Flamingo Dancing

If you've been paying attention you will know that my female staff teaches belly dancing. Now she has taken up something called flamingo dancing too. She's not teaching that at the moment, just learning, but give her time. Before long she'll be out at Lake Nakuru teaching the flamingos to foxtrot or something. So anyway, on Saturday night my female staff's mum, my male staff, Boris, Baci and I were crammed cheek by furry butt into the Hyundai Getz for the ride to Palmwoods Memorial Hall where the flamingos were due to dance. The benevolence of Lady Luck never ceases to amaze me, and despite my male staff's best efforts to ram the Getz at one hundred and ten kilometres an hour into a variety of obstacles - trucks, petrol stations, cattle, police vehicles, we arrived at the venue in one piece, though Boris did have a slight bladder accident during one particularly close call, which involved a tree, a large Hereford bull and a fire engine.

So, while my female staff went backstage to change into her flamingo costume, the rest of us settled into our seats. I sat on my female staff's Mum's lap, contentedly depositing bush chocolate on her white skirt, while Boris and Baci sat with my male staff. Boris on his lap and Baci on his left shoulder. Being the smallest of us my male staff said that it was only fair that he had the best view and it had the added advantage of allowing him to wiggle his bum at the people sitting behind us. Then the house lights dimmed and Boris, thinking it was time for bed went to sleep. Not for long though because a moment later the music started. Now I'm not a great fan of music. My staff aren't allowed to use their sound system at all and I make my female staff close all the doors between the piano room and me. She is the only piano player outlawed by the Geneva convention. I've said it before - "If music be the food of love, I'm going on a diet."

My female staff, front and centre on the stage and not a single flamingo in sight.

This was something else though, someone was playing a guitar as though he had just consumed twelve tins of that awful caffeine drink stuff. What's it called? "Dead Bull" or something. It was deafening, and then a singer started wailing as though his testostricles were being assaulted by a pack of African wild dogs. Then the stage curtains parted to reveal, not a flock of flamingos as had been promised by my staff, but a whole herd of middle aged female humans dressed in what my male staff called traditional Spanish attire, with long flouncy skirts colourful tops and half a florist shop stuffed behind their ears. My female staff was up there too, swishing her skirt around and oh the horror, showing her knees! Naturally I was outraged and tried to reach up from my spot on my female staff's Mum's lap to cover young Baci's eyes. But he wasn't there. He'd disappeared from my male staff's shoulder.

It then became apparent that the stage was infested with bull ants or something equally bitey because all the ladies started leaping up and down and stamping their feet wildly and very loudly, while frantically waving their arms in great circles and clacking together what appeared to be half walnuts strapped to their fingers, so what with the manic guitarist, the yowling singer and the herd of middle aged ladies stamping their feet and clacking their nuts I was starting to regret attending this event. Then things started looking more promising. My male staff stood up and started howling like the singer. At first I thought he was just joining in to show his appreciation, but then I noticed a wriggling lump under the front of his shirt. It appeared that Baci had slid off my male staff's shoulder into his shirt to escape the din and all the stamping coming from the stage had frightened him so much that he had latched onto my male staff's right nipple with his razor sharp little teeth. Another reflex had loosened his bladder and the resulting deluge warmed my male staff's stomach, which was good, because he had been complaining that it was a little chilly in the hall.

Meanwhile, my male staff's agonised leap to his feet had catapulted Boris from his comfortable repose on his lap onto the top of the head of the gentleman sitting in front of us. He in turn then stood and glared at my male staff, who was still yelling while desperately trying to fish Baci out from the front of his shirt with one hand and mop up the hot pee with a grubby handkerchief with the other. For a moment I thought the man was going to say something unpleasant to my male staff, but when he saw the wet lump under my male staff's shirt he obviously thought he was about to witness an "Alien" moment and thought better of it. Before he turned to face the front again he plucked Boris from the top of his head and handed him back to my male staff, but not before my female staff's Mum had looked up at him and said to my male staff. "Ooooh look dear. It's Donald Trump." Then once Boris had been removed, "Oh sorry dear, my mistake." I wonder if we'll be invited to the next flamingo concert.

Boris' Bit
Ich don't sink zat der mann vas enjoyink havink me on top of his kopf, und ich sink zat he enjoyed havink to shake der poopies from his hair vunce he had handed me back to Herr Billy's male staff even less.