On occasion him indoors pontificates directly to me, or truthfully AT me. If I’m honest, it’s when he has normally had a little drink (or a big drink). It is ALWAYS when he’s been out. If he’s been at the Pinot Noir indoors, it seems always very controlled over a long period of time. With none of this “ranting” mode to be heard.
He went last weekend to a Youth Festival Showcase (no, no, no, don’t ask me, I don’t know either) but apparently it’s lots of young people (no, no, no like really young – 14, 15,16 type young) singing and playing music. He’s been before, several times, and his friend Peter is the organiser.
He inevitably comes back from them utterly inspired and wants to give my ears a good bending. He bends them about how many folks were there; he bends them about how young all the performers were; he bends them about how talented they were; he bends them about how brilliant it is in the modern world that their school, and their teacher, inspire them and encourage them in their musicianship.
But then…he bends them with a rant despairing about why Bewdley seems to be a beacon in a forest of darkness. Where young folks often don’t seem to receive the opportunity for any of this elsewhere. How it should be part of every school. How HIS generation have, in reality, ****ed it up for the generations behind them. How the education system has managed to get its priorities completely wrong for these young people.
He left me with Auntie Karen early in the week. I love it there, even though her two Siamese cats are distinctly distrustful of me. Possibly because when I arrive I immediately head for their food bowls and eat anything that’s there just to annoy them. I never see sight of one of them, he does a runner respectfully leaving me to sleep by the Aga as much as I want. A main reason I love going is because Karen always takes me for a long walk.
The Master returned full of chat about his time in London. He went to see “Girl from The North Country’ with his lovely daughter-in-law Pippa. He tells me it is a wonderful play built around twenty songs of The Maestro after whom I am named and whose glorious words I use my headlines on here – Bob Dylan.
Then he told me that he met a former colleague for lunch the next day at a rather tasty Italian bistro, where they put the world right together over nice food (I know it was good because there was no sign of a doggy bag for me) and good wine. He knows how to live, I tell you. Never let it be said he goes without his food.
Finally, he gave me a big hug and told me that one of his other big music heroes Tom Petty had suddenly died. I liked Tom, the boss played him lots and always very loudly. He dances around the living room with him, often grabbing my front paws in an attempt to get me dancing as well. I don’t think so!!!! I hope he doesn’t stay upset for too long, I can live without too many dancing episodes whilst he’s remembering all those good times playing him.
Woof! Woof!
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