Dancing to Music Only We Can Hear

Petra and I took advantage of a lull between storms on Friday and went into the main library. After we’d picked books and visited the cafe, we ran around outside (or at least Petra ran and I wandered along behind). Petra uses the wide open spaces of Civic Square to practice being separate from me. She runs ahead, then stops and looks back to see how close I am; if I’m too far away she waits for me, if I’m close enough she runs on. We went up the stairs, onto the bridge, played on the seats for a while, then went down the ramp heading for the carpark. Petra charged off down the ramp singing her lovely version of The Clean’s Beatnik – “He’s a rabbi, he’s a gugu, he’s a beanbag, beanbag…”

I wasn’t so fortunate with the ear worms that day. While Petra’s brain offered up a wonderful blast of Dunedin DIY post-punk pop, my brain decided that what I needed stuck in my head was Celine Dion singing The Power of Love. Obviously my subconscious has a sadistic, or should that be masochistic, streak, because I find the sound of Celine Dion’s voice hitting those high high notes actively painful. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and not in a good way. Just as well she’s relatively restrained in The Power of Love, or I might have lost my mind before the ear worm went away.

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