I was tucked away working in my office last Saturday. All the rooms in our new apartment are arranged off the central communal space so no one is ever very far away. (This can be a good and a bad thing.) Everyone was home pottering about. I was unaware of them. Later, when I thought back to what had happened, I realized I’d heard this:
Setting: In the distant subconscious of Jenny’s brain.
Husband: *singing* Little boxes on the hillside-
Son: Dad. Shhh: Mum!
Husband: *singing* little boxes made of ticky tacky;
Son: *urgently* DAD! Shhh. Mum’ll start…
Husband: Huh?
Me: *singing* little boxes, little boxes, little boxes all the same…
Son: *tutting* Oh never mind. It’s too late.
I sang Little Boxes aloud to everyone’s irritation for approximately twenty four hours until after lunch on Sunday, this happened:
Setting: the dining room table. Son is doing homework. Jenny is working. Husband is doing something; it wasn’t the tax returns… though it probably should have been.
Son: *Looking up* How do you spell ukulele?
Me: *bursts into song* ukulele; ukulele, ukulele me!
Husband: *bursts into song in the style of George Formby* I’m leaning on a lamppost at the corner of the street in case a certain little lady comes by… (He actually does the ukulele actions: that must be doing air ukulele?)
Son: Grrrrrr
Me: U-K-E-L-E-L-E (I even spelt it wrong)
It’s now Wednesday and I’m still singing Ukulele; ukulele, ukulele me!
I even irritate myself sometimes but at least I’ve learned to spell ukulele, ukulele, ukulele me! ♫
