When you read you understand
This song always reminds me of when I was 14 and smoked my first cigarettes. Kind of a weird connection, I know. But I used to sneak out of my house and walk down a country road listening to an old mix tape on my CD player (yeah, apparently I’m that old) and this was one of the songs that I’d play again and again and again. Some songs have an uncanny ability to bring you back
Music I enjoy
I’ve gotta be honest, you had me at overcoatability
Pretty sure I’m gonna be that uncle who drinks whiskey out the bottle and ruins Christmas
Mother fucking Bill Nye!
“A spot of tea?” yelled the voice from the other room as I settled myself into the painfully coloured sofa. She wasn’t British, but she said she picked up the expression from a movie or something. A spot of tea? There were enough of those spots on the carpet. I can’t imagine why she would want to offer another one. “No, thank you,” I replied hoping if I sunk far enough into the chair I could quell the awkward storm of small talk I knew was coming. “How’s your mum?” she yelled. Why did she have to yell? From where she stood filling up the kettle in the kitchen to where I sat was maybe ten paces. “She’s alright, still living!” I said, and then under my breath: “unfortunately.”
Being in a new city meant that all my parents friends felt inclined to show me hospitality, whether I wanted them to or not. Marsha, my mother’s old school friend was no different. She stood tall even without her frequently oversized heels; the tight jeans she wore accented her legs in a way that made me curious about what she looked like without being covered by those overly protective clothes? She had called me one day, maybe a week after I moved in. My mother had given her my phone number. I didn’t know what she looked like but based off the obnoxiously loud voice and impossible to place accent that greeted me through my speaker I had pictured someone a hundred pounds heavier and years older. I could get used to the voice I thought, as she droned on about playing ringette or something with my mother in high school and then through university. I didn’t pay attention to the words, just the constant rising and falling of her voice as it became one steady stream of noise and it mixed with the smell of her cooking to the point where I felt like I might be smelling her voice and listening to her chicken speak. A simple “yupp” or “probably” at the right moments was enough to fuel the fire of conversation; and it burned bright. On her part, anyway. It’s not that she was boring. I found her to be fascinating. Maybe the problem is that I’m boring and have trouble keeping up.