Hope for me yet

Child prodigyThe driver of the 74 bus looked as though he had been awake for a million hours. I boarded, touched in, and immediately understood why. There was a guy in the aisle playing a guitar and singing loudly in Spanish.

The guy was not great at singing, but wow. He was enthusiastic. The low notes were coarse and fruity. The high notes sounded a little like someone gargling their way their way through a seizure. I considered filming him for a while, but decided that this might interrupt his flow and so just made my way to the top deck, sat back and enjoyed the show. Whenever the guy reached a particularly impassioned (strangled) part of the chorus, I may have given a little chuckle. It was glorious.

Then the guy got off and a six-year-old girl on the top deck started playing a shitty pop song through an iPhone and singing along.

If there’s one thing I really hate, it’s people playing music on public transport – whether it’s out loud, or tinnily through headphones*. Ugh ugh ugh. Rgggghhhhh. Rgggggggghhhhh. I could FEEL the joy draining out of me, my face tightening and puckering into a cat’s arse of pain and disappointment. I put my hood up, slumped in my seat, crossed my arms and glowered out of the window into the encroaching dark.

The singing stopped and I looked up. The little girl looked crestfallen, and it hit me. She had been performing for me. She’d clocked my reaction to Spanish wailing dude and decided that live performance was my thing, and she was performing for me.

There was only only one thing to do. With a superhuman effort, I gritted my teeth, inflated my cats arse, and went all out for a smile.

Because children remember stuff. They might not remember that they remember stuff, but remember they do (as this brilliant piece from last week’s The Onion illustrates). I remember TONS of stuff people around me said when I was young that I will be talking about in therapy when I am an old, old woman. The woman I assumed was the girl’s mother was chatting in Arabic on her own iPhone and totally ignoring her daughter. The girl stared at me. A child on the brink of a lifetime of neurosis.

So I smiled, and the little girl beamed. She BEAMED. Her mouth opened so wide, I thought the back of her head was going to fall off. She started singing again: her mum was still ignoring her, but she had an appreciative audience. She redoubled her efforts. It was horrible.

And I let it happen. I even inclined my head and did a little appreciative chuckle. And, as her mother continued to chat, I got to my feet, said ‘that was lovely!’ and got off four stops early.


Message ends.

* it turns out that live music is fine

About Christina Kenny

Christina Kenny is a music journalist based in London.
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5 Responses to Hope for me yet

  1. Well, this isn’t fair at all. You’ve just destroyed my smug moral high ground! Now I have to either add some kind of mandatory therapy provision to my time on public transport, or feel like a complete bastard who’s poisoning the future of our race. Marvelous.

  2. therealjanem says:

    This is a very good blog entry, Christina, and you did a very nice thing. Well done on both counts. I think the facts that your profile photo is you aged about four, and that your blog’s banner image is a drawing done around the same age, prove that your childhood is still resonating with you, as it does in all of us – if we choose to see it. You are very much in touch with your child, which is excellent. I, too, am sure you will be a wonderful mother if your body, ‘Father’ Time and/or mankind decide to allow it to happen. Growl at the randomness of it all.

    • Christina says:

      I am very much in touch with my inner child at the moment. We speak four, five times a day. Usually in times of stress. She has good tips for MS Excel.

  3. Jenni says:

    This is such an utterly lovely post. Even caused a tear to appear in mine eye.
    My first reaction is often to become annoyed by such things, though less often now that I have a young niece and nephew because of exactly what you said-kids remember stuff, and what they experience & how we interact with/ react to them plays a part in forming who they are. Which is a scary thought and piles on the pressure somewhat, but still!
    Welldoneyou, welldoneyou.

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