Draperies and Drums

Filed under Throsby ~ by Throsby on  29 Jun 2013

She who must be obeyed dragged me into the drum shop last week.

She usually drags me into drapers’ heaven across the road, which I used to enjoy, but find depressing since they put a ready-cut camping shop on the ground floor and tried to jam everything upstairs.

Ms Throsby ordered me and my wallet to acquire drums. Large, noisy, with cymbals and whatnots.

I know, what does it mean? What role reversal is this?

Large and gleaming – re-percussing each household creak and croak during quiescence – they dominate the lounge room, the space most insulated from the outside.. inversely.

And there she sits on these dull cold days of winter, snug in dressing gown, slippers, beanie, crash-dinging away.

Ladies are not aggressive with drums. The home fills with a rhythmic procession evoking island folk music now, tribal ritual then, marching soldiers otherwise. Occasionally from long silence breaks a volley to startle pets and scurry cockroaches, and Throsby pauses to wonder which Tonight Show the flourish heralds.. no, it’s not the telly, only the resident percussionist.

Throsby would like you to know that each time he wanders by on a kitchen raid, if the household drummer is elsewhere occupied, the lounge room might erupt in a brief discord of delight.

These things are good for the soul.

I urge you to buy drums.

Funny, too, as we browsed the glittering percussive array, the drumseller was telling a phonecaller he should drop in next time his missus hauled him to Spotlight, because all the husbands so abused manage to escape across the road.

I clearly heard him say.



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