Feeling the Beat

As a supporter of inter-generational sharing, I took it in my stride when a young man stopped alongside me at the traffic lights today. Even without his windows wound down the music playing from his subwoofer was clearly audible, cranked up to a teeth-shattering volume. Concerns about his long-term hearing aside, I took a moment to appreciate the Doof-Doof beat and spoken-rather-than-sung vocals being enjoyed by this fine, upstanding example of today’s youth.

When his music lulled and the air literally buzzed with silence, I decided to repay the favour by giving him a short sample of the sort of music the ‘middle-aged’ generation liked to enjoy. Cranking up my radio, I generously unleashed the splendid tones of Barbra Streisand’s greatest hits – so you can imagine my surprise when the young man’s face transformed into a mask of horror.

Realising the magic was probably being lost in translation, I locked eyes with the young man in the car next door and began to sing, clearly and deliberately enunciating each and every word.

When his eyes widened and his jaw fell slack I realised there was simply no avoiding it – I was going to have to pull out all the stops if the young man was going to fully appreciate this musical gold.

Becoming even more earnest, there’s no doubt my expression reflected all the heartfelt emotion I was trying to convey as I increased the volume of my fine vocal performance. Then in a final act of desperation, raised my hands in true Babs fashion, pressing my open palms skyward – all the while staring directly at the young fellow to ensure I had his full attention.

Much to my dismay, my short performance seemed to have little impact. Clearly not ready to embrace this impromptu form of inter-generational musical sharing, when the light turned green he took off to the renewed strains of his psychosis inducing Doof-Doof beats leaving me to trail in his wake with the thought that perhaps Engelbert Humperdinck might be more appropriate choice at the next set of lights – cue the CD, mama.

Blonde on!


Reality Check

I was sitting on the beach with my parents, watching my kids swimming and playing; remembering when I was the child and they had to watch me, when three girls sashayed down the sand wearing shorter than short Daisy Dukes and skimpy bikini tops, not a breath over eighteen.

They dipped pink coloured toenails into the waves and squealed as young girls do. Deciding against a swim, they were sashaying back up the beach when one suddenly stopped and released a hysterical, high-pitched shriek of alarm.

Staring with pained expression at the top of her thigh, she studied her leg carefully before emitting a slow sigh of relief.

‘Oh my God, for a moment I thought I had a stretch mark,’ she gasped then laughed breezily.

Satisfied it was merely shadow, she continued to swing her pert, perfect little buttocks back up the sand.

I turned to my parents seated in chairs behind me and shrieked, ‘Oh my God, for a moment I thought I was a buxom, middle-aged married woman with kids on the downhill run to forty…..

…..Oh wait….. Damn!’

Blonde on!