WTH? (Hell – way more polite than its friend F). This is not some Scottish regional dialect.
This sentence was my childood chant. One that, aged fifty (fifty-one, stop reminding me), I’d like to bring back into use.
I chanted this on many occasions. Glasses of milk were often involved. The horribly cold, lingering taste was one that I absolutely detested. Its yucky, pale creaminess left my tongue almost gagging in disgust.
So milk was blown. Bubbled. Frothed. Propelled through a wonky, spiralling, transparent plastic straw. My mouth locked around its tip and whooshed hot air down the tube, making the liquid expand and rise in a white, foamy mass, almost escaping from the constraints of its red plastic beaker.
I loved doing that. I would still do that now if I had the chance. It drove my parents crazy.
‘Drink up your milk instead of playing with it’, they droned at every single meal-time.
‘Doan haftoo if I doan wannoo’ was my one and only reply – try reading this aloud in a grumpy kiddie’s voice. Wow, I had forgotten what a cocky little nuisance I must have been.
‘Tidy your room!’
‘Doan haftoo if I doan…’
‘Make your bed!’
‘Doan haftoo if I…’
‘Stop annoying your sister’
You get the picture? I’m amazed at myself. Who was that disobedient little monkey and how on earth did she get away with such a disrespectful recurring retort, without receiving regular parental spankings? Too much alliteration there, sorry.
But in spite of the lack of commonplace seventies corporal punishment I didn’t turn out all bad, I suppose. A little bit rebellious and feet-stompingly adamant on some occasions, but not an inherently bad person.
So I’m going to bring that chant back. I’m going to use it again towards anything I don’t want to do. I’ll shout it maybe. Scream it probably.
‘Darling, the alarm clock just went off. Time to get up.’
Chant, chant, chant!
‘Could you work from 8am to 8pm all next week to cover for your colleague?’
Chant, chant, chant (in a slightly calmer work voice)!
‘Mum, could you come and pick me up at the tram station please?’
Chant, chant, chant, times ten!
‘Could you just put the kettle on and make me a quick cup of tea?’
Chant, get your own damned, chant, tea, chant!
I’m wondering how people will react. They may be more than a little surprised. How many fifty-one year old women allow themselves to become the childish terrors they once were? Not many in my restricted circle in any case.
My insubordinate chanting will undoubtedly start a craze. There will be pandemonium in homes, offices and schools around the world. Everyone, everywhere will resort to their own youthful, stroppy words of objection. Oooh, exciting…
Heavens to Murgatroyd Juliet, stop being so silly and start getting to work on that book, rather than writing all this nonsense for your daft blog.