No matter the size of your laundry pile.
No matter the microwave that's died a sudden death.
No matter the teetering pile of unwashed dishes.
No matter the uneaten dinner. Again.
No matter the lack of milk for breakfast.
No matter the car that needs to be MOT'd.
No matter the VAT bill that needs paying.
No matter the to do list that is running off the page and into next year.
No matter the constant stream of childcare issues.
No matter the tantrums, strops and sulks.
No matter the nagging, whining and clinging.
No matter the jeans that won't do up.
No matter the highlights that are in dire need of redoing.
No matter the neighbours with their new extension overlooking us.
No matter the thatched roof that is costing us £13k to replace.
No matter the garden that masquerades as a jungle.
No matter the husband who is away again.
No matter how vile my day might have been, with an iPod plugged into my ears, a few tunes will transport me away from it all. The most mundane of tasks are tapped out methodically while my mind, heart and spirits can drift to far away places.
Music changes the colour and emotion of life. It gives imagination the freedom to run to undiscovered places or revisit favourite memories. It washes the banality of chores away. It eases the tension flickering across shoulder blades. It gives goose bumps. It makes me smile.
Or perhaps it's just me?
*Written to the background strains of Newton Faulkner's 'Dream Catch Me' with lyrics that go:
There’s a place I go
When I’m alone
Do anything I want
Be anyone I wanna be
How apt.
Showing posts with label Music class. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Music class. Show all posts
Wednesday, 6 May 2009
Thursday, 27 November 2008
Desert Island Discs
I have been invited by the lovely Katyboo to come up with my Desert Island Discs collection as per the BBC Radio 4 show which invites celebrities on to discuss what they'd take to a desert island. I'm allowed 8 pieces of music, one book (not the Bible or Shakespeare but that's cool because they wouldn't have been on my list anyway) and one luxury item (not to be used for escaping from the island).
I do wonder a bit about the logistics of this. I mean, is it a trick question? You take 8 tunes with you but unless you take your ipod, record player, walkman or gramphone as your luxury item, you might as well be humming the 8 tunes in your head. In which case, why limit yourself to 8?
But assuming they've got the technical bit covered - perhaps the tunes are piped out of a low hanging coconut - here are my choices (note: for your listening pleasure, I've linked each song to the YouTube video of it so you can have it playing in the background - it's all about ambience):
Track 1: Andrea Bocelli - Con te Partiro. Because it's beautiful and moves me to tears whenever I hear it. It would be perfect for watching gorgeous sunsets from my lonely island and weeping for home. Plus I walked down the aisle to it so it's got meaning for me. So that's my soppy choice.
Track 2: Walking on Sunshine - Katrina and the waves. Because my island would obviously be sunny. Probably hot. Probably too hot. But I would endeavour to remain upbeat and optimistic despite getting diarrhea from living solely on coconut milk and would celebrate the sunshine. Plus, you just can't help but get up and boogie when you hear that tune. So it's a good work out number too. And it's important to stay toned and trim as you never know when a boat of gorgeous naval officers might sail past.
Track 3: In your eyes - Peter Gabriel. Because it's a falling in love song that I can never hear too many times. It would probably inspire me to whittle coconut shells into the shape of hearts and then link them together as ethnic jewellery (again, useful for when the naval officers come by).
Track 4&5: Bohemian Rhapsody & We are the Champions - Queen. Because where else could you sing these two songs out loud at the very top of your voice using all the lung power you can muster, with a piece of driftwood as a microphone and a palm frond for a mock guitar without a shred of embarrassment? You know you want to do it now, don't you?
Track 6: Under Attack - ABBA. This isn't one of their well known songs. I could have selected any number of those, but this song has special meaning for me. As children, my sisters and I would spend hours, days, weeks, months practicing a dance routine to this song. Time well spent as I can remember exactly none of the dance moves. But with nothing but time on my hands, I could use the time on my island to reach into the dark spaces of my brain and recall each and every step or possibly make up some new ones. Not only that but I imagine myself wearing a camoflaguey type head band and a t-shirt of the same tatty fabric, tied in a knot just below my breasts which would be remarkably pert given their lack of bra and my diet of coconut milk would display my bronzed six pack. Honestly, I'd look bloody marvellous. And if that isn't enough, then just take a look at the first verse words to show you how appropriate it would be for when my paranoid delusions set in:
Don't know how to take it, don't know where to go
My resistance running low
And every day the hold is getting tighter and it troubles me so
(You know that I'm nobody's fool)
I'm nobody's fool and yet it's clear to me
I don't have a strategy
It's just like taking candy from a baby and I think I must be
Under attack, I'm being taken
About to crack, defences breaking
Won't somebody please have a heart
Come and rescue me now cos I'm falling apart
It's a toe tapper.
Track 7: Under African Skies - Paul Simon. Because it reminds me of home and makes me smile. Not to mention giving me a great chance to show off my infamous butt dancing.
Track 8: Lollipop - Mika. Because it is camptastic and I LOVE IT. Sad but true. But no-one else will be there so no tutting and telling me to act my age. So phhht. (I particularly like the brass marching band bit - I might even whittle a baton from palm tree bark and start marching and twirling. I'd definitely have a palm frond hula skirt to go with it.)
So that ends my musical interlude and I've worked up a sweat typing this as I've been bopping to all the tunes (thanks YouTube).
Onto my book. Tricky one. Honestly and this is terribly, terribly sad but if I could get away with 7 books it would be the Harry Potter collection. But as I'm limited to one, it would probably be 'Teach yourself French' so that on the off chance I ever got off the island (or indeed am rescued by some dashing French sailors) I could sound tres sexy.
And finally, my luxury item. Tricky - do I go practical or do I go pampering or do I take something to eat? Probably a diary (that comes with a pen attached so that it counts as one thing). I imagine the entries would go something like:
Day 55:
Woke up. It's sunny (again). I'm thirsty. And hungry. Coconut milk for breakfast then. Again. Feeling a bit down. Probably time for a bit of Katrina and the Waves.
Day 56:
It's sunny. (again). Didn't sleep due to sprained ankle. Must remember not to dance like a loon nearby long drop. Wish I'd brought soap as my luxury item.
Day 57:
It's sunny (again). Think I might try catch a fish today. Coconuts are just sooo yesterday. Sure I'm allergic to them but what the heck.
Day 58:
It's sunny (again). Turns out I really am allergic to fish. But the good news is that I used my pen to stab a hole in my throat so now I can breathe again. Hoorah. Time for some soul lifting Paul and Peter. Might whittle myself a new heart necklace too.
Day 60:
It's sunny (but there is a solitary cloud in the sky). Today I'm going to have noir de coco for breakfast. My french really is coming along nicely.
Day 61:
It's sunny. There's a surprise. Fab sunset last night though. Inspired choice to bring the ol' Bocelli with me. Just as shame all the weeping dehydrates me so badly.
Day 62:
It's sunny which means I need to have an early start before it gets too hot. It's time for a dress rehearsal for my Big Show. I'm opening with Abba, then doing a bit of butt dancing, some baton twirling, before closing with my two big Queen numbers. My audience is a coconut, my washed up log (I call him Bert), a turtle shell and three stones. I'm pretty nervous. Tough crowd. Wish me luck.
Day 63:
It's sunny. Who fucking cares. Not so much as a smattering of applause last night, much less the expected standing ovation. And after all my effort too. This place blows.
Day 64:
I think I see a ship. Ooh, looks like it's got French men on board. And they're all doing the YMCA. Am sure they'll love my Mika track. Must fly.
I do wonder a bit about the logistics of this. I mean, is it a trick question? You take 8 tunes with you but unless you take your ipod, record player, walkman or gramphone as your luxury item, you might as well be humming the 8 tunes in your head. In which case, why limit yourself to 8?
But assuming they've got the technical bit covered - perhaps the tunes are piped out of a low hanging coconut - here are my choices (note: for your listening pleasure, I've linked each song to the YouTube video of it so you can have it playing in the background - it's all about ambience):
Track 1: Andrea Bocelli - Con te Partiro. Because it's beautiful and moves me to tears whenever I hear it. It would be perfect for watching gorgeous sunsets from my lonely island and weeping for home. Plus I walked down the aisle to it so it's got meaning for me. So that's my soppy choice.
Track 2: Walking on Sunshine - Katrina and the waves. Because my island would obviously be sunny. Probably hot. Probably too hot. But I would endeavour to remain upbeat and optimistic despite getting diarrhea from living solely on coconut milk and would celebrate the sunshine. Plus, you just can't help but get up and boogie when you hear that tune. So it's a good work out number too. And it's important to stay toned and trim as you never know when a boat of gorgeous naval officers might sail past.
Track 3: In your eyes - Peter Gabriel. Because it's a falling in love song that I can never hear too many times. It would probably inspire me to whittle coconut shells into the shape of hearts and then link them together as ethnic jewellery (again, useful for when the naval officers come by).
Track 4&5: Bohemian Rhapsody & We are the Champions - Queen. Because where else could you sing these two songs out loud at the very top of your voice using all the lung power you can muster, with a piece of driftwood as a microphone and a palm frond for a mock guitar without a shred of embarrassment? You know you want to do it now, don't you?
Track 6: Under Attack - ABBA. This isn't one of their well known songs. I could have selected any number of those, but this song has special meaning for me. As children, my sisters and I would spend hours, days, weeks, months practicing a dance routine to this song. Time well spent as I can remember exactly none of the dance moves. But with nothing but time on my hands, I could use the time on my island to reach into the dark spaces of my brain and recall each and every step or possibly make up some new ones. Not only that but I imagine myself wearing a camoflaguey type head band and a t-shirt of the same tatty fabric, tied in a knot just below my breasts which would be remarkably pert given their lack of bra and my diet of coconut milk would display my bronzed six pack. Honestly, I'd look bloody marvellous. And if that isn't enough, then just take a look at the first verse words to show you how appropriate it would be for when my paranoid delusions set in:
Don't know how to take it, don't know where to go
My resistance running low
And every day the hold is getting tighter and it troubles me so
(You know that I'm nobody's fool)
I'm nobody's fool and yet it's clear to me
I don't have a strategy
It's just like taking candy from a baby and I think I must be
Under attack, I'm being taken
About to crack, defences breaking
Won't somebody please have a heart
Come and rescue me now cos I'm falling apart
It's a toe tapper.
Track 7: Under African Skies - Paul Simon. Because it reminds me of home and makes me smile. Not to mention giving me a great chance to show off my infamous butt dancing.
Track 8: Lollipop - Mika. Because it is camptastic and I LOVE IT. Sad but true. But no-one else will be there so no tutting and telling me to act my age. So phhht. (I particularly like the brass marching band bit - I might even whittle a baton from palm tree bark and start marching and twirling. I'd definitely have a palm frond hula skirt to go with it.)
So that ends my musical interlude and I've worked up a sweat typing this as I've been bopping to all the tunes (thanks YouTube).
Onto my book. Tricky one. Honestly and this is terribly, terribly sad but if I could get away with 7 books it would be the Harry Potter collection. But as I'm limited to one, it would probably be 'Teach yourself French' so that on the off chance I ever got off the island (or indeed am rescued by some dashing French sailors) I could sound tres sexy.
And finally, my luxury item. Tricky - do I go practical or do I go pampering or do I take something to eat? Probably a diary (that comes with a pen attached so that it counts as one thing). I imagine the entries would go something like:
Day 55:
Woke up. It's sunny (again). I'm thirsty. And hungry. Coconut milk for breakfast then. Again. Feeling a bit down. Probably time for a bit of Katrina and the Waves.
Day 56:
It's sunny. (again). Didn't sleep due to sprained ankle. Must remember not to dance like a loon nearby long drop. Wish I'd brought soap as my luxury item.
Day 57:
It's sunny (again). Think I might try catch a fish today. Coconuts are just sooo yesterday. Sure I'm allergic to them but what the heck.
Day 58:
It's sunny (again). Turns out I really am allergic to fish. But the good news is that I used my pen to stab a hole in my throat so now I can breathe again. Hoorah. Time for some soul lifting Paul and Peter. Might whittle myself a new heart necklace too.
Day 60:
It's sunny (but there is a solitary cloud in the sky). Today I'm going to have noir de coco for breakfast. My french really is coming along nicely.
Day 61:
It's sunny. There's a surprise. Fab sunset last night though. Inspired choice to bring the ol' Bocelli with me. Just as shame all the weeping dehydrates me so badly.
Day 62:
It's sunny which means I need to have an early start before it gets too hot. It's time for a dress rehearsal for my Big Show. I'm opening with Abba, then doing a bit of butt dancing, some baton twirling, before closing with my two big Queen numbers. My audience is a coconut, my washed up log (I call him Bert), a turtle shell and three stones. I'm pretty nervous. Tough crowd. Wish me luck.
Day 63:
It's sunny. Who fucking cares. Not so much as a smattering of applause last night, much less the expected standing ovation. And after all my effort too. This place blows.
Day 64:
I think I see a ship. Ooh, looks like it's got French men on board. And they're all doing the YMCA. Am sure they'll love my Mika track. Must fly.
Tuesday, 15 July 2008
Sports day
Sigh. I should have taken it as a sign that sports day wasn't going to go well when I picked up my lemon drizzle cake intended for the sports day cake sale, and dropped it on the floor. Luckily I applied the 5 second rule and managed to scoop it up before it could get cooties. But it didn't survive unscathed. It wasn't going to win any beauty awards, but trying to get two boys, their spare clothes, bags, lunchboxes and the cake out of the house all in one go, I didn't really care.
So a somewhat shaky start, but at least the boys seemed happy to be going to sports day.
Now, before I continue, I need to give a bit of history. Child 1 doesn't like being looked at. He hates being the centre of attention. He will not participate in group activities. Or rather, he will not participate in group activities if he thinks he's being watched by his mother.
When he was a toddler, I attempted a music group type class with him, one where all the mums feel like idiots singing the wheels on the bus while the children play with their navels. Let's just say we only went once. I don't think they would have let us back in again if we'd tried. When he was roughly 2, I took him off to Little Kickers, mini football, because he loved kicking balls around. I had to spend every session running around the pitch with him looking like a right twit simply to avoid a tantrum, while all the other mums sat and watched while their children gamely joined in. After one tantrum under my chair too many (him, not me although I was close), we decided not to return. £80 well spent.
I then gave up on group activities. But sports day is one of those things that isn't really optional. Last year he sat on my lap and cried his way through it. I was told by many well meaning people: 'It's an age thing. He'll be fine next year.'
So this year, armed with that sage advice and feedback from teachers that he had been doing very well and winning races in all the practice sessions, I felt confident that he might actually take part.
So you can imagine my deep, deep joy as I saw said child emerge onto the sports field with all his classmates, howling and holding out his arms for mummy. I pretended I had no idea who his mummy was for a while in the hope that by not getting any attention from me, he'd settle down. I was wrong. It simply escalated. I sighed deeply and went over to cuddle him. Between his teacher and I, we talked him off the ledge and got him to sit on the mat with his mates. But he refused to take part. Again.
How I do enjoy missing a full morning's work to watch other people's children charge up and down a field. At this point I pegged my hopes on child number 2 who's normally game for anything. He had a good start, taking part in race 1, but was definitely completely bemused by the experience and forgot that he's learned how to run with his arms bent at the elbows, and reverted to his penguin run, arms flapping wildly behind his back. But he tried. At least he tried...
Thereafter he refused to take part again. Instead, mummy had to sit on the mat with him. At least by this point, son 1 had decided to pluck up his courage and have a go. For a kid who normally appears to have a nest of ants residing in his pants, he moved at snail's pace. I think it was his attempt at making a statement, saying: 'Yes, I'll do it, but no it's not cool and in no way am I going to put myself out for you lot.' Still, he tried. Which is more than he did last year.
And miracle of miracles, he even got up to collect his leaver's certificate without any kind of meltdown. So leaps and heaps of progress really. Maybe by the time he's 18 and wrapping up his high school career, he'll be the school egg and spoon champion. I'll be sure to have my camera at the ready.
So a somewhat shaky start, but at least the boys seemed happy to be going to sports day.
Now, before I continue, I need to give a bit of history. Child 1 doesn't like being looked at. He hates being the centre of attention. He will not participate in group activities. Or rather, he will not participate in group activities if he thinks he's being watched by his mother.
When he was a toddler, I attempted a music group type class with him, one where all the mums feel like idiots singing the wheels on the bus while the children play with their navels. Let's just say we only went once. I don't think they would have let us back in again if we'd tried. When he was roughly 2, I took him off to Little Kickers, mini football, because he loved kicking balls around. I had to spend every session running around the pitch with him looking like a right twit simply to avoid a tantrum, while all the other mums sat and watched while their children gamely joined in. After one tantrum under my chair too many (him, not me although I was close), we decided not to return. £80 well spent.
I then gave up on group activities. But sports day is one of those things that isn't really optional. Last year he sat on my lap and cried his way through it. I was told by many well meaning people: 'It's an age thing. He'll be fine next year.'
So this year, armed with that sage advice and feedback from teachers that he had been doing very well and winning races in all the practice sessions, I felt confident that he might actually take part.
So you can imagine my deep, deep joy as I saw said child emerge onto the sports field with all his classmates, howling and holding out his arms for mummy. I pretended I had no idea who his mummy was for a while in the hope that by not getting any attention from me, he'd settle down. I was wrong. It simply escalated. I sighed deeply and went over to cuddle him. Between his teacher and I, we talked him off the ledge and got him to sit on the mat with his mates. But he refused to take part. Again.
How I do enjoy missing a full morning's work to watch other people's children charge up and down a field. At this point I pegged my hopes on child number 2 who's normally game for anything. He had a good start, taking part in race 1, but was definitely completely bemused by the experience and forgot that he's learned how to run with his arms bent at the elbows, and reverted to his penguin run, arms flapping wildly behind his back. But he tried. At least he tried...
Thereafter he refused to take part again. Instead, mummy had to sit on the mat with him. At least by this point, son 1 had decided to pluck up his courage and have a go. For a kid who normally appears to have a nest of ants residing in his pants, he moved at snail's pace. I think it was his attempt at making a statement, saying: 'Yes, I'll do it, but no it's not cool and in no way am I going to put myself out for you lot.' Still, he tried. Which is more than he did last year.
And miracle of miracles, he even got up to collect his leaver's certificate without any kind of meltdown. So leaps and heaps of progress really. Maybe by the time he's 18 and wrapping up his high school career, he'll be the school egg and spoon champion. I'll be sure to have my camera at the ready.
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