As a teenager, I would try to introduce my parents to artists I thought they would at least not hate, but inevitably Dad would complain about repetition (‘Gee, I wonder what this one’s called?’), whining voices or how the singer couldn’t even be understood. The tape would be swiftly ejected from the car stereo in favour of three hours of listening to the cricket commentary. The rather drab monotone of The Smith’s lead singer Morrissey set Dad off like a finely tuned torture device. But if you wanted a really violent reaction all you had to do was start singing ‘There’s A Hole in My Bucket’ and you’d get what you were looking for.
* * *
When Charlie and Lucy visit, I make a family playlist to listen to in the car. My musical tastes are firmly cemented in the 1980s, but that’s understandable because it was the best era for music ever. Yet on this playlist, everyone gets to choose a couple of songs, and I try to ensure I include at least one or two ‘modern’ songs in my picks. But inevitably it’s stuff they’ve never heard before.
‘How can you not like “True Faith”?’ I ask.
‘Dad, come on,’ they’ll counter, ‘get with it! How can you not like Taylor Swift?’
‘I don’t mind the odd song of hers.’
And then how glorious when the tables are turned and they insist we listen to Miley Cyrus sing ‘Edge Of Midnight’. Just like our parents did decades before, I take great pleasure in playing the original version, and they can’t believe it existed before it was brought to their 2020s attention. Their mothers and I have broadened our children’s musical horizons somewhat, so at least they’ve heard of Cyndi Lauper (and actually seen her in concert) when I know they’re in the very vast minority of those in this generation that have.
As I sing along to Cyndi in the car, it becomes apparent that even Jeff despairs of me on the odd occasion. ‘Don’t you ever get sick of listening to the same songs?’
‘It’s a new version of “Time After Time” I’ve only just discovered,’ I say.
‘Don’t you ever get sick of her voice?’
‘It’s live. It’s different every time.’
Charlie still tries to introduce new music to Jeff and me.
‘You have to listen to Drake’s new album,’ he says.
‘Does Cyndi Lauper guest on it?’
‘No unfortunately. Maybe it’s more of a Jiffy thing.’
It’s true that Jeff is more modern in his tastes than I am. He regularly suggests music, TV and films to the kids – stuff that was released not only in the last decade, but even in the last few weeks, would you believe? It’s another of those family jokes, I guess, that their dad is stuck in the ’80s but Jeff can be relied upon to know everything past ’89.
Just as our kids have clearly given up trying to keep me modern and ‘with it’, I came to the realisation a while ago that Mum and Dad are pretty firmly set in their ways. Most things I let go through to the keeper, but sometimes I just can’t help myself.
‘You like your Cyndis and your Laupers, don’t you, Mum?’
‘I do, actually. But have you got any Peter Allens?’
Dad, Jeff and I groan.
Attention Twilight Waters Residents:
This year’s non-denominational Christmas will be celebrated in the Beverley Whitstock Memorial Hall at 10.25am sharp on Christmas Day. Lunch will consist of three choices:
• Solid • Pureed • Liquid
Please advise the kitchen of your preference no later than 6pm tonight to avoid disappointment.
The cost of lunch and gifts will automatically be deducted from your next pension payment.
Season’s Greetings.
Thank You,
Management
EIGHT
A Merry Little Christmas
‘Such pretty country out here,’ Mum says. ‘Is this what Gloucester’s like too? I don’t remember.’
‘A bit rockier, I think,’ I say as that is really all I can remember from passing through it on one of my book tours.
‘Tell us more about this house you’re looking at, Skeet.’
I try to keep my description deliberately vague. ‘It’s more or less a traditional country farmhouse, wouldn’t you say, Jeff?’ I pass the buck.
‘Yeah?’ He catches my gaze in the mirror. ‘Yeah!’ he agrees. ‘It’s got lovely deep verandas.’
‘Sounds like it could be the venue for next Christmas,’ Mum says excitedly.
It’s the 29th of December and, as per usual, Mum and Dad are trying to make firm plans for a Christmas some 361 days away.
‘Okay, we’d be happy to host,’ I concede.
‘As long as I get my fruit salad I’ll be happy,’ Dad says.
