Shattered Dreams

Disturbed nights perhaps from 1987 with Johnny Hates Jazz, an obviously Fats Domino phobic ensemble.

Now it was always stressed to  me as I was growing up, maturing from tiddler to tot, bookworm to swot, that the word hate was quite wrong.

To hate is a vile expression and too extreme, when really we mean to dislike, averse to, or just not in favour at the moment.

Johnny, whoever he may be, for it is not specified, has probably a mild dislike for jazz music, unfamiliar with the wide ranging musical genre. In fact to quote the Encarta of the new age, Wikipoodle, Jazz was described by one it’s leading proponents as 

“that it is music that includes qualities such as swing, improvising, group interaction, developing an 'individual voice', and being open to different musical possibilities” There you see, clear as mud, and how anyone can “hate” that, is beyond comprehension.

Just like the sad Johnny and his Gershwinphobia, I too have had shattered dreams. Dreams where in my weird world of medical dependence, outcomes would match or excel expectations. Take my recent brush with an angioplasty/groin grabbing operation, I was expecting that following my interrupted procedure a while back. I would be slotted in for surgery quite soon……

Alas it will probably be summertime….and the living is easy…when my appointment comes through. Oh and it wont be a simple rescheduled operation, that would be too easy. No the fish may be jumping but I will need to start from the bottom, to see the surgeon (to make sure I am OK to have the operation) Just like I did 6 weeks ago. Boohoo.

Now hush little darling don’t you cry, or you’ll upset Johnny again.