May I discuss with you good people (I pick the plural with some optimism)…music.  This evening I have been subjected to hour upon hour of some raven haired warbler called Nick Cave, and yes, I admit that some of it is fairly acceptable if you squint, well, fold down your ear flaps and think of England, but not in the vast and unending quantities it has been torturing me with today. This is not the only offering I have been subjected to I must admit. There has also been a brief smattering of Lou Reed, The Chemical Brothers and strangely a bit of Val Doonican’s Delaney’s Donkey. Sigh.

Quite frankly I need a change of musical scene.  The short human seems relatively obsessed by the Cave chap and the tall one is not that much better quite frankly. With a growing sense of unease I decided to peruse their musical collection to see what I was contending with. Well. Where to start? I may have mentioned before an unhealthy amount of Leonard Cohen listening in this strange house – enough to bring forth tears in the most cheerful of us – and quite honestly it did not improve. At all. The short human happened upon me idly flicking through her musical predilections and has now taken it upon herself to ‘educate me’ musically. She began by informing me of her dreadful (and I think irrational) phobia of musicals, although Calamity Jane is reasonably acceptable, apparently. Just.

So I sat, consumed with boredom, with folded paws and a closed mind as she began to wave her arms about with much enthusiasm – several hours I will never get back I regret to say.

Occasionally I do get to witness most amusing musical evenings which are really rather splendid entertainment. Generally these occur on a weekend evening. Just as they decide to go to bed they decide they need to listen to a bit of music first, for what purpose I am unaware. One tune is played and somehow spurs them on to listen to another. Then I am afraid the Laphroaig makes an appearance and then all hell lets loose. Both find themselves whirling about the room and caterwauling at the top of their voices. It really is quite unseemly.

The short human seems to favour either drawling, depressing dirges like the aforementioned Mr Cohen …or what she describes as a ‘good hard banging tune’ to which she flings herself about with embarrassing abandonment, pogoing about like a rabid kangaroo. Yes, I know.

“Jump around! Jump up, jump up and get down”.

They will then begin to discuss their plan to open their own bar, which quite frankly sounds like a cross between some disreputable palace of dubious morals and a gin bar. There would be top hats worn, crinolines and the occasional jaunty thigh high boot – and that is just the chaps.

The evening always ends the same way with the tall human displaying his unending talents with a rendition of Peter Sarstedt’s ‘Where do you go to my lovely?’ whilst he waltzes the diminutive loon around the sofa.

Thankfully bed time knocks at the door, is answered and I am thus saved from any more of this dreadful dreadful behaviour.

This is where I leave you dear reader…Oh..oh no…the Laphraoig is out. Save me…