Mr Khil Kills Me.

Ok, I know I'm behind the times, and The Times, so slow have I been to catch on to this.  Annoyingly, R put it on Otterzen last week, which means I am also laying myself open to some very satisfied comments on, for example, my willingness to follow his lead.

But I can't help it. It's so, so funny.

I was chatting with a Slovakian gentlemen this week, who was of the firm and tearful opinion  that that damn perestroika was the beginning of the end for the Eastern Bloc.  The Soviets weren't perfect, he said, but they were better than this lot (reference to current Slovakian government, about which I know absolutely nothing) and we had a lot more fun.  Since one does not often hear Soviet-style communism credited with fun (at least, for those outside of the joint-jumping Kremlin), I was surprised.

But now I'm not.  If they had people like Eduard Khil lololling across their screens every night, I too would have spent the Cold War in absolute stitches.

According to The Times, Mr Khil has been pleasantly surprised by his new-found fame and is certain that the "rich orchestral arrangement" (which they'd used to distract from a complete lack of lyrics, this being the easiest way to get things past state censors) is the secret of its success.

Hmmm.  I'm not entirely sure I noticed the rich arrangement at all.  But in any case, it IS good to know it wasn't all doom and gloom behind the Iron Curtain, isn't it?

I defy you not to laugh.

Natsukashiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

A friend of mine, who doesn't own a huge ginger mastiff, recently brought one round for supper.  We were chatting hard enough not to notice that it had wandered upstairs and had eventually found its way into the bathroom, where R had absolutely not been expecting it.  The memory of his yell has kept me going in uncontrollable chuckling for weeks. 

However, when I was still giggling into the fifth week, someone gently reprimanded me for my "puerile English humour".

I'm not sure that English humour can be described as a single concept, nor whether it be truly fair to call it puerile.  But if it is, then we are in good company with the Japanese.


What price occasional puerility at the end of a day?! I miss Japan.

Mothering Sunday: what a super idea.

Who says it's wrong to be smug?

I was delightfully spoiled for Mothering Sunday yesterday: by ten o'clock I was perfectly Eggs-Benedicted up and sitting in the school church to see the oldest sing at the Mothering Sunday service.  It was a beautiful spring morning and the pews were full of the beatific smiles of mothers who hadn't had to cook breakfast.

The children had been busy; they had firstly learnt a song which went "Don't be grumpy, Don't you spoil the fun" to a jolly, rhythmic little tune, which does stay in your head (though I've heard it quite a bit this week- the youngest has been singing it with casual pointedness after any remonstration).  But anyway, looking at them lined up in their uniforms, faces creased with determination to remember the words and sing their best, it was a perfect song and you really couldn't imagine being grumpy with them ever again.

But sometimes, you can't help it; the tiniest dash of wry cynicism can come nipping into any occasion.

"Thank you God for Mummies..." it began and the congregation heaved a collective Ahhhh.  Really very sweet.  But the next verse made my eyebrows sit up a little.  "Thank you God for Nannies..."  it went on.

Hmmm... 

"They do mean grandmas" my pew neighbour reassured me in a whisper.

I'm sure they did. You never know though.  This is Surrey, after all...