Читать книгу The Dodo Collection - Steve Stack - Страница 37

Whistling

When is the last time you heard someone whistling? Think about it. I don’t mean a quick wolf-whistle (although now I mention it, you don’t hear many of them these days, either), or a builder sucking air through his teeth just before giving you an outrageous quote for a new extension, but a full-on, high decibel, cheerful tune from start to finish.

Chances are it’s been a while.

But everyone used to be at it once upon a time: window cleaners, policemen, school janitors, milkmen, taxi drivers, all sorts of people. Now it appears to be something of a dying art.

Now, I accept that this won’t be a source of regret to everyone. Miserable sods who don’t like a cheerful tune emitting from ’twixt the lips of manual labourers are quite possibly overjoyed at the dearth of ‘Waltzing Matilda’s’ or ‘My Darling Clementine’s’, and that is fair enough.

Personally, as someone who can’t whistle at all, I kind of miss it. Perhaps I could call upon the musically lipped readers of this book to pucker up and belt out a tune at some point in the near future, just to improve the rarity rating of this sadly neglected art form?

Of course, just because you don’t hear window cleaners performing a wind solo while you walk down the street doesn’t mean there aren’t still people who take the fine art of whistling seriously. The International Whistlers’ Convention takes place on a weekend in April every year, usually in Louisburg, North Carolina, although it tours occasionally and has been held in Japan and China – a truly global event. There are Child, Teen and Adult age groups, and entrants can perform in either Classical or Popular categories.

There is also a Whistlers’ Hall of Fame which includes such luminaries as Bobbejaan Schoepen, Quingyao Cao, and Marge Carlson. Their occupations are not given but I am guessing at least one of them is a milkman.

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