The Day I Covered Myself With Glory...

 My childhood is to be envied. How many children can boast of the dubious distinction of being taught the parody of every classic western song known to man by their ever-loving uncle, without a clue that there was actually an original piece with the same tune? And which one of these same young ones has accomplished this magnificent feat before the grand old pre-adolescent age of FIVE?

I don't see any raised hands. My condolences. Your childhood must have been desperately mundane.

I still recall my mother's usually serene countenance dissolving into unmitigated horror when she entered the house one evening, after a hard day's work, and was greeted by the charming sight of her three cherubs ranged around the dining table, lustily singing, “In China They Do it with Chi****s", while our Uncle conducted us, his tuneful choir!! The horror turned to terror when she spied the tape recorder placed precisely in the centre, recording this priceless moment in time.

How my Uncle is still alive today, is the stuff that miracles are made of.

Well...armed with this unique skill set, I sallied forth into the world of adults. (Have I mentioned that in our home, we were brought up with the firm belief that ‘Children should be seen not heard.’ Not until they are capable of holding an intelligent conversation.) But I digress….

My debut into the exciting microcosm of Drawing Rooms came when some rather formal guests were visiting. I walked demurely in and settled myself on a chair. Back ramrod straight, legs crossed at the ankle, hands folded in my lap, eyes downcast…the archetypal princess of a royal household.

The conversations flowed around me and I delightedly eavesdropped. A sentence here. A dialogue there. Each one carefully analysed and stored away for future examination.

Suddenly my train of thought was broken by the guests requesting my mother to play the piano while they accompanied her in song. Ever obliging, she graciously moved to the said instrument and played the bars of a melody. I perked up. This song I knew! The guests too were delighted. It seems they shared my familiarity with the music and  shortly therefore we launched into our renditions.

Barely a few bars into the music, I was struck by a realisation – they had the wrong lyrics! I abruptly ceased warbling and listened in growing displeasure to what I now deemed a desecration of a truly beautiful number. My ire grew with each verse sung, until I could bear it no more. Flinging forth my arms in a truly queenly gesture, I flapped them wildly (still retaining my queenlines) and begged everyone to cease and desist.

The music came to a crashing halt and I closed my eyes and bowed my head reverentially, to express my deep satisfaction at the ensuing, merciful silence. Seconds passed and then a male voice broke the blessed silence with the query, “What’s wrong, little one?”

 “What’s wrong?!” I exclaimed agitatedly. “You ask what’s wrong?! Did you hear yourselves? How could you desecrate something so beautiful?” My voice broke on the last question and I sank into my chair wearily. I was broken hearted. These utter philistines had ruined a work of art. Poetry at its best.

You can imagine my consternation then, when yet again I was posed the same question. Oh horror! Did they really not know what they had done? I decided to enlighten them.

In a voice laced with pity and sadness, I informed them that the words they were singing were completely distorted. Did they not know that the song was NOT

“On top of old Smokey,

All covered with snow,

I lost my true lover

For courting too slow”.

“Is that so? I could have sworn these were the words. I must have heard the song a hundred times. What words do you have?”

I drew a deep breath, counselled myself to patience and tunefully warbled:

“On top of spaghetti

All covered with cheese

I lost my poor meatball

Cos somebody sneezed.”

As I took in my next breath to continue, I was nearly knocked off my feet by the roar of laughter that ensued. They pounded me on the back, shook my hand and complimented me on my incredible sense of humour. They told me they’d never been treated to such nonsensical verse and doubled over with mirth.

I watched them with bewilderment and swung my eyes towards my mother, only to catch her looking daggers at my uncle.

And that’s when the proverbial penny dropped.

He had taught us the PARODY!!!

As I said earlier - How my Uncle is still alive today is what miracles are all about.

All I can say is that I covered myself with glory while my mother is being considered for sainthood.