Paternal love

Saturday morning. My father calls.

Dad (cheerily): Hello love! I just wanted to tell you that I’ve worked out that you’re exactly a third of a century old today. Thirty-three-and-a-third-years-old. That’s thirty-three years and a hundred and twenty two days.

Me (blearily): Uhhh…

Dad: And I thought that was interesting because –

Me: Dad, please don’t start talking about Jesus again.

[There is a short pause whilst we both remember a somewhat strained episode when he rang on my birthday to inform me that I was now the same age as Christ when he died. Which led to a comparison of life achievements, during which I asked him what he expected when you considered mine and Baby J’ s differing parental role models and pointed out that at least I hadn’t started a religion responsible for the deaths of millions]

Dad: Well, if you believe he was born on Christmas Day and died in April (which I know is debatable, but say you do), Jesus was exactly thirty-three and a third years old when he was crucified. And so you’re exactly the same age today as he was ON THE DAY HE DIED!

Me (wearily): And?

Dad: And so you should feel quite jolly. Compared to him you’re doing rather well. I thought you might like to hear that.

I decide that he does not need to know that his precious first-born is drinking wine at 11 am and lighting fags off the toaster as part of her own private crucifixion of the self.

Thanks Dad, I say. You’ve cheered me up no end.

Spinster

This is no way to go on.
Get wise. Accept. Be
a spinster of this parish.
My life's in shards.
I will keep fit in leotards.

Go vegetarian. Accept.
Support good causes.
Be frugal, circumspect.
Keep cats. Take tidy fits.
Go to evening classes.
Keep a nest-egg in the bank.
Try Yoga. Cut your losses.
Accept. Admit you're a bit of a crank -

Oh, I may be a bit of a crank
but still I get by, frugally. Think positive.
I live and let live. Depend
on nobody. Accept.
Go in for self-improvement.
Keep up with trends.
I'll cultivate my conversation.
I'll cultivate my friends.
I'll grow a herbaceous border.
By hook or crook I'll get my house in order.

Liz Lochead, Dreaming Frankenstein, 1984

Morning muzak

OK. So. I’m back, free of the shackles of auntdom. There’s a limit to how long a small child can hold my attention. Back to London and to life. Stumbling off the tube and into Brixton station this morning, my senses were assaulted by the ‘classical’ muzak that they play in the station. Apparently the idea is that it will calm us restless natives down, reducing our desire to commit violent crime and send us on our way into the world feeling altogether more peaceful and ready to face the day. According to the London Underground website it is also “aimed at youths, mainly young teenagers who hang about at stations. The science seems to be that the music is unfamiliar to them and also that it's considered uncool.”

That’s as may be. All I can say is that the sound of Pachelbel’s Canon at 9am (or at any time of the day or night) is enough to whip me up into a frenzy of murderous madness. I’m going to write in and ask them to change to something more conducive to a day stuck in an office, starting with Dolly Parton singing 9 to 5. All other suggestions gratefully received.