It’s pre-8.00a.m. and I’m up, getting organised to go to the markets with a friend.
Gangnam Style has, for most of the rest of the world, has passed through its phase and its popularity is waning.
Except in this house, were it feels like its on incessant repeat in one form or another; on the iPod, various parodies sung by the children, or the offspring just walking/dancing/jumping around the house singing it.
When they’re not home, I find myself singing it, humming it or having it just run unabashed through my head.
Quite unrelated, I think my wine consumption has increased … never mind.
We’re sitting around the table, consuming breakfast in order to get on with the day. Chippie finishes, slides off his chair and under the table.
“Mummy, mummy style!” I hear him singing to himself, to the tune, unsurprisingly, of Gangnam Style.
We laugh. Cos it’s funny!
“Come out and show me the Mummy, Mummy Style dance,” I request of him.
“I doin’ it,” says his disembodied voice.
“No you’re not,” I say. “Come out here and show me.”
“I doin’ it,” he says again. “Look at me!”
I look. He’s lying flat on his back, under the table and singing “Mummy, mummy style” again.
“That’s not mummy!”
“Yes it is,” he says.
Grumpy Pants snorts muesli out his nose and agrees.
I’m going to see if I can find a new family at the markets. A nice one.