Often we create exactly those circumstances that we want to prevent - things weigh so heavily on our minds, that they are manifested by our fear of them.

Today we watched a sometimes-messy performance of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake ballet on TV which brought back some early memories from the 1960s.

Like many little boys my sister took ballet lessons. Many hours were therefore spent sitting with my butt on the floor of some school hall, watching dangly little females standing at a bar, endlessly practising steps, jumps and twirls. Later, when we were a bit older, there came the drama of dancing on the toes, with the help of special tips in the dance shoes. Pain and tears, if I remember well. Not understanding the artistic beauty of it all, I found myself usually bemused by the whole humanity of this activity. Of course, there came the ultimate dramatic climax every year when all the hard work was translated into concerts of various artistic standards, performed by flat-chested girls with hair in buns and the inevitable tutu – a kind of unskirtly skirt. During the early sixties, little boys were rarely found in these ballet schools in this country (although my sister's teacher was a man – highly regarded by the mothers), but this fortunately changed some twenty years later.

Whereas the curvatures of the female dancers have seemingly always been brought under control by firm bindings, and tight costumes, the same firmness of touch could hardly be applied to male dancers. As a result the males have to dance bulgingly – so to speak.

In spite of the – to me – pureness of ballet, both the female dancers and later the males, never lost their pure femininity or masculinity but without any obvious sexual overtones. I always regarded this reality as part of the artistry and beauty of the art form. When I look at some modern forms of dancing of today, it is clear that the modern dance forms have embraced sexuality and sensuality as part of the dance art. That is fine, of course, and I do not judge it in any way. I merely want to make the point that watching ballet (and listening to the music, of course), has never been a sensual or lustful experience to me, and should not be to anyone.

So it happened towards the end of the 1970s that we befriended – or attempted to do so – a young couple. He had recently graduated from the Afrikaans Baptist seminary, and was thus a church minister. They were in the process of starting a new branch of the church in our area and we had somehow been singled out as part of this process. During one of their social visits to us, he suggested that we go out as a group one evening.

Doing a social visit with a Baptist minister is problematic, mainly due to the 'sinfulness' of society's activities. Night clubs, musicals, and the likes were sinful places (I can't remember if putt-putt had been invented already), and therefore one's options were limited to going to a church activity or eating at a restaurant. Then a plan of some brilliance arose in my consciousness: Swan Lake was performing in town; surely ballet and Tchaikovsky could not be sinful.

Thus, I suggested: "shall we go to the Swan Lake ballet?"

"Oh no," came the shocked retort, "that's where the devil is, not so?"

I answered: "I am not prepared to take the devil to a ballet performance, are you?"

We did go and see the ballet eventually but without the Baptist church minister. I carefully looked and could never see the devil anywhere. But then, the Baptist minister was not there either.

The friendship also came to naught.