Category: humour

Please Don’t Do THAT in Public

Yesterday I saw a woman at the bus stop. She was dressed like a model. Fluffy, faux fur hat. Designer coat. Boots up to her thighs. Sitting on the bench. And yes, folks, she was cutting her fingernails. All ten of them. With nail clippers.

I would love to have seen any CCTV footage of myself as I realised what she was doing. I would have seen a very thinly disguised expression of displeasure. Even with a frozen face, I managed to frown and let my lips frill. Surely her day wasn’t so busy that she couldn’t do that at home? Come on, lady.

Travelling on public transport in London, I have seen and heard things that no-one should have to see or hear in public. I’ll spare you the graphics of what I have heard. But I have seen someone cleaning out his ears on the bus. I have also seen a woman pluck her eyebrows on the bus. Seriously? That couldn’t wait? I know I’ve had long waits to get on the bus, but not that long that my eyebrows needed plucking by the time I boarded.

I have seen women doing their make-up on the tube, the whole business from foundation to eyeliner. I haven’t seen anyone wax their legs on their daily commute, but I’ve no doubt that’s a forthcoming attraction in the spring. Or maybe I just haven’t travelled the right tube lines for that.

I have watched people eat their breakfast, lunch, supper, snacks, elevenses, on the buses and tubes. Some people eat surreptitiously, sneaking morsels of food into their mouths and then darting their eyes around to see if anyone’s watching. I always seem to catch their eyes. Others stuff their faces like they’ve just finished a diet.

I once watched a young woman sitting opposite me on the tube lick her fingers – all ten of them – and smack her lips for a good five minutes after she’d finished eating whatever it was she’d just tucked into. After that little performance, she applied layer after layer of BRIGHT RED lipstick (caps to emphasise how red it was) on to her lips. She pouted and pouted as she checked in the mirror that her lips looked just right. She then put all her accoutrements back into her handbag, sat back and within two minutes, she had slumped sideways into an ugly, dribbling sleep.

Probably the most gross public display of toiletry (PDTs, as I call them) was a few years ago in Cape Town, when I was at a conference. As the afternoon session began, a woman came and sat next to me. She fidgeted and fidgeted. Now, I’m not a difficult person, but I hate it when people fidget next to me when I’m trying to stay awake concentrate on a graveyard shift at a conference. She dug in her handbag, she rustled sweet papers, she chewed sweets loudly and she sobbed and sighed as she dug further into her handbag for more hidden treasures. She chewed and fidgeted and chewed and fidgeted. I did my trademark shielding of my eyes … what the eye doesn’t see the heart can’t grieve over. However, it didn’t block out the sounds.

After an epic fiddling in her handbag (now you can tell how much I was concentrating on the conference subject matter), she sat still for a few minutes. And flossed her teeth. Seriously. She flossed her teeth. Don’t get me started here, but I don’t even like to be anywhere near the bathroom when my husband flosses his teeth – that’s just private. That’s a one-on-one affair. Him and the mirror. Nobody else’s business. Ever.

And this dear woman was flossing her teeth. At a conference, in a huge theatre, in Cape Town. Get a bathroom, already.

That PDT truly took the biscuit. I really don’t want to encounter anyone trying to top that. Thank you.

Sunshine signing off for today.

Bob’s the Leftie

So there’s this Swedish guy, a Spaniard, two Polish guys and a pair of twins from the US … Not a lame joke, but the line-up for the ATP World Tour Tennis Finals at the O2 Arena last night. Another ticket in our red box.

Bryan twins, joined at the grip. Photo courtesy of commons.wikimedia.org

I’d been looking wistfully at the ads for the tennis, wishing I could go again this year. I treated myself to a ticket last year and, somehow, it felt like too much of a luxury this year. I got an email from a friend last week to say he’d been given two tickets for last night’s tennis, and asked if I wanted to go with him. Did I ever? Duh.

For those who may not know, the ATP World Tour Finals involve the top eight players from the year’s men’s tour. The final eight are only confirmed close to the start of this week, as the contenders are still playing in tournaments and racking up points. The tournament takes the form of a round robin, so you don’t know who you’re going to see until a day or two before.

We discovered on Sunday that last night we’d see Robin Soderling (Sweden) play David Ferrer (Spain) in the singles, and the Bryan twins (USA) take on the Polish pairing of Matkowski and Fyrstenberg.

It was a fabulous evening of tennis, which saw Matkowski and Fyrstenberg beat the reigning world doubles champions in three sets and Soderling take Ferrer in two.

I love the new doubles’ format for non-Grand Slam matches: when the score reaches deuce, they play a deciding point – receiver’s choice – rather than playing advantage, and deuce continuing forever. Also, the third set is played as a championship tiebreak, where the winners are the first to ten points, two points clear of their opponents. It makes the game much quicker and more exciting.

The Bryan twins were brilliant. The VT of their tennis journey revealed that Andre Agassi was their tennis idol; as children, they had posters of him all over their bedroom and they always wanted to be like him. They’ve been playing tennis since they were two, their father owns a tennis club and their mother is a pro tennis player.

“Bob’s the leftie, and Mike’s the rightie,” said the voice-over.

They bounced on to the court. They run and bounce and reach and jump and slam and smash and lob. Each point they win they’ll high five each other, or do their trademark chest bump. They seem to communicate without talking and it sure works: they have 66 titles, making them a hugely successful tennis pairing, if not the most successful ever.

When they ran up to the net, they seemed to form an impermeable wall of volleying, frustrating their Polish opponents no end. But when Matkowski found a gap, and sent a pacey forehand through to the baseline, that was the beginning of the end for the twins. Matkowski and Fyrstenberg played fantastic tennis and fought hard and well for their win.

Soderling and Ferrer then took to the court for their match. By this stage, a fair amount of fizzy drinks had been consumed around the Arena, and chirps were flying as fast as backhand volleys. “Go, Ferrer!” “David, you beauty!” “Vamos, Ferrer, vamos!” “Go, Soderling, go!” “Soderling, you can do it!”

My personal favourite was, “Love you, Robin!” to which the umpire said, “Thank you.” He had been encouraging the crowd to simmer down, but his timing was delightful and caused a wave of giggles through the Arena.

Soderling took care of Ferrer in two sets (7-5 7-5) and the two of them gave us a great game to watch, free of melodrama and full of perfect ground strokes. In Soderling’s post-match analysis, I was surprised to hear the interviewer ask him why, after a long line of placid Swedish tennis players, did Soderling have an almost Latin temperament.

Soderling was equally surprised and said, “Really?” It would have been funny had he then danced the tango and slapped the interviewer in the face. But he didn’t.

In between the matches, we saw a VT of the recruiting process for “ball kids”. 1,601 children applied (I’m sure it was meant to be 1,600 and then along came Wagner) and then they were whittled down to the final 30. One little boy they interviewed said, “I didn’t realise how badly I wanted to become a ball kid. I really really want to do this.” Everything is a competition, reality TV gets its claws into everything, and frankly, that made me feel sad.

As we left the O2 Arena, in the thrall of people walking towards the tube station, an announcement directed people to the tube station, bus stops and taxi rank. At that stage, one of a group of black-coated hooray henrys next to me said, “Taxis? In East London? Where would they even go from here?”

Snobbery, reality TV and a fabulous evening’s entertainment. All in a night’s work in London.

Sunshine signing off for today.

Sand and Soaps

Oh how our world has changed. Technology and the media have brought everything to our fingertips. Any time. Any place. Not like my student days when life ground to a halt at 8pm every Tuesday evening.

Yes, folks, that was when Dallas was screened on South African television. Cinemas did little business, restaurants were typically quiet on a Tuesday night, and the TV lounge in my university hall of residence was packed to overflowing with students eager to keep up to date with the goings-on in that Ewing family. Those were the days before VCRs, iPlayers, PVRs, TVOs, SkyPlus and the Internet. We watched on Tuesday nights or bust.

Although I cringe ever so slightly at the thought of it now, it was something we all did in those days. Unapologetically. It wasn’t particularly cool to watch Dallas. But it wasn’t uncool either. We just watched.

Over an Easter weekend at the beginning of my second year, a bunch of us decided to go on a camping trip.  We packed up the VW Golf and the VW Beetle and headed off along the Garden Route to a beautiful little seaside spot at the mouth of the Breede River, called Witsand.

We arrived at the campsite, set up the sound system and then pitched the tent to the sounds of Genesis’ Ripples. Two girls and four guys. We girls decided to unpack the VW Beetle and were watched by our male companions as we opened what we thought was the boot of the Beetle, only to find an engine staring us in the face. We weren’t to live that one down all weekend.

The weekend also turned out to be a hugely significant one for me, as it marked the start of a lifelong relationship with my best friend in the whole world. We laugh today when we think how coy we were to cross the line from best friends to being together, and how unsure we were of the cues.

My now husband looked up at the sky one evening and said to me, “It’s such a beautiful evening. Let’s go for a walk on the beach.”

I thought it was such a fabulous idea, I rallied everyone together and we all went and enjoyed the moonlit walk. I didn’t notice the muttering disappointment of my dear friend …

The weekend was punctuated with riotous laughter and a whole bunch of memories that we carry around with us today. If we six were to be in a room together right now, we would recount the events of that weekend as if they happened yesterday.

As the weekend progressed, we all realised we would be away from TV and Tuesday’s screening of Dallas. We happened to walk past the campsite manager’s house one evening, and saw that he had a television. No flies on us, we knocked on his door and asked if we could all come and watch Dallas with them on Tuesday night. Slightly taken aback, he agreed. We all high-fived and felt so chuffed that we wouldn’t miss our programme. Heck, we were students.

At about 7.45pm on Tuesday evening, we went to the campsite manager’s house, knocked on the door and trooped into his small and humble abode. His wife, whose first language was not English, greeted us shyly and showed us where we could sit. We overflowed from their meagre supply of furniture, and most of us sat on the floor. Cool.

The eight of us sat, rapt, through the hour-long episode. At the end of the programme, our host offered us coffee. The polite thing would have been for us to decline graciously, to thank our hosts and to beat a gentle retreat from their home. But nooooo, we were students and we jumped at the offer.  Our hostess sat shyly in her seat as her husband went to the kitchen to make a truckload of coffee.

We commented on the photos pasted on the walls. They were of their many sons and she told us, in broken and stilted English, where her sons were and what they were doing. Not only did language separate us, but she was a whole generation older than we were and we soon ran out of conversation.

After an awkward silence, she ventured this to us: “I’ve read somewhere, I fink it’s in the Huisgenoot, that JR, in his own home, is really quite a nice man.”

[Huisgenoot, the House Companion, is a weekly Afrikaans-language general interest/gossip magazine.]

We all nodded in agreement, gulped down our coffee, and, as soon as our cups were cold, politely thanked them and excused ourselves. How kind and generous of them to share their home, their coffee, Dallas and their insights with us. But really – didn’t we just have a huge nerve to do that? I still feel my cheeks burn ever so slightly when I think of that evening …

Sunshine signing off for today.

Finding David Brent

I consider myself something of a serial eavesdropper. Not in a creepy way, but in a way that I do seriously tune into funny things that people say in restaurants, on the bus, on the tube, walking along the street. Doing just that in Essex on Saturday, I felt inspired to begin a mini-project within my blog: Finding David Brent.

David Brent - photo from http://www.dailymail.co.uk

You might have gathered that I am something of a fan of Ricky Gervais. Our family’s first taste of his humour was when we stumbled upon an episode of The Office on TV one Sunday evening. It was the episode where a motivational speaker had been hired to run a workshop with the Office staff. Gervais’ character, David Brent, was supremely threatened by this and did all he could to interject, take over or add in his take on what the speaker was talking about. In the end, David Brent took out his guitar and played a song he’d written. It was a hilarious episode, our first encounter with Gervais and the “mockumentary” style and we were hooked on both.

So following on from the David Brent dance-alike in my Zumba class of a few weeks ago (The Office Moves), we came across another dead ringer over the weekend. We went shopping in Essex on Saturday, and stopped for lunch in a little coffee shop in the mall. David Brent and his wife came in, and stormed out when the table they had been eyeing was taken by a young mum and her two small children. He audibly sighed, “That was our table,” before picking up his skirts and flouncing out of the coffee shop with his wife, giving the young mum a look that could kill.

About ten minutes later, the table next to ours became free. In walked DB and his wife (not sure where they’d been lurking – perhaps just outside the door), and they sat themselves down as soon as they could, making sure no-one could beat them to the spot. He announced to his wife, for all to hear (and I’m guessing he’d have looked into the camera, David Brent-style, had there been one):

“Right, love, whatever you want, buy. Cheapest.”

And that is something that only David Brent would say.

Sunshine signing off for today.

The Princess and Me

The media in the UK is in a bit of a froth and a frenzy over the Royal Engagement. In the midst of coalition woes, strikes, budget cuts, FIFA-fixing, cold weather, floods, not to mention Wagner, it helps the nation to have something positive to look forward to.

The merchandisers have been going overboard with enough commemorative Will ‘n Kate crockery to sink a ship. The first item I saw, which made me laugh, was a mug with two handles. I wondered if that was in honour of the father of the groom-to-be who has, rather unkindly, been described as resembling a VW with the doors open.

Image from thejjb.com

Typically, British bookmakers have been bursting with speculation about where and when the wedding will take place, who will design the wedding dress, what title the couple will take on after the wedding, who will be the best man, who will be the maid of honour, how many viewers will tune into BBC to watch the wedding live, what colour the wedding dress will be and – my personal favourite – the colour of the Queen’s hat.

All of which reminds me of Diana and me. Princess Diana was born one week before me. And honestly, if I had a pound for every time someone told me that I looked like her, I would be basking on my yacht in the tropics somewhere, sipping on an expensive, chilled cocktail, waiting for someone to peel me a grape, and enjoying the company of my gorgeous husband who, thankfully, looks nothing like Charles.

I can’t remember when it began. I didn’t do like Julie Walters’ client in Educating Rita and take a magazine photo of Diana with me to the hairdresser and say, “I want to look like that.” I guess I just do look like that. A bit. Or so some people think.

I think the first time was when I visited my new boyfriend’s family, who grew up to become my parents-in-law. They had a delightful, also Scottish, neighbour who was often, as my granny would say, full of hops. The more she tippled, the more slurringly talkative and tearfully sentimental she became. In a particularly emotional moment she wiped a tear from her eye as she looked at me and said, “Och, you’re affy like Leddy Di.”

From that moment on, I became Leddy Di. Even after the leddy became Princess. It was quite sad, really, that sometimes in her blurred reality, I became Diana. She gave me a beautiful, expensive bottle of perfume and said, “This is fer Leddy Di.” I thanked her and then told her to curtsy and in future not to speak to me unless spoken to. (Just jokes.)

She and her husband came to our wedding, and I’m sure she thought she was coming to a royal occasion, although it must have been a little confusing that this was happening in Bulawayo.

Another time, when my older son was a baby, we went out for Sunday lunch at our favourite Italian restaurant in Harare. When we’d finished our meal, my husband went to settle the bill and I went outside, our six-month old son in my arms, to wait in the sun for him. I happened to stand next to a giggly bunch of female senior citizens who had emerged from the same restaurant where they had enjoyed a few too many fizzy drinks with their lunch.

One dear lady approached me and asked me about my cute little baby. She choonched his cheeks, told me he was gorgeous and wanted to know how old he was. You know, the usual. As I was answering her questions, one of her friends approached me from the other side and said to her friends, “You know, she looks just like Princess Diana!”

She then took my face in her hands and turned my face to show her friends, “Don’t you think so?” she said. I kid you not.

At which point the baby-ogler asked me another question. So I turned my head to answer her, and as I began to speak, my face was again showcased in the other direction in the middle of two ageing palms. The ridiculous charade continued for a short while, my face going this way and that.

I guess I could have shouted, “LEAVE ME ALONE, THIS IS MY FREAKING FACE ALREADY!” but I couldn’t find those words, and, to be honest, it was really really funny. My husband came outside and rescued me from the face-grabbing aunties a few minutes later, and we both laughed as I recounted what had just happened.

A few years ago, I was shopping in a supermarket in Rondebosch in Cape Town. I noticed the cashier staring at me before I got to her to make my purchases. As I approached, she said to me,

“You know what? You look JUST like Prince Di-ANNE!”

I smiled coyly, as one does when you’ve been told that, I don’t know, a MILLION times.

The cashier was quite overwhelmed. She called to her colleague at the next till.

“Hey, Bronwen! Look who I’m serving. Prince Di-ANNE!”

Her friend looked across at me and said, “Yoh,” as one does, in Cape Town.

My cashier then said to me, “Are you related?”

To which I said, “No.” (I had wanted to say, “To Bronwen?” but I figured the sarcasm would be lost.)

She said, “Pity, hey? They got lots of money.”

People tell me almost conspiratorially that they think I look like Princess Di. And like they are the only ones who have ever thought that. It’s quite difficult to respond graciously, and to retain an element of fresh surprise when I’m thinking “If I had a pound…”

So Kate – all the best for your royal future in the spotlight. I tell you, it’s tough. And if I can give you some advice, steer clear of slurring aunties at Italian restaurants – they sure squeeze your cheeks.

Sunshine signing off for today.

With ekthtra cheethe, to go. And make it thnappy

So there I was earlier this week, walking alongside the large dock in our neighbourhood when I heard a strange sound. A thwap! And then another thwap! I looked up and realised it was the sound of two large slices of white bread belly flopping on to the water.

Two people walking ahead of me had clearly gauged the size of the water life in the dock, and thought they were ready to handle bread in slices. The flying bread drew the attention of ducks, birds and swans alike and a splash-filled scramble ensued.

As I looked closer, I saw that most of the chubby little quackers were not actually swimming. They were sitting in speed boats, causing waves and trying to beat each other to the spoils. The aqua population of our dock has become so overweight they can no longer swim.

I wondered if the ducks had also grown fussy now. After feasting on chips ( see my earlier post Stop quacking and eat your chips) maybe they’d prefer something like a toasted sandwich? Burrito, perhaps?

It made me think of the time a few years ago when we stopped at our local cafe to buy a few things on the way home. A scruffy homeless guy, reeking of cheap alcohol, stumbled over to me and asked me for some money. I told him I was going into the cafe and would buy him something to eat. I came out and gave him a bag of bread rolls.

He took the bag, grabbed a roll and tore off a hunk of a bite. He looked deeply disappointed. I asked him if something was wrong, and he said, “Why didn’t you buy me a pie?”

I climbed into the car and said to my family, “That guy was rude.”

One of my sons said, “Yes, he was, mommy. He was speaking with his mouth full.”

So back to my neighbourhood and my walk. My thinking wasn’t far off. I turned the corner at the edge of the dock and saw a pizza delivery girl at a duck’s nest. This duck family had given up on the boring diet of bread and chips. In exchange for a pile of pizza boxes, Mr Duck gave the delivery girl a few notes and said, “Keep the change, thweetheart. Buy yourthelf thomething pretty.”

What next, London? What next?

Sunshine shaking her head and signing off for today!

Damp squids and veekend viewing

We ventured into the heart of London on Saturday to witness the Lord Mayor’s Fireworks display. Public transport woes and an unsatisfactory ten-minute display left us feeling a little disappointed. A damp squid indeed.

(Before any of you boffins jump to tell me that saying is incorrect – I know. It’s intentional. Keep reading.)

Rugged up good and proper (as my Aussie friends say), we headed off with some friends into central London, to watch the fireworks display. I asked one of our friends what the Lord Mayor’s Show was all about (it took place all day on Saturday) and he said it was to mark the inauguration of the new Lord Mayor of London.  The show has been taking place at the same time each year for 785 years! Read more about it here – such a heritage astonishes me!

First up, our local tube was not operating at all over the weekend. Ideally, we could have jumped in a tube, travelled for about ten minutes and then walked up the road from the tube station to have a good view of the fireworks. Instead, we caught a bus and, as we approached London Bridge, discovered that the bus wasn’t going any further. Because of the Lord Mayor’s Show. This meant a repeat of our walk of last weekend, but in reverse. Not actually walking backwards (although that would have been fun!), but walking from London Bridge to Blackfriars Bridge.

It took us about 45 minutes, with the added challenge of three gorgeous, energetic, small boys running this way and that, fascinated by everything that caught their eye, not least of which were the mounds of autumn leaves which got kicked and thrown and tucked into other people’s jackets!

We got to Blackfriars Bridge, along with the rest of the world and his wife, and found a good spot in the middle of the bridge. The fireworks were due to start at 5pm (at which time it’s been dark for about half an hour). The fireworks are set off from a boat on the Thames, somewhere between Waterloo Bridge and Blackfriar’s Bridge, so you can view from either.

The display began at 4.55pm (just as well we had got there a little early) and were over by about 5.05pm. What we saw was spectacular, but it certainly left us expecting more. Apparently the show is usually much longer and more spectacular, but I guess no-one has escaped the austerity of the budget cuts that the bosom buddies have introduced since taking office.

As teenagers, my siblings and I used to talk about things being “too much effort and not much fun”, and I think that described our venture to Blackfriars Bridge on Saturday. As a teenager I met someone who described a disappointing event as “a damp squid” … I rest my case.

And on to the veekend viewing. I have mentioned before that we are enjoying the current series of X Factor, the reality TV show for aspiring singers. Saturday’s show began with the final nine, which includes fabulous young soloists, a gorgeous and infectiously enthusiastic boy band, a delightful 50-year old Irish woman who describes herself as a belter and who left her day job as a cashier at Tesco to enter the show. And then there’s Wagner.

Hmm, how to describe Wagner? He’s Brazilian. He’s 54. He has long hair, which he usually wears in a half-moon. He can’t sing. And he can’t dance. Apparently he’s in the show for the sheer entertainment of having a former lion tamer in the line-up. (He was actually a PE teacher, but they keep showing a photo of him in his bare-chested youth, holding the tail of a lion.)

His mentor, Louis Walsh, can’t pronounce his name. No matter how much he’s reminded that Wagner is pronounced Vagner, Louise continues to correct everyone by air writing “W” and saying, “No, it’s spelt with a W. So it’s Wagner.”

However, things seem to have backfired for the show. Last year, a bunch of people started a Facebook group to try and stop the X Factor’s winning single from becoming the Christmas number one (which it usually does). They pushed for support to buy Rage Against the Machine’s Killing in the Name and they succeeded; it outsold the X Factor single. X Factor Haters 1. Simon Cowell 0.

This year, the same group – I understand – have mobilised to vote to keep Wagner in the show. And so he survives week after week. His rendition – or shall I say rending – of Elton John’s I’m Still Standing rang false but true, if you know what I mean, on Saturday night. He dances like he’s running downhill in heels. And he sings like he just stepped down a steep staircase and can’t stop himself. Like he’s trying to keep up with the music. The music always wins. He smiles. And his numbers (and outfits) are always over-stuffed into productions reminiscent of Gary Glitter at his tottery-heeled peak.

Each week when Dermot announces that Wagner is safe (he hasn’t yet been in the bottom two), the X Factor-watching public sighs. No doubt the X Factor haters punch the air. And Louis grimaces – like he doesn’t know what to do next. And week after week talented youngsters slink off the stage, into a future that I hope will bring them more meaning and success than the X Factor drama. And Wagner prevails.

And ve continue to vatch. Vy, I ask you, vy?

Sunshine signing off for today!

The Office moves

So yesterday evening I went to my wonderful Zumba class at the gym. I had my blinkers firmly in place, because I thought, “I-can’t-blog-about-this-class-again-I-can’t-blog-about-this-class-again.” And then it happened.

Who would have guessed that there would be someone in my Zumba class who had the moves of The Office’s David Brent? More than this, I will not say. Big Blogger’s watching me.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Why I didn’t like record shopping with my older brother

Today is Art Garfunkel’s birthday. The curly-haired half of one of my childhood favourite bands turns 69 today. Bridge Over Troubled Water takes me right back to our home in Mufulira in Zambia. And to records. Remember them?

An awesome album

I loved Simon and Garfunkel. They were not wild like the Rolling Stones, they didn’t wear tight pants like Tom Jones did, they were just right. To a young girl living in Zambia, who didn’t like wild, or tight pants, they were super cool.

I remember two brothers coming to visit my sister and me in Mufulira. It was one of those complex situations that brothers and sisters can relate to – I liked J, he liked my sister, she liked R and R liked me. No win situation. Anyway, I told them both that I liked the song, Bridge Over Troubled Water and, maybe to impress J a little, I said that I especially liked the words. R said he knew them off by heart (show off) so he could tell me them. I got my pencil and paper at the ready. He proceeded to tell me the words, but I didn’t realise those were the words – I thought he was telling me a story. I listened, and I remember thinking, “Where is this all going? Tell me the song words already.” Was my face red when I realised what had just happened. Duh.

My husband and I were lucky enough to see Paul Simon on his Graceland Tour in Harare, Zimbabwe, in 1987 at Rufaro Stadium. It was an amazing experience. But I couldn’t help feeling sad that he and Art Garfunkel had by then headed off in their own directions. I watched the DVD of their recent reunion concert and even all these years later, I can understand why I liked their music then. They were really pretty special.

So fast forward to Cape Town in recent years. My brother-in-law is as mad about music as his younger brother (my husband), and both have formidable collections of CDs and vinyl. Different tastes, but identical passions. In an effort to keep vinyl alive, we gave him a turntable for his birthday a few years back. Since then, he and my sister-in-law have had a series of vinyl evenings at their home. They invite about 20 people round to share a meal, a few beverages, and to bring along their favourite record.

The first time, we all had to bring both our best and worst track, and then each person had to vote for each track in turn. Which became increasingly hilarious as the evening progressed and we discovered how different everyone’s taste in music was. Nutbush City Limits by Tina Turner (along with Jennifer Rush’s The Power of Love) is on my top ten worst songs list, and it was played as someone’s favourite. One person had Tiny Bubbles by Dean Martin as his worst track of all time. He hated it so much he didn’t have the record, so his forfeit was to sing it to us. His rendition was far more memorable than it was tuneful.

My husband chose Bridge Over Troubled Water as his best track. No-one could say anything bad or negative about it. It shot to the top of the list and won the best track prize of the evening. I guess the song is like that. For me it’s part of the soundtrack of my life, and I will always love it.

The song that won the un-cherished award of worst track of the evening was Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep by Middle of the Road. If I’d still had that seven single (remember those? 45s?) I would have brought it with me for the same category. When I was about nine, I was given a record voucher (I think I might have called it a record vulture when I was that age) for Christmas. I was so excited because it would enable me to buy my first. record. ever. How cool was that?

My brothers, sister and I headed off into the centre of dusty Mufulira to the big departmental store to redeem our vouchers for stuff. I was beside myself. I had enough to buy an LP and a seven single. I chose a Springbok Hits album. If you are from the sub-continent, you will remember those hideous compilation albums of very badly rendered cover versions of current hits. I was thrilled. Come on, I was nine.

Now, on to the seven singles …. hmmmm, what to choose? What to choose? Along came my elder brother to help me choose. With his encouragement, which may or may not have come across as a threat, I bought Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep. I can still feel the deep disappointment I felt at having to buy such an awful song. Those were my first record purchases. Pretty bad. And even worse.

Just before we left Cape Town last year, my brother-in-law and sister-in-law had a farewell party for us, in the form of another vinyl evening. It was a really wonderful, memorable and special evening where we all ate well, drank better and laughed more than ever. The hard rockers among us insisted on playing air guitar and “dancing” (you have to air-quote there) along to their numbers; some played air guitar on their legs, another played air drums with two pencils just above a bald guy’s head, one shared stories of heartache at a high school dance, when he introduced his track of choice, and all the while our laughter provided backing for tracks like Radar Love by Golden Earring, Deep Purple’s Smoke on the Water and Neil Young’s Harvest. After a track-off, Neil Young emerged as the evening’s winner.

So, happy birthday, Mr Garfunkel. Thank you for the music and, today, for the memories.

Sunshine signing off for today.

You can find out more about these tracks at www.allbutforgottenoldies.com Seriously.

Stop quacking and eat your chips

I am fascinated by “only in London” moments. Like overhearing a bunch of Catholic priests, on the tube, discussing the merits of Alice in Wonderland in 3D. And then discussing what Johnny Depp is like in real life: is he weird or is he quite normal?

Yesterday, as I walked alongside the large dock next door to our little dock, I noticed a woman arrive at the water’s edge with a large bag of what I thought were Maltesers. She ripped open the bag, took out a smaller bag from within, and proceeded to pour the contents into the water. She then continued to do the same with packet after packet. As I approached her, I said, with some bemusement,

“I thought those were Maltesers you were throwing into the water.”

At this stage, there were about a million ducks, seagulls and swans frantically flapping around and stabbing at whatever it was she was chucking out for them.

“As if I would throw Maltesers into the dock? When I eat them myself?” she said.

She then told me her son had gone to Asda (she rolled her eyes as she said this – perhaps she prefers our local Tesco to this other supermarket chain?) and bought the wrong kind of crisps (I call them chips, some of you might call them potato chips).

“No-one will eat them, so I thought I’d give them to the ducks,” she said, as she threw the contents of the final packet to the screeching and now-hyperactive water population. Thank goodness he hadn’t bought the wrong brand of beer.

I heard on the radio this week that obesity in the UK is seriously on the rise. Watch out for the ballooning weight of the duck population in south east London too, if they survive the preservatives. What was she thinking?

Sunshine signing off for today.