AGAINST a green canopy of mature trees, four lithe bodies bent gracefully like pink little flowers.

A strict French woman - the young ballet teacher - rapped out a command and pointed her toes. The four little girls shadowed her obediently.

Their stick-thin legs were encased in silk stockings, skin radiantly smooth, arms hairless and layered with baby fat, no sinew or muscle.

They stared into the mirror and giggled. I winked at one of them.

I had taken the day off on Friday just to take my daughter for her ballet class.

She loves ballet because she gets to dress up, and twirl around.

With her hair in a perky pony tail, she looks like an innocent little star.

Just a few years more, and she will become conscious of her body, looking into the glass to check if wobbly bits are sticking out.

She may worry if she has put on weight in the one week between classes, wonder if her hair has come loose, if her rear is tight, if her breasts are too small.

I know because I've been there.

Leotards are merciless. They reveal everything, so you are careful not to eat before class, or drink too much either.

You learnt to scrutinise everyone - watch everyone at the bar, at the mirror. You watch for visible panty-lines, for holes in your tights, for scuff marks on your shoes.

I don't remember giggling in class.

My mum, whose toes are ugly and bent because of ballet, and whose small toenails have been rubbed off, leaving only horny skin behind, warned me against sending my daughter to ballet class.

"What for?" she scoffs, remembering my own obsession.

"Because she likes it," I reply. Why not?

It is like the taste of honey, delicious and sweet. When you are little, you don't count the calories. There is something beautiful about youthful grace.

I was to confront another instance of it, while witnessing a beauty contest.

The master of ceremonies lauded the girls' physical qualities, reading out their vital statistics as they smiled into the bright lights, dazed and amazed.

They were fully aware that they were on parade, of how lovely they must look.

What they perhaps weren't aware of was that it lasts only for a few years, that they should guard it jealously and not squander it.

I walked out of the venue, and two other young girls came up to my husband.

Both were wearing gauze stockings and bunny suits - although "suit" is probably the wrong word.

With black thongs and three little pieces of silk, the two girls tottered about in heels, handing out promotional leaflets.

My husband sucked in his tummy and threw out his chest. He too was dazed and amazed.

I was careful not to sneer, in case it brought out my crows' feet.

Though I did say, expressionlessly: "I wonder whether their mothers know what they're doing."

When you are young, you are beautiful and you don't know it.

When you are blooming into adulthood, you are beautiful and you don't know what it's worth.