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.

For Better or For Worse

“Will you sing for my son’s wedding?”

“Sure, I will.”

 “Oh – and while you’re at it – will you plan the wedding as well? I have no clue as to how to plan one.” 

“Sure, I will.” (How do you deny Mita [name changed in the interests of protecting the person’s identity]? She is the most helpless, lovable bureaucrat it has ever been my privilege to meet). And that’s how it all began. 

Now before we proceed to the wedding day itself, permit moi to give thee a wee bit of background:

You see, the pastor of the church in question was older than Father Time himself. Unlike old wine, however, he had most certainly not aged gracefully. Quite the opposite, in fact. So, basically, we were dealing with a frail old curmudgeon, whose folded arms, sulphurous scowl and furiously twitching moustache made a thundercloud look like a bright ray of sunshine. And as far as ‘dictatorial’ went – well, the less said the better.

And so it was that as the great day dawned clear and sunny, the atmosphere in the church was anything but. The said venerable gentleman had already lost his temper twice over, had hurled some decorations across the church (Someone had dared to place them on a small table near the altar), and had then taken up his position to perform the ceremony, but not without first glowering darkly at the choir, much to the said choir’s consternation (we only later discovered that it was because his own singers had not been invited to do the honours).

 

Into this cheerful and encouraging scenario tripped our young, handsome groom, accompanied by his shy and lovely bride. 

Now let’s digress for a moment. Let’s step into our young hero’s size 12 shoes and take a peek at the world through his eyes. Have I mentioned that this young lad is lacking the paternal half of his parents (divorce is a sad, sad word) and has been wordlessly watching his charming mother helplessly struggling to organize his nuptials?  And that he is marrying an equally young lass who is ‘relativeless’ in the church because she is getting hitched much against her dearly beloved pater and mater’s wishes and who also doesn’t happen to have a clue as to what is expected of her because she, perchance, belongs to an altogether different faith? To add to all his considerable woes - he finds himself now confronted with a doddering old fogey with a fulminous set of eyes? That the said eyes are magnified manifold times owing to a humungous pair of soda glassed spectacles, does nothing for our brave warrior’s confidence. 

 

The icing on the proverbial wedding cake, however, lies in the untold irony of the fact that it was the young man himself, who insisted on being married by this particular pastor!

Given the circumstances, wouldn’t you be a tad nervous? Well – imagine the state of our dear protagonist.

And so it was that the ceremony began. 

And we, the choir, (who fortuitously happened to be placed where we had an excellent view of the proceedings – a very crucial circumstance given that fate has decreed that I be the recorder, for posterity, of what transpired that day) rendered the first hymn for the occasion. And as our voices were raised in angelic tones, the bride and groom and all and sundry bowed their combined heads in a prayerful mood that befitted the occasion.

Not so our dearly beloved curmudgeon. Scarcely had our dulcet tones faded, than he – as if in deliberate counterpoint to our heavenly voices - started reading out the wedding service in brusque tones that were more reminiscent of someone trying to keep a funeral on an even keel, than that of a truly joyous occasion. One look at Arvind’s (name changed in the interests of protecting the person’s identity) face was enough to reveal the tension that the poor child was undergoing. To the keen observer (in all humility, I must confess that my observational skills would  put Sherlock Holmes to shame. Aha! Now comprehension dawns - why Father Fate pronounced me the recorder!), the pulse beating in his throat was a dead giveaway. The man was clearly one teeny step away from a meltdown.

And that’s when our doughty Doomsday clad in a cassock, played his winning card.

He put a hand to the vicinity of his heart - and rubbed his scrawny chest.

A small digression - Have you ever had the privilege of observing a guard from the legendary Coldstream Guards (the ones that protect Buckingham Palace) collapse? No? Believe me – it is a spectacle to behold. A digression within a digression (all in the pursuit of literary excellence, I assure you, dear reader): Ever beheld a majestic tree fall after being ruthlessly cut from the root? There you go! I see the light dawning. The ramrod straight back as it plummets earthwards thanks to the unstoppable force that the apple chewing genius named Newton, dubbed “gravity”? 

And that’s precisely what young Arvind did. Before one had time to even discern that something, earthshaking (literally) was about to happen (hey, even Sherlock Holmes had his moments of distraction – I was occupied, as was the rest of the congregation, watching the old codger for any signs of imminent heart failure whilst simultaneously tensing for action, al la Superwoman), our doomed groom took a nosedive. Ramrod straight. A true soldier, he did his lady love proud. He plummeted like a rock with a body brace – straight into the table that (fortunately) stood between him and Father Time’s grandfather. Oh, how art the mighty fallen.

Now it was Mother (my feminine instincts are rebelling against too many male protagonists) Chaos’ turn to reign supreme.  As dramatic shrieks rent the air and people milled about in helpless confusion, I am proud to announce that the entire choir (please do recall that your truly happens to be a member of this caroling community) miraculously transformed into the ambulance brigade. Without a word being exchanged, but by some form of unspoken consent, some of us immediately took up strategic positions behind the crusty cause of all the confusion (he happened to have frozen with his hand still at cardiac massaging position), whilst three more raced to place a chair beneath the swooning beauty of a bride, seconds before she could join her companion in his ungainly position on the ground. (Did I mention that he had bounced off the [fortunately placed] table and come to rest on the cold stone floor? I didn’t? How remiss of me. Well – he did.)

As for Arvind – a more professional approach you have yet to find. Within seconds, his belt lay unbuckled, his shirt unbuttoned (revealing a very manly chest), his tie removed and lashings of water randomly thrown at his wax-pale face, whilst another volunteer vigorously fanned him with his own wedding invitation. And just when the holi water (pun intended. Bet you couldn’t have resisted either, Mr Holier-than-thou. Oops, there I go again!) player was seriously beginning to consider the advantages of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation over the disadvantage of it not being the beautiful bride that he would have ministered to with (un)Christian alacrity, our horizontal hero let loose a manly groan, thus saving our conundrum confused chum from having to make a life-saving decision.

And that’s when – as the saying goes – things fell into place.

So shaken was our Frosty-the-Foul-Mood that he immediately declared a ceasefire, adroitly lowered his hand from its heartfelt position and proceeded to conduct the rest of the service with the all the serenity  and decorum of a true man of God, as if nothing untoward had occurred at all. 

That the remaining ceremony took place with all the main protagonists surrounded by a team of chair wielding watchers, did nothing to detract from its beauty and there wasn’t a dry eye in the entire church when the bride and groom finally limped down the aisle. The sound of a hundred held collective breaths being simultaneously released together, making for one gigantic hurricane sigh that swept through the confines of the room, only added to the poignancy of the moment.

Perhaps I should end this happy fairy tale with the words I whispered to the distraught damsel as she swayed on the verge of her own collapse – “Just think: you’ll have a story well worth telling your grandchildren. How many people are that fortunate?!! The young lady in question had a delightful sense of humour. Her amused gurgle echoed through the shocked silence and served as the first step towards the restoration of normality at that unforgettable wedding.