La la la la la

I broke my tale at what was admittedly a corny metaphor for a cliffhanger; me at the top of the stairs and more than one officer of the law inside the premises but so far unseen. It was urgent for me to stop there because I had slipped into one of my numerous bad habits - (the clue in the title's link). I was turning everything into a song. I get this trait from my mum who I used to adore to hear singing as she sashayed around the house polishing and cleaning like a demented Cinderella. I feel sure that at such times she was not holding a duster or damp cloth; in her mind she was floating among the clouds. Because that's how it is for me. I break into song when I am happy and when I am sad. It is not something apt to occur when I am more nearly balanced. I guess that's as good a definition of equanimity as I'm likely to be able to conjure.

Mum sang tunefully meaning that she had a good voice. She could hit the right notes, although she was untrained, and in consequence her register was natural ... which is a euphemism for saying it was somewhere between soprano and alto. I am not a musician either, but I am pretty sure that few people are naturally born with a classic vocal range. Her greatest virue as a singer was that she didn't attempt to bolster whatever weaknesses were present in her range with a warble. God how I hate to hear a warbling singer. Warbling is for birds, who do it prettily and not for effect. Vibrato is a skill and should be used when the composer requires it and not because the singer hasn't the confidence or the talent to hold a note for the required duration. I have only once heard a voice so clear and true that it made tears flow freely from my eyes and that was from an amateur who had no desire to turn professional; more's the pity.

My mum sang songs from the war, from shows and films of the 50's. I tend to a broader more catholic repertoire from musicals like Oliver and Grease to pop songs by the likes of the Carpenters, Abba and Cher to the rock and roll greats like Buddy Holly, Del Shannon, and not forgetting lounge singers and jazz. Hell, if I know the words and tune I'll have a go, and if I don't know the words I make them up — not an actual lyric ... just gobbledygook. I don't care. I don't do it for anyone else, it's pure selfish fun.

Of course singing for any reason isn't a bad habit. But like my mum when she was in full song mode, once I get there it is hard to turn off. It used to drive me nuts when I needed to talk to her and she was singing. Because then her singing became first an amusing trick and then just a trick and finally oh puhleeze! enough already Every word you uttered would drive her seamlessly into a new song. It's the psychiatrists' word association test set to music. I share the same fault in a similar but notably different way. With me it is more apt to occur in writing. I really was singing, sotto voce, I Will Survive as I started moving boxes. I did also think of the Sister Ray line "oh man I haven't got the time time", when I realised that the cops were real. But, in writing down my experience, I knew I wasn't going to be able to stop my own inventive inanity. I had wakened the playful beast and it wasn't quietly going to lay down and be a good wee-beastie. Besides the tale is too long to tell all at one sitting on this cranky memory deficient laptop.

The unseen male policeman called out my name again and the reason for the dark shadow in the hallway made itself apparent — that part of the house is poorly lit even without two extra large British bobbies in wearing 'stab vests' standing in the way of the only natural light. At the foot of the stairs a constable stepped into view. "Hello," I said, attracting his attention and thereby enjoying the temporary luxury of having a tall dark man look up at me. "How did you get in?"

"We have a key that was given to us by the owner, Mr. _____."

"Ah," I said. "He thinks he owns it, does he? That's interesting."

The officer squared himself and took charge of the situation. I expect that the EP had forewarned them that the suspect was armed with a very sharp tongue and even sharper wit and, therefore should be handled with extremely dense ear-plugs. I was asked to confirm my identity. I agreed that I was indeed the person he had named. I was then informed that the EP had alleged that I had stolen some property that belonged to EP and not to me and that they wanted any information I could give them that might shed light on the matter. This seemed sort of hopeful because they had not bothered to caution me concerning my "rights" ... oh yes, I didn't waste my youth; I watched Dixon of Dock Green and The Sweeney. I knew my rights. I told them the simple truth: that there had been a bike in the garage and it wasn't there now and I did not know where it was. Economical but not inaccurate. Correct but useless. Much like a Microsoft Help response, really. Oh, boy! I was on a roll!

"Mr. ____ said that you told him you had sold it," the officer said elliptically.

"Well, I can't comment on what he said because I wasn't there," I said flippantly. It was all going too easily and I guess that deep down I knew that. However, never say die ....

"Mr. ____ said that you are moving from here tomorrow and that he does not have a forwarding address —

uh oh!

"— for you. Can you tell us where you will moving to? Have you got a forwarding address?"

"Not for him, I haven't," I said. I think I even managed to snarl a little ... but maybe that is wishful thinking.

"In that case I have no alternative but to place you under arrest ...." He looked sort of sad and I guess that a policeman's lot is really not a happy one but that would be to repeat the crime I outlined at the top of this piece so I will not mention it again. "You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say will be given in evidence." It wasn't surreal it was beyond that it was swimmy-crazy. Everything went out of focus, not in a fainting way, but in a twisting sensation as though reality is little more than a Rubik's cube and God has just jerked things around to make a new pattern. The world, well my part in and of it, had just changed irrevocably. I would never again be the same person I was before. Of course that's all just self-pitying bollocks as well. I was just very, very scared. I wanted to sit down, hell! I wanted to lie down and curl up in the foetal position and go to sleep. Sleep seemed like a really sound solution to the whole problem.

I'll sleep on ....

Not really a bit of advice I can honestly say I have used much, if at all. Acting precipitously is pretty much a good description of me. Of course going to sleep for excessively long periods — usually in places other than bed, a sofa for instance — is pretty much symptomatic of many varieties of mental disorder. I become aware that I am under scrutiny. The two cops are watching me closely for signs of madness. I realise now that they cannot rule out any hazard. They are reviewing their ta da! "Risk Assessment". After all, I might whip out a concealed knife. Come to think of it having been given a key the polcie would undoubtedly have asked the key donor for information concerning any possible weapons in the house. Oh I bet he just loved telling them about all my cooks knives! What I really wanted was a nice cup of tea. A cigarette would have been a fair substitute but — I may be mad but not that mad — giving up once was tough enough. I doubt I have the strength to give up again. Besides if I am going to be "banged up" I may as save the fun of sourcing some "snout" for later ... I might very well be getting an opportunity to learn a good deal more of the lingua franca of the criminal underclasses so no sense in trying to do it all once.

Lamely and rather pathetically I asked if I might put some shoes on. It was agreed that I could and I took full advantage, grabbing a few handy items and stuffing them into my handbag. Oh how innocent I was! As though they allow persons in custody (PIC's) to have "property" in the cells with them! At least it gave me something to do and I dithered around, closing windows, locking doors, turning off electrical appliances. I came to the cat's bowl. So far the cops had been tight-lipped and had given away little in the way of comfort.

"Officer?" I said. "Look! I have a cat to look after. Do I need to worry about this or will I be coming home to avoid being up on RSPCA charges of animal neglect as well as my present troubles?" His answer was somewhat reassuring. He promised me that it was mostly a formality. A couple of hours at the most was what he suggested. That didn't seem so bad until he asked if I was ready in the sort of resigned way that suggested a cynical attitude towards the time it takes females to get ready for anything ... even to be arrested! I was as ready as I ever going to be.

"OK then, Trillian," he said. "As a courtesy to you I am not going to place you in handcuffs but I must warn you that if you try to run away when we get outside my super-fit young colleague here will most certainly catch you and tackle you roughly to the ground." I took a moment to study the younger cop. He looked lean and mean and ... well ... "fit". To use one of my grandmother's coarser sayings, I would not be unhappy to be darning his socks.

Oh! Come on! This is serious, man!

"Don't worry, I won't be running anywhere," I assured them. Privately I suspect that my race fitness would take a lot more working-out time than I am likely to find motivation for anytime soon enough to matter. Even the idea that being able to outrun capture could have some uses doesn't do much for me. "I will go where you direct and I will not do anything until directed, that OK?" I tried to smile. I wanted to look co-operative. I suspect that I was going through a well recognised sequence of emotional responses to a stressful situation and, now as I am writing this down, I am reminded of that very funny sequence when Homer Simpson is reading a helpful hospital leaflet titled "So You're Going To Die" after he'd eaten some Blow Fish in a Japansese restaurant. As he read aloud each symptom that a person experiences when facing certain death (denial, depression etc.) he reacted as each symptom manifested in his tone of voice, facial expression and posture. I wish I could have thought of that at the time. It might have made me smile, but then again, perhaps not. The lawmen might have thought I was smirking and as things turned out a smirk wouldn't have been smart move.