Friday, 22 April 2016

Hazed and Confused

This morning, I glimpse rainbow-coloured macintoshes and arty umbrellas from the window as I sit on the bed and stretch. If I'm going to just get older, I might as well try to maintain the use of my trunk and limbs.

Younger daughter's clock radio is blaring vintage rock and pop tunes as she struggles to rise and face another school day. Enter the Resident Fan Boy in mid-rant.

"It's wall-to-wall Prince," he complains. "That's all CBC is playing downstairs and I come up here and it's 'Scuse me while I kiss this guy.'"

I peer at him from over my shoulder. I've never been all that flexible, so this isn't easy.

"Um, 'Purple Haze' isn't Prince."

The RFB doesn't register this, as he has now launched into a lecture on the laughability of eulogizing Prince's desire for privacy.

". . . he made a damn film about it!"

I straighten up from another stretch and try the other shoulder. "Yes, Purple Rain. 'Purple Haze' was Jimi Hendrix."

"What? Well, I never was a Prince fan, so I didn't keep track of his songs...."

"And it's my birthday and you're ranting," I say placidly.

He concedes my birthday and shuffles shamefacedly to the closet to change. I apply my makeup and smile out at the rain -- which isn't purple.

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