I Learned a Thing (a song to sing)

I learned something about my Number Two daughter the other day, upon asking how her day had gone.
Fine, she said.
So far, so normal. Monosyllables are the way we roll.

I got a baguette, she proffered.
Nice, I said, secretly delighted about the number of syllables we were now sharing.
Chicken tikka, she added.
Lovely, I replied. Or some such benign response. I didn’t want to overdo it. Scare her off. 

Chicken tikka, tell me what’s wrong, she sang, out of nowhere.

I thought about replying in song, adopting the persona of the chicken, who had in fact got a lot to grumble about given the fact it had been chopped up and seasoned with spices, but instead, driving our way out of college, I sang Chiquitita out loud, satisfied that Number Two Child and I were done conversing, and that the conversation had given way to a musical interlude.

I got to the rumpumpums. You know  – the bit when the song goes all weird. The bit I hated when I was a kid because it was just so random and clunky, only we didn’t know what “being random” meant in the 80s. The rumpumpums are bizarre, inelegant. The rumpumpums are not cool.

I rumpumpummed away to myself as we drove through the hamlet of Adversane, and Number Two child suddenly sprang to life in the passenger seat, playing the imaginary drums on her thigh, perfectly in time with my noise. Our brief collaboration was a thing to behold.

Once the rumpumpums and thigh drums were over, oh how we laughed! And I was surprised to learn – that bit is her favourite part of any Abba song! I did not know this fact. We drew up at the level crossing to wait for a train to pass and wondered how a conversation about a baguette could be so enlightening, and could lead us down such a rabbit hole of Chinese whispers* in the two minutes it took to travel from the college to the lights.

I guess this is just how conversation works. Or is it just us?

Either way, anything that gives rise to an Abba sing-song is a bonus, and I suspect there will be further opportunities tomorrow when the aforesaid child turns only seventeen and then starts to slip through my fingers . Hence my need to make a note of these banal little anecdotes, in the hope that we are always thankful for the music, rumpumpums or not. 

(*Can I even say that?)