It really comes to something when...

... I'm the sanest person in this household.   Mr G?   That man comes out with some bizarre stuff, on a daily basis.  It's getting bad.  Between you and me, I'm sure he's losing the plot.

In the car, driving to the supermarket, and we're listening to a Four Tops CD on the stereo.  My favourite song of theirs comes on, 'Walk Away Renée'.  If you're not familiar with it, it's quite a sad, heart-wrenching song.  So I turn up the volume a little, and start belting it out.

Me:  Just walk away Renée... You won't see me follow you back home.  The empty sidewalks on my block...

Mr G:  *Interrupts*  What did he sing then?  After 'Just walk away Renée'?

Me:   You won't see me follow you back home?

Mr G:  Oh.  That's what it was.  I've been singing the wrong words then, for years.

Me:  Well, as far as I'm concerned it's pretty obvious what he's singing.  *Pause*   Why?  What did you think he was singing?

Mr G:  *Shakes head*

Me:  Go on.  I won't laugh...

Mr G:  Just walk away Renée... You won't see me Zabadoobadoh...

Now, I've had four children.  And let me tell you, after 9 months of pregnancy - pelvic floor exercises weren't high on my list of things to do.  Alcohol was.  If they'd been called 'pelvic floor pastries' or 'pelvic floor cheesecake', I may have been more inclined.  Twas the inclusion of the word 'exercise' that alienated them for me.  My midwife's warning that I'd end up 'leaking like an 80 year old woman' whenever I sneezed, coughed, laughed or farted was no false prophecy.  And when your husband comes out with the word 'zabadoobadoh' - attributing it to the great Levi Stubbs?   I think I did all four simultaneously.  Then wet myself.