Kingdom of Auld Fartdom

I have come to the conclusion that I have now become a tax-paying inhabitant of the kingdom of Auld Fartdom. I have visited its environs from time to time and peeked over the city walls, even ocasionally entering its gates, sometimes shaking my head at what I’ve seen inside. People, old and young and some of indeterminate age, cautiously going through the motions of life or, contrarily, completely knackered by their exertions in the fray.

I’ve always hastily withdrawn from these forays, accepting that some there are who are old before their time and others whose age has caught up with them, lassoed their legs and brought them down with a yeeha!

Lying in state upon my king-sized, coffee at hand, kindle on lap, I’m trying to recollect the last time I really felt like moving myself on a Friday instead of succumbing to end-of-week syndrome. Looks shattered, feels shattered, is shattered, shattered I shall be. Let me be.

I’m thinking back to my youth (pre-marriage and weans) and recalling how I was always first in from work, way before my brothers and sisters. I had first dibs on the boiler and didn’t even think of needing or stopping for coffee or any other sustenance such was my anticipation at the evening ahead. Getting shifted had priority over everything else. Leisurely hours of prepping for a night on the town were punctuated by the sounds of my siblings arguing over who needed access to the shower next. How many times one or other of my brothers would play the self-same trick of pleading an urgent calling for the bathroom, forestalling my sister’s ablutions, only to hear her roaring at them for stealing her towels and toiletries as the emergency apparently required immediate use of the goods laid out.

I would be listening to music, applying makeup, drying my hair, happily distanced from the melee if not the noise. Teachers’ hours were in my favour then.

The school day has changed somewhat, the hours have even altered a bit but not enough to signify the turnaround on my Fridays.

Supposing I had a heavy date lined up with Wolverine’s alter ego I’d be hard pushed to rouse myself with anything approaching the same cheery demeanour.

Want the shower? Have the shower? Need my toiletries? Wire in.

Trying to recollect when exactly it changed is proving elusive too. I still remember three nights out at the weekend in early marriage so not at that point. After kids? I could still have moved myself with gusto but opportunities were limited. Whenever they availed themselves I was like a dog out of trap two. So not then either.

Recent Friday forays into the city have been prepped for with fucks and grumbles at having to be there at a certain time, the inconvenience of getting there and the bigger one of getting home. But I’ve gone and enjoyed it despite myself.

Tonight though, supposing I was offered chauffeur-driven luxury each way, a slap-up meal in between finished off with dancing and a spot of tongue-tangoing with wolfman I’d have to decline.

Because I’ve taken up residence in the royal burgh of Auld Fartdom, just within the walls of the city, very much part of the kingdom and I can see people peeking through the gates. I’m mouthing, ‘fuck off’ at them with the gurniest face I can muster and I think I might like it.

 

One coffee has boosted my reserves and I’m contemplating a glass of red to remove the sound of children’s voices from my day.

If anyone does have a spare limo at the ready I may, with the help of some lubrication, be persuaded to step outside of the city walls for old time’s sake. But you can still have first dibs on the boiler. It’s a combi. Bit like myself on a Friday.

Say Nuszing, Zey Are Leest’ning

I could share some things

But zen ah’d have to keeeel you,

I could tell you stuff to make your skin to crawl,

Adventures from ze vomen,

cloaked in meestery,

I could…

…But I’d be lying,

So I’ll tell.

It’s the patter, see,

You know that we can’t hold it,

it flows,

like the waaatter,

gushing

out from falls to sea,

it’s the stuff, you see, that keeps the world a-churning,

it’s the mystery of life

‘tween you and me.

It’s a little drop of heaven

of an evening,

it’s the tales still told

in company, we girls,

the pleasures and the griefs, bestowed in sharing,

anarchic heroines,

some self-belief.

Eet’s a leetle beet of sumsing I can’t tell you,

For to tell would be selling out my comrade and zey’d know,

She has spies, you zee,

I’ve seen zem, and zey’re fecking fracking

all ze plummets vorth fracking down below.

Zey ‘ave ears, I’ve heard zem leest’ning! And you vonder,

vhy every leetle zing I zay eez code,

Zose leetle buggers leezten, zey’re called cheeldren,

leetle fuckers vith zeir nose stuck eento mode

to spy upon ze mozers who are laffing,

Eet’s Friday, fock, I zink zat eet’z allowed.

Vhisper in ze hushest of all tonings,

zose leetle fockers leesten at ze doors.

Tell zose leetle feckers to quit leest’ning,

eet’s off-putting to ze vomen who’re in flight,

zose leetle bastards spy and tell all seecrets,

Zey’re my nieces and my nephews,

leetle shites.

I still love them.

But, honest to gawd!

I seenk our seecrets are zafe for one more night, V!

Still…

…cannae help it.. Then I’m going to bed. Maybe.

Blame Fridays that go into Saturdays. ‘Nuff said except for new songs. Just discovered. He’s great. So’s Ian Mckellan. I need to dance now. Then bed. Promise…ish. Cannae believe I’m still awake!

What a fine young man. Not Ian McKellan. He’s a talented auld fart. Must be over 40 if he’s a day. Pretty good at miming youth right enough. *taking notes*

Music Questions

So, it’s Friday. And in the glorious bygone days of my youth I would have come home from school, showered, glammed up and gone out. Easy peasy. Now? Now I want to. Somewhere in the dim recesses of my mind. But that’s not what happens. I have long since resigned myself to the fact that I am shattered on a Friday. A bit of blogging, a couple of glasses of something (or three) and I’m fit only for bed. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. OK, I wasn’t mighty but I was game. Now not so much so.

So, thanks to Steve, I have a lovely wee pastime on a Friday and it suits me down to the ground. With a slight problem.

Suits me because I get to shuffle my I-Pod and rediscover what’s actually on it. Bearing in mind that not all the songs are mine. Daughter downloaded loads in the beginning when I was learning the ropes.

Problem. I start looking for links on You Tube. And I get carried away. Tonight being a case in point.

1st question:- If I was sucked into a jukebox and turned into a song then the song would be…?   

I Wanna Grow Old With You, DJ Limmer

Don’t we all? I like this even although it sounds like Pinky and Perky. You know Pinky and Perky? Black and white kids’ programme from the days when most TV was in black in white. You know, my childhood. Can feel a post coming on here.

2nd question:- If I was sucked into a television then my tv show would be about…?

Bittersweet Symphony, The Verve

Sounds about right.

3rd question:- If I was sucked into a movie theater screen then my movie would be about…?

Twist And Shout, The Isley Brothers

Slight cheat here as I like this Bruce Springsteen version.

Which then got me to remembering how I first came across The Boss. I was in a pub in Glasgow, The Corn Exchange, across from Central Station with my then boyfriend and this video came on. Yeah, we had progressed from black and white crap to colourful music videos! Amazing. And the camera panned up Bruce’s legs, the beat began and I was riveted. Entranced for the full time. I think I fell in love slightly. 😉 Bear that in mind, Rene, when you’re fixing me up with Hugh. Anyway, it obviously didn’t put the boyfriend off. I married him three years later.

Still love this song. Wonder if Courtney Cox being there was a put up job or if that’s how she was discovered?

Ahhh, those were the days! Not Pink and Perky! Don’t be dense. Who the hell wants to watch Pinky and Perky? I mean Bruce and my youth. *sigh*

Ho, Hum. Addendum.

Addendum

I am highly amused by many comments. I am just never quite sure how far to go.

And, I can feel and see myself shrug at some comments made to me.

Nothing offensive. People here are way too polite for that.

Just where is the line and how do you decide it?

I should probably have added this to my previous post. Ho, hum. Blame it on the Grouse and a Friday.:)  x

P.S. http://thevanillahousewife.wordpress.com/2013/08/09/finally-friday-august-9th-thirteen/ knows what I mean about a Friday. Don’t know about the Grouse. But, I hope one day to meet her at the kitchen portal and discuss it in great and humorous detail.