January turned out to be one of the worst months I have ever faced in my life. February is frankly not a whole lot better, if I am honest. But there has been at least one surprising element in the face of a fuckload of adversity. It seems that no matter what happens, I cannot stop singing. Mostly to myself. Be eternally grateful for that fact.
One strange thing about this is that I have never been one for singing really. Ever. It’s just not me. But by far the strangest thing is the choice of songs my brain continues to throw up. I remain baffled by the number of Christian hymns that I seem to know by rote. It would seem that the four years as an altar boy did more than foster an appreciation of a decent frock. Colours Of Day, Our God Reigns and How Great Thou Art appear to sit at the Apex of my Ecclesiastical Hit Parade. On New Year’s Day I could not have told you one word of any of them.
The entirely unwarranted singing doesn’t stop there though. Ob-La-Di-Ob-La-Da also seems to be stuck on repeat in there between the bloody holy trinity listed above. Despite everything 2018 has dropped so far, I am still pretty upbeat. And maybe that is the point of all the singing. Just a reminder to myself, from somewhere deep in the back of my head, that I am actually OK. Christ knows why it’s hymns (I meant that) but so be it. Whatever works. I’ll take the comfort from it, however it arrived here.
And I can’t really legitimately complain that I’m somehow happy enough to be singing at all. Or even that there’s a distinctly religious element to my internal disco at the moment. I think I’ll just go with it. Whatever happens, The Beatles are correct that life goes on. Off to get on with it just now. Not that my plans are that exciting. Probably stay at home and do my pretty face because in the evening I’m the singer with the band 🎵 🎵 🎵