Sunday October 12, 2008
I was sitting in my corner by the kitchen table, musing away, in a sort of fugue state, you might say, when out popped a couple of lines of a very old lyric, which I sang in my best London accent at the top of my not inconsiderable volume:
“Knees up Mother Brown, Knees up Mother Brown…”
“What on earth brought that on,” said Graham as he placed my morning espresso-with-amaretti-biscuit on the table in front of me.
“Dunno. One of the good things about getting older is that these things can pop into your head without you being locked up for hearing voices.”
“Bet you can’t sing the whole song.”
“Of course not. Don’t be silly. I never could sing whole songs. But I know a bloke who can.”
I just thought you’d like to know that.
