Eccentric – Page 120 – Deborah Makarios

November 1, 2014

Whistle While You Work

…and wait for Disney’s copyright lawyers to come after you. Safer to sing a happy working song – actually, to be on the safe side, better to just work in silence.

Scratch that! Working songs have been used as long as there have been work and songs, i.e. since before Mr Disney was born or thought of. Whether you’re a sailor, a farmer, or just a general labourer, work songs are there, as Wikipedia puts it, “to increase productivity while reducing feelings of boredom.” Hear hear. Or rather, sing, sing.

Of course, traditional work singing, like traditional work, was generally communal. You’ll Never Work Alone. (Might as well get Rodgers & Hammerstein: An Imagem Company on my back while I’m at it…) Unfortunately for us, most communal work these days is done in workplaces whose managements frown on their staff joining in traditional call-and-response songs. Can’t think why.

“The printer’s gone and jammed again,
Haven’t had a break since God knows when;”
“Pay cuts and paper cuts,
Another day at the office!”

“Fifteen years since I’ve had a raise,
Manager thinks he owns this place;”
“Pay cuts and paper cuts,
Another day at the office!”

So most of your opportunities for work-singing, if you’re anything like me, are solitary: housework, and perhaps gardening if you’re not worried about the neighbours’ opinions.

You can, of course, sing along with recorded music – companies have made good money from packaging music as suitable for doing housework to – but this has its limitations. Housework often takes you out of the room, and vacuums etc can drown the music out. Unless you play it really loud, and then you are one of those neighbours. Taking your music with you is a possibility if you don’t mind the risk of you or your device getting fried, water being another high-frequency element of housework. Thank you, but no.

This is where Ye Olde Work Song comes into its own. The only real criterion for a work song is that you know how it goes, although it does help if it sounds all right a cappella. You can sing anything – even if you can’t really sing – because, like singing in the shower, housework singing is legally privileged. (For a given value of “legally”. After all, when was the last time Noise Control was called on someone wearing a frilly apron?) Any neighbours within earshot might even enjoy the free concert. As they say, how do you know you’re a talented shower-singer? Applause under the bathroom window.

What to sing is a very individual choice. Myself, I like old hymns and spirituals. There is nothing that goes so well with scrubbing a toilet than I Am A Poor Wayfaring Stranger, and the acoustics aren’t half bad either. Other favourites include: The Lord of the Dance; God Is Working His Purpose Out, (which I first encountered in the 2002 film version of Nicholas Nickleby and hunted all over for before finding it in Hymns Ancient and Modern); It Is Well With My Soul, (doing both parts in the echoes); and that perennial favourite of Sir Howard Morrison‘s, How Great Thou Art.

Interesting bit of trivia: the Maori verse sung in said version of HGThA is not a translation of any of the English verses, but a bit pinched from Abide With Me – a hymn which goes very well with vacuum-cleaner accompaniment. Vacuum cleaners love minor keys.

So, do you sing as you work? Any recommendations?

October 29, 2014

Quote: I Don't Want to Know

Anhalt:
There are some things I had rather never know.
Amelia:
So you may remember I said when You began to teach me mathematics.

from Lovers’ Vows Act III Scene ii, by Mrs. Inchbald

October 25, 2014

Your House Is On Fire

All right, it isn’t. Probably. (Have you checked?)
But what if it was?

When fire threatens, our first instinct is to save what is most precious to us – hence Sherlock Holmes’ deployment of a smoke bomb in A Scandal In Bohemia. That’s the theory, anyway. I have a horrible feeling that if suddenly confronted with the news that the house was on fire, I’d distinguish myself by saving a ratty old dressing gown, or a random piece of notepaper.

However, for the sake of the discussion, let us assume that theory and practice unite, and we do save those things which are dearest to us.
Let us also assume that all fellow residents and pets are able to get out without assistance, and therefore do not count as things to be saved.

As our hypothetical conflagration gets going, you have time to seize three things, providing you can carry all three at once – so what would they be? (No cheating and saying you would carry the fire out.)

The first thing that comes to my mind is my Sepik stool.

The Sepik is a river in Papua New Guinea, where stools are carved from a single block of wood, and used for pillows or for sitting on. I usually use mine as a footstool, but it started life as my first schoolroom seat. I’ve had it since I was four, and kept it through a myriad of moves between houses, cities and countries. It is one of the few constants in my life to date, and I am fond of it. It is practical, aesthetically pleasing, and says something about who I am – and what more can one ask of a humble piece of furniture?

The second thing I would save is a book. It isn’t the book which is most dear to me of all the books I own, but I’ve only ever come across the one copy of it, which makes it the hardest to replace. It was a very happy day when that one copy came into my possession, I can tell you. Hurray for library sales!

The book is Embroidery Mary by Priscilla M. Warner, a charming story about a girl learning embroidery from her aunt. It doesn’t contain a great deal of conflict or character arc, but it captures better than anything else I have read the excitement of beginning a new hobby. It’s also excellent reading for those times when life has left a nasty taste in your mouth and you want something to read that won’t spring dark surprises on you.

The third thing is also a book – sort of. What I’d actually grab is the drawer in my desk which contains the manuscript of my Work In Progress. It’s in the form of several exercise books, which is why I would go for the whole drawer: it’s faster, and remember, the house is on fire. Time is of the essence. Never mind the computer, I have back-ups.

So that’s my saved-from-the-fire stash: a stool, a book and a ~~ratty old dressing gown~~ drawer of manuscript books. Each, in its own way, irreplaceable.

What about you? In the heat of the moment (hur hur) where would you turn?