my body reminding me what it was to exercise or simply that it had not been the horrific ordeal anticipated. But I don’t think so. No, it was better than that. I got something out of that audition that made me feel fresh and alive and, well, bouncy. A resounding victory over Fear.

Four days later the call came: I got the part. This news was as great as it was unexpected but also, deep down, tinged with regret. We were warned at the audition that figuring in the production would involve a massive commitment of time and energy. I thought carefully and seriously about what to do. Three months of fun on a professional stage was also three months neglected studying. Reluctantly and sadly I turned down the offer.

So, no Lion, no Witch and no Wardrobe. No dancing or prancing. No West End future. Just a good experience to look back on. If I could have it another way, I would be spending November, December and January crawling around a fictional Narnia on my hands and knees. As it is, I can only spectate, and lament what might have been.