Nineteenth letter: Cesar Millan versus A C Millan, and dreams of Xanadu.
|What's that he's singing?|
Life kinda interfered last week, and I didn’t get round to writing the blog. I blame my second OU assignment, visitors and the engrossing next section of my studies: Dalai Lama and Plato. Actually that’s not strictly true, (whenever I see the word strictly these days, it’s always accompanied by an image of a knobbly Bruce Forsyth). I found I had nothing new to say about being an expat, Andy hadn’t done anything too extreme and Alfie had been quiet and fairly sedate.
So in an attempt to pep up my life - I booked two tickets to see Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisper for the uneducated, in Rotterdam. This did cause a bit of confusion for my poor mum, who thought I’d completely lost my mind and transformed into a football enthusiast. I’m not sure she thinks watching Cesar Millan is any better that travelling to Italy to see A C Millan, the world’s most successful football team, but I know it is. What dog lover wouldn’t want to be within a few feet of the world renowned dog rehabilitator and people trainer? Perhaps, a few hours listening to those pearls of wisdom and being blinded by his sparkly teeth, might improve my limited dog handling skills.
The one sentence that sticks in my mind from repeatedly watching Cesar’s TV show is ‘your dog’s behaviour is a reflection of your own’. I’ve given this some thought, I’ve observed Alfie’s behaviour and tried to link it to my own. This sentence I’ve found, is my only stumbling block with Cesar's advice. Never in living memory, have I ran up to complete strangers, licked their hands and stuck my nose in their crotch. Neither when I’m chilling out, do I lie on my back and expose my genitalia, in the vain hope of getting my tummy tickled - I guess, I’m just not that assured of my charm.
|Are you tempted?|
|Come on, you know you want to!|
|Just five minutes, pleeese|
|Is it worth my while?|
So, the last week or so has been quiet; just work and study. Well, Easter Sunday it was all going to change, it was party time! First of all my friend Annemiek introduced us to the music festival that would be taking place in Breda, and then we were invited to the Walkers for Sunday lunch (bliss).
Breda hosts an anthology (the OU’s paying off) of music over the Easter weekend, from heavy rock to swing, to singer songwriters, and Sunday was to be the main event. Somewhere in the discussion of watching a few bands, Andy and I crossed wires. I had visions of sitting on comfortable chairs sipping Pinot Grigio while listening to sweet voiced soloist singing Helen Reddy, while Andy wanted to relive the millennium.
Instead we staggered into town with Martin and Sally after an amazing Sunday lunch. Then strained to look cool on the broken benches in the pub’s back yard. While the other teenagers listened appreciatively to the heavy rock, and we tried not to notice the feral children climbing over the treacherous, battered stolen shopping trolleys. After two songs we admitted defeat, and as inconspicuously as possible with two giant, bald lecturers made our way out onto the street. Undefeated we tried for a change of music and style venue. The lone man with his guitar, I thought looked promising, especially when he spoke and I recognised the name’s Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich. This sounded more like my kind of music. However his laboured lyrics of "The Legend of Xanadu" left me more confused than the original.
Reliving the millennium or my 80’s dream it wasn't to be, and somewhat disillusioned, we made our way home at 9.30pm in the spotting rain, to be welcomed by sloppy licks and our own version of Xanadu.
Okay enough messing about for me, back to Plato..