Emancipation Through Mo-Town

Be warned. The following post is self-indulgent catharsis on my part. It borders on pointless whinging. You've been warned. And warned again.

To put it simply, this has been just about the worst imaginable start to any year I can remember. I cannot wait for the last minute of January to tick over and be done with. That is when my 2009 is going to start as it can't and I can't continue on like this. I'd be faced with little option but to retreat to a cave, only to emerge having missed summer and autumn, and be slapped in the face again by Winter. That's how rotten the past 19 days have been: I'd skip summer if it meant avoiding another month like this stupid January.

I contemplated waiting until February 1 to write this, just in case things improved. But it appears on the eve of the first month's 20th day, that there are two chances of that happening (as my favourite Australian saying goes) : Buckley's and none. Therefore, if I can evacuate this diatribe from the annals of my whingometer now, by February there can be no more complaining. January will be a distant, depressing memory. And 2009 will begin anew.

The reasons for this miserable mileu, and the nature of it's symptoms are rather less relevant than what I want to tell you about, which is it's potential remedy. The calming, narcotic power of music has propped this lone ranger up so far and shall hopefully do so for another 12 days. Motown specifically, and The Supremes especially.

'Right now the only thing
That keeps me hangin on
When I feel my strength, yeah
Its almost gone
I remember mama said...'

...makes me smile when the clouds are drooping under the weight of the rain they are holding, threatening to saturate me on the way to the Underground.....

'Before you won my heart
You were a perfect guy
But now that you got me
You wanna leave me behind
Baby, baby, ooh baby'

...liberates me from the black shackles of my very very very bad mood......

'Set me free, why dont cha babe
Get out my life, why dont cha babe'

...empowers the brat inside me. Which isn't in and of itself a good thing as it causes me to, for example, argue with the umpire on the netball court, which isn't going to do wonders for my modified rules 'Speed net' career. Oh well. Ooohohoooohohooohoh.

Anyway, healing, calming, soothing powers of music will never again be underestimated by this humble blogger. Imagined memories of happier, less economically diabolical times, of shoulder pads, bouffant hair, glo-mesh and sequined bodices are like honey to this bee. Bzzzzzz.

Roll on February 1, the dulcet tones of Diana Ross might not get me through another single, bloody day of January. The inauguration tomorrow, conceivably, might buck me up long enough to trawl Motown's greatest hits for more musical balm, but possibly not, so February hurry up and show your flipping face.

Au revoir.