Today we were sitting in a Denny’s. He got the Grand Slam, eggs over medium, extra crispy all-bacon as always. I had a salad. While eating my salad, I was chastising myself for not liking country music, which I knew he grew up with. His father was even in a country band.
Then it dawned on me that, in a very real way, I like England’s version of country music. Or specifically, Manchester’s. How did I not see before that pretty much any Smiths’ song would make a fantastic country track? Can you imagine Alan Jackson doing The Boy With the Thorn in His Side?
Or k.d. lang doing Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now? Seriously.
Now I actually can’t stop thinking about this. Except on the ride home, he said something to me about a cock horse, which immediately brought forth this song from my lips:
Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross
To see a fine lady upon a white horse
Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes
She shall have music wherever she goes
I don’t know how I know this, I don’t know why I “remember” the tune — I just do. I said I thought it was a nursery rhyme, prompting him to make fun of me for being from a country that expects children to sing “cock horse.”
Upon returning home, I brushed the cat for the 5th time today, singing to him to this tune:
You’ve got a fluff ass
Fur in my face
You meow like Ben Sasse
All over the place
You like Greenies
That won’t change
You’re so glamourous
Ooh the fluffy fluffy.
I don’t know if the cat likes any of the songs I sing to him, but the BF & I both do it all the time.
Anyhow, if you hate any of my creative projects, blame him.