Caterwauling 'Mull of Kintyre'

Notwithstanding my propensity to come across as a total bitch on this blog at times, I'm actually a good friend to those who need me.  Stop laughing.  Stop rolling your eyes.  If you've snorted derisively, I hope whatever you were eating became lodged in your nose and you're now totally sicked out.

So good a friend am I, last Friday night I did something to support a friend in need.  Yes, I went and had some wine with her.  That is not a great heart scald by any means; I enjoy having a sip of wine with friends.  No, I did something I never thought I would do.  Her iPod was playing in the background, and there came a dire dirge-like tune from the playlist.  My friend was as happy as Larry.  I, of course, was not.  However, I have decorum sufficient to respect I was at my friend's house, it was her playlist, and she has been going through a rough few days and I was there to support her.  But she pleaded to me, 'Come on, Simone: sing it with me!'  Such a request is not generally wise because I have a singing voice that could open a can.  But Friday night was not about me, so I sang with her. 

And what did I sing? 'Mull of Kin-fucken-tyre', THAT'S WHAT!! My friend is a Kiwi, the same age as me, and she told me this song hit number 1 in New Zealand.  I told her it had held that position here in Oz, as well, and added that I had no fucking idea how it had achieved this feat. 

The song is as colourless and dreary as a dried dog turd bleached by the sun, and to me holds the same appeal.  It only enhanced Paul McCartney's reputation as The Boring Beatle.

But I persevered with my hideous caterwaul (when I could remember the lyrics), and got through it.  Hey, maybe my rendition is more interesting.

Saturday morning saw me a touch dusty, but at least I had had the foresight to drink some water through the night so I did not feel as bad as I might have.  But I felt bad enough.  Also, I was rostered to work.  There is joy and reward in assisting the elderly in home care, but that joy vanishes as though by a magician's sleight of hand when one is hungover, and has to empty a bedside commode that contains blobs of stools swimming in bright yellow urine, looking like a foetid school of manatees.  As you can imagine, Gentle Reader, I almost puked.

During my break, it became apparent I was going to come down with a case of Death if I didn't lie down, so I slept most of yesterday afternoon.  Yes, and I resolved to never drink so much red wine in the one sitting again.  I will probably break this resolve one day. There is a romantic notion that writers sit at their typewriter with a bottle of whatever.  Whilst working on my next book, I will probably eschew the stereotype; hangovers really do overpower me. I cannot maintain the pace I did twenty-five years ago.