English National Ballet: the turning pointe?
It's 11 o'clock in the morning and row upon row of well-sculpted men are pirouetting in a small room to the tinny notes coming from an upright piano. One, dark, with perfectly chiselled features and a brooding stare steps forward. Wearing grey tights and a matching leotard which has become so wet it is now see-through, he is reminiscent of Colin Firth's devilishly handsome Mr Darcy and his clingy white shirt after a …