About two months ago, I moved into my own flat which I had previously rehabilitated. Until recently, I have managed to somewhat get furniture arranged in a way that the flat appears both cosy and convenient. This harmony was completely storted when I yesterday moved in the last remaining piece of furniture: my contrabass. I call it furniture on purpose, as I haven't played it in about five years. And yet, all those who have ever read "the contrabass", a monologue written by Patrick Suesskind, will know how dominant this vocal piece of wood can be. It's not like a flute which you can simply store away and forget about. Or a normal violine which you can pass on to your cousin, so that other parental ears somewhere far away get tortured instead of your own ears. Or a guitar, which - once learned how to play few accords - will make you the star of the evening for at least the length of one song, no matter how bad you actually play it. No, a contrabass remains part of your life, once you have decided to get one. I am still hesitant to blame it for failed relationships, as Suesskind does in his book, but my contrabass has certainly caused me troubles, too, especially in moments of moving from one flat to another, or worse, from one city to another. I remember people asking me all kind of funny questions whenever I travelled with my contrabass, well protected in a coffin sized black cover. There were times I considered leaving it behind - and yet, something inside my heart and mind has just never managed to actually accomplish the abandonment of my bass.
Since yesterday we are reunited. While Mia has already enjoyed listening to its out -of-tune sound, my own mind once again is disrupted over the question: where to place this overdimensional instrument? First I dropped it in the room which I currently use as a storage - but later on felt ashamed to leave something that was part of my life for many years laying next to lumber. In a sudden trace of enthusiasm, I moved it out of the storage room today; and an odysse through my (little) flat started. Several places in the living room were tried out, each time resulting in the Diderot effect, meaning I would have to move everything else + get some new furniture in order to have the bass fit in. Considering my empty wallet, I moved on to the kitchen - but obviously, a contrabass just doesn't belong to a kitchen, after all, it's a music instrument and not a cooking utensil. Before considering the last option, to simply get rid of it again, I decided to place it in my sleeping room, squeezed between cupboard and diaper changing table. So Mia can look at it while getting her nappies changed, allowing me to join the club of crazy mothers who believe that playing a Bach suite is more important than learning how to walk around on two feet ;)
It seems that my parents are applying quite a few double standards when it comes to what their pregnant daughter should and should not do: A four hour trek two weeks before the delivery date is a definite should, while going out in the evening to catch up with people, take a sip of wine and a glass of mineral water is a shouldn't. Walking my dog through the forest is a should, while walking doing some shopping in the afternoon is a shouldn't. Cleaning my flat appears to be a should as well, but sitting a couple of hours in front of my computer is a shouldn't. Watching movies that have some bloody scenes in them are a defenite shouldn't. So far, we reached consensus on the should part; the shouldn't part could do with some few more solid arguments from my parents side...
Despite the should and shouldn't, as well as the rain, we all enjoyed the trek - including Argo
The obligatory cup of coffee after lunch - a "must" all members of the family do agree on - regardless of altutide, weather and level of exhaustion. 
