Where are you going with that Tambourine?

Hipster-Popster Readers, let me tell you 'bout the day I nearly played tambourine on a Belle and Sebastian track but got phased out for  a wee electro clap. It was today and it was unexpected lunchtime fun.

Stu, as I call him now, said I could  pop round to the studio about 1-ish. I thought he was doing lone over-dubs or some such and we'd just go out for a bagel or something, but, as an afterthought, he set me up in a booth with a tambourine and a pair of headphones.

Great, ye think - just get with the groove, hang on to the beat - with your fingernails. But it's nowhere near as easy as it looks!

The band are so good at all that twirly, jazzy, bass-guitar-y spangle. Even without speaking, they seem to know when to drop back. There are flows and surges, highs and lows in the song, with lovely isolated vocally resonances. Any room for someone missing a beat on a tambourine? Anyone want too many beats?

I kept telling myself 1) They can mute my channel or whatever they do in the mix. 2) I am not Madonna at Live Aid. Repeat : I am not Madonna.

In the end, I ran out of time, as I had to rush off to school pick up, and Stuart asked Brian (the engineer)  to, 'pull up a wee electro clap.' (Let's call it a WEC).

The WEC did me proud instead. The gel was on the snare, the high hats were on four  - whatever all that means -and the band were humble and lovely as ever. 

Och, it's Friday. Enjoy.

Things and more things

Right! There is apparently a recognised phenomenon of 'nesting' whereby pregnant women get frantic about trying to get their houses tidy before their baby arrives. I am having moments of mini wars against 'things'. Things like - sunglasses with one leg detached, leaflets from Sunday newspapers on Eco Living or How to Play the Piano, threadbare towels, books I'll never read again, and general dust. Spiders can sneak back behind the bath, if they want.

I don't see the attraction of owning so many things. In fact, I feel cluttered by them. (Nice Man, meanwhile, enjoys collecting, and has 77 million CD's, books and DVDs and thinks I could be a philistine). In my humble opinion (turbo-charged by pregnancy hormones) I am ever more content that 'Content' (ha, see the adjective to noun shift there?) is everywhere for free - TV programmes, radio, music, i-player; books from the library and charity shops. When I'm finished reading or consuming, I like to give the books/things back to the chari shops - a kind of good karma, keep-the-energy-flowing position.

I've heard the term 'infobesity' to describe the general information overload of our media age, and I'm waiting for my next fit of de-cluttering to see if a sudden urge could prompt me to delete my facebook and myspace sites. I mean, this blog is enough, surely ? I can't keep up with social networking sites. They make me want to stare into the middle distance, like a cow chewing grass in a field. Feel the peace of that.

And, of course, space must be created for bambino stuff. It's the five week countdown...bonkers.

-C

Random disparity and flying saucepans

Readers, let me not neglect you. Sometimes I use the random disparity of life as an excuse not to write. I mean, where does one begin? What will I write about today? When I try to write poems, I start with the general and try to work towards some emotion or situation that is distilled. But so often, the fabric of days is full of flotsam and jetsam, wholly miscellaneous.

Like when I smiled at my neighbour, Mylo, today. He does not know me but I know he is a record producer who is famous for making dance records from his pro-tool enhanced bedroom. He is so good at it, he is to produce Madonna's next album (allegedly). This might be Daily Record exaggeration, maybe not. Anyway, I sat in the sun on my doorstep and thought, there goes Mylo. Then I went inside and had beans and coleslaw for dinner as I felt too tired to cook. See what I mean, where's the poetry in that? Where does it all come together?

My wee niece, Maddy, was boasting to the librarian about how books were helping her become clever. Now I know all about dinosaurs and space and flying saucepans, she said.

More soon. We must chat more often.

-C

A waste of trees and cornflakes

When I was five or six cornflakes were easily my all-time favourite food. I was taken to visit some Irish relatives who had thirteen children in their family. Thirteen, said my mum, can you believe that? I pondered this statistic and apparently replied, What a waste of cornflakes. What I probably meant was, wow, how many boxes do you get through each morning?

I believed that the greatest freedom adult life could bring would be the ability to eat as many bowls as I liked. I could have cornflakes for breakfast, lunch and dinner, when I grew up. No need for boring vegetables and stews! Minced-steak be gone.

Ah well, I still sprinkle cornflakes on top of my muesli most mornings. I never tire of them. I feel a strange affinity with cereal - the building block food from which all other food experiences grew.

In reverse, was their something I failed to appreciate as a kid and can't get enough of now? Yes, trees. I praise the Lord for the leafy relief of trees in cities. I think looking at them probably lowers blood pressure and calms neurotransmitters.

My Dad used to be a teacher in Edinburgh and he got a lift to school with other male teachers. One day he remarked on a beautiful line of trees in a field and they all burst out laughing at him and teased him about it later. Beautiful trees, they laughed. Trees?!

-C

Strapless, you say?

I loved that film Muriel's Wedding, where kooky, likeable Muriel spends years planning her wedding day, long before she meets any potential boyfriends. She goes into bridal shops and tries on the merch. Once, I wandered into a bridal shop in Princess Square (a posh shopping mall in Glasgow). I was single, in my mid twenties, and thought I'd just look at the dresses. The shop assistant approached and asked if I'd set a date yet. I ran away.

I saw a poster yesterday for a bride's night out. Que? It showed a photo of a bride laughing raucously, clutching her waist. I moved closer to read the text. Something like - Want to wear your wedding dress again? Never been a bride and always wanted to wear the dress? Fancy a great night out with the girls? £55 per bride or £550 a table of ten.

I paused to let my brain adjust. So it was a night out at a hotel, knocking back champagne with a few hundred women, all dressed in strapless, ivory, diamonte-encrusted gowns?

At last, I read in the small print that it was for a women's charity. Ahh, Char-it-y. Phew! And relax. Good for them. Them to their fancy and me to my Nancy. I must be getting older as - no matter how much I admire a decent bit of bridal couture - my Nancy wouldn't include wearing it without getting married - just to see what it feels like.

Better get up now and put on my Cat Woman outfit to clean the bathroom.

PS. Here's a recent photo of my brother, John and his lovely bride, Sarah. Not just dressy-up. The real McCoy.

-C