Today, just after lunch, Tommy donned a denim jacket and sunglasses and asked me to “put Michael Jackson music on, Mummy, because me is Michael Jackson.”
I asked him what track he wanted. “Bad, me like Bad.” So I put Bad on (T: “make it more fort Mummy” … Me: “you mean louder” … T: “Yes Mummy, more fort louder.”) and he danced, wiggled and threw himself on the sofa in a five minute frenzy while his little sister looked on in admiration.
Me: “What now? Do you want another song to dance to?”
T: “Yes Mummy, put Michael Jackson again. Put on ‘Gilbert’.” (pronounced as the French ‘Jzhill-Bear’)
Me : Gilbert?
T: YES Mummy. GIL – BERT!
(pause as I have a think …)
Me: Do you mean ‘Billie Jean’?
T: YES, MUMMY. Me say it. Jilly-Bean.
So I put on Jilly-Bean/Gilbert and he danced his socks off. Good old Michael Jackson and his ode to Gilbert – who’s not his lover – he just says that he is the one. But the kid is not his son.