So Last Century

'The Beatles? Aren't they some old band from last century?'

This year's summer holiday was to Liverpool and the Isle of Man. The weather allowed plenty of swimming in the Irish Sea, and the rare occurrence of accompanying sunburn. The return journey included a stopover in Liverpool.

I thought my offspring would be excited to see the world-famous Cavern Club. Turns out...no. Primark was more exciting, as we don't have one near us. Not only were they not impressed by one of the most famous live music venues in the world  ('Can we go now, it's dark and boring'), we discovered that it wasn't just that they were firmly not Beatles fans, but that they actually didn't know any Beatles songs.

Clearly a case of parenting gone wrong, I sought to rectify this, immediately. I know, I thought, the drive back from Liverpool is a good four or five hours. That will give me plenty of time to educate these poor, deprived children.

Cue rapid download of The Beatles 'Essentials'. Don't worry, I felt the hand of Alan Partridge as we were doing it.

And then I thought, it isn't that they don't know any songs, it's just that they don't know they are by The Beatles. Let's see how many they are actually familiar with!

It didn't go well. Gertie had her headphones in, but she did deign to remove them for the opening few bars of each track to then offer an increasingly frustrated shake of the head to indicate that no, she really didn't know this one either.

Eventually, success!  We All Live in A Yellow Submarine provoked a spark of recognition. 'I thought it was a nursery rhyme.'

And Let it Be was 'vaguely familiar'. Nothing else though.

'Do we have to listen to any more of this OLD rubbish music? Seriously, mummy, these songs all sound exactly the same.'

Eddie joined in with the general malcontent, putting his fingers in his ears and pointedly singing, 'HATE Jude' once he'd mastered the refrain.

It was a very long journey home.

Sing, King!

It's the season to be jolly and all that.  And to rush around like a lunatic.  And to enjoy youngest son's star performance as a king in the nursery nativity.

I had high hopes.  He sang his king song loudly, confidently and relatively tunefully in the car on the way to the village hall. He was pleased with his costume.  Any resemblance between his royal cloak and our living room curtains is entirely coincidental. I asked him whether he was giving gold, frankincense or myrrh to the baby Jesus.  "Mine's red," he said.  "So that means it's the gold, it's just red." Right.

He had a wobbly moment earlier in the day when he decided that he wanted to abdicate...his kingship and all responsibility for doing the play, but I insisted that we go along anyway just to have a look.  After the sing-song in the car and his delight in his crown he got caught up in the buzz and virtually ran back stage.

I sat in the audience expectantly.  It was the standard nursery production.  Bright, bubbly and exhaustingly enthusiastic helpers narrated, cajoled and over-acted next to unpredictable toddlers, whilst removing screaming children from the stage from time to time.  There were fourteen angels, five donkeys, four stars (yes, I know, that was a new development for me too, but there were also four kings so they kind of had one each to follow), a whole flock of shepherds, one Mary, one Joseph and, thankfully, one baby Jesus.

"Sing, Eddie," I heard the helper next to him implore as they launched in to the first 'number'.  He smiled his cutest smile, waved at me in the audience to make sure that I was looking, and then shook his head like he'd just been asked to tidy his bedroom.  I knew that shake. So I wasn't surprised when he refused to sing any songs for the entire duration of the show, including his special king one.  He did, dutifully, walk over and sling his 'red' at the crib at more or less the allotted time, but then promptly sat himself down again at the front of the stage and proceeded to pick his nose for the rest of the show.

He then had the temerity to demand cake on his return from the stage. Celebrity mindset without the performance, it seems.

And he sang all the way home, too.



Currently reading: Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen

What's Current on Currants?

I am amazed at the retail diversification prompted by the current economic climate.

Gilby comes home from nursery singing, not, "Five currant buns in the baker's shop..." but "Five caravans in the bacon shop..." He is adamant that those are the right words, though he is unable to explain quite why the proprietor of this strange establishment would wish to sprinkle sugar on the top of such wares.

Cunning old butchers branching out into the motor-home market, I say.