Singing in the car

I've bought one of those compilation CDs that all the music snobs look down upon. It's a Motown box set, which I shall keep in the car and play on a non-stop loop until I hate it.(I like Motown, because if I forget the words, I can be one of the backing singers instead.) It kind of made the ironing bearable this morning, anyway. Yes, I did ironing. Half the pile has been dealt with, which means I can nearly shut the ironing basket. 

I can't drive the car without music (except at busy roundabouts, where I have to turn it off in fear of crashing into something. Which is ridiculous when you think about it.) 

 

(Photo: Socialsmiling.com)

Yes, I do this, too...

We don't have the arguments about music in the car like we used to. When my children were young, it was one tape from the Early Learning Centre, usually featuring a very suspect and jolly man singing about animals. This had to be played over and over again until it mysteriously vanished one day. (It was either that or violence, I'm afraid.) This was when I found out about my then 2 year old daughter's attitude to my singing. There I was, driving and singing away to 'Mud, Mud, Glorious Mud', when she loudly shouted, 'Stop singing!!' at me. So I stopped for a bit and then carried on. She leant over as far as she could and tried to cover my mouth with her hand, crying, 'Stop singing!!!' I didn't think it was that bad, but I've had a complex about my singing ever since. I now only sing when on my own in the car. I find that it's easy to forget you're in a little box with windows, though. I was at traffic lights once, belting out 'What becomes of the broken hearted,' when I realised I was being watched by the lorry driver opposite, who was obviously trying hard not to laugh. Now I do a sort of ventriloquist act when driving through traffic. 

Music in the car has moved on from nursery rhymes and Narnia story tapes to Sons One and Two being plugged into their own ipods. That leaves me in charge of the CDs. The husband doesn't care what's playing as he doesn't really listen to it. He only tunes in when there's lots of sweary bits. (My spell-check wanted to change that to 'sweaty bits'. I assure you I never listen to sweaty music.) He'll drive for miles ignoring Lily Allen or Bowling for Soup, but then a song will come on with the word 'f**k' in it, and he'll ask, 'Is that really necessary?' like he's my father or something.

Anyway, I shall put my Motown CDs in my car, ramming them into the glove compartment, which is full of tissues, sunglasses, old parking tickets and other tat. And then I shall sing. On my own. Sob.