Every day it wakes me.  Yesterday it was Saturday Night Fever – and the pictures that go with, Travolta sashaying down the sidewalk, the songs in his head filling his day.  Today it’s Yesterday and an image of young Paul playing left-handed guitar.  It’s not always pop – sometimes the dirges of compulsory chapel sixtyfive years ago pop up.  How does my brain still know all the Latin words to Tantum Ergo?  I barely remember the meaning but somewhere in my sensory library the suffocation of incense evokes aching knees on a Sunday night.  Other times dirty ditties from nights after rugby: Off To See The Wild West Show…

Now I’m writing about it, my head is crowded with songs, wannabe songs competing to be the song of the day, my own x-factor,  head’s-got-talent, my voice.  Lucky me, they’re all great performers singing great songs and I don’t have to suffer Cowellisms such as ‘So your mum told you you could sing?’  It’s my free-to-air, unsubscribed cable, on demand entertainment.  Happy Hippocampus!