I Can't Believe It's Not Margarine !

This is how The Husband describes my taste in music, using an insult so veiled and obscure that I need a degree in English Literature and some guidance from the author just to figure out what he means.

And all because on some days when I'm feeling a little bit maudlin, I like to listen to the not-so-obscure hits of John Ford Coley and England Dan (Just Tell Me You Love Me), Stephen Bishop (It Might Be You) and John Denver (You Fill Up My Senses). Also Joni Mitchell (Night Ride Home), which he simply refers to as "Now With 50% More Oestrogen". Finally, that rather hard-to-find hit by John Barry (The Music of Goodbye).

I've tried listening to some of the astoundingly unknown goth songs that he favours but the frequency of the drumbeat and the shrieking and moaning makes my fillings hurt. Also, if you cannot find it on Youtube, I believe it may not actually exist outside of one's head.

We've settled for the unhappy compromise of random compilations from That CD Shop which plays on a loop in the family car and pleases no one in particular, as evidenced by the constant fast forwarding and eventual switching to BBC ("Yesterday's News, Today!").

He particularly dislikes my compilation of songs used in popular advertisements. What could possibly be wrong with that?!