Sunday, 6 April 2014

Wet Sunday


There’s something about quizzes.  I’m not talking the pub game type where you join up in teams and shout out the answers huddled together over the pork scratchings and in which the MC for the night (usually a regular who is normally to be seen sobbing into a pint in the corner) is puffed up with self importance at his 15 minutes of fame and marches around disqualifying the half pissed punters who heckle him. 

No, I’m talking about the little quizzes on social media.  The ones that ask you to answer a few questions and then somehow they define your personality.  There are literally hundreds.  They are also a way of gathering data on you, your likes and dislikes, your name, your friends names.  But we all know this, and buy into this, and it becomes a bit of a laugh – why on earth did I turn out to be Sandy in Grease?  Despite living in London and down south for many years, I am apparently a Northerner, and in another quiz my ideal town to live in is Cheltenham… And my colour is Pink (Motto is go go go! But you also know how to relax and recharge your batteries for the next big thing. You like to work hard, play hard and nap hard). And so you see, it goes on.  

It’s been a funny, busy old week – sleepovers x 2, day out at Legoland Windsor, a cinema trip, a photo shoot, a trip to London, a night out at Harry Hills I Can’t Sing- X factor musical and G going in to hospital for an operation to remove his gall bladder.  Some days we don’t know whether we are up or down.  And so it is with a sense of relief that we come to Sunday, and it’s raining.  I have a half drowned Eldest Son, who valiantly continued with his Sunday paper round so that the good people of Mytchett have something to hide behind at the breakfast table, a Middle Son who is somewhere in Middle Earth over at a friend’s house, Little Man is bright and breezy and inventing something on the computer, and G is safely ensconced in bed.  It is 08.15.  Gone are the days of lie ins, lazy Sunday lunches at the pub, crashing out on the sofa in front of an ancient film.

I was browsing through Facebook and found  Whats the Theme Tune of Your Life ?This little gem gave you the No 1 Hits when you turned a specific age.  I scrolled idly through the ages, starting at the oldest option – age 21. It was Kylie Minogue, Tears on My Pillow.  Very apt, I had just broken up with my First Real Love.  You may remember those days, and how traumatic they were. You have no idea if you will ever love again, until you do, and realise that actually, your first real love was probably lust, and that it becomes a first real love only in your mind, and only because it ended. On to 18 – Jackie Wilson, Reet Petite, yup, having fun at the Student Union bar at University, and dancing to live bands such as Katrina and the Waves and Transvision Vamp.  Over to 16, Foreigner, I Want To Know What Love is – hmm, probably quite accurate.  This was the age when I felt really uncomfortable in my acne ridden skin.  Back through the ages to 14, the same age as my son is now, it was Phil Collins You Can’t Hurry Love – advice I will be giving him in bucketfuls.  Down to age 12, (age of next son) and John Lennon with Imagine – ah yes, like him I had lots of money making ideas (mainly involving lemonade stalls)much to the annoyance of everyone around me – a very imaginative and creative age.

 My musings were disturbed by my mobile buzzing.  A text, with one word.

<Tea?>

My husband would love to have a little bell by his bedside with which to summon me, but times have moved on...

Before rushing to put the kettle on, I clicked on the last option – 0, the day I was born.

Marmalade, Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da. What?!!!

Says it all really.

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