Some days I have so much to say, but no way of getting it out.
Because I’m too low. Or too pissed off. Or too wary of boring you all to death with the same old shit.
But one thing I can pretty much always talk about all day long is music, especially songs that means something to me.
So when I saw Twindaddy’s 25 days 25 song challenge http://stuphblog.com/2014/04/18/25-days-of-songs-i-challenge-you/, I thought, I wanna play!
Except he’s just finished it. Always super quick off the mark, me….
Nevertheless, I’m going to do it anyway and if anyone would like to come along for the ride, I’d appreciate your company. 🙂
So, first cab off the rank, a song that reminds me of my childhood…
Like most young, pre pubescent kids, I started having crushes on boys from about the age of 8, and by far the least embarrassing object of my affections was Marc Bolan from T Rex. Probably because he was pretty androgynous and unthreatening with his make up, glitter and stars and whatnot stuck around his eyes, but anyway I had his posters in my bedroom, I cooed at him longingly when he was on Top of the Pops, and ‘Hot Love’ was the first single I ever bought, and I played it again, again, and again.
The next day I was dragged off to the optician and was fitted with a pair of glasses.
Before that, whilst I wasn’t necessarily one of the cool kids, I wasn’t an outsider, and just about got away with being a ginger with goofy teeth, but my geeky cheapo National Health bins soon put paid to that.
Suffice to say, I absolutely hated them. Before I got them I saw the world through a gentle, blurry haze, and everything being brought into sharp focus for the first time, probably ever, was a rude awakening. Everybody and everything looked ugly, spotted, scarred and flawed, especially me.
Apprehensive about the kind of reception I’d get from my friends, I refused to wear them on the way home in case I was spotted, but showed them to my favourite aunt when she begged me to later that evening, promising faithfully not to laugh.
We went up to my room and taking a deep breath, I sat on my bed next to her, took the blue rimmed monstrosities from their case and wedged them painfully onto my face. They pinched and her face immediately seemed nearer, as she squinted at me, thick blue eye shadow creasing, her expression unmistakably one of suppressed mirth. I saw to my dismay, the corners of her mouth twitch. Then no doubt trying to distract herself, she spotted the sparkly one gazing down at us from the wall.
‘Oooo, you like him do you?’ she cried teasingly, ‘well he won’t like you with those on! He was on telly the other day and he said “Boys don’t make passes at girls that wear glasses; because they’re always in classes”‘, and she shrieked with laughter.
Well done Auntie Ethel, thanks for the support. One for the feminists – not. Germaine Greer would have been so proud, you tactless, evil, blubbery old brass.
Even as a kid you know that if grown up mocks you, you get to school and you’re gonna be toast, and I begged my mother not to make me wear them.
Of course she made me wear them.
Of course I got shit at school.
And here heralded the start of the ‘ugly years’, isolation, bullying, eating disorders, self harm and my 40 plus year hatred of the way that I looked.
But I’ll always remember the way I felt the day before, when I carefully lowered my brand new single onto the record player, lay on my bed and stared moonily at my beloved Marc, and could still believe that we might ride a white swan off into the sunset together.