I am flouncing down the stairs humming to myself. I have just arrived home for the weekend, home being 1,500 km from where I live. Being in my old house, my old room, my old role brings up massive, ecstatic waves of nostalgia. I am remembering sitting by my tape deck, blank tape inside, with my finger on the record button, waiting to push it as soon as I hear a song I like. (By my 12th birthday, I would have about 20 of these tapes.)
I stroll into the kitchen, humming the bass line from Whigfield's universally-recognized record, "Saturday Night," and I hear from the other room, in a rich, husky, Hungarian baritone:
My stomach sinks as my father pokes his head into the kitchen.
"You didn't think I knew that song did you? Well it's one of my favourites. It's on the swirly purple and blue cover CD."
I start the bass line again, and again on cue my father comes in with "Deedee-dah-dah-dah." Twice.
"Dad, that only happens once, right at the beginni-"
"No! It happens twice! I know this!"
Later in the weekend, I will walk into the family to the busting 90's beats of Saturday Night and my father will shamefacedly admit that it does, in fact, only happen once. He's checked. Three times.