Ole to the Man on the Box

I have 4 minutes to produce my thoughts. It's MY turn on the 'poota after a week of inertia due to illnesses (mine, followed by Thuglet's, followed by oh he's up...) Never mind. But this will be a more than usually incoherent spew of tumbling brain-gush.

It's Saturday morning - football training has been avoided and it's MY BLOODY TURN alright? Get your own bleedin' apple juice.

Yesterday was an A - Z of emotions due to the Super-Glued Settee of Hot Boy (not as fun as it may sound) finally bursting into a boiling mass of screaming-for-no-apparent-bloody-reason-child and lid-blown-off-mummy. Lid-blown-off-mummy then sat in the garden with chocolate biscuit and sobbed. Had slightly frightened visitors. 'What's the matter?' No imagination my family. Not even imagination that's required. Just eyes and ears. Surely that would be enough to work it out.

Now, just leaping across my mind contours for a second, I've been a long-time lover of flamenco. I even did classes for a year or so until I moved and couldn't find another place that did it - (was also pregnant by that time and ......... life as I knew it stopped there anyway). I never saw the annual shows at Sadler's Wells cos I was always too skint, never managed to frequent the Spanish bars round the West End where it all flourished (apparently) when I was living up in London as noone else ever wanted to go (and I just never did wander in by myself - being permanently skint), and last year I noticed a flamenco show at the Trinity Theatre in good old Tunbridge Wells but Friday night's are awkward what with football and .....being skint. But this year I see the flyer again and - football or no...... skint or not........ I just went and booked it. And organised Mr GPants' mum and dad to babysit all by myself. Historic.

Been looking forward to it for weeks. Even on holiday I was brewing up as I was reading Victoria Hislop's 'The Return' (which by the way damn near ruined my holiday as parts of it were so harrowing but I had to keep reading). And despite Mr GPants' obvious disinterest I was counting the days. But then I had Hot Boy. The longest temperature in our family's history. All the week's plans daily knocked down like dominoes. Repeat text 'sorry cant make it today.....' And it's Friday and he's STILL BLOODY HOT!!!!! Mr GPants will most likely not get back from a job in Wimbledon in time anyway.

He tries to sound helpful. 'Why don't you take Minx?'

She's not interested.

'Or my mum? She'd love it'

Because it's supposed to be a night out for US! And you're always moaning I don't organise anything and even 2 days ago you said I should think up things we can do together and I have and you can't even be bothered to come and I've been looking forward to this and I've been sat on the bloody settee and the house is in ruins around me and he's screaming and I like it when YOU drive and I need to get out of this house and I you like guitars and I still don't know whether to throw the microwave away cos it smells and it's bad and I hate breakfast-lunch-and-dinner and your dad won't be happy having all the kids until you get back and anyway he's still hot and screaming and I didn't take the kids to their things this week so maybe I shouldn't go to my thing either and my coffee's cold and I've hidden my bank statement and I'm wearing tracksuit bottoms for the 6th day in a row and my ant bites are driving me mad and your mum might not like the funny singing and I haven't emptied the dishwasher and my hair is crap and you don't understand me.......

Actually I think I said 'Mmnn'.

Then Minx came out and said 'He's stopped screaming. I'm a genius. His apple juice was in the wrong cup. And he's taken his medicine.'

A new dawn rises.

And I sort of scrape the house back into a liveable pod. Cut myself a new fringe. Layer on extra smoky eye-liner above and below the eye and smother in green shimmery stuff AND feed the little bastards. Mr GPants makes it back in time and OFF WE GO.

He's still obviously uninspired by the whole thing but manages not to snore. I love it. I love the fact that the singer looks like a proper big ol gypsy wailer. I love the 2 guitarists - one sleek-haired, one long and wavy-haired. I love the little chap sitting on a box, batting out his rythmns. And I love the 2 women - not young and pretty and smiley but real and expressive and earthy. If one member of the gang isn't required for a number they get up and bugger off. At one point everyone had gone but the Man on the Box. But then one of the guitarists came back. Of course come the interval it is this moment that had captured Mr GPants' only shred of enthusiasm. 'I was hoping we would just get the Man on the Box' which led to a rambling giggle of ' "And what do you do?" "I sit on a box" "That must be very interesting" ' etc etc

And then we went back in for the 2nd half for more cool (for me) stuff. And at one point I reasise that the Man on the Box isn't there. Where's our Man on the Box? Suddenly we hear Snappety Snappety Snappety Snappety and on comes - The Man off his Box but he's taken off his shirt, put a dandy red bandana on his head and then.......... OMG - the Man with the Castanets is the most jaw-droppingly astounding dancer I have EVER seen. His solo performance went on for about 20 minutes of amazingly powerful beautiful passionate brilliance. At one point his feet were truly a blur. I think my gob was hanging open. He was certainly some secret weapon for the 2nd half. My head is still pulsating with the energy.

Mr GPants' verdict?

'He's gay.'

I googled 'Flamenco Express' this morning. His name is Titi (more guffawing from Mr G). Titi Flores. Look him up.

The brats are really circling now. Drooling. They want blood. My time is up. Actually I've taken the piss a bit I suppose. But I had to share my Titi experience with you.

Ole!