Thursday, January 22, 2009

Whatever

After the plumbing disaster of last week, and husband’s indifference at my Saturday morning dance tryst with Guido, I had been left in an emotional limbo. The excitement of the morning, the thrill of the dance left me feeling more alive than I had for weeks, only to be lain flat by husband’s reaction to my plight, Indifference hurts!

Years ago and capable of stirring to great heights of passion, his first reaction would be to rant, rage and sling Guido out on his ear. This would be followed by a prolonged period of dark brooding before making up passionately some hours later. Now his first concern is locating the stopcock and brooding about selling a bloody Iron! Indifference hurts!

He can still stir himself to great heights of passion as long as he is standing on a white line, watching twenty-two boys chase a stupid white ball around. There he will rage against indifference urging the boys to show the same passion that he is displaying, play for the shirt and do of their best. To him this is when Indifference hurts!

To the footballer indifference cannot be tolerated. It is a black and white world with no room for shades of grey. Us against them, all for one and one for all, a legitimate reason to show passion in a game where a shrug of the shoulders and a “whatever” has no place. To the footballer on the field, and the end result for the team Indifference hurts!

Normally in these situations I would come up with an indifferent eleven, a fantasy footballing side, a mental fight back against the footballing machine. First name on the team sheet was Catherine Tate, Am I bovvered? indifference on the edge. A back line of Frenchmen relying heavily on the Gallic Shrug, and a Swiss midfield, neutral to a man backing not one side or the other. The masters of sitting on the fence, Worzel Gummidge. Phil Drabble and Jack Hargreaves, the three man strike force. All playing under the tutelage of a French manager whose main half time mantra is “comme ci comme ca” It was a feeble effort and one riddled with my own indifference to the task. His indifference away from the field of football was catching. Indifference hurts!

Helpless and unable to get him to show passion about anything but football, I have had a Gloria Gaynor moment and “got up and walked” He tried to stop me and briefly displayed feelings that had long been hidden away from the football pitch, but I had to go, walk out the door, don’t turn around now. I was still welcome but I wanted more. Guido and Stephanie keen to resume their dancing careers had put together a small band of hoofers to embark on a two week tour of spectacular dance. A two-hour show where Guido and Stephanie’s’ Latin dance headlines. Bob and Jean, between cruises, do the ballroom. Ivanka (formerly Ivan) a heavily bearded Russian transvestite dances Cossack style in high heels and mini skirt followed by Wee Willie McWatson a small and elderly kilted Scotsman who dances with swords. After my morning session with Guido in the kitchen “en silhouette” drew rave reviews from the villagers passing by, Guido has persuaded me to open the show dancing behind a screen to the opening music from “tales of the unexpected”. Football is no longer on the menu and I am no longer Soccermom, but slinky hipped Svetlina the dancing shadow. Tonight will be our third performance of the two-week tour. We are ensconced in a holiday camp in the depths of winter; the place is shabby and cold. The first two nights were a triumph. After my five minutes of wiggling I get to watch the whole show, returning for the group Hokey Cokey at the end. The dance is fantastic, the days are long but fun. Of course I miss the kids, and I miss him and home, and I think that after the two-week tour I shall go back, but just for the moment, Indifference no longer hurts.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Livin La Vida Loca

Christmas come and gone and a return to Football madness in the New Year, with three weeks passing since the last football fiasco, husband and son having kittens at the prospect of pulling on the studs again. I too had reason to be excited about the coming Saturday, I too would be pulling on a stud, Guido having relented to my request for an individual dance class at our spa day had agreed to come around when I was home alone and give further one to one instruction in return for me raising a small discrete group of like minded individuals who were keen to be instructed in all things Latin and Ballroom. Just a small class to get him back on his feet after the furore over his and Stephanie’s unfortunate arrest in the med on a yacht. So with husband and son away on footballing matters Guido was popping around on Saturday morning for a one-hour session. On a need to know basis I decided that this was one that Husband did not need to know about, especially with the pre match tension he would know doubt be enduring that morning.

So with the ready excuse that I would be spending the morning listing many of the Christmas presents that he had bought for me on ebay, namely the Teflon coated corset with Kevlar supports, the eau de toilette titled “fishee” that comes in a goldfish shaped bottle, and the Iron, yes an Iron, purchased, he proudly told me, after a particularly convincing advertising campaign that ran along the lines of:

“Need to impress someone you love? Say it with an Iron”

Must have missed me that one. Anyway husband didn’t seem to mind, thank goodness for ebay, at least I could choose something that I really wanted and all that, he chuntered as he put on his coat and left the house on the coldest morning of the year so far.

Up into the shower, put on the top that revealed eye popping d├ęcolletage that I wore to our first lesson, with jeans and heels for luck. Pulled the curtains, moved back the furniture and waited for his Latin loveliness. Brief pangs of guilt at the thought of husband and son wending their way in the cold to some far flung field that were instantly dismissed by the ring of the doorbell. My heart jumped, butterflies fluttered in my stomach, suddenly it all felt rather naughty. I opened the door and with a nervous giggle invited my dancing matador across the threshold,

“Ah……. you are wearing the outfit that you wore when we first danced”

He said, kissing my hand and moving through to the lounge. Speechless I snapped myself back into the room with a note to self,

“Careful, he’s a live one this, just do the dance then show him the door, dance dance dance”

Thoroughly ensconced in the lounge Guido was changing into his dancing shoes, waving his arm he said,

“Cherie this room will not do. We cannot dance on carpet. The floor it must be hard and firm, springy with slide, it must be the kitchen, now come”

He leapt to his feet and pulled me through to the kitchen, where I remained still speechless as he transported the kitchen table and chairs into the lounge.

“It is not much but it will do, now Cherie”

The kitchen looked out across our drive and the road beyond.

“But Guido we will be seen”

“You wish to hide your dancing? You should be proud to dance with Guido”

And with that we began to Salsa, no room for a tango or Cha Cha Cha, just a simple salsa step, back and forth to my daughter’s Now 62 CD. Hip movement? Check. Correct hold? Check. Back straight, chin out? Check. We are dancing, we are flipping well dancing. On to the next song and an introduction to a simple Rumba, Guido encouraging me to be more carefree in my movement, oblivious to the passers by who were transfixed by the shapes I was throwing in silhouette through the window with my dashing dance partner. Some repeatedly walking by just to take in the passionate dance framed by the fridge and the oven.

And then in one of those brief periods of time when a million critical things seem to happen at once, the wheels came off our dance journey. Leaning back gracefully with arm extended waiting for Guido to pull me back to his embrace I felt a drip of water on my head, looking up I could see a huge damp patch on the ceiling.

“Oh bloody hell, I think a pipe has burst, Guido are you any good at……”

Ding Dong the doorbell rang

“Oh get that Guido, I will have to turn the water off”

Bending down on all fours and shoving my head under the sink I heard a familiar trans Atlantic Drawl

“Oh good grief, Brandi what the hell does she want?”

“Guido!!! It is you, I could see you through the window and I thought to myself that’s Guido, that’s Guido, so Honey I just had to……”

“Guido, could you turn the tap on and see if I have turned the water off? I cried from under the sink”

I could feel Guido leaning over me just as the sound of the dripping through the ceiling turned to a torrent, unfortunately at the time Ricky Martin was belting out Living La Vida Loca from the CD player, drawing further squeals from Brandi who on hearing the line

“She’ll make you take her clothes off and go dancing in the rain”

Leapt under the dripping water peeled off her top layer and swinging it around her head.

“Come on Guido whadda ya say ??”

I was still head stuck in cupboard with Guido pressed up against my backside trying to reach the tap when in walks husband.

“Hi Brandi, Guido good to see you, where have you been? What are you doing down there darling?”

He calmly inquired despite the bizarre highly charged scene set out in front of him,

“Game was called off, frozen pitch. Have we a burst pipe? Not surprised in this weather, oh well got all day to fix it. You turn the water off in the garage love.”

And off he went to the garage. Brandi towelled off and put back on her damp layer, and Guido withdrew from his position and put on his going home shoes.

“Good to see you again Guido, have you moved back into the area? Nasty business about that yacht, how is Stephanie? always a pleasure Brandi”

Husband inquired as he escorted Guido and Brandi off the premises, returning with a click as he closed the door behind him. Bracing myself for a row I struck a defensive pose.

“I can’t believe they didn’t have the sense to call the game off earlier, it would have saved us all a drive, the ground is as hard as nails.”

And with that he went off to the garage to mend the pipe. Not a word about Guido, or the position he found us both in when he walked in the door, or mention of a half clothed dripping Brandi swinging her top around her head to the pulsating beat of Ricky Martin. Just the game, the tap and the bloody game, THE BLOODY GAME! I could have been stretched out naked on the kitchen table with Guido tickling my feet with sticks of celery and he still would not have seen beyond the bloody game.

A little chastened and sad I withdrew to our bedroom emerging after a few hours to explain how hurt I was by his indifference. Was he not jealous at finding me alone with another man and an ageing nymphomaniac? Was he not hurt that I had not done as I said I was going to do that morning and had arranged a secret dancing tryst? Did he not feel anything at my apparent deceit?

Looking up from his pipe bending machine he turned to face me, he looked sad, I could see emotion in his eyes, he did have feelings, he did care, he opened his mouth and croakily whispered

“I really thought you’d like that Iron, it was a bloody good bit of kit”

Before bowing his head and returning to his bent pipe

AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!