Worrisome Walking

Posted on October 11, 2008 by Hails

I’ve just been reading one of Bill Bryson’s hilarious books and laughing merrily to myself all the way through it. The man both delights and saddens me: the former because he writes like I can only dream of doing, making the most mundane things seem utterly hilarious; the latter because, well, he writes like I can only dream of doing.

I was particularly amused by his observation that in some places it’s virtually impossible to to be a pedestrian in this age of getting into the car and driving 200 yards to the shop for a loaf of bread. While I must confess to having been guilty of this on many occasions, I now have a slightly different perspective, being well and truly Without Car, and Bryson’s observation has proved to be accurate for me on several occasions over the past few months. The reason I laughed so much at his earnest tale of trying to walk to his destination (to the horrified disbelief of the man he’d asked for directions, who tried to urge him to take a taxi because it was at least a mile away) is that I’ve experienced the same sort of issues – but, being me, I thought it was just because I was slightly dim-witted and was choosing to walk in the wrong places. It never occurred to me that actually there’s nothing crazy about walking a short distance through a city centre, and that it’s just a reflection of our general laziness as a species that there are large areas that are virtually impossible to traverse with only your own two feet to carry you.

Bryson was enjoying his saunter through the town, extolling the virtues of a walk on a nice sunny day. You saunter. You amble. Then you come to a mad junction at Burger King and discover that the new six-lane road to K-Mart is long, straight, very busy and entirely without facilities for pedestrians… I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve found myself in a situation exactly like this. I’ve had some frightening moments when trying to do something as simple as get to the other side of a road. In several places, I was forced to conclude that you simply are not meant to do so, if you don’t have a car. The other side of the road is not for you. It is forbidden. In other places, I persevered and either made the suicidal dash across what Bryson calls six lanes of hostile traffic, or found an alternative route, usually adding at least half a mile to my journey, cutting through muddy/rocky/private grounds, and/or getting completely lost.

By far the craziest set-up I discovered was Budapest. The day that I explored the city on foot will remain forever etched in my mind. Vividly. With sound effects. My enduring memory is of the road along the Danube, between the river and the parliament building. I’d been walking all day and was exhausted, but I’d just crossed over the Chain Bridge from Buda into Pest and figured it would be a shame to not do the river walk while I was there. This was not as simple as it sounds. I could see the road, but I had absolutely no way of getting to it. Traffic was flowing quite madly in all directions, and I did my usual dance of crossing about 15 roads just to get to the other side of the one I’d started on. Once on the correct road, I had to figure out which side I should be walking on. The side nearest the river had an ankle-high barrier separating a narrow, pebbly pathway from the zooming traffic; the side that I was on had a separate lane that could plausibly have been used by pedestrians, but was instead occupied by hundreds of parked cars stretching as far as the eye could see. I opted to stay where I was, on account of the zooming traffic and the slightly dangerous appearance of the river “path”, and began to walk along the side of the road, getting odd looks from drivers and trying to weave in and out of the parked cars without setting off any alarms or actually getting wedged in (which almost happened on two occasions). Several times I had to wait for a brief gap in the traffic and step out on to the road to get around a badly-parked car, which was great for getting the adrenaline going.

When I reached the end of the row of parked cars (after about 15 minutes), I discovered that the lane, too, had ended and that there was not, in fact, any way to proceed on foot. Gritting my teeth and looking all around me in bewilderment and annoyance, I realised there was only one thing for it.

I turned and walked all the way back. I couldn’t cross the road at that point; it would have been complete madness, and I would not be here now telling you the story. No, I had to walk all the way back to where I’d started, and go in search of a safer, quieter spot to cross. I still ended up having a horn blared at me, but at least I was on the “path” now, with the relative safety of potholes, protruding objects, boat ropes and a sheer drop – mere inches from my feet – into the River Danube should any of these things cause me to stumble. All this, together with the slippery surfaces caused by the constant rain, made it a walk that I will never be able to forget.

The roads in general in Budapest were genuinely confusing, and I had several Brysonesque moments just trying to proceed along a single road before I realised that the reason for the complete absence of footpaths and crossing points was that there were ramps leading to a series of tunnels underground – you crossed the roads by going under them, not over them. Ingenius concept, except that for a foreigner with (a) no knowledge of the city and (b) absolutely no sense of direction anyway, it was near on impossible to figure out which exit you wanted to take when you went down there. I tried at least three at every one I came to, repeating the embarrassing process of emerging into the street, looking around to figure out where I’d been before I went underground, realising that I’d actually crossed to the wrong road, going back down and trying a different exit.

Still. It was much better than running out into the middle of six lanes of traffic, dodging three of them, and causing the fourth one (coming unexpectedly from the opposite direction) to screech to a halt and start blaring their horns as I stood frozen to the spot and panicking about whether to keep going to the other side or turn and run back. Not that that ever happened to me at any point, of course.

Filed under: books, confusion, decisions, driving, Fear, Hungary, laughter, road rage, sheer silliness, uncertainty, walking, worry | Leave a Comment »

Yes, I’m gonna be a star…

Posted on August 13, 2008 by Hails

The house owners rather foolishly left me their ‘spare’ car to use while they’re away.

Ha ha ha! I asked a few nervous questions about insurance, and their only response was a casual shrug and Just try not to hit anything, it’s only third party as they cheerfully tossed me the keys. It took me several days of just walking nervously around it before I even had the courage to get inside.

For a start, it’s a jeep – much, much bigger than Rio the Clio. It is a Monster Car. You sit in it and you can look down at all the people in their ordinary cars miles and miles below, and feel like you’re very big and important. And also, possibly, in a much higher position of power than you really should be.

Secondly, it’s an automatic. It is quite disconcerting to take your foot off the brake and realise that you’re suddenly off and running again without having put it into gear or anything. That’s caught me out a few times when I’ve been a little too far forward at a junction, taken my foot off the brake to roll back a little, and found myself plunging forward into the stream of traffic instead. Watch out for me in my Monster Car! the caption would read, were I a cartoon Hails sitting perched atop a tank and gripping the steering wheel ineffectually, with a frenzied expression of panic on my Woman Driver face.

Thirdly, I feel like I’m driving from the passenger seat. I can’t get the hang of what I should be seeing in the mirrors at all, or what angle anything’s at, or how to judge my distance from anything on my right.

But most importantly, of course, I have to drive on the right hand side of the road. They don’t really like it when I try to drive on the left like I did at home. I tried it once, albeit by accident, and got glared at by an angry Belgian in a defenceless Mini (but to be fair, it must have been quite a frightening sight for him). It all feels terribly unnatural – going round a roundabout anti-clockwise, for example, is just terrifying. Particularly for someone from Ballymena the Capital of Pointless Mini Roundabouts.

Then, of course, there’s the very real possibility that I will take a wrong turning and get more hopelessly lost than I have ever been in my entire life. The signs are in a language I don’t know, I would have no idea how to ask for directions (or understand them), I’m already confused by the road layouts, and I have no Maxine. The Belfast Incident would have nothing on a Lost In Belgium story.

So, taking all that into account, I’m actually rather proud of myself for getting behind the steering wheel and going for a drive each day. I have no one to clap me on the back and say “Atta girl!” but I’m sure that you’re all thinking it. Beep beep’m beep beep, yeah!

And maybe next week I’ll actually drive out of the village…

Filed under: Belgium, Car, changes, confusion, driving, Fear | 7 Comments »

No particular place to go

Posted on April 9, 2008 by Hails

What time are you picking me up for that funeral?

The text message wakens me from my lazy, unemployed, mid-morning slumber. It is 10.15am. I leap up in horror, having forgotten all about said 11am funeral until the arrival of The Sister’s message. As I am brushing my teeth, ironing a pair of trousers somewhat desperately (on the worktop, with very little water in the iron) and trying to find a top to wear, The Sister texts again, this time requesting that I also bring the blender with me.

I stumble towards the car in creased clothes, with my hair in an unintentional but undeniably bizarre punk style, carrying a blender. I phone The Sister as I attempt a 3-point-turn from the parking space in which all of my neighbours have thoughtfully conspired to trap me. “I’m on my way,” I tell her, dazedly, noting that I have no petrol. “Does this definitely start at 11?” “Don’t know,” she replies. “Have you got the blender?” “Yes,” I say through gritted teeth, “because I *always* bring a blender to a funeral. Ring Dad and check the time.”

I drive like a maniac to The Sister’s workplace, screech to a halt, and trip headlong into the showroom, launching a blender at the surprised-looking girls behind the desk. “Err… did somebody want a blender?” I ask as an afterthought. They take it off my hands and I attempt to justify my dishevelled appearance, which is not unlike that of an utterly wild madwoman. The Sister, clearly embarrassed to be my blood relative, comes to my side and escorts me off the premises.

Dad returns her call as we are engaged in a minor scuffle in the car, brought on by The Sister answering my distressed “Do I look like a total gypsy?” with a blunt “Yes” and making an unnecessarily violent attempt to brush cat hairs off my jacket. “Just checking what time the funeral’s at…” she says casually, as if we are not later than anybody in the whole wide world has ever been for anything at any given point in the history of time. “Yes, we’re on our way… yes… right. See you there.”

“We’re never going to be there for 11!” I exclaim fatalistically, executing a spectacularly illegal manoeuvre around an unexpected Road Closed sign. The Sister looks sheepish. “That’s OK,” she says quietly, “as it doesn’t start until 12.”

Speechless, I gaze at her, and narrowly avoid mowing down a postman.

We go to Starbucks.

Filed under: confusion, conversations, disorganisation, driving, family, funerals, laziness, patience, Starbucks, tiredness | 2 Comments »

Big Mug

Posted on March 31, 2008 by Hails

It has occurred to me that I am missing a vital piece of equipment for my journey through life. I’m utterly perplexed as to how I have survived thus far without it, to be honest, and having made the discovery I know that I’m now going to be suffering from a weird, unsettled, jittery feeling until I have the opportunity to correct the problem.

I do not have a thermal travel mug.

I’m not sure how this is even possible, but there it is all the same. I am a caffeine addict without a thermal mug. It’s like being an alcoholic without a hip flask, or an Emo Kid without a scowl.

It’s not that I’ve never been previously aware of this gaping void; it’s more a case of never quite having grasped the enormity of the issue. “To Go” cups from Starbucks are an almost permanent feature in my car/house/hand. However, there comes a time when you have neither the time nor the spare money to purchase such delights, and so, when I lost track of time this morning and realised that I had five minutes in which to get dressed, defrost the car, and drink an entire pot of coffee, the distressing lack of a thermal mug in my life became glaringly obvious. What to do, what to do? I murmured in agitation as I struggled hastily into a badly-in-need-of-an-iron top and filled a Diet Coke bottle with warm water, staring all the while at the untouched coffee in the pot. For a mad moment, I considered returning to the house after defrosting the car, and refilling the bottle with coffee, but I thought that carrying a 2 litre bottle of extra-strong Americano to work might be just a little on the extreme side.

In the end, I downed one large mug in approximately 40 seconds, sending my brain into meltdown and scalding my tongue in the process, and poured some more into a glass – for none of my mugs, sadly, fit into Rio the Clio’s cup-holders – to accompany me on my journey. Not that I got to drink much of it. It is only when you’ve got a glass of hot coffee in the car that you become painfully aware of how many speed bumps and sharp corners there are in your housing estate…

Filed under: Car, coffee, driving, sad, Starbucks, thermal mug | 7 Comments »

Driving Conditions: Wet

Posted on March 4, 2008 by Hails

In retrospect, the journey to Dublin wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been.

This unprecedented level of semi-success was, of course, absolutely nothing to do with either The Sister or myself, but largely thanks to Maxine (Sister’s SatNav), some good-natured toll plaza attendants, a couple of painkillers and CD one from the Now 28 compilation.

If I were to find any fault with Maxine, it would concern her communication difficulties. For example, if she’d said “Don’t leave the motorway at this bit here where it branches off into two, just stay on it for 30 more seconds, but keep to the left lane and be ready to take the next exit,” I would have had no issues with obeying her instructions. Half an hour later, as we sat grumpily in a mile-long tailback of single-lane traffic at some roadworks in, erm, Belfast, we talked things through and realised that this was probably what she had indeed meant by “Keep Right. Exit on left.”

Anyway, once we’d ironed out that little misunderstanding, things went swimmingly. I mean this literally - for Maxine, at one point just over the border, seemed to think we were in a river. Sister and I broke off from our enthusiastic chorus of You Don’t Love Me (no no no) as we heard the SatNav go into meltdown. I turned the music down, and Sister looked enquiringly at the screen. “I think something’s wrong with Maxine,” she said in concern.

“Turn right. Turn right.” said Maxine, sounding a little nervous, as the onscreen map showed Rio the Clio heading directly for a vast body of water. I looked around. Clearly, we were on a very long stretch of motorway, where rivers are scarce. I chose to ignore Maxine.

“Recalculating,” said a harrassed Maxine, screen flashing frantically. “Turn right. Turn right.”

“I can’t turn right,” I explained patiently, “because on our right there are two lanes of traffic coming in the opposite direction.”

Sister turned the music back up , but I was too unsettled to sing. Maxine continued to flash lights and make a lot of confused beeping noises.

“Why does she think we’re going into a river?” I asked, irrationally nervous, as if I expected a large expanse of water to open up in front of us (which Maxine indeed seemed to think was likely).

“Turn right! Turn right!” shrieked Maxine, obviously panicking now.

“I can’t turn right, you stupid cow!” I howled, momentarily losing my poise, “We turn right, we die!!”

Sister gasped involuntarily as the on-screen Rio the Clio took a dramatic nose-dive into the river.

Everything went silent.

I gripped the steering wheel with grim determination. We drove bravely and quietly along the river bed for several minutes. Maxine, her lungs presumably filled with water, did not speak. I grappled inwardly with the knowledge that I had drowned the SatNav and would somehow have to negociate my way around Dublin City Centre completely unaided. Then, to our joy, something flashed on-screen. There was a beep. Maxine was clearly having an epiphany of some sort. We held our breath, and, to our delight, Rio emerged from the river and rejoined the road.

“Recalculating,” said Maxine, sounding slightly embarrassed but unharmed. “Continue straight ahead.”

“I think Maxine might be blonde,” said The Sister.

Filed under: accident, Car, confusion, driving, Fear, freak-out, irrational behaviour, road rage, SatNav | 9 Comments »

Hide and Eek

Posted on February 28, 2008 by Hails

I’m not saying I’m against having bonus tracks on CDs. It’s just… why hide it? Why go to that effort? Why not just stick an extra track at the end and say “Here – this is an extra song. A bonus, if you will. It will come on, as track 12, immediately after track 11, so that you don’t even have to look for it. Please do enjoy it with our compliments.”

Perhaps if I were a less forgetful and also less jumpy person, it wouldn’t bother me as much. But it’s quite honestly getting to the stage where a hidden track has almost led to me crashing the car more times than I can count on my fingers. It’s the CDs with an extra track at the end - where, after the “last” song, the CD doesn’t automatically go back to track 1 again. Instead, it stays on the final track, playing only silence. Then, about ten minutes later it reaches the bonus track, which you’d miss if you just went back to the beginning.

It happened me again tonight. My problem is that I am easily distracted, and will often become lost in my own little world. A lot of the time I depend upon modern technology doing things for me, because otherwise I would forget. Simple things, like the microwave beeping every 30 seconds to tell me there’s still something in it. Rio the Clio making a subtle but effective siren-like noise to tell me I’ve left my lights on again. That type of thing. So, were it not for the fact that my CD player not only automatically begins to play when I start the car, but also goes back to track one by itself when the CD is over, I would probably drive around in silence a lot of the time, simply because I would never remember to press play.

You can see why it might be a problem, then, that on some of my CDs there is a ten-minute period of silence before a hidden track. I just don’t realise that the music has stopped; I carry on driving, lost in my thoughts. Then, suddenly and without warning, on comes the hidden track. By this stage I have forgotten that I was ever listening to a CD. Or that I had it on full blast. It doesn’t help when the artist in question has chosen a particularly upbeat track with which to surprise me. There is no soft piano intro, no gentle acoustic strum. No, it is a full-on Big Band extravaganza, with drums, electric guitars, and a loud blast of a harmonica. In short, it is like an announcement of The End Of The World. In my car.

There I was tonight, sitting at the end of the Waveney Road at a dubious will-I-won’t-I sort of Give Way junction. I was on my way to deliver Granny’s birthday card, and wondering if the Spar in Galgorm sold decent flowers. A bus was ambling towards me, and I hesitated for a moment before deciding I could easily nip out in front of it. I put my foot down, released the clutch, and began turning left. At that precise moment, the sound explosion of the hidden track filled the car. “Flamin’ Nora!!” I squealed, quite bizarrely. I have never used that phrase before in all my life – I can neither explain nor justify it. The steering wheel slipped beneath my hands and I veered towards a queue of stationary traffic, whilst my feet panicked on the pedals and caused the car to start some sort of roaring, bouncing expedition. I was the whole way out to Galgorm before I stopped hearing my heart pounding in my ears.

I bet they don’t consider this sort of thing when they’re producing CDs, you know.

Filed under: Car, complaining, driving, Fear, rant, songs | 2 Comments »

Geography. Kind of.

Posted on February 26, 2008 by Hails

Sister’s big plans for the weekend have fallen through, and she has decided she wants to accompany me to Dublin. “I’ll have 3 CDs of Sixties music, my SatNav, and sandwiches,” she promises. “I’ll be good – in fact, I’ll probably be hungover. Can I meet K8 the Gr8 and Grannymar?”

 This is good, because it means I can take Rio the Clio and drive back the same night, since I’ll have someone to keep me awake on the way home. This in turn saves me about £50. Also, I’d forgotten she has a SatNav – think about this, boys and girls. For the first time EVER, it will be an actual impossibility for me to get lost! Things are looking up. Never mind the fact that I have Grannymar waiting to mother me/introduce me to her toyboys, and K8 the Gr8 willing to make me look cool by being my friend. And I don’t have to wear a girly dress!

Sister and I have even pre-programmed our destination into the SatNav, a process causing great confusion and some distress when we realised we had to travel 395 miles. Fortunately, that particular Alexander Hotel turned out to be in Blackpool. “Hang on, I think I’ve got it now,” said Sister, staring intently at the SatNav screen. “There’s a wee green dot, there. Is that it?” I joined her in peering at the screen. “I’m not sure,” I mused uncertainly, “Is Dublin not down a bit?” Sister shook her head and waved me away impatiently. “No, it’s at the top, somewhere near the red dot,” she insisted.

With a combined geographical awareness of this strength, we are sure to have a flawless journey.

Filed under: awards, blogging, confusion, conversations, driving, friends, SatNav, travel | 5 Comments »

I really try, you know.

Posted on January 11, 2008 by Hails

“Take a lodgement into the bank, will you?” Kate had asked me. “And go to the Harryville branch, it’ll be easier than the town. And quicker.”

Obediently I drove all the way in, got parked on Henry Street, and marched confidently into the bank. I gave the teller the lodgement book and a cheery smile. She looked oddly at me. “Do you usually make your lodgements here?” she asked uncertainly. I shook my head, because – not having much common sense re: traffic jams and bank queues - I usually go to the branch in town, to the despair of my employers. “No,” I replied, quite simply. Again, she looked strangely at me. “So, err… where do you normally make your Northern Bank lodgements?” she asked carefully. The clue was in the question. Nervously I glanced around, observing for the first time the large sign above her head, which quite clearly said Ulster Bank. I pursed my lips and looked back at the teller, who was now trying to mask a smirk. “At the Northern Bank, actually,” I replied calmly. She handed me back the book. I took it. “The other bank is…” she began, starting to gesture with her arms, but my small scrap of remaining pride made me laugh loudly and say, “Oh, I know exactly where it is, sorry about that!” and walk out with a fake smile.

Well, look. How on earth was I meant to know there were two banks in Harryville?

Anyway, as I wandered around blankly (in the area I lived in for the first 18 years of my life), it occurred to me that, in direct opposition to my blustered claim about knowing the exact whereabouts of the other bank, was the sad fact that I had absolutely no idea where the other bank might be. Sad and ashamed, I returned to Rio the Clio and drove to the town.

In an attempt to bypass the madly congested roads, I parked on Springwell Street and prepared for a short jog to Broadway. Upon reaching the end of the street, I met a surly-looking traffic warden. “Hello,” I said brightly. He looked at me like I had two heads. “Question,” I continued in the same cheerful tone of voice, as if he had just replied with “Hello, you beautiful young thing, how may I help you, this glorious day?”. He continued to glower at me. Maybe it’s part of their job, I don’t know. “Single Yellow Lines,” I hurtled on, determinedly, “What are the rules?”

“Well,” he said gruffly, “on that road, you -” I shook my head, not having time for a full run-down of the parking laws for the entire town. “What about this road?” I suggested gently.

“Oh,” he said, “no parking till 6.30pm.”

“Well then,” I said, maintaining my cheery demeanour, “I’ll just be off, in that case!” He watched humourlessly as I jogged back to my illegally parked car and removed myself from his annoyed gaze.

I did a lap of the town, parked on Wellington Street and went to the bank. The queue was approximately 2.3 miles long. I then sat in traffic for a very long time and returned to work around an hour and a half after I’d left. This was, ironically, actually longer than it took me the last time I was sent to the bank. Kate gazed despairingly at me as I burst through the door. “Did you not go to the Harryville branch?” she asked wearily. Flustered, I explained the whole Harryville/two banks/traffic warden/queue/traffic jam situation.

I think they’re going to stop sending me on errands soon.

Filed under: banks, boss, confusion, driving, Mishaps, work | 7 Comments »

Driving in a Winter Wonderland

Posted on December 21, 2007 by Hails

How pretty! I am driving to work for the last time before Christmas, and God has been out overnight with his snow-spray and glitter, decorating the landscape. The countryside is a real, live Christmas card, all frosty white and glimmering and shimmering and glittery.

How festive! The radio is playing back-to-back jingly fa-la-la songs, and I crank up the volume and sing along cheerfully, smiling broadly at every fellow motorist I meet. A wee robin perches on a frost-dusted hedge, and the morning sun glows orangely in my wing mirror.

How perfect! Everything around me shines with a dazzling white sheen, and the very road ahead sparkles like fairy dust. I feel a great surge of love for all of creation, and sigh contentedly as I turn left on to the road where my workplace awaits.

As Rio the Clio, quite independently, continues to turn left after I have finished doing so, it occurs to me belatedly that second gear might have been a good idea. “Crap!” I exclaim suddenly, as we spin merrily on the pretty glittery surface. Words of wisdom from wiser friends flood my brain in a split second, having been stored there previously for just such an occasion as this. Don’t brake! they say calmly. Steer into the skid!

An inner battle takes place between these recalled snippets of advice and my small reserve of common sense, which points out – albeit slightly less calmly – that if I steer into the skid I will just drive nicely over the hedge and land in someone’s back yard. I make an executive decision and turn right. Rio continues to turn left. “Crap, CRAP!!!” I shriek panickily. Both common sense and words of wisdom fly out the window and I yank the steering wheel furiously in both directions. Happily, Rio the Clio turns at the last second before entering the hedge. Less happily, she slides gracefully sideways and veers over to the other side of the road.

“Crap, crap, CRAAAAAAAAAAP!!!!!!!!” is actually all I can think of to say, despite having a much larger store of appropriate words than you might imagine. The hedge is no longer my immediate problem, as I reckon I have approximately 5 seconds before the approaching truck is upon me. Rio is whirling around like an ice skater on drugs, and I might as well be sitting on the roof knitting a scarf, for all the use I am in the driving seat.

Finally, into my frazzled brain pops the sagest piece of advice I have ever heard. It was once spoken by Homer Simpson, and is simply this: Note to self – Stop Doing Anything. I sit very still, apart from the involuntary trembling, and realise that – yes! – the car has slowed down and glided back on to the correct side of the road. We are even pointing in the right direction. With a shaky sigh, I sheepishly allow Rio the Clio to skid into the gateway, slide along the lane, and come to a gentle halt in the car park. I lay my head on the steering wheel.

Stupid, sparkly, frosty, glittery roads.

Filed under: accident, Car, Christmas, cold, driving, Fear, freak-out | 5 Comments »

Stupid is as stupid does.

Posted on December 18, 2007 by Hails

Have just found the following rant in my saved drafts. I have but a vague recollection of writing it on Saturday evening, having just returned from experiencing the delight that is Ballymena town centre one week before Christmas. In my defence, my annual migraine was in full swing, and I was exhausted…

Stupid town full of inconsiderate morons who stop for a yarn right in the middle of the street and don’t budge, so that the only way to make any progress whatsoever is to put your head down, square your shoulders and bore through.

Stupid shops playing stupid loud music and making it impossible to think straight over the already headache-inducing roar of stupid spoilt screaming brats throwing temper tantrums over selection boxes and stupid noisy toys.

Stupid one-way road layout in stupid town centre, with cars queued as far as the eye can see and stupid impatient eejits blaring their stupid horns as if it’s going to change the situation.

Stupid sodding PIPE BAND standing playing wailing and screeching outside the Fairhill Centre in their stupid uniforms, and then parading through the mall when you’re trying to get into Starbucks in a last-ditch effort to regain some sanity.

Stupid queues tailing back throughout every single stupid shop, meaning you have to stand for half an hour every time you buy something, even if it is just a stupid, tiny keyring.

Happy Christmas? I quit.

By the time I eventually waded my way through the bagpipers to stand in the mile-long Starbucks queue, I was on the verge of tears. As I neared the counter, Kate appeared, weaving artfully through the crowds of shoppers and kilted ‘musicians’. “I think I’m going to cry,” I greeted her as she joined me. “Not-a-tall,” she replied briskly in her most no-nonsense voice, taking instant control of the situation and getting to grips with the ordering process. We fought our way to a table, bringing with us 2 gingerbread lattes, a muffin, and several chocolate-smothered pastry thingies. A brief silence ensued. The desire to cry did indeed fade. However, the headache remains even now – it is only just starting to fade, 3 days later.

Ballymena + Christmas: not for the faint-hearted (or the prone to migraines).

Filed under: Ballymena, Christmas, complaining, driving, fighting, friends, mental health, pain, rant, sheer silliness, shopping, tension | 3 Comments »

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