Those of you who read my Fukitol post on Farcebook this morning, will be au-fait with the manner in which this particular Monday started for me, continuing in this vein until mid-afternoon when I set-off for the local October fair, known as 'Kirmes', here in Germany.
This was just what I needed. I picked up my student, who has become a friend, on the way and we headed straight for the tent where my second-favourite band was playing. I have to refer to them as 'my second favourite', otherwise I could get into trouble with my other favourite band.
Jessica didn't want to dance, but was happy to stand, tap her feet and clap to the beat while I danced. As usual, I was the only lone-dancer amidst the twirling couples but, as usual, I didn't care.
The pink sunglasses which I had donned as protection for my injured eye (see aforementioned Farcebook post), kept jumping up and down on my nose, so I had to remove them. It was no problem, though, as I soon forgot the niggling pain during the two hours or so (with a short break) during which I rocked, rolled and twisted the afternoon away.
The sight of Knut (if a little blurred) strutting his stuff on stage also contributed to my cure, no doubt. I even managed to make eye-contact with him a couple of times. Quite a feat, as I have been to several of the band's gigs over the past couple of years and never got this far.
He was probably just happy to see a member of the audience dancing so enthusiastically. The only member of the audience dancing at this stage in the proceedings, as it happened.
Being the sole person responsible for encouraging audience participation was a tad too much for me and I took a short break every now and then. Apart from this, I was also aware of the fact that my increasingly reddening face was not complementary to the green skirt and pink jacket which I had chosen to wear for the occasion. I needed time-out to allow my colour co-ordination to realign.
During one of these breaks, Jessica and I were approached by one of my neighbours, a pleasant, quiet man (forty-something, single, lives with his parents), asking me if I was a singer with the band. "Noooo", I replied, feeling flattered by the idea. "I'm just enjoying dancing". He then offered to jive with me. Well, it was less a matter of offering than announcing that this was on the cards.
He was obviously already well-oiled and I really didn't fancy careering around the dance floor with him. Even if he were sober, I would not have been enthusiastic. I'm no good at dancing with a partner, unless he can guide me expertly and is prepared to tolerate the flailing of arms and legs and repeated treading-on of toes. He was in no fit state to guide anyone.
I told him I would dance with him later ( LIE !!!), "But please excuse me for now, I have to have a word with Knut."
The band had just paused for a break and I decided to do something I had wanted to do for a long time. I strode right up to Knut, neatly disposing of a fawning fan with a LOOK, and told him that his English pronunciation could do with a little work, although his singing and playing are great (hastily added). I informed him that I am a freelance English teacher and that I would be happy to offer him private lessons, should he be interested.
I was half joking, but he leaned down from the stage, beamed at me and said, "Yes, sure, let's talk about it later!" This was too much, even for me. I backed away, mumbling something about contacting him via the band's Farcebook page. I was in shock and asked Jessica to come outside with me so that I could have a cigarette, then treat myself to a Kirmes Ice-Cream. Such was my traumatized state, I realised I had ordered a middle-sized, rather than my usual small, ice before I could stop myself.
We headed back to our spot. I screeched to a halt, restraining Jessica, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. There stood my neighbour - waiting expectantly.
"OMG! What do we do now?"
Help was at at hand. A group of Rockers, Hell's Angels - What-Ever, sat stage right. I positioned myself close to the group unobrusively (like, yeah?), pulling Jessica with me. She had no choice. My hand was still glued to her shoulder. They regarded us with mild curiosity before returning to their beers, adjusting their bandanas and no doubt exchanging tales of wicked motorcycle road trip-related adventures.
After a while, I took pity on my neighbour. He is a nice guy as well as being a plumber by trade, and my toilet is leaking. I went over and asked if he wanted that dance. He slipped off his jacket, grabbed my hand and we jived!!!! Oh Boy, I didn't know I had it in me. By the end of the song, there wasn't much left OF me. I was exhausted. I thanked him, and he said: "You can come over to my place and practice any time!". "Aha-ha-ha", I tinkled, and headed hurriedly back to Jessica and the Rockers.
"I danced with that old lady over there", she told me. I felt a momentary pang of envy, especially as she was not all sweaty and red in the face like me, but cool and coordinated. I told her about my neighbour's invitation, hastily assuring myself that he would probably be horrified were I to show up on his doorstep, ready to rock 'n' roll. In his daytime sober state, he hardly manages more than a modest, tentative wave when he passes by on his way home from work.
We decided it was time to leave, having no desire to listen to the next band: "The Bavarian Klompers", or somesuch. Anyway, I had an important mission to accomplish when I got home. I now had a prospective English student to lure into my net of linguistic delights.
Having returned home and fed the cat, I switched on my PC and logged into Farcebook. Before messaging my prospective student, and ignoring all those tempting posts, I got straight down to blogging.
Crush or no (appropriate or otherwise), I shall never, ever again make the mistake of Losing Myself to Love (or a facsimile thereof). Business first! Although, English lessons IS business. Innit?
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