In which I watch The Hobbit and contract an earworm

I’ve come to the conclusion that there is nothing more gently torturous in life than a persistent and pervasive earworm. I’ve come to this conclusion because, for several days, I have been victim of an earworm that’s so persistent and pervasive that I would be surprised if it wasn’t covered by the UN Convention.

Possibly unwisely following the amount of mulled wine consumed at a party the previous evening, The Writer and I hauled ourselves out of bed at sparrow fart on Sunday morning (ok, fine. 8.30am. It felt like an ungodly hour, though) to head to a preview screening of The Hobbit.

There are people far more qualified than I to give proper reviews, but for what it’s worth, I think the film is a solid 4 out of 5 stars. It’s half an hour too long and could have done with a good edit, and the whizzy new way it’s been filmed makes the indoor sets look a bit cheap and nasty (think BBC teatime versions of Narnia back in the 80s). That said, the acting is very good; it feels suitably epic; and, well, it’s just good fun, which is FAR more than can be said of some films I’ve seen recently (yes, I’m looking at you, The Master and Smashed. Shame on you).

But what’s really stayed with me in rather an unpleasant way, like a particularly potent aftertaste of garlic, is the score. It’s all beautiful and full of sweeping strings and everything, and Howard Shore is a genius, and yadda yadda yadda. But bugger me, it’s a sticky little theme, isn’t it?

Since we walked out of the cinema on Sunday lunchtime, I’ve had one of two things lodged firmly in my brain: either the main theme itself (der, der-der der, der-der derrrr) or the one from the Shire (dum-de dum dum dum dum duuum, dum de dum der dum dum duuuuum de-de-dum). Both have clearly decided they like their surroundings: they seem to be in the middle of unpacking their belongings and signing long-term tenancy agreements, showing absolutely no signs of going anywhere any time soon.

After the film had finished, we went for (a frankly disappointing) lunch at French and Grace afterwards, where I hummed through a halloumi wrap. I wandered around Tesco later to inner visuals of green hobbit holes, and I whistled under my breath. Even listening to Frank Sinatra crooning Christmas classics as I baked a test batch of Christmas cookies that afternoon (conclusion: needs more ginger) didn’t shift the musical squatters. And it’s getting worse.

Much to TW’s amusement, I hum the tunes in the shower without realising. He’s not helping matters by pouncing on me whilst I’m doing my make-up or cooking and asking, “oh, how does the Lord of the Rings theme go, again?”, thus cementing the damned thing in my brain for at least the rest of the day.

I’ve tried not thinking about it; I’ve tried humming along in the hope it’ll burn itself out; I’ve tried listening to other suitably catchy songs in an attempt to oust the buggers (Walking in a Winter Wonderland is as close as I’ve come to anything vaguely effective). But nothing works, and I’m going slightly mad.

Dum-de dum dum dum dum duuum…