A trumpeter is serenading me with an instrumental version of Frosty the Snowman as I commence this literary offering. To clarify, the guy isn’t just serenading me in the front room of chez Strachan senior. He’s part of a quartet entertaining the massive queue of kids/parents below the mezzanine which bears the coffee shop where I’m plying my penmanship.
The group of four dressed in fancy dress, accomplished musicians playing a mixture of instruments including trumpet and acoustic guitar. I’m unsure what costumes they’re adorning but it appears to be dixieland type attire. If it is, let’s just hope the Association of Churwell Yankees aren’t out en masse in the White Rose Shopping Centre (WRSC).
I’d hate for Leeds’ children, excitedly stood waiting to see Santa, get to witness a rerun of the Battle of Gettysburg. A fracas resulting in a General Robert E Lee supporter requiring surgery at Leeds General Infirmary (LGI) to have a trumpet removed from his windpipe, or worse!!
I’m unsure what relevance dixieland music has with Christmas, but fair does to the guys they’re decent performers of their art. Their enthusiastic jazz playing of Christmas songs making it feel like I’ve been transferred onto a yuletide Mississippi steamboat trip….. As an aside, I’m amazed that I’ve managed to spell Mississippi without requiring the assistance of spellcheck…… That being said, bizarrely, after spelling it correctly on the first occasion, I initially spelt the river’s name incorrectly on the second occasion I penned it.
Starting this paragraph, I’m back home in chez Strachan senior. It’s significantly quieter here than at the bustling the WRSC – Probably as there’s no jazz band, excitable children or stressed looking parents despairing at their offspring’s giddy behaviour…… Although my mum might claim she’s experiencing the latter!!
US TV drama Suits is playing out on Netflix in the background. Louis Litt is getting emotional about Harvey Specter not being his buddy, Mike Ross is using his photographic brain to stick it to an insurance company defaulting on a paying out a claim, and actress Meghan Markle looks a darned right less stressed than currently following paparazzi harassment after her real-life royal matrimony.
My mum’s off to a cancer fundraiser at the local church soon; a disease which claimed her mother at 47, sister at 52 and husband at 81. Cancer even more odious than the ‘gentlemen of the press’; a canker that spitefully f***s up even more lives than a tabloid journalist.
Today, I feel emotionally flatter than the two dimensional boxers I referenced in Thursday’s essay Any Old Iron. Even my prose, yours truly’s ‘go to’ lifter of spirits, hasn’t been able to take me out of this mental malaise.
I’ll come out of it, but I need to get back to the gym, get more fresh air when this god forsaken rain finally abates and maybe have a night on the town. Maybe even having a writesaidfred.org Christmas party, although as I’m the only member of staff it probably won’t be much of a do. Even despite me possessing multiple personalities.
Anyhow, I need to bring this narrative to a conclusion. I’m off to make the old lady’s and my tea!!
