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Little Wonder, You.


If people saw how much I've got into the Stevie Wonder songs I’ve been listening to this week while getting ready, they’d laugh their arses off.


That isn’t an exaggeration. Anyone watching would find my pathetic attempts at funky dancing so funny that the fleshy cheeks either side of their rectum would come clean off. The anus would remain intact, but the outer area – the bum cushion, if you like – would fall to the floor, or be rocking back and forth on the chair if they'd just got up from sitting down. And were trouserless.

(Sorry for that.)

Most of my enthusiastic moves to the now not-so-Little Stevie have taken place in the bathroom. This compounds the embarrassment. Picture me in a towel, with 'I Wish' blaring from my BlackBerry (not a euphemism), boogying away – yes, boogying – and then WIPE IT FROM YOUR MIND. 

I’d forgotten how much I loved his work. I can’t get enough. His singing is effortless, his range never-ending, and his ability to get his way around just about every instrument in the musical lexicon (good word) is astounding. He always sounds delighted; full of energy and positivity, like he's enjoying every moment. Listening to a Stevie Wonder song first thing in the morning is a tonic that puts me in a good mood for the rest of the day. Unless it's 'I Just Called to Say I Love You' of course.

I first became aware of him, albeit indirectly, at junior school. Once a week, in assembly, the head teacher would read out any recent birthdays. We’d file into the hall to the tune of Wonder’s ‘Happy Birthday’; a song that was cutting-edge at the time. None of us knew it was about Martin Luther King – the best we could manage then was a bit of colouring-in – but we liked the sound of it. Each time I hear it now, I’m back at St. Nicholas JMI in Stevenage. I’m also just shy of four feet tall, which is confusing.

So if you want some cheap amusement, lurk by my bathroom window at about 8:30am. If you’re lucky, I’ll be cutting some shapes. If I’m not in the middle of braiding my hair.
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