Cope

She’s flying in the face of fashion now, 

Seems to have a will of her own.

I’ve always liked Sir Julian Of Cope’s World Shut Your Mouth. It’s a meat and potatoes stomper, but a hell of a catchy one. I remember watching JC perform it on Top Of The Pops in the 80s, all dark sunglasses and gangly, leather-clad limbs, writhing around on his special step-on-and-off microphone stand like some kind of demented (and possibly constipated) bat.

It’s got a new life for me now, since it featured in the BBC drama The A-Word. The programme features a family with a young autistic boy, who is obsessed with his dad’s record collection, listening and singing along to a plethora of indie, rock, punk and new wave tracks.

It’s my daughter’s new favourite song from her new favourite show. She loves the drama because she’s fascinated with other people’s syndromes and disabilities, and because her syndrome shares some traits with autism (or ‘oysterism’ as she often pronounces it). And she loves the song because she thinks it’s a bit rude, what with the lyrics telling the world to shut its mouth. “He should say shush, shouldn’t he?” she asked me. And that's not easy to say - trust me, I tried it after a couple of gins.

She also told me: “I’m a bit like Joe in the A-Word, mum, because I can calm down if I’m worried by listening to music."

“I’m the same,” I admitted. Although I didn’t mention quite how much more calming I find the rather impressively curated ‘A-Word Playlist’ compared to the previous ninth circle of hell - her ‘Favourite Tracks’ selection, which included One Direction and The Macarena. No-one deserved that, least of all me.

She’s flying in the face of fashion now, 

Seems to have a will of her own.

Keep on flying, my girl.

Video is my daughter - World, Shush Please.

Video is Julian Cope - World Shut Your Mouth

Midnight

So it’s just gone midnight on Christmas Eve. Thinking about it, it’s actually Christmas Day.

And I’m feeling a touch melancholic. (Which is one up from alcoholic, which is what I've been feeling for most of December, having approached 'social drinking' occasions in a professional capacity that I wish to downgrade to amateur status in the New Year).

My man is working nights, and is apparently in a control centre on the motorway somewhere (he’s normally in a van, so I hope for any motorists’ sake they don’t let him anywhere near any computer equipment).

Me and the kids have watched Gremlins. You wouldn’t get away with half of that shit in a kids’ film nowadays: it’s great.

We’ve also been out for our annual Christmas Eve curry (enlivened this year by my mate’s birthday cake candles actually setting off the restaurant’s smoke alarm. I’m not saying she’s old, etc).

My girl is fast asleep. My boy is very much awake. This is very much par for the course.

But something is very different this year: my children have both informed me (with no small element of delight), that they no longer believe in Father Christmas.

Seeing as my boy is a cheeky know-it-all, I’m surprised I got away with it until he was nine. (“I know it’s your parents. Santa couldn’t got round the world, and I’ve seen the paper, and you write all the labels. You try to change your handwriting, but it’s rubbish.”)

Seeing as my daughter is nineteen, I should count myself lucky that I’ve had these extra years of her believing. Special needs has some special advantages sometimes. But she’s decided she’s all grown-up. (“I don’t believe in Santa, Mummy, or Jesus. And you can celebrate Christmas how you want to. But I do still want presents.”)

So I'm feeling a bit pensive and a little misty-eyed at the end of an era.

Although I still put a mince pie out for Santa, for tradition’s sake. 

It is OK to leave Gizmo near the mince pie after midnight, isn’t it?

Song is Low - Some Hearts (At Christmas Time)