Too many exciting adventures for a trailing spouse in the Nederlands this week.
First, a trip to Ahoy in Rotterdam on Monday night to see my heart throb Cesar Millan (Dog Whisperer). To be honest, I’d been a little disappointed to hear Alfie hadn’t been picked to go on stage. There is a little unreasonable part of my character than assumes everyone will fall in love with Alfie, even if only by picture; and I had sent Cesar Alfie’s very cutest pictures.
|If this didn't tempt Cesar I don't know what will...|
Rotterdam itself isn’t so far from Breda, which would have been a nice bonus if we hadn’t set off 4 hours before the show started. Keeping the speedometer at 50 mph, we still arrived with too many hours to spare. My Mr Sunshine seemed uncharacteristically good natured about this little piece of time wastage. Smiling and muttering about buying yourself a nice T shirt he shoved me towards the Cesar merchandise.
I noticed him ten minutes later, protecting two lagers and a glass of wine, and eyeing up a very pretty Dutch women. I watched them make eye contact, and exchange a smile as he wandered over to her. I felt the hairs on my arms stand up in betrayal. I couldn’t believe he was doing this to us again. I waited with arms crossed as he returned to the drinks, blushing with mischievous pride, and placed two hot dogs on the table. How are we ever going to lose weight!
The show started late, not because Cesar was a diva, but because the crowds in the Ahoy didn’t rush. Cesar might be a big star in the rest of the Western world, but in the Nederlands he would wait till the audience were ready.
|Cesar Millan and Gandhi, really?|
The show wasn't quite what I expected. Don’t get me wrong, I love Cesar Millan; I love his advice, his unique talent with dogs and his ability to entertain. And yet, perhaps, just maybe, the show was just a little bit cringe worthy. There was a hint of a Mexican, evangelical, Michael Jackson trying to single handedly heal the canine world - but you can forgive him that. What was a bit harder to forgive was his repeated groping of his own pects (or were they moobs). Was it a sign of insecurity or colossal self-love, it’s hard to be sure? During the second half of the show there was an embarrassing moment, when he realised he’d been tweaking his own nipples in front of several thousand dog lovers and apologised. While Mr Sunshine and I giggled and nudged each other, no one else, not even the row of immaculate ladies who lunch to my left, raised an eyebrow. Luckily for Cesar this is the Nederlands and anything goes, even a pint sized Mexican, demi god semi masturbating on stage.
You gotta love him!
My second adventure came in the guise of a blocked drain. I'd refused to mention it to Mr Sunshine; he had enough to deal with without a whinging trailing spouse moaning about plumping. So I took the most sensible action I could – I ignored it. After several ineffective homemade attempts to unblock the drain myself I put out a plea for advice on Facebook. The intelligent, practical advice poured in, my favourite of which was ‘isn’t this your landlord’s responsibility?’
|I'm not kidding, he looked like this! |
The shower scene might be imagined though.
Thirty six hours later the buzzer echoed in the apartment and I ran to the door, expecting Super Mario in blue dungarees. Instead, there stood a half-naked, Vin Diesel lookalike, his hand outstretched in greeting and mischief lighting up his grey eyes (yep, I noted the colour of his eyes). I tried to keep my gaze on his face, but it was beyond the limits of human endurance. My eyes betrayed me, and were repeatedly drawn to his tanned tattooed pectoral muscles. I sucked in what remains of my abdominal muscles and led the way to my blocked pipe. Once he was ensconced beneath my pipes, I should have left him to his job, but a primitive reflex kept me glued to the kitchen stroking his naked back with my eyes. This plumber knew, of course he did, a sculptured body like that doesn’t happen without major effort and what’s the point of all that effort if it’s not going to be appreciated.
You would love him!
Just at the point when Mr Diesel and I were discussing local pubs, Mr Sunshine walked into the kitchen. The, what the f**k is that, bemused expression, and bulging eyeballs, spoke volumes, curtailing the adoration and the plumbary chat. Mr Sunshine and I exchanged a silent battle over who would escort him to the door, neither won. And we plodded behind as he strode towards the door, breathing a sigh of regret as he left the building.
‘Right, that’s it, we need to get fit and sort ourselves out.’ Mr Sunshine said.
I could only nod, as I wiped away drool with the back of my hand.
‘Come on Trace, we can do this, how hard can it be?’
I looked at the soft bloated flesh escaping from my jeans and thought, it’s gonna be hard, very hard indeed.
‘We’ve no choice, we have to do it , if we’re going to grow old together as sexy mother f**kers.’
Which is why I love Mr Sunshine!
Who wouldn't want to grow old as a sexy mother f**ker? I know I do...
|I have definitely NOT just poured more fat down the sink|