Once upon a time my children loved me singing to them. Admittedly they were of an age of innocence and pop music was nothing more than sounds emanating from a musical box. But now when I suggest a good old sing-along they cover their ears and beg me not to. Even my hubby shrieks with them. I didn’t think I was that bad, but clearly I am.
I thought it might have something to do with my song choice. My firm favourite, after a couple of toots when driving home, being ,“There was an old lady who swallowed a fly…, a horse, a cow, a sink, and a bowl of chysanths…” Alright, it doesn’t go quite like that, but there are a fair few verses to get through. If they knock me down with that one I’m always game to share Ging-Gang-Gooley, an old Brownie camp sing-a-long-tune. But no, it seems any song choice is out. In fact, it is so bad, that whenever I start to sing along with the golden oldies on Cape Talk, somebody will always initiate a conversation with me. Clearly with the intention of shutting me up. Hubby has really mastered this one, a mere couple of words from my mouth and he’s talking up a storm.
What makes it all the more amazing, is that I was actually in the school choir! Do you think the choir teacher had a sadistic streak that emerged as I entered the room to sing? Or do you think she was so bored with her job, and being desperate for members accepted anybody who was prepared to stand up and belt out a song, talented or not!?
In fact the more I think about this singing lark, the worst I begin to feel. Take several Christmas’s ago. A friends son and I rigged up his karaoke set in the lounge and entertained everybody for several hours. Some months later when I was visiting again, I asked if we could repeat the show. Within minutes I was directed to the granny-flat and told to do it there while everybody else would remain elsewhere.
It’s just not fair you know. My musical abilities are floundering, or perhaps they never developed. I can’t sing, and bloody-hell I can’t dance. Put me in a man’s arms and I’m as stiff as a rod and my feet might just as well be buried in cement. Dancing on my own is not that much better. I start off all right, but it slowly disintegrates into a rhythm-less something.
I suppose what makes it so depressing, is my all-time fantasy of performing on the stage in a hit musical. Now it seems the only thing I’ll ever be doing on stage is sweeping up.
With that, I’ll pick up my quivering bottom lip and sign off with this little tune,
“There was an old lady who swallowed a fly…I don’t know why she swallowed a fly, perhaps she’ll die….”
Feel free to join in and at time. “There was an old lady who swallowed a…”