Monday, Monday (bah-da bah-da-da-da)
So good to me (bah-da bah-da-da-da)
Monday mornin’, it was all I hoped it would be
Oh Monday mornin’, Monday mornin’ couldn’t guarantee (bah-da bah-da-da-da)
That Monday evenin’ you would still be here with me
The Mamas and the Papas
Her body temperature began to rise, serotonin and cortisol flooded her brain and neurons started firing all while her blood pressure steadily increased. A moment later, one eye slowly opened and was followed by some sluggish eyelid fluttering that hastened her remaining dream images to stall like a Netflix movie buffering against the strain of an overburdened bandwidth. As these ocular dramatics abated, the curtain of her eyelids slowly lifted to allow a certain amount of light to nudge awareness towards her inner sanctum and a general wakefulness. According to her Fitbit sleep tracker – she had recorded a restful seven hours and fifty-two minutes of sleep (minus the three minutes for her 2 a.m. argument with bedroom furniture as she tried to find her way to the bathroom in order to shed the last of the previous evening’s Chardonnay)
As she moved her body from slumbering supine to a sagging sitting position, she noticed her two indolent Gremlins sitting at the foot of her bed; Too-Scared on one side and Mañana on the other side, she ignored them today, and with that rebuff they slide off the bed and sulked off to try again another day. As she ambled about in her bedroom, shaking the duvet and drawing open the curtains, a notion edged its way to the front of her mind. At first, she considered it annoying, rather similarly to a pesty fly and brushed it aside. As is the nature of pesty flies, it returned and buzzed about, adding further thoughts and images. The genesis forming in her mind was about music and forming a band with guitars, amps, drum kits and a few adoring fans. This again was ignored like the junior clerk at an office meeting, raising his hand in the diminishing hope of being seen and heard. The words but and however intervened to add impetus; she considered the value of her mother’s musical influence and the countless hours spent learning to play the piano. (However) her present indecisive journey and the torpor of her mid-thirties’ and all its ramifications needed redress. (But) also, this was an opportunity to showcase her extensive and colourful wardrobe – she loved dressing up. She decided to entertain this idea with further investigation – just what an uneventful Monday morning needed.
Whilst she prepared breakfast, a discussion ensued between the executive of her mind and this impulsive thought, which was now running around like an excited child before Christmas waiting for presents to be unwrapped. The memo circulating around various departments of her mind, elaborated on the dynamics of this punk-rock ensemble; a tight three-piece band with bass, lead guitar and drums. Led admirably by voluptuous gals wearing habiliments of punk-rock bands. “Mmmm, that is actually a great idea”, she pondered and exclaimed to no one in particular. Oh dear!, grieved her prefrontal cortex, knowing that this was not a well thought through idea. Oblivious to the consternation of her prefrontal cortex, she carried on quite happily, and shifted her attention to the weighty decision of choosing the correct wardrobe and appropriate Intsagram #hashtags. Prefrontal cortex 0 – rash decision 1.
Being a woman, she was spoiled for choice when it came to items of clothing; would it be Dr. Martens multicolour Pascal boots with torn Che Guevara knock-off T-shirt, cut to resemble a Bardot dress laced with obligatory fishnet stockings? or Boho-Chic? resplendent in tie-dyed apparel as commonly seen in the little sea-side village of Scarborough. These were important decisions a woman of her standards needed to consider. She wavered in front of the full-length mirror with her various outfit combinations scattered on the bed, after some thoughtful deliberation with her inner fashion-designer she settled on a fusion of bovver boots with a plunging neckline dress. With her final choice of clothes strategically placed and corresponding accoutrements and accessories placed on her person, she was ready to actualize this plan.
Even as a child playing the piano she had a hankering for the bass guitar, the way it bridged the gap between treble and percussion, the unsung hero of rhythm and harmony. And she also thought that she would look damn sexy playing a bass guitar wearing Bovver boots and a floral dress. Now all she had to do was to purchase a bass guitar and more pressingly, learn how to play one. Casting her net of discovery over the search engines of the world wide web, she narrowed her inquiry to a local music shop and a nearby bass guitar teacher (who looked decidedly cute in his profile picture holding a bass guitar with the same devotion as if he was holding a kitten) So with her bank card tucked tightly between cell phone, flat keys and her enthusiasm, she strove off in pursuit of this new adventure.
Adventure
/ədˈvɛntʃə/
noun
an unusual and exciting or daring experience.
It has been said that tales of adventure and ancient lore usually have several themes: vanquished victims that transform themselves into heroes (or heroines) through an arduous path of trial and tribulation, at times involving Phoenixes, ashes and a general sooty transformation with the later chapters seeing the imprisoned soul escaping the attention of trolls with hairy feet to begin a better life usually in a far-flung village with apple orchards and other bucolic scenic depictions. This was nothing of the sort.
Returning to our story, Lisa (her name now revealed) boarded the MyCiti bus enroute to the lower reaches of Long Street. The bus ride was uneventful save for the Gospel music played at full volume by a recently converted-online pastor, resplendent in a three-piece suit as becomes most charismatic church pastors, we suspect he was raising money to insert a gold crown where his passion gap used to be. Lisa disembarked and with a certain gait that becomes one wearing Dr. Martens and fishnet stockings, took the second part of her journey to the famed music shop “Bass & Thunder”, an aptly named store – as any metalhead would testify. Ambling over to the guitar section, Lisa stared intently at the vast display of four, five and six string guitars. This clearly called for an informed decision; female bass guitar players obviously needed the correct instrument. Would it be a standard long necked Fender Mustang? or the Cort Fretless bass so loved by low-slinging Goth bassists. “Hi”, she interjected at the two salesmen, bedraggled in regular music shop garb of oversized T-shirts and baggy jeans, and the de-rigueur skull-head key chain with unlaced DC skate shoes. “So, she continued,”, as the surly two slowly turned their heads towards the sound that had roused them from their mid-morning torpor, “I was wondering which bass guitar would you prefer to see strapped on a rousing woman wearing fishnet stockings?” “Well …”, the less-hairy of the two stammered in his verbosity. This quick answer was followed by silence, she stood there waiting patiently, staring at the two perplexed protagonists. “It will all depend on what you’re trying to catch”, answered the second, clearly the sharper of the two. Lisa noticing the attention her Bardot dress had attracted, and proceeded unabated; “Well, that’s settled then; low riding bass.”, answered Lisa unequivocally. “what’s the discount for band members?”, asked Lisa, now lengthening her stride towards a good deal. “D-d-d do you even know how to play a guitar?”, stammered torpor-induced salesman. “It’s all about presentation my dear “, fired back Lisa, gazing at his all too obvious ill-fitting jeans and untied skate shoes. She adjusted her 32-C cup black lace brassiere with obvious intent. There comes a time in a man’s life that certain events remain forever etched in the front part of his brain, this was one of those moments. The svelte motion of Lisa’s hand was cat-like as she dexterously wisped her hand across her breasts to reveal ever so slightly, in the shortest possible time, the faintest hint of voluptuous orbs (mammary glands to biologists but true love to male music-shop floor salesmen) “You can close your mouth now”, she added, as the gaping perpetrator prayed for the carpet to swallow him whole. He sulked off, head low and ego even lower. She paid with her credit card, courtesy of VISA (with band members discount of course) and breezed out with one long necked Fender Mustang and an extra-long shoulder strap thrown in for free (of course).
Next on her list was to inquire, scout and then hunt down a teacher that fiddled the four strings with consummate ease and expression. Cuteness would be a second prize. The music shop sloths recommended Jake – who she already googled. They provided his mobile number, which was scribbled on the back of her “Bass & Thunder” receipt, a carefully worded WhatsApp message secured location and first contact. She allowed a certain amount of oxytocin to distribute through her corporeal element before proceeding. As it was within a reasonable distance she decided to walk. So off she troddled, her thoughts ambling between a much-needed cappuccino, when could she write her first song and the pesty pre-dominant thought; how cute was he really like in person.