Today, a semi-accidental visit to the ballet, a kulcha classification to which I've come late.
This afternoon's performance by the tip-top Birmingham Royal Ballet was Sylvia, a three-act confection of soft-boiled mythological mayhem, featuring nymphs, a goddess, a middle-aged cupid and a shipload of pirates (cue solo for one-legged pirate chief).
Deep, it isn't.
But dance theatre has grown on me in recent years. I find myself increasingly willing to surrender to the possibilities that open up when you leave those pesky words behind.
At one level, the conventions of classical dance are downright daft - prance, pose, pirouette.
But then along come those moments when the 'ballet thing' happens, when I can't tell if the dancers are expressing the music, or if the music is expressing the dance.
And I forget to breathe.