Wee Scoops

Measure for Measure

Archive for the tag “music”

Let’s get this year over with

I’m feeling a wee bit indigenous today. A wee bitty Scottish through and through. A wee bit like Chris Guthrie from Sunset Song: in harmony with the land: San Caledonia.

Tonight we’re having a ceilidh. The band have the tricky task of following me as I play hard, fast and randomly – skipping repeats, forgetting to count and stuffing up introductions. But never mind. As long as the drummer drums and the dancers can count to eight – we should be fine.

It was way back in the early 80s that my violin teacher thought it would be good for us to learn some Scottish tunes. We used to get trussed up in kilts and sent off to scrape away in various shopping malls and town halls. Then at some point in the late 90s, I dusted off “kerr’s merrie melodies for the violin” and away I went: with a band rather than other fiddles – four times the speed, but just the same ability level.

To our faithful following, the repertoire seems to never have changed. Indeed, it has never changed since 2006. But, since the first ceilidh we have added a good few and ditched any that were too tricky or required me to play in 3rd position.

Tonight we have the additional challenge of my louping staved hand. Which is a purely Scottish injury. If you fall on your backside in any other country, it is impossible to end up with a louping staved hand – so… just as well I did it here – otherwise I might have sprained or broken it!

I’m sure it’ll be fine. If need be I’ll make an extra resolution to have regular physio in the new year.

Who can say how tonight will turn out. What I like about it is that it is a real ceilidh in the spirit of real ceilidhs. It isn’t a tourist gimmick. It will hopefully be an informal riot of mediocre music and dance for all ages – with snacks at half time.

AND, importantly, there will be Auld Lang Syne at the end. What’s with the 21st c mistake of replacing Auld Lang Syne with yon bonny banks by Runrig? Eh? It’s TOO LONG for the end of a ceilidh, the words are depressing and everyone over the age of 60 gets confused. And I get confused. I mean, I get confused enough with Auld Lang Syne, my dear. As long as the drummer goes doof doof at the right point, we’ll be fine.

Auld Lang Syne

Auld Lang Syne (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

And I really hope we get Gangnam Style on at the break.

Instrument Playing (but not the recorder)


Piano (Photo credit: esc861)

Take a complicated subject you know more about than most people, and explain it to a friend who knows nothing about it at all.

When I asked by fb friends for a topic on which they’d like to be enlightened, I was given the choice of “Instrument Playing, but not the recorder”, “Toddlers” and “Chorlton and the Wheelies”.

Chorlton and the Wheelies are a dim and distant memory, so although I don’t doubt its complexity as a topic, I can’t claim to be an authority.

The toddler phase was not one of my most triumphant phases, and I am banishing the tricky parts to distant memory as far as I am able.

I could tie this whole post up neatly by suggesting that toddlers should be given an instrument or a DVD of Chorlton and the Wheelies, should such a thing exist…

When I approach the “instrument” topic, all I hear from my subconscious is:

Great, Cliff! Which instruments to you want us to break? Piano? Violin! Digeridoo! Vivien’s Trousers! Rik’s head! Yeah, uh uh , Neil’s head, Cliff’s heaf? NO! NO!

I take mediocrity in all things musical to new levels of patchiness.

So, if you want to play instruments like me, here’s how you do it:


Have lessons for a couple of years and get to grade two, before thinking “meh” and giving it up. Meanwhile, steal your sister’s grade 4 music and teach yourself it using the basic principles picked up through those odd years of having a teacher so old, and with such heavy foundation, it was a wonder she didn’t crumble to dust before my very eyes. Make a friend who is beasting at the piano and play duets for fun at her house, like The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba. Make a point of learning that Richard Clayderman one and don’t forget to include a bit of Scott Joplin. The net result will be that you can still play the first few bars of some very cool stuff – but be unable to sight read UNLESS IT IS IN C.


This is better. Begin with cheapo lessons in school, before moving on to expensive lessons. You will find that this brings on the skill level no end. And practising also works. You may develop a weird hot-leg complaint which means that you have to play in bare feet on a cold floor or big red patches will appear as you play, but you’ll get over this by your mid to very late thirties when playing in bare feet on a weekly basis in the church doesn’t really appeal. Moving from the expensive teacher to a cheaper one will be a mistake as you may end up playing THE SAME TUNE over and over for a couple of years. Join a fiddle group and an orchestra. Get a better teacher.  Learn some Bach and Vivaldi. Internalise a pile of ceilidh music which will prove to be a useful life skill. Try not to develop an aversion to tuneless worship songs as this may well end up being a substantial feature in your repertoire.


I do have one. I can’t play it.

Vivien’s trousers:

Anyway… moving on… I’ll leave the mandolin, the accordion, “Be thou my vision” on the bass guitar, the guitar and various other bits and pieces to your imagination.


I can play on my head (not Cliff’s). I inherited this enviable 😕 skill from my Dad. We can do a mean Bach’s Double Violin Concerto – although we haven’t given it a go for a few years….

If the Cliff quote was outwith your cultural frame of reference, hit the YouTube:

Year of Aversion Therapy #1: I Dance

Someone challenged me to “hug people and dance” this summer, so I thought I’d get some practice in. So, while sitting at the side, clutching my empty wine glass, I resolved to dance if prompted.

20120708-101633 PM.jpg

By dance, I don’t mean ceilidh dancing, more’s the pity. I can do that (although I’m usually in the band therefore have a non-dancing wild card). Ceilidh dancing I ‘get’. I know what to do; I know what it is about; I even see the point.

All I needed to do was to transfer these things over to random ad lib dancing:

1. Knowing what to do

Hmmm…. tricky. Historically, the fall-back position was what we termed (ironically, y’understand) the ‘groovy two step’. It still holds good. Side together back together repeat to fade. Then you need to do random stuff with your arms – somewhere between nothing at all and anything obvious.

Oh, the joy when YMCA comes on! I could only dream of the Macarena. Then there’s always ironic dancing. Luckily my children weren’t there . (As an aside, when I asked my kids about how I looked before I went out, I got a withering look and told, sarcastically: “Wow, mum. You look like an orange.”) Never mind. I thought my dress was EXACTLY what I wanted to wear. I even had comfy sandals and if that isn’t an oxymoron….


2. Knowing what it’s about

Well. This is trickier. I usually have deep worries about the primal, social anthropological reasons for dancing. But on this occasion, I found a reason I could live with. I wasn’t identifying with a tribe or culture. I wasn’t finding or expressing myself. I was finding an aerobic way of putting in an hour when the music was too loud to have a conversation and everyone I knew (give or take a few) was dancing. I really would have had to sit at the side and clutch a diet coke. Either that or I would have to chitter in the rain outside or hang out in the toilet. So, it was generally expedient to be at the back of the dance floor having a laugh. And yes, it was “fun”, but I am still developing my appreciation of “fun”. I’m still not really into it.

3. Seeing the point

If the point of random ad lib dancing is to get people to do it and thereby tick all of the cultural boxes alluded to in point 2 – it doesn’t really work. Far more people get involved in the ceilidh dancing – and the random track DJ can really hit or miss with the choice of tracks. Having not listened to …  anything in the last decade, I wouldn’t know what tracks were likely to be good for dancing – although I was pleased to feel my age when “Uptown Girl” came on. It was the first single I ever bought – except mine was Billy Joel and this was Westlife, but hey, I knew it.

I suppose the “point” of dancing is that it is something that people can do together in a time and place. Maybe it is a bit tribal. I don’t know. Tribal is the wrong word, I know. It is social. I think that is where I don’t get it because I have pigeonholed “social” as to do with verbal/written communication, rather than simply being in the same place at the same time doing the same thing. It is done, in this context, together. And I think that is the point. Maybe people can only eat and drink together for so long. Maybe dancing is just next on the list. Maybe some people just want to dance and don’t ‘get’ the eating, or don’t ‘ get the drinking.

But everyone eats and drinks. Not everyone dances. However, there is “a time to dance”. I get it. I’ve seen “Footloose”.  

So, there we go. That was dancing part 1. I have more dancing scheduled for late July. I may also experiment with the phone thing. I am not touching the hugging thing with a barge pole. For a long time. I’d rather phone for a taxi. In fact, that would make me phone for a taxi…


No Contest

There was no one left in the club, except Duncan. A stink of stale sweat and spilt cider. Crushed plastic cups, puddles and heel marks. There was a bright light outside, leaking in the narrow window under the green glowing exit sign;  it was dark in the club, but for the spotlight.

Duncan put down his drumsticks and looked up into the spotlight than pinpointed him as the star in the gloom.

But he was no star. Charlotte was the star. Legs, sequins and a voice like…well, there was no contest. She had it all.

She believed in herself, which Duncan had always thought suspect. Okay, so she was pretty perfect, but he always thought that kind of self-belief was naive. I mean, if he believed in himself, it didn’t mean he could sing like she could. He could drum perfectly well, of course. But he couldn’t sing – and no matter what he chose to believe about his singing ability wouldn’t have the least bearing on the reality of his singing. The club would be sure to empty, table by table, until there would be one corner of loyal friends to buy him a drink after the gig and encourage him with well-intended lies.

There was that one time, back in ’97 when he had taken the mic. A surplus of drummers had forced him out of the safety of his low stool at the back of the stage. A Christmas special. They needed some male voices for a touch of Slade. Luckily it wasn’t for Cliff.

The gig had gone well enough – although this was before Charlotte’s time – but it had perhaps been helped along by the festive atmosphere and the fact that all the songs were so well known that the punters were slurring along with the band, bearing vacant beatific grins.

But back behind the drums he could drive the music. He could build it from emptiness through noise to fullness. He could fall away and highlight or expose the singer. He could switch to double time and feel the floor bounce beneath the stage as the crowd responded, usually unaware of why they felt how they felt – or gazed up at Charlotte and figured it was all down to her.

She was captivating.

He wondered how she really felt. All this ‘perfection’ must be a bit wearing. Every time he saw her she just looked great. She sounded great. She was wearing something that managed to shine without outshining herself.

Duncan lifted one of the discarded drumsticks and hit a cymbal with a crash that he silenced immediately, feeling the vibrations dampen through his hand.

At this point, the writer has a decision to make. She has three options:

He can look up, and Charlotte is there, looking uncharacteristically lacklustre. She has been crying, and is approaching the stage, nervously playing with her hands. Duncan stands and steps out from behind the drum-kit, his face pinched with concern…


Duncan steps out from behind the drum-kit and reaches for the mic that is still live. He thinks for a minute and breaks into song. A ballad. A shadow blots our the light at the exit. Someone is listening…


The writer can decide that Duncan and Charlotte are not meant to be together. He is, for one thing, not that it necessarily matters, is far older than she is. Charlotte is a real star who has played her last gig in that club. A decent drummer and a mediocre singer, Duncan, as a result of a chronic lack of self-belief, will never play another venue. But in truth, he is the better musician, technically.

The writer has made her decision.

The writer does not believe in the value of self-belief, or the magic of music and can’t decide whether to be be relieved or sad.

Blue Piano

Go easy.
Start in the middle;
Start on C.
Go up,
Go down.
Then nothing is accidental.

The blue piano
as the life goes on

Which key?
Too sharp in D
Too flat in B.

Look at your notes.

The blue piano
life’s Muzak
in the back.

Rigid scales
to jazz.

20120426-112650 PM.jpg

How to do a Scottish Accent. Probably Part 1, but I maybe won’t bother with part 2. Who can say?

Today, or was it yesterday, I didn’t “get” a joke, this is until I re-read the joke in an English accent. (Tilly, this is no criticism of you, only of me and my slow brain. Love your work). It was based on “morning” and “mourning” being homophones. Just like how that Joseph song doesn’t rhyme very well north of the border *drew back the curtain…ah-ah-ah… to see for certain…*

Not long after, a (Scottish-but-living-in-England) friend was lamenting her child’s school’s efforts to convince her child that the sound “or” should be pronounces “aw”.

You see, “aw” has no r in it. How can it be a representation of “or”?

Ah, you don’t pronounce the “r”. So, what’s the point in the “r”?

ANYWAY For the benefit of all people wanting to put on a good Scottish accent, here are the basics:

1. The Scottish Vowel Length Rule aka Aitken’s law (I think)

Although I don’t know what the rule is, as such, it manifests itself in the following quirks. In Scots the word “greed” is said with a short “ee” sound, whereas in the word “agreed”, the vowel length is longer, as in the rest of the English speaking world (except perhaps Canada). The same variation can be seen with “tide” where the vowel is short and “tied” where the vowel is long, unlike in other accents where these words are identical to the ear.

2. The Glottal Stop

Or should that be glo’al? If you miss out “t” in the middle of a word, it helps with the Sco’ish accent, particularly if you are going for a casual, informal one.

3. Pronounce the ‘h’ in ‘wh’

In most accents, the ‘h’ has been lost. So that Wales and Whales become the same thing. Alarming. And if you whine about wine, you might as well be wining about whine, which would make no sense. You pronounce it by kind of blowing a bit. Makes “whisper” a bit more onomatopoeic, I reckon.

4. Preserve the x phoneme

It is the ch in loch, Pitlochry and Auchtermuchty. It does not sound like ck. Ever. Except, sadly it is fading out a bit. To make the sound, open your mouth, raise the back of your tongue up and exhale, making a noise like a hiss of a gas lamp, over your tongue.

And now to practise, use these:

Which witch whined about the wine?

As the tide came in I tied my shoelaces.

Bottle of white wine.

To finish, I leave you with this song from The Proclaimers. Sing along now… (please suffer the few seconds of advert that precedes the quality Scottish singing)

Chillin’ with the band

20120202-102357 PM.jpg
It was not warm during band rehearsal this evening.
*steeps hands*

… and also many animals?

I read the story of “Jonah” today.

The opening gives me a direct flashback to the song (unsurprisingly) called “Jonah” by Ian White. It begins:

“Word of God to Jonah
Son of Amittai
Go and tell the Ninevites
Change your ways or die
Go and tell the Ninevites
Change your ways or die”

It was a great song on the acoustic and very percussive and took some skill to play. Them were the days. It isn’t on YouTube, sadly. Great song.

New flashback – “Jonah Man Jazz” – did anyone ever do it? It was a school cantata thing.

Nineveh city was a city of sin
The jazzin and the jivin made a terrible din
Beat groups playing the rock and roll
And the Lord when he heard it said, “Bless My Soul”

Jonah has an odd attitude. He runs away from God, but when that plan doesn’t go so well, he is willing to be tossed overboard to save the others. They don’t want to throw him overboard however, given God’s apparent mood, but eventually that seems to be the only way forward. So out he goes.

“But the Lord provided a great fish to swallow Jonah.”

Hmm… a bit fishy… Was it like a Jaws moment? Did he think that was it: curtains? Or did he think, yay! A fish! I’ll get in it!?

Back to the “Jonah Man Jazz”:

When Jonah sank into the sea he closed his eyes and prayed
My Lord I’m very sorry that your word I’ve disobeyed
If you will only come and help me I will do as you command
Instead of treading water I will tread upon the land…

And then he gets vomited. Ew!

I then have a crisis about free will and obedience. It seemed that for Jonah disobedience was completely futile – he ran away from God, allowed himself to be chucked into a stormy sea, presumably thinking he would die – then there is that whole fish-vomit episode and he’s on his way to Nineveh. Good story though. I’m sure his post-fish appearance would act as an ice-breaker for him when he arrived in Nineveh. “You see, I was in this fish, right…”

Jonah’s mission goes really well and all the people repent and are saved. But he’s not happy about it. He’s hopping mad because he KNEW he was right and because he was right he now looks wrong. So he’s all mixed up and annoyed.

He has a wrong opinion of himself and his own importance. He seems to think that he should set the agenda and call the shots, but God shows that he is the provider and Jonah is only the steward – and that Jonah should have compassion rather than selfishness.

The last line of the book has a totally jarring cadence that I love, as it sits out cantilevered over a cliff:

And should I not have concern for the great city of Nineveh, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand people who cannot tell their right hand from their left—and also many animals?”

We are left to assume that God should have concern for a great city containing these people. I wonder what the left and right bit is about. Is it about morality, or is it about cluelessness in general?

And then there’s the ” and also many animals?”

I think there should perhaps have been another line.

Or maybe I need a better translation.

Or a better understanding of Hebrew syntax.

And also many animals?

“Dirty Dancing” Watch-along-a Sanstorm: “I’ve had the time of my life…”

After I blog-alonga-ed “The Sound of Music” my readers heaved a sigh of relief that they would never have to watch the movie again. Especially the scary bit in the graves. What effect will this have?

So, you make the tea, I’ll make the pop corn, and come back with me… to 1987…

20120107-105957 PM.jpg

A twelve! A twelve? This was a fifteen in my day! (OK OK so I was only fourteen, but that’s another story…)

Here we go…

We start with the song “Be My Baby” which makes my instantly have a flashback to the episode of Moonlighting when David and Maddie finally got together. That ruined the whole next season and eventually killed the show – but anyway, I suppose it was inevitable. And when you watch Moonlighting now, it is mince…

“Big Girls don’t Cry” – now I am having a flashback to “Mermaids” with Cher… taking us back to 1963 pre-Kennedy assassination. Baby narrates, taking us to Kellermans – a kind of holiday camp.

Now, who is the guy with the megaphone? What’s he in? It’ll come to me.

So far we have Baby’s sister characterised as shallow and materialistic. Here comes Mr Kellerman. Baby carries her own bags.

Some sidestepping feet. Not Baby’s forte. And what’s with the blue three-quarter-length socks?

Baby’s off out. Twighlight piano music. Very peaceful. Baby stumbles upon the truth about Kellermans: the waiters are high class college boys to woo the daughters. “even the dogs”. And in comes Johnny. And Mr Kellerman’s intonation spits poison as he sees the “entertainment staff”. Ooh. He’s very angry. Ooh, Johnny, what a one-liner.

Robbie is introduced to the Houseman family. There’s a general ignorance and mocking of Baby’s political and social conscience. Baby in turn mocks her superficial sister.

Baby dances with Neil. It’s a little staid and awkward. Nice tap-dance though.

Mambo! Yeah Come on!

There’s that tone again, as Neil spits “dance people”. OK OK so we get the class distinction. She’s thin, I’ll give her that. Kellerman approaches and growls at them and cuts the routine. The dance-floor re-fills.

Ninety degree perspective and Baby’s being sawn in half. Ta-da!

“Staff Quarters: No Guests please”

So, along she goes. Here’s the wee guy with too many watermelons. “Do you love me?” and here we have it: “Dirty Dancing”. Baby’s jaw drops. “Watch me now-hey!”

Here’s Johnny! And then Baby finds out the dance couple are only a dance couple. Baby starts to get into the groove. Change in track and they are off again. Johnny spots the interloper in their midst and quizzes his cousin.


More feet. Not too sure about that cummerbund. Johnny beckons. Quick lesson and she’s away. Kind of. She’s entranced, following his lead. Even after he’s left. And she looks and looks, and he’s gone…

They are playing with wigs? Here’s Robbie to chat up Lisa. Baby talks to the thin ex-rockette who is in a bit of a pessimistic mood.

Johnny is dancing with an old woman in sequins. Little Neil is looking for Penny. She needs a break, apparently. That’ll be the ex-rockette.

Neil’s chatting Baby up again, but she’s not too impressed. Robbie and Lisa pass by, having had something of a disagreement in the undergrowth. How patronising is Neil?

They are in the kitchen. This time I am having a flashback to Jurassic Park, waiting for a velociraptor to peek around the edge of the kitchen units, but no. It’s Penny, shaking and crying, crouching against the wall.

Baby makes her escape, and runs to get the watermelon guy who gets Johnny. Off they go to the kitchen. Baby discovers that Penny is knocked up. She accidentally assumes it’s Johnny and he is none too pleased with her prejudice.

He gives Penny a nice cuddle and lifts her and her ruby slippers up and takes her home. She is blanketed up and despairing. And blurts out that it was Robbie that got her pregnant… the self same Robbie that is with her sister as they speak…

*MORALITY OBSERVATION – in the world of Dirty Dancing morals are unconvincing and fixed. It seems the top priority is employment, then honesty. Promiscuity is presented as a necessary state of victims. Abortion is seen as “the only option” given the employment priority. Hypocrisy is despised. Class distinctions are upheld. And the moral codes seem unconvincing, but are not questioned within the movie*

Billy tells Baby the abortion plan and she comes up with an immediate solution: cash from Robbie! Robbie is an abhorrent character. Baby threatens to have him fired.

So. Plan B. Money from Dad. Yay! Success. Baby should have used moral imparative number 2: honesty, here – but failed. She was trying to sustain employment. But honesty may have given way to alternatives for Penny. But we don’t know.

Back to the staff quarters. Don’t know about those shorts, Baby. Waistband a little high. And here they are, dancing away and she gives Penny the money. Johnny puts her down.

Then there is the complicating factor of the gig at the Sheldrake Hotel. They can’t miss it, or they lose… everything ( Imperative 1: Employment). Bubbly optimist Baby suggests a replacement. Johnny suggests Baby, as a joke. She rises to the challenge and gets her white jimmies on.

Learning to dance montage.

Change of clothes. More learning to dance.

“The steps aren’t enough FEEL the music”.

Oh no! It’s the gu-gung bit… close your eyes…

In the dance studio in polka-dot pink with thin, thin Penny. And Johnny. Luckily she packed enough dance outfits for her holiday.

Parallel fish-nets. Lip stick. Enormous hands over tiny hips. Seems to be getting warm. I don’t think she’s taking this entirely seriously. OK, maybe she is now.

Now it is raining and she has a horrible skirt on and there’s a bit of tension. She’s angry. Never mind the rain. Off they go. He smashes his own car window, just so that can go out?

Very Edenic. And a bit like Hakuna Matata. He’s all black, she’s all white. And off they go on the balance beam.

Running and jumping. Little House on the Prairie.

In the water – and lift. And in again. But I think it is funner than the tension back at the ranch.

Enter the seemingly innocuous character of Mrs Schumacher that Baby and Penny help when she drops her bag and its contents spill.

Baby is thinking through her routine with last minute panic. Penny should be panicking. She’s about to have an operation that is not going to go well. She is scared. Baby is ever the optimist.

Baby sets her cover story and we cut to the Hotel gig. And off they go. She has too much eye make up on. It’s going ok. Kind of. I don’t think she’s feeling the music. Big licks with the skirt. Lift fail. Random hand jive. One lift works and a kind of half hearted ending. And there’s the Schumachers…

That was the end of that then. They are back at Kellermans – Billy dashes over – Penny is in a state. Dirty knife and a folding table. No anaesthetic.Baby runs off to get her Daddy. She gets his doctor’s bag and off they go.

Then the conversation:

“Who is responsible for this girl” and Johnny says “I am” – which gives all kinds of inaccuracies.

They all stand outside the chalet while he treats her. He takes Baby away. He puts two and two together and bans her from seeing the staff again. He agrees with me about the make-up also.

Johnny’s room. Baby’s at the door. Sparsely furnished. Great room? You decide. He clears a seat for her. He’s impressed with her Dad and thinks he’s nothing. He tells her that she doesn’t understand the way things are. She’s such a crushing optimist; he finds it refreshing.

But she’s scared… “… the way I feel when I am with you…”

Oh. She’s said it now. What’s he going to do? I think she wants to dance. I think this conversation is taking a turn.

*averts eyes*

It’s the morning after. Breakfast. Talent show is announced. Lisa wants to sing in the show. Dr Houseman wants to leave early. He relents. They are going to stay.

Baby goes to see Penny. And here’s Johnny. Ooh. Dingied. All a bit stilted. Awkward. Penny can see right through him. Advises him to stop. She has a fair point. Baby doesn’t look too happy. He smiles. She smiles.

And it’s raining again. Think they built the resort in the wrong state. Baby’s off out again. Off to see Johnny. I think her father would have something to say. And we get a tour of Johnny’s poor self-esteem. He feels used. And he asks her her name. Frances.

Disaster. Lisa has plans for her and Robbie. Baby advised against. Hypocrite.

And she’s having a dance lesson? I thought she was supposed to be avoiding “these people”. Almost rumbled by Neil. There’s a patronising pigeonholing bullying conversation with the conclusion being the Petchanga, however you spell it. Johnny is raging.

Rich and mean.

There’s Dad and Robbie and Lisa. Johnny is feeling used again. He thinks she’s never going to tell her parents about him. Id have thought he’d not want her to mention is as he would get SACKED – and employment is the be all and end all in the world of Dirty Dancing.

She goes looking for Johnny and finds him with Penny. She apologises? What for? Ooh and they are sprung by Robbie. Who Johnny then beats up. I think he feels better for that.

And now the singing. Lisa has high shorts and an ambitious party piece. That she is struggling with. The old sequiny lady moves in on Johnny. But he has other plans, I suspect. Johnny is offered money to entertain the woman, but he turns it down.

And the tuning gets worse.

But Baby is pleased.

Lisa goes out to get her man. There’s a towel on the handle, but she goes in anyway. And that was the end of that.

New music.

Baby and Johnny. Dreaming of acceptance from Baby’s father. And Mrs Sequin sees them – and figures why she was ditched. What will she do with the information? Or will she just silently fume?

There’s a thief on the loose. Sequin woman blames Johnny, knowing he has no alibi. Oh yes he does. Baby isn’t going to let him go down as a thief. She points the finger at the Schumachers. That isn’t going to work.

Dr Houseman is none too pleased. He has a fair point. He hasn’t been watching his daughters closely enough. She accuses him of hypocrisy. She loves her Daddy. She’s sorry. I don’t think she really has a leg to stand on in this argument.

Here comes Johnny. The Schumachers have been sprung. So her optimism…. isn’t going to pay off after all.

He’s sacked. But he goes down anyway, for being with her.

Is she going to lose her pathological optimism?

Johnny chaps on the Houseman chalet. Dr Houseman is not in the mood to listen. You can see his point of view. So can Johnny.

So, it’s time to say goodbye. And the car disappears into the dust…

At least the sisters are friends again. Not that they look remotely related. Glad they’ve made up anyway.

Here’s Mr Annoying singing cheesily into the mic, and Baby’s in the corner and Lisa’s on the stage. She has a rare talent. Here comes Robbie. I think he is about to land himself in it with “the Penny situation”. At least Dr Houseman knows now.

Kellerman laments change. “It all seems to be ending.”

Here’s Johnny!

Hey Johnny!


Johnny sees Frances as an aspirational figure. And they are going to dance.

I’ve had the time of my life…

Her mum and sister are impressed, at least.

Slow motion leap. His knees are all dirty

Unlikely group dance.

Up she goes.

Her dad is smiling now, if awkwardly.

And the dance takes off. Everyone into it, except Mrs Sequin. Dr Houseman owns up to being wrong about Johnny. Penny is up grooving too. And the Housemans.

What happened to the chairs?

Meh-ry Hiatus

Odd day.
Nothing day.
Eve eve.
A black hole in the calendar.
A vacuum for vacuuming.

Feeling a little festivitied-out today. The diet of straight protein has kicked in. It’s all a bit much. As is my mother’s Christmas decoration:

Post Navigation