I sing a lot. I sing at the top of my voice and quietly under my breath.
To my Dads constant disgust I hum when I eat. I have a musical quality I hardly even notice but which frequently offends other people. In fact put some curlers in my hair and you’ve got yourself Hilda Ogden.
Yesterday I was making a lemon jelly in the kitchen musing on my facial hair problems and singing Amy Winehouses "Rehab" out of hairy face sympathy.
"They tried to make me go to Rehab, but I said no, no, no. They tried to make me go to rehab, but I wont GO NO No!" I warbled as I ate raw jelly cubes and shuffled about in carpet slippers and a pinny.
Kind of fancying myself as the latest craze in big bums and screechy voices, (as you do), and having a thoroughly happy morning, when I felt a pudgy hand tugging on my apron strings.
"Mummy, why won’t you go to rehab?"
"It’s just a song, baby."
"Yes, but why won’t you go?"
"Well, Mummy doesn’t need to, Darling…"
"Yes, but Mummy, I think you should."
"Because you would have a good experience there."
I nearly choked laughing on a blob of jelly. And then horror struck. I’ve got visions of him sitting in pre-school at Circle-Time and informing the oh so very prim school Marm, that they tried to make Mummy go to rehab, but she just won’t go.
As if sending my little boy to school not wearing any underpants the other day wasn’t enough to get me the kind of reputation an apparent refusal to go address my addiction problems would only confirm.