A BANANA, IN PYJAMAS, AND MUSIC THERAPY
Today, I danced in the kitchen in my pyjamas like the alcoholic housewife that I probably am. At my feet lay a trodden banana; on the kitchen worktop, an obese fly barfing on a piece of toast; at my side, an overflowing bin smelling of, erm, what’s it called again, that most evocative of smells, oh yes, SHIT. But did I care? No I didn’t. I just danced and I danced and I fantasised. About crazy lovely stuff. And why was I dancing? Well, because I was listening to some tunes for a ‘Music Therapy’ blog I’ve been tagged to write by the awesomely prolific Motherventing and Older Single Mum . (Now, before I start, I want to point out that when I say ‘therapy’ I don’t mean “real” therapy, oh no, no, NO, I don’t need “real” therapy, not at all, I’m just tired, real tired, that’s all. Hey, just because I might have stopped dancing at one point, and started weeping for no apparent reason, and then, having caught sight of myself in the mirror, started punching myself in the thigh and screa...