me and the mammy and the music
Driving along the open road to South Kildare.
The Mammy is accompanying me.
It's the first time she's consented to come for a drive since her brief stay in hospital a few months ago.
The sun is bouncing off the fields.
My early gentle conversational sallies, about the oxygen cylinder making her look like Darth Vader, are decisively rebuffed.
There is silence.
Time for a little of my trademark heartfelt communication.
I begin to sing.
I am singing the John Lennon song Woman.
With strange high soulfulness I intone as follows:
"Woman,
I can hardly express,
My gratitude for all your love,
And tenderness,
After all I am forever in your debt.
And woman,
What I mean by debt of course,
Is the money I've been stealing regularly from your purse,
Although when you catch me you sometimes curse,
Ooooh, oooh oooh.
Yeah, yeah.
Doo den doo doo dooooo."
We drive on past the Moat of Ardscull.
"Well what do you think of my tribute?" sez I eventually.
The Mammy sighs.
"I'd like it a lot better," sez she drily, "if I hadn't heard you singing the same thing to the hamster last night."
This of course brings forth another impromptu performance.
I sing:
"Hammy,
I can hardly express
Your orange fur and your wooliness,
When you pee on the kitchen table you make an awful mess.
And Hammy
You're nearly always nice.
You've got two great big bulging shiny black eyes.
For staring at things you want to give bites.
And Hammy,
Please don't bite my nephews,
Even when they squeeze you because they haven't a clue.
After all one is six and the other is only two.
Oooh, ooooh, ooooooh.
Yeah Yeah.
Doo den dooo, dooo, doooooo."
As if by magic the ghost of John Lennon appears in the car with us.
"Heelers," quoth he, "You're still the man."
The Mammy is accompanying me.
It's the first time she's consented to come for a drive since her brief stay in hospital a few months ago.
The sun is bouncing off the fields.
My early gentle conversational sallies, about the oxygen cylinder making her look like Darth Vader, are decisively rebuffed.
There is silence.
Time for a little of my trademark heartfelt communication.
I begin to sing.
I am singing the John Lennon song Woman.
With strange high soulfulness I intone as follows:
"Woman,
I can hardly express,
My gratitude for all your love,
And tenderness,
After all I am forever in your debt.
And woman,
What I mean by debt of course,
Is the money I've been stealing regularly from your purse,
Although when you catch me you sometimes curse,
Ooooh, oooh oooh.
Yeah, yeah.
Doo den doo doo dooooo."
We drive on past the Moat of Ardscull.
"Well what do you think of my tribute?" sez I eventually.
The Mammy sighs.
"I'd like it a lot better," sez she drily, "if I hadn't heard you singing the same thing to the hamster last night."
This of course brings forth another impromptu performance.
I sing:
"Hammy,
I can hardly express
Your orange fur and your wooliness,
When you pee on the kitchen table you make an awful mess.
And Hammy
You're nearly always nice.
You've got two great big bulging shiny black eyes.
For staring at things you want to give bites.
And Hammy,
Please don't bite my nephews,
Even when they squeeze you because they haven't a clue.
After all one is six and the other is only two.
Oooh, ooooh, ooooooh.
Yeah Yeah.
Doo den dooo, dooo, doooooo."
As if by magic the ghost of John Lennon appears in the car with us.
"Heelers," quoth he, "You're still the man."
posted by heelers | 3:30 AM
2 Comments:
James, is this a subtle admission that in your spare time you torture dear old ladies and small animals? ;)
Also, what exactly do you mean by "pre-Raphaelite"? Do you mean you're a redhead with freckles? That you wear anachronistic clothing? That artists dress you in flowing dresses and paint your portrait as you stand in a meadow and stare melancholicly into the distance? Or is there some other connotation to the term?
Yours,
MJ
Hi again MJ.
Good to hear from you.
The Mammy is ageless.
Preraphaelite is just a word I use to evoke my dashing good looks. But I do all that other stuff you mention too.
J
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