Raise Your Voice In Song!

In the last year both Indy and Junior Misssy have taken up musical instruments. Meeester M procured his much wanted piano for the room formerly known as “Dining”, now the room currently known as “Music Room” and everyone that comes into the house for the first time will say “Oh are you a musical family?” and Meeester will beam like Captain Von Trapp.

Except me. I’m not musical. I don’t play nothin’. Except lead vocals on Guitar Hero, but even there I’m fully expecting Perry Farrell to appear at the door with his lawyer after what I did to Jane’s Addiction’s Mountain Song on Christmas Day. And Brian May, come to think of it, after desecrating the memory of Freddy Mercury with my Don’t Stop Me Now on Singstar (“just give me a caaaa-aaalll!”).

Junior Misssy is starting to play the piano with the tutelage of the singing piano teacher and is getting on fine, but going off like tousle-haired Kenny Gee on a jet-powered skateboard is Indy who is really doing fantastically well on the saxophone. We won’t stop haranguing him until he does the sax solo from Gerry Raffferty’s Baker Street, we won’t.

Even Sonny the Black Menace turns out to be more musical than me. And it’s Sonny I really want to write about. Sonny is not a huge barker but he is a splendid howler. Never much more than when Indy has the sax out.

He howls along like a good ‘un to Walking in the Air; he's like a canine Aled Jones, he is. He howls along to Happy Birthday to You like the Fourth doggy Tenor. But why? Does it hurt his ears? Is he upset by it? How come he doesn’t howl along to CDs or the radio?

My gran’s old dog Lassie would also howl every time my dad got the bagpipes out or anyone played the “mouthie”. But why? Is it because both those instruments have turned people to commit violent acts. If so, why does the banjo not elicit the same response?*

It’s such a hilarious thing to watch that I really don’t want the reason to be anything to do with pain or distress. I go to the internets to investigate further.

A blogger called Aimee Amodio gives this description that satisfies my need to think that the dog is just having a wee laugh to himself and being a general good time guy:

“Howling to music: dogs have approximately the same hearing range that humans do, but they can detect much smaller changes in tone. Their hearing is much more sensitive -- like a person with perfect pitch, compared to someone who is tone deaf. If a musical howler like my dog didn't want to hear the birthday song, he could have just left the room. By joining in, he was taking his place in the pack as they raised their voices in song.”

How great is that? He’s raising his voice in song!


To celebrate the fact that we’re not turning our dog insane, I give you the Maestro himself recorded live in the Flying Martini Music Room!

Am I right though, is he enjoying the music or not? To the comments box if you have any other theories.

* Don’t complain to me if you play any of these things- I am directly offending actual friends and family members with those comments on purpose.



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How Clean is Your House?

The dream is over. My whole adult life I wanted a cleaner. Someone to come into my house and do all the jobs I hate: the floor washing, the vacuuming, the hosing down of the bathroom, the scraping of the burnt offerings off the grill pan. Last year, snowed under with work, writing the book and generally struggling to fit everything I had to do into the working week, I finally shrugged off my particular social class guilt and contacted a cleaning agency. The guilt would resurface though-if you are working class, you can’t cope with a cleaner because it demeans one of your own kind, if you’re middle class you feel guilty at just being middle class and know that the working class hate you most of all the classes. You can't win. Only those born into a house with servants can really mentally deal with someone else handling their filth. The rest of us tidy up before the cleaner arrives.

This week I lost the third cleaner that had been sent to me. She was the third and the best. I am sad to lose her. She would come into my house and tell me tales of her life that was like watching an Aberdeen based episode of Eastenders (I work from home most days- I want to point this out in case you think she was telling me these tales whilst mopping round me as I sat on satin pillows and casually devoured a box of chocolates, wearing a negligee and fluffy slippers whilst slipping the odd soft centre to my faithful attendant Shih-tzu pooch, Mr Beaujangles).

My cleaner would say thrilling things like “Right Misssy, next week I’m going to have a right go at those blinds” (who knew blinds needed cleaning?) or “I’ve used up that bottle of Flash you bought last week, can you get some more?” (A bottle of Flash that doesn’t last a whole year?? Either she’s drinking the stuff or she’s a bloody great cleaner!) She leaves me not because I beat her, or my filth was too much to bear, but because she has family issues that need her attention. I am sad about this. Very sad.

Still, I am not going to replace her, for the ordeal is really not worth it. I am afraid I will get someone like the second cleaner. The second cleaner was the only one of the three who didn’t leave of her own volition. It was summer and my first cleaner left due to family issues (yes, I know, there’s a pattern, but I did not beat them, I didn’t!) . Within a week the agency assigns me someone new. On the phone to her I check what the agency should have, “I have a dog. Do you like dogs?” She emphatically does not. Oh dear. She wants to start anyway, so we arrange to meet the next day at The House of the Flying Martinis.

When she arrives, she cannot get past the front door. When she said she didn’t like dogs, I didn’t realise this meant that she was mortally afraid of all dogs. When she meets the cats, I also find out that she is mortally afraid of cats as well. She cannot go within five feet of them and practically cowers. I decide not to mention that we’ve a tank with twenty stick insects on the kitchen window.

She is from Nigeria. On that first meeting she brings her two year old daughter along who sits on the couch watching telly as I take her mother through the house to point to the potential areas of filth I will want her to deal with. My guilt-o-meter needle is in the red portion of the gauge at this point.

My guilt is short lived. For she is a completely shit cleaner. Who hates my dog. And wants to talk to me about the love of Jesus at any opportunity. For weeks I dread her arrival as she comes in the door and stands stock still hyperventilating and whimpering unable to walk past the dog who sits in his bed looking at her with spaniel like bemusement. Normally he's the kind of dog that jumps up excitedly at people as they arrive, but he is acutely aware of the terror he evokes in this woman and just looks at her, trying to appear benign.

The final straw comes a good month into her tenure. She is due to arrive when I am away out working so I decide to lock the dog in the kitchen so that she can get through the front door without having a panic attack. When I arrive home I assume that she hasn’t been able to make it as my kitchen hasn’t been touched. In fact my house is exactly as it was when I left.

I phone her. She has indeed been round. She just didn’t clean the kitchen because “the dog was in there”. Here’s a pic of my dog, Sonny the Black Menace, in case you have him pegged as that dog from The Omen or Stephen King’s Cujo.

I ask her not to come back.

The guilt-o-meter needle has now thrust itself so forcibly to the right hand side of the gauge that it has broken through the outer casing.

The next day I phone the agency to let them know, “Oh, I wondered if that would happen,” says the agency bod, “You are the last one of all her clients to fire her.”

Back to the mop and brush I go....with a clean conscience if nothing else.

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By the way, you can vote for The Misssives on the Scottish Roundup Awards. It's easy- you don't have to faff about with registering or owt. Just click here and vote against The Misssy M Misssives. Thanks! (other great blogs are also listed but try to power on through til you come to mine, there's a good chap)

Scottish Roundup Awards

For a long time I have been a reader of the Scottish Roundup. A while back I even had a hand in suggesting that sometimes Scottish people write blogs that aren't political and the horribly named (by me, sorry) ScoNoPoBlo roundup would appear every couple of months to highlight non-political blogs. Now the roundup embraces both equally and tries not to make a distinction.

Now they want to hand out some awards. Tomorrow at 6pm is the deadline for nominations of the best Scottish blogs. If you read any Scottish blogs and I can suggest a few (other than my own but obviously if you feel moved ...etc..very grateful...thank you for your kindness..etc) get over there and nominate like mad. You don't have to be Scottish.

I apologise for not bringing this your attention to this sooner, but it completely slipped my mind due to other things involving my husband being attacked by a cat (blog to follow), one foot of snow outside my door and Christmas and stuff.

Here are some blogs made in Scotland that I like, if it helps you to decide which ones you'd like to nominate. Also if you've got or know a blog made in Scotland that you think I should like, then please let me and Missives readers know so we can check it out. I am particularity keen to hear from blogger who only started blogging in 2009/10 as there is a Newcomer award. So don't be shy.

I like this lot:

The Cat Girl Speaks
Better Oot than In
The Ben Lomond Free Press
Phil and Gabi's Typeface a Week
The Prickly Side of Life
Punch it Chewie
Mr Eugenides
Taexalia
ShopaHolly


You can email your nominations to scottishroundup+awards@gmail.com or fill in the form in the sidebar here.


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Grateful is Dead

By now we’ll all have pretty much had it with the festivities. Have you all sat yourself and your kids down to write your thank you notes? No? You haven’t? This isn’t the Nineteen Fifties, I hear you say? Is the thank you letter dead?

It seems that it is and frankly, I say, good riddance to it.

I say this not because I’m ungrateful. Heaven forbid! I remember a time when even if you’d received the gift in person, and actually said the words “Thank you very much” directly into the face of whoever it was gifting you whatever it was, it still wasn’t enough. No, this person would still be expecting a hand written note on a little specially bought card to be plopping through their letter box within a certain interval. Too long an interval would be almost as bad as no card at all. Don’t even think you’ll get away with a phone call either- it’s a card or nothing- these people need cold hard evidence of gratitude. Mantlepiece dwelling evidence.

Dear Great Auntie Joan(for it is always to elderly aunts and grandmas that you must write these things)

Thanks for the dreadfully ill-fitting scratchy nylon cardigan and monkey piss aftershave that you gave me this Christmas. Despite only being ten and not needing any aftershave as yet, I am sure that I can find some use for it, perhaps as fuel for a Molotov cocktail, should the situation warrant it. These are uncertain times we live in, so I’m sure it will come in handy.

See you the same time next year for the same ritual until you finally peg it,

Your loving grand-nephew twice removed or whatever the hell I am to you; no-one ever really sat me down to explain,

Barry


Thank you letters- a social minefield if ever there was one. You forget to send one to the wrong person and bang, that’s it- you are dead to them. And I’m not just talking post Christmas thank you notes. There are two other situations in life where the thank you note can cause you serious social damage should you not attack it like a military campaign.

These events are: Birth, and Marriage.

Personally when I give a gift that’s it for me. Had a baby? There’s something nice for him/her. The End. Getting married? Thanks for the invite to the wedding, here’s a little something to show I appreciate the invite and to help you set up house (or a better equipped one than the one you’ve both been living in together for years anyway). Do I give a stuff if I get a card? It wouldn’t even cross my mind to be bothered about such a thing. If you're offering a card, I’ll take it. If you’re not, then nae bother, because I wouldn't notice.

Thank you card sulks belong in the world of the petty. Yes, send them if you must, I have sent many in my time as well. Meeester and I sat and opened all our wedding presents like one of those British Expeditionary Force meetings where ladies called Penelope in uniform move things about on a big map with long sticks and take orders from men with big curly moustaches called Ginger. Meeester (he was Ginger) did the opening, I (Penelope) did the recording of what it was and who it was from, so that I could then sit for an entire day after our honeymoon and get the blasted cards out to the right people. Heaven forbid you thank the wrong person for the wrong gift. Again, for certain people this faux pas is worse than no card at all.

I have always felt this way about thank you letters and cards. Many people will disagree with my feelings and think me a slatternly ungrateful cow, but I’m not. I’d just rather say thanks in person. And I don’t make my kids write them either. A gift should not engender an obligation.

Another thing strikes me. No-one ever expects a bloke to write a thank you card. Think about it- did you ever see your husband, brother or father sit down and write a letter of thanks. Have you ever received a letter of thanks from an uncle or grandfather? No, you have not. In the same way women are expected to endure the yearly trauma of writing a bazillion Christmas cards to people they never see, they are also expected to take time out of probably the most hectic times in their lives, the month after childbirth, to write thank yous to all the people who have given the baby a gift. I mention this because apparently I once forgot to send one of these. It was nearly twelve years ago when my son was born. For years I could never figure out why this person doesn’t like me. What had I done to offend? Turns out it’s because she gave my then baby a gift and never got a thank you card by return of post. I do not remember this. Apparently twelve years on, she still does.

So where are you in this; foaming at the mouth if seven days go past and no card appears and writing to the Daily Mail about the kids of today, or a Veruca Salt like I apparently am?

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