From that day forward, the cancan became a recurring topic of conversation between the two of us. In many respects, Rachel was amazingly patient with my prodding inquiries. I think part of it was that she enjoyed playing the expert, imparting wisdom to the less fortunate. I was her kid brother, it made her feel important when I came to her for advice. She probably suspected the source of my interest (possibly even knew about the borrowed knickers), but was considerate enough never to let on about it.

Our ongoing discussions opened a great many doors doors for me, solving many of the conundrums that had haunted me since that night at the cinema. Sensing the depth of my fascination, Rachel suggested I join her ballet class — Chamberlain Dance Academy was desperately short on male students, and there was always the chance that the senior class would put on a Moolin Rooge number for Bass-steal Day (again, that was precisely how she pronounced it).

Although predictably reluctant at first, my curiosity got the better of me, and Rachel eventually convinced me to tag along one afternoon. Within a week, I was learning my first steps under the rigorous gaze of Ms Evelyne Deane, struggling to arch my spine and avoid tripping up the ballerinas. I was the only boy taking classes at the time, for which reason Ms Deane quietly tolerated my stumbling antics. I was never as graceful as my siblings, but I persevered long enough to learn the basics. Over the next two years, I gained sufficient confidence to appear on stage, first with Rachel, then with an ever-expanding range of partners. Following my third recital, even Ms Deane appeared satisfied with my progress, telling Rachel that I'd graduated from being a lump of lard to a block of wood. Coming from a woman fundamentally incapable of uttering a good word about anything, this was high praise indeed.

Equally pleased with this state of affairs was my Mother, who now had all three of her children pursuing careers in the arts. She was supportive above and beyond the call of duty, devoting endless hours to sewing costumes and applying makeup, clucking and fussing over the tiniest details during rehearsals. She was a whirlwind of activity behind the curtains, her enthusiasm stunning even the most diehard of stage-moms.

Not quite so enthusiastic was my Father, who had grown increasingly distant over the past two years. Spending most of his weekends parked on the sofa in front of a football game, he showed little concern for any of us, viewing his offspring with the kind of indifference common to males of his generation. Having married in his early thirties, middle age struck him with near-lethal force on his fortieth birthday. I guess it might have been worse; lesser men would have spiraled down into heavy drinking or domestic violence. Fortunately, Dad was inclined to neither, and we gradually adjusted to his mute apathy.

For close on a year, I wondered if I were to blame for his impassive moods. Maybe he'd found out about my early morning dress-up games. I could only surmise how shocked he'd be that his own son was one of them (whatever "they" were; I was slightly too young to fully understand the concept). Perhaps he'd disowned all three of us on my account, refusing to even acknowledge our existence.

It wasn't until much later I realized that Mom and Dad had stopped talking altogether around the time I entered elementary school. Their marriage started disintegrating long before I was born; by the time I turned nine they were little more than two house-bound strangers working double shifts to pay an unwanted mortgage. Mom did her best to smooth the rough patches over for us, but she was more-or-less postponing the inevitable.

Dad moved out not long afterwards. He'd met a younger woman through a workmate, and his bags were packed within a month of their first date. Just like that, our father was gone. Rachel cried a little when he said goodbye, Mom and Kate just stood to one side staring after him with a kind of weary contempt. He barely spared me a glance as he lugged his bags out the front door, even after I raised my hand to signal farewell. At the end of the day, I'd become the most alien of his children, and he had nothing to say to me.

Not that it mattered, one way or another. Given the circumstances, there wasn't much to talk about anyway.