Mad about the boy

Mad about the boy
I know it's stupid to be mad about the boy
I'm so ashamed of it but must admit the sleepless nights I've had
About the boy

On the silverscreen
He melts my foolish heart in every single scene
Although I'm quite aware that here and there are traces of the cad
About the boy

Lord knows I'm not a fool girl
I really shouldn't care
Lord knows I'm not a school girl
In the flurry of her first affair

Will it ever cloy
This odd diversity of misery and joy
I'm feeling quite insane and young again
And all because I'm mad about the boy

So if I could employ
A little magic that will finally destroy
This dream that pains me and enchains me
But I can't because I'm mad...
I'm mad about the boy

A wonderful song by Noel Coward. I like it best when Dinah Washington is the afflicted one ..

http://www.townsend-records.co.uk/product.php?pId=4130302&pType=music

Washington's most popular songs were 'loser's songs' that people could identify with, such as the unrequited love in "Mad About The Boy". The meanings of the songs were very important to her and she always sang with feeling, claiming that "when you get inside a tune the soul should come out". Washington's shorter version, which misses out the first couple of verses, was arranged by Quincy Jones who had worked on a lot of her tunes. It was recorded for the Mercury label in her native Chicago in March 1952. It appeared later on various albums such as Dinah Washington, 50 Greatest Hits and AmericanLegend. Yet the song was brought to a whole new generation when it was used in a jeans ad in 1992 and subsequently entered the Top 50 in the British charts.

See:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio2/soldonsong/songlibrary/indepth/madabouttheboy.shtml

During wind and rain

They sing their dearest songs--
He, she, all of them--yea,
Treble and tenor and bass.
And one to play;
With the candles mooning each face....
Ah, no; the years O!
How the sick leaves reel down in throngs!

They clear the creeping moss--
Elders and juniors--aye,
Making the pathways neat
And the garden gay;
And they build a shady seat....
Ah, no; the years, the years;
See, the white storm-birds wing across!

They are blithely breakfasting all--
Men and maidens--yea,
Under the summer tree,
With a glimpse of the bay,
While pet fowl come to the knee....
Ah, no; the years O!
And the rotten rose is ripped from the wall.

They change to a high new house,
He, she, all of them--aye,
Clocks and carpets and chairs
On the lawn all day,
And brightest things that are theirs....
Ah, no; the years, the years;
Down their carved names the raindrop plows.

Thomas Hardy

A useful commentary:

Hardy's poetry is somewhat more depressing than I usually care for, but it
has a compelling quality that makes up for it. Today's poem deals with some
of his favourite themes - death, oblivion and futility - and does so with his
characteristic elegance and economy. The imagery is vivid and hard-hitting,
the last lines of each stanza stripping away the comfortable mask of life
and order, and hammering in the coffin nails of time. Note the way the
relentless progression is reinforced by the alliteration, and by the 
repeated use of the penultimate line. (http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/96.html)

My favourite girl

Natalia ... my granddaughter, walking by the Birmingham & Worcester canal (and next to the main railway line from Birmingham to the South-West and Wales) on an August afternoon, after the rain. We searched for ducks to feed, but, unusually, there were none. She was nearly 30 months old at the time of this photo.