Well, damn it, I do.
I'm a convert.
Now that my anxieties have been giving a twice nightly performance for so long they can run on for ever like the Mousetrap without rehearsal, and my pleasant thoughts have turned into words that land like a lash on my back making me physically recoil with the memory (much to the dismay of my fellow bus-riders) - I definitely need something to drown out the mental tinnitus. And so l find myself the owner of a shiny pink iPod which contains all the things on my laptop that I don't really use, in miniature. Now, instead, of an A4 slide show of my Salvador photographs which I never look at, I can display them on a screen the size of a postage stamp - another almost obsolete object in the days when everyone has email but consequently, nothing much to say. Or anything I want to hear. At least in my world.
Unfortunately, I made the mistake of handing my gadget to the youngest child who promised she would download all my music, though the mistake wasn't immediately evident as I stood at the bus-stop this morning at 6.45, preparing myself for the long tube-stricken journey that has turned Paddington into a scene from Metropolis.
Blue sky. Deserted street. Indeterminate birds chirping in indeterminate trees. The red line on the display at the bus-stop miraculously turning into:
7 RUSSELL SQU 5MINS
LICK MY BACK, LICK MY NECK, LICK MY P..
what? What? what?
it's blaring out so loudly that I'm sure the entire bus can hear the lyrics which, though unlikely, are indeed saying exactly what I think they are and have nothing whatsoever to do with cats. I fumble for the iPod, drop it, and the earpiece falls out and floods the seat with loud guteral grunting. Oh my God. Not only will everyone on the bus think I'm a total moron to be a white fifty year old matron listening to rap music but this is filthy rap music.
I scrabble for the volume and only seem to turn it up louder, which can't be possible, and then in despair try to switch it off altogether. I fail. It just goes on and on and on and on, longer than most sex acts. And then, finally, it's off. The face goes black as mine goes red and all falls silent.
and I'm alone with Glen Gould breathing his way through Prelude no 16.
Now this is extremely pleasant. Mellow. Private. Like aural sex, albeit of the gentle, long-married, sort that you can hum quietly along with (now you know why my husband left me!) And then just as he's stroking the last notes and I expect the Fugue, I get
UH, UH, CLAP, UH, UH, CLAP CLAP DO-IT DO-IT DO- IT
like needles in my ears.
What the f*, I think, fairly accurately as the rest of the words pound away at me like - well, moving swiftly on... I do, wondering how on earth that got anywhere near my iTunes. That's the last time I let anyone under 45 use my laptop. Next track... Manu Chao Desaparecido.
Better, much better. Not exactly pre-7am bus-stop appropriate, (but neither was the last one, let's face it) and I love the song. Despite myself I start singing along in a close approximation of the Spanish - volanda vengo, volanda voy (well I say close but that might be wishful thinking, especially if it's Portuguese). I can't stop swinging my hips, the other night's salsa steps making my feet move, despite the beat being entirely different, and then I catch sight of myself in the ad for Neurofen stuck behind the glass screen and see this blonde woman in a blue coat with St Vitus' Dance jiggling too and fro while muttering gibber.
Care in the Community, come on down.
I look hastily around to see if anyone is watching. The street is mercifully empty. I stand and compose myself sedately and look back up at the monitor.
I smile like a lunatic. He looks away.
Okay, then - next track:
Something from the OC Soundtrack. I'm ashamed that I know this, but I've watched enough episodes with my daughters to know many of the songs. Yet another foreign import to the eclectic Marion mix, but never mind. However, it's nice and winsome. 'I picture you in a dress... na na na na... may God's love be with you, na na....'
The bus arrives. I settle down by the window and listen to the lyrics and phut, happiness gone, tears pricking embarrassingly at the corner of my eyes. Bloody hell, it's not that sad. I'm just being maudlin. I press forward again: Norah Jones. Even ruddy worse. Why have I got all these torch songs on this machine? I'm just one Leonard Cohen track away from sobbing. Next: Suzanne takes you down....
I bite my lips and flick stoutly onwards until I'm back to Glen Gould. I flick through and select the album and start half way through. Relief floods over me with the plinky plonky chords. The volume's a little bit low. I fiddle with the dial and push the sound all the way up so I can hear Glen humming under his breath which always reassures me, and close my eyes. I'm in a field, walking though high grass, no mud, no nettles, man in distance - damn it, rub him out, back into the field, sun overhead, twelve years old, loud splash of people swimming in a river, man in distance... this patently isn't working. I go on. Carly Simon. I'm at the back of my French Class, overlooking the dual carriageway of the A something that joins Edinburgh eventually to Glasgow, and Lausanne McKay - the babe of the 4th form, is preening at her desk, singing this, and we all join in with the chorus (though even then I couldn't see what was attractive about a man in an apricot scarf). Then just as I'm tucking the iPod back into my bra strap (no pockets) I accidentally, hit the forward button.
Now this is extremely pleasant. Mellow. Private. Like aural sex, albeit of the gentle, long-married, sort that you can hum quietly along with (now you know why my husband left me!) And then just as he's stroking the last notes and I expect the Fugue, I get
UH, UH, CLAP, UH, UH, CLAP CLAP DO-IT DO-IT DO- IT
like needles in my ears.
What the f*, I think, fairly accurately as the rest of the words pound away at me like - well, moving swiftly on... I do, wondering how on earth that got anywhere near my iTunes. That's the last time I let anyone under 45 use my laptop. Next track... Manu Chao Desaparecido.
Better, much better. Not exactly pre-7am bus-stop appropriate, (but neither was the last one, let's face it) and I love the song. Despite myself I start singing along in a close approximation of the Spanish - volanda vengo, volanda voy (well I say close but that might be wishful thinking, especially if it's Portuguese). I can't stop swinging my hips, the other night's salsa steps making my feet move, despite the beat being entirely different, and then I catch sight of myself in the ad for Neurofen stuck behind the glass screen and see this blonde woman in a blue coat with St Vitus' Dance jiggling too and fro while muttering gibber.
Care in the Community, come on down.
I look hastily around to see if anyone is watching. The street is mercifully empty. I stand and compose myself sedately and look back up at the monitor.
7 RUSSELL SQU 3MINS
Time seems to be standing still. Unlike me, because once again my foot is tapping. I just can't help myself. The world is full of dancing, happy people, and I'm just one of them, having all this exuberance piped straight into my heart. I love it. I tap my hand against my thigh, and then a man appears round the corner.I smile like a lunatic. He looks away.
Okay, then - next track:
Something from the OC Soundtrack. I'm ashamed that I know this, but I've watched enough episodes with my daughters to know many of the songs. Yet another foreign import to the eclectic Marion mix, but never mind. However, it's nice and winsome. 'I picture you in a dress... na na na na... may God's love be with you, na na....'
The bus arrives. I settle down by the window and listen to the lyrics and phut, happiness gone, tears pricking embarrassingly at the corner of my eyes. Bloody hell, it's not that sad. I'm just being maudlin. I press forward again: Norah Jones. Even ruddy worse. Why have I got all these torch songs on this machine? I'm just one Leonard Cohen track away from sobbing. Next: Suzanne takes you down....
I bite my lips and flick stoutly onwards until I'm back to Glen Gould. I flick through and select the album and start half way through. Relief floods over me with the plinky plonky chords. The volume's a little bit low. I fiddle with the dial and push the sound all the way up so I can hear Glen humming under his breath which always reassures me, and close my eyes. I'm in a field, walking though high grass, no mud, no nettles, man in distance - damn it, rub him out, back into the field, sun overhead, twelve years old, loud splash of people swimming in a river, man in distance... this patently isn't working. I go on. Carly Simon. I'm at the back of my French Class, overlooking the dual carriageway of the A something that joins Edinburgh eventually to Glasgow, and Lausanne McKay - the babe of the 4th form, is preening at her desk, singing this, and we all join in with the chorus (though even then I couldn't see what was attractive about a man in an apricot scarf). Then just as I'm tucking the iPod back into my bra strap (no pockets) I accidentally, hit the forward button.
LICK MY BACK, LICK MY NECK, LICK MY P..
what? What? what?
it's blaring out so loudly that I'm sure the entire bus can hear the lyrics which, though unlikely, are indeed saying exactly what I think they are and have nothing whatsoever to do with cats. I fumble for the iPod, drop it, and the earpiece falls out and floods the seat with loud guteral grunting. Oh my God. Not only will everyone on the bus think I'm a total moron to be a white fifty year old matron listening to rap music but this is filthy rap music.
I scrabble for the volume and only seem to turn it up louder, which can't be possible, and then in despair try to switch it off altogether. I fail. It just goes on and on and on and on, longer than most sex acts. And then, finally, it's off. The face goes black as mine goes red and all falls silent.
(It only occurs to me later that I should just have pulled the earphone jack out.)
I can't bring myself to lift my eyes from my lap for the rest of the journey though when I do risk a quick look round most of the other passengers are plugged into their own music. Stupid ruddy iPods. And I don't think much of my teenage daughter's musical taste either. What happened to PG? What happened to Three Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed? Now they're rolling around on top of it.
The person next to me gets off at Oxford Circus and I move in next to the window and resume my customary position of head against the glass. I close my eyes and try for oblivion and then SLAP, those words I've been trying to drown out since I woke up this morning knock my eyes open and I'm lashed to the post again as they slam back into me.
No rest for the wickedly stupid.
I got the iPod back out again, and so if anybody is wondering why I'm singing the Pussycat Doll's 'you're looking at my beep' then now you know.
I can't bring myself to lift my eyes from my lap for the rest of the journey though when I do risk a quick look round most of the other passengers are plugged into their own music. Stupid ruddy iPods. And I don't think much of my teenage daughter's musical taste either. What happened to PG? What happened to Three Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed? Now they're rolling around on top of it.
The person next to me gets off at Oxford Circus and I move in next to the window and resume my customary position of head against the glass. I close my eyes and try for oblivion and then SLAP, those words I've been trying to drown out since I woke up this morning knock my eyes open and I'm lashed to the post again as they slam back into me.
No rest for the wickedly stupid.
I got the iPod back out again, and so if anybody is wondering why I'm singing the Pussycat Doll's 'you're looking at my beep' then now you know.
