The swan, the ugly duckling, and the donkey

Posted on September 8, 2008 by Hails

What, asks the Swiss girl, pausing from her hair-straightening operations to stare openly at my bag, is that?

I freeze guiltily in my attempt to squish Eeyore more tightly into my bag in order to make room for the towel that once fitted in but now seems to have doubled in size and be reluctant to return to captivity. The Swiss girl is cool – funky, short bobbed blonde hair, perfect skin, perfect figure, and wearer of clothes I could never afford and those little crocheted beret hats I so desperately want to be able to wear but can’t, owing to the fact that they make me look more grandma than chic. She smokes weed as if it is mild tobacco, sips drinks I’ve never even heard of, is always surrounded by admiring men, and has graceful poise and elegance that make me think of a beautiful, magnificent swan when I look at her.

I guess that makes me the ugly duckling. However, there the analogy ends, as we are about the same age, and let’s face it, I am unlikely to discover at this point that I am actually a swan, and that it’ll just take a bit of time before I suddenly and spectaculary shed my geekiness and transform into something breathtaking and generally less awkward.

The Swiss girl continues to stare at Eeyore, who is staring gloomily up at her from between a sock-stuffed trainer and a bag of plastic forks. Eeyore’s presence in my bag, and indeed in my life, knocks at least another 10 Cool Points off my already quite dismal score, and yet I can’t quite seem to resolve this by just getting rid of him. When I moved away, I left the Eeyore decision until the very last minute. I even put him into the suitcase of Things I Can’t Bear To Throw Away, to be stored by The Parents. He looked sadly up at me, and I firmly closed the lid and walked away to do something else. I only made it about four steps away before I turned and retrieved him from the case, in much the same way that I lifted Teddy down from the wardrobe all those years ago.

And so Eeyore is my only travelling companion. I sneak him out of the bag at night when the lights in the hostel dorm are out, and hide him underneath the sheets so that no one will see that I am a 26-year-old Eeyore cuddler. In the morning, I throw a t-shirt over him and furtively escort him back to the bag. It is embarrassing to realise just how attached I am to something that is really nothing more than some fluff wrapped in ragged material. But there’s something so comforting, when I’m feeling tired and maybe a bit frightened and lonely in a new city, about being able to clutch the familiar little figure and bury my nose in his threadbare “fur”.

Eeyore has only been a part of my life for about 8 years, but he’s put up with a lot in that time. He was with me when I moved away from home for the first time – 18 and all grown up, I smiled bravely as my emotional parents left me all alone in my tiny, bare room in the halls of residence, and then burst into tears as I watched them walk away. Eeyore was a silent source of comfort, and has been ever since. He absorbed countless homesick tears in Glasgow before I became accustomed to being away from home. He was subjected to hours of mockery by Red and Dougal, who made him play air guitar and set him in silly poses for “amusing” photos. He survived a vicious attack by Penny, my dog, who mistook him for a chew toy. He soaked up even more tears when Red and I broke up and I adjusted once again to being alone. He was with me when I shakily but determinedly started out again on my own, renting a dismal little house in Cullybackey and lying in bed that night staring uncertainly at the bare walls, wondering what the next step would be. He put up with countless clawings from a jealous Kat the Cat. He sat in on all the late night talks between The Sister and me. He has been clutched tightly as I’ve lain awake in new city after new city, grateful for his familiar presence in the darkness, surrounded by unfamiliar sounds.

The Swiss girl repeats her question. What is it? she asks, a tinge of disdain in her voice. Flushing, I push the towel down on top of Eeyore and force the zip closed with a great deal of effort.

Oh, erm, nothing, I say breezily. Just a gift for a friend’s kid.

The Swiss girl would never understand the Eeyore thing. I don’t want her super-cool gaze pitying me or turning into a sneer. But tonight, when I open my bag, I’ll feel inexplicably guilty when I remove that uncomplaining little squished-up figure from underneath the towel…

Filed under: changes, contemplation, Eeyore, family, irrational behaviour, life, memories, nerdiness, packing, parents, pets, tears, teddy bear, travel, uncertainty | 12 Comments »

Life is what happens while you’re busy waiting in a queue

Posted on July 19, 2008 by Hails

I’m waiting anxiously in the queue at La Poste, passport and Western Union Money Tracking number in hand, to claim the emergency rescue fund sent to me by The Parents.

The queue is approximately 2.3 miles long, and I’ve already wasted half an hour today by walking here earlier, forgetting that everything in France closes for ages at lunch time. They take their lunch break very seriously here. Weaving my way through some roadworks on the way here, I saw the workers sleeping in the driver’s seats of their weapons of mass destruction, newspapers over their heads to block out the sunlight. I don’t blame them. If I had to perform manual labour in these temperatures, I’d be dead after about 20 minutes.

The queue is moving so slowly that I’m fairly certain time has started going backwards. There are no signs anywhere to indicate that I’m in the right place, and I fear that I’ll be met with a confused stare when I finally reach the counter, several weeks from now. Excuse me, I say politely to the woman in front of me, I have to claim a payment from the Western Union. This is the right place, isn’t it?

I don’t know why French people put on this great pretence of not understanding anything I say in their language. I try so hard. I repeat my sentence slowly, and she responds with the typical fast-paced babble that strikes fear into my heart. I catch a few words and try to guess what the general gist of the sentence might have been. I fail. We look blankly at each other for a moment. Um, I say nervously, trying again, My parents have sent me some money. Through the Western Union. Is that here? She replies with more babble, shrugging and looking confused.

And now, of course, the other people in the queue are intrigued by the sunburnt girl who speaks French with a silly accent. You want to send money? asks one lady. No, no – she has to pay a bill! interjects another. They are all crowding around curiously as if I am some sort of science experiment. I half expect them to start taking photos of me. No, I say helplessly, I *have* no money. I am looking for a Western Union agent. I saw on the internet that there was one here. My parents have sent me some money and I need to collect it. Am I in the right place? Understanding dawns on the face of the woman nearest the front of the queue. Yes, she says, nodding in the exaggerated way that people do when talking to someone who hasn’t got a clue what they’re saying, I think it’s here.

Thank you, I say gratefully. They all turn around again and my brain quietly implodes.

Only 4 days later, I reach the counter and repeat my earlier question. Three times. Ah, says the woman behind the counter, you need my colleague. Him. She points at the man beside her, whose desk, not marked any differently from all the others apart from the word “pros”, appears to have a completely separate queue. Here, says the woman, reaching me a form, fill this in while you’re waiting. Gloomily, I take the form and join the other queue. It is not quite 2.3 miles long, but the counter is once again a small speck on the horizon. I glance at my form – which is for people wishing to send money with the Western Union, and therefore completely useless to me – and resume my wait.

Only a day or so later, I reach the counter. I’m only halfway through my familiar speech when the man taps the “pros” sign and goes off into one of those babbles that I can’t understand. It seems to end with this desk is only for professionals! I consider telling him that I’m a professional YouTube video reviewer, but I don’t know how to say that. That woman told me to come here! I exclaim indignantly, pointing. I’m looking for a Western Union agent. He subdues a little, despite still obviously wanting me to go away. To send or receive? he asks. To receive, I reply. He thrusts the correct form into my hands and tells me to go away and fill it in, and come back when I’m ready.

Glowering, I do as I’m told and rejoin the queue. For the third time.

It’s all worth it, of course, to be no longer penniless and starving with hunger. In a rather paranoid move, I stand secretively in the corner of the post office and divide my money into 4 batches – one for each buttonable pocket of my three-quarter lengths. I’m still not ruling out invisible thieves. And this way, even if one does manage to unbutton a pocket and steal my money without me noticing, at least he won’t get it all. You don’t need to teach me the same lesson twice.

Apart from sunburn.

Filed under: confusion, conversations, French, Lyon, money, paranoia, parents, queues, rescue, Western Union | 7 Comments »

The Parents go online

Posted on June 16, 2008 by Hails

Ring-ring! Ring-ring!

Someone is calling me on Skype. It is my mother. This is something of a surprise to me, as it involves my parents having internet access, and my mother both using a computer and knowing what Skype is. Clearly the Sister is involved.

It has happened: my parents are online.

The Sister (and Kat the Cat) moved in with them when I left, and now there are laptops, wireless internet routers, and all manner of foreign things in the house where it once took 4 people approximately 48 hours to (unsuccessfully) install a new DVD player.

I like that they try, I really do. They are never daunted, even when perhaps they should be. The mobile phone thing was quite successful in the end – I almost never receive blank text messages any more, and Mum even uses txtspk! A product of receiving her mobular education from The Sister, no doubt.

Hello? I say dubiously, answering the call. A rowdy chorus responds, and I realise that it is not just my mother: it is my mother, my father, my sister, some wine, and the cat. The laptop, it transpires, is sitting on the living room floor while they all lounge on sofas around it. I can feel everyone’s gaze upon me. It’s a little disconcerting.

I try to introduce sensible topics of conversation, but it becomes evident that no one is listening to me. “What,” I ask eventually, “is going on?”. Apparenty Kat the Cat has become extremely distressed upon hearing my voice after all this time. She has been running around in circles as I’ve been speaking, searching in vain for her owner, and has eventually deduced that they are keeping me inside the laptop. She is just sitting beside it, staring sadly at it.

It is heartbreaking. The Family are in stitches.

I end the conversation some time later, when I hear a mew and ask Oh, was that Kat?! and Mum responds with a weary No, it’s just your father.

With Skype, it’s just like being at home…

[I'm not sure how to feel about the fact that they can now read everything I write about them, too. Still, I'm far enough away that I can't get into trouble. Heheh.]

Filed under: cat, conversations, family, laughter, normality, parents, skype | 2 Comments »

6 Pigs on a Steam Train

Posted on March 30, 2008 by Hails

Mum has purchased a Fireside Quiz.

It’s one of those numbers/letters ones (e.g. 49 N in TNL = 49 Numbers in The National Lottery), and after Sunday dinner today it provided us with entertainment of the “this family really isn’t normal, is it?” variety.

“240 Old People in a Picnic,” said The Sister, thoughtfully. “What about 21 D in a DR?”

“21 Dogs in a Dog Run,” I suggested. Mum looked quite irritated. “You’re not taking it seriously,” she complained, tapping her pen on her scrap paper and peering over her glasses at us as we sniggered in a very juvenile manner. “Course we are,” said Dad comfortingly, snatching the quiz sheet from The Sister. “Let me see that… 2 P on a B… hmm.”

“2 People on a Bike?” offered The Sister, trying to be helpful. Dad rolled his eyes. “Wait!” he exclaimed.  “To Pee… on a… Bridge!”

Disgusted, Mum tried to get the quiz sheet back. “If you’re not going to do it properly…” she said haughtily.

“2 Pigs on a Blanket!” I shouted excitedly. The Sister nodded enthusiastically, and The Parents looked suspiciously at us. “What?” I asked indignantly, “that’s a real thing!”. Dad stared accusingly at me. “Cocktail sausages wrapped in bacon,” said The Sister, defending me. “Like the ones we had with dinner.” Mum didn’t know whether or not to believe us. “Well,” she said dubiously, “why are there only two?”

“We ate them,” chorused Sister and I, happily.

“3 C of TL,” said Dad, studiously ignoring us. “3 Cans of… Tinned Lettuce,” replied The Sister.

 Silence descended upon the group as we came close to completing the quiz. “What else has dots, other than dice?” asked Mum, deep in thought.  “Hankerchief! Bikini!” I cried, getting slightly carried away, perhaps on a high from my “6 Sides on a Rubik’s Cube” stroke of genius.

“Err… that’s not quite what I meant,” said Mum, looking utterly bemused. “Are you just going to start naming every possible item of clothing that may or may not have spots in the design?”

Sister was in fits. Rather embarrassed, I tried to explain my thinking. “Well, but, you know – big spotty hankerchief… and the Timmy Mallett song…”

Dad returned from the bathroom to find The Sister and I performing an enthusiastic version of Yellow Polka Dot Bikini, with actions, in the middle of the living room.

“2 Total Lunatics in the House,” he grunted despairingly, turning to go outside for a smoke instead.

Filed under: conversations, family, fun, humour, laughter, mental health, parents, quiz, sheer silliness, Timmy Mallett, weekend, weird | 1 Comment »

Teddy Hospital

Posted on March 22, 2008 by Hails

The Sister and I have taken to having late-night sleepover-type conversations.

“Look at the state of this Eeyore,” she said the other night as we were lying on my bed discussing The Future. She held up my bedraggled cuddly toy in some disgust.

“It’s fine,” I said somewhat defensively. “He’s seven years old and I’ve cuddled him every night of those seven years.”

“Hails,” said Sister sternly, “He has no hair, and his eyes are yellow.”

“I’m not washing him!” I exclaimed panickily. “Red put him in the washing machine once. I cried. I sat there for the entire duration of the wash, watching him go round and round, all scared and wet.”

“You should give him to Mum,” advised The Sister, seriously. “No, really,” she continued with great enthusiasm, “she’s magic. I don’t know what she does to them, but they come out looking better than brand new.”

I raised a suspicious eyebrow.

Sister was insistent. “I left Teddy there once,” she explained passionately. “He went in looking terrible. He didn’t even have both arms, and his fur was all matted. I came back the next day, and there he was, sitting on the sofa, upright and proud to be alive. Honestly, I don’t know how she did it. I think she even made him a new bib, but it looked exactly like the old one.”

“I don’t want Eeyore going in the washing machine!” I reiterated with some force. “He’ll fall to bits. He’s already lost his tail.”

“No, no,” said The Sister, eagerly, “you really can trust her. I mean, I had Teddy’s arm in a bag.”

“Good grief,” I murmured despairingly. Sister ignored me. “I’m telling you, they come out looking re-stuffed, fully-limbed, and completely re-fluffed! She’s, I dunno, some kind of teddy miracle worker.”

We pause for a moment in admiration of Mum.

Filed under: advice, animal cruelty, conversations, decisions, Eeyore, family, Fear, parents, sad, teddy bear, worry | 9 Comments »

Shear Madness

Posted on January 6, 2008 by Hails

Sunday lunch with the Parental Unit.

Mum is giving off about the amount of time Dad has spent watching Kylie Minogue on TV over the holidays. “Every time I walk into the room, there she is in another silly wee skirt and your father singing “”I just can’t get you out of my head” with a big silly grin on his face. It’s ridiculous. He’s 55 this year, you know!”. I gently remind Mum about the Bon Jovi DVD she got for Christmas, at one part of which she said “Oooohhh, now, you see… that’s the stuff…”, and she looks uncomfortable. “It’s not the same thing -” she begins, but is interrupted by Dad coming home from the pub.

“Hello, family!” he says merrily. Sister and I look at him, stricken.

“Where is your hair?!” we cry in perfect unison. Dad does a little twirly pose thing, which only serves to show us that it’s worse from the back than from the front. We look at him, our expressions demanding an explanation for the fact that he has a skinhead at the top and neatly groomed hair around the back and sides. “Your mother tried the clippers I got for Christmas,” he says cheerfully. He doesn’t seem too emotionally damaged by this. We turn to Mum for consolation, but she is smiling proudly at her handiwork. “It was quite tricky at first,” she explains, “but I got the hang of it after a while. I think it looks alright… but I might have taken a bit too much off the top, what do you think?”. She looks expectantly at us. I can’t look Sister in the eye. “Errr…” I splutter. “Errr….” splutters Sister.

To make things worse, Sister has previously asked Mum to trim her hair while she’s there, and obviously cannot back out now without appearing critical and ungrateful. And so it is that after dinner, as I am washing the dishes, I see them trooping into the back porch with scissors. I listen, half-sympathetic, half-entertained, to the snippets of conversation that float into the kitchen. By the time I hear Sister saying “Maybe you should just shave it all off and start again,” I am in pieces. There is a thoughtful pause.

“You know,” says Mum eventually, “I think it’s worse at this side than on that side.”

Tears of mirth roll silently down my face.

Never a dull moment at the Parents’ house.

Filed under: BonJovi, conversations, crush, family, hair, Kylie, laughter, parents, weekend | 3 Comments »

Stuffed cat – the new Christmas delicacy

Posted on December 30, 2007 by Hails

Did you miss me?

I have returned home, complete with my bags full of presents from Santa, and a sick cat. My parents haven’t quite got the concept of cat stomachs being smaller than human stomachs, so every time I turned around I saw Kat gorging herself on a turkey leg or a cocktail sausage. I went to put food in her dish the other night and discovered it was piled high with gammon slices. It’s all very well, but I’m now faced with the problem of a gastronomic feline who looks at me with utter contempt when presented with my humble offering of Go-Cat or Felix cat food.

Never mind the fact that the second we got home she wandered huffily into the conservatory and promptly threw up all over the floor.

I texted Mum to inform her that because of her giving spirit I was having to deal with something that nobody should ever have to face: cleaning up cat boke. I expected sympathy and apologies. I received neither. Her reply was instant, and said it all:

Poor Kat!

Filed under: cat, cat boke, Christmas, greed, over-indulgence, parents | 4 Comments »

The Last Night Home Alone

Posted on September 18, 2007 by Hails

The Housemate arrives tomorrow.

Can I call her that for 3 months? I just don’t know her well enough to assign a character-based pseudonym right now. We’ll see. Anyway, TH is part of a large group of people I’m friendly with in Nashville, and she’s coming over as part of her gap year or whatever they call it. She’s going to be helping our church with outreach, youth work etc, and everyone’s very much looking forward to having her here.

I must say, though, it’s a weird feeling to know that from now on there will be someone else in the house when I come home from work… someone else in the house when I’m getting up in the morning… someone else in the house when I’m sitting here in the kitchen, blogging and generally wasting time. I’m a bit nervous, actually. I’ve been living on my own for a couple of years now, and I think I’m a hermit.

When I first went off to university in Glasgow, I lived in halls for a year, and hated it with a passion. I got on fairly well with 4 of my 5 flatmates, but I just couldn’t cope with the character diversity and unique mix of irritating habits in such cramped living conditions. The little things start to bug you. Like when you’ve cleaned the kitchen and someone comes in half an hour later and – it would seem – goes around emptying various food containers all over every available surface. Or when you’ve got an exam at 9am and someone comes in at 3am and puts the TV on full blast, whilst talking in a ridiculously loud voice on the phone. In Italian, which you don’t speak, and therefore you’re convinced that it’s you they’re talking about into the bargain. Or even just when you come home tired, looking forward to crashing in front of the TV – only to find there’s already someone there, and what’s more, they’ve been dumped by their boyfriend and want to talk to you about it All Night Long.

Then there was the Flatmate From Hell. Words can never do justice to the horrors we suffered at her hands. She partied all night, had a different random guy in her room at any given time, and never washed anything. I mean, clothes, dishes, bedding… anything. She finally went AWOL after we reported her to the relevant uni officials (there were roach-like creatures. I kid you not.), and a team of people wearing white uniforms and surgical-type masks came in to remove the contents of her room and sterilise it. We thought this was hilarious, once the smell had finally gone and we were free to laugh about it.

Anyway, from this summary, you can understand why the halls of residence were not a joyous experience for me, and it was with great delight that in my second year of uni, I moved in with Red, my then-boyfriend (and, later, fiancé). That was a different kind of living-with-someone experience, obviously, because when you’re in a relationship with somebody you can tell them exactly what you don’t like about living with them. So I coped a bit better with that. Anyway, we bought a house together when we moved back to Ballymena, and that was my home until we broke up a couple of years ago. Then I moved back in with my parents. Talk about a shock to the system! That was the point where I realised I couldn’t go back to communal/family living. Pretty soon, I found a wee house to rent in Cullybackey, close to where I work, and I’ve been living alone ever since.

Now TH is coming to stay till December, and I’m excited but, as I said, nervous. I love spending time with my friends, but I’m so used to being able to come home at the end of the night, shut the door, and know that I’m alone for a while. I like silence. Much as I moan about the lonesome existence that is Singleness, I have to confess that I’m fairly well suited to it.

On the other hand, I have always had that Friends obsession going on. And they always had flatmates. I have no doubt that it’ll be fun having someone to order pizza with, share coffee with in the mornings, chat to, and above all laugh with. There has been too much crap, lately. Bring on the fun, I say!

Filed under: america, Ballymena, coffee, family, friends, Glasgow, Moving house, parents, pseudonyms, relationships | 5 Comments »

Surreality

Posted on August 20, 2007 by Hails

The parents are back from England!

I have dutifully listened to their holiday anecdotes and am suitably educated re: Stonehenge. They took Sister and I out for lunch today as a thank you (I did the drop-off and pick-up, and Sister watered the plants. What a team.), which was nice, and also timely, given my sudden unexpected descent into bankruptcy. We went to a Ballymena pub/restaurant, which I do not want to name as I am about to make a mockery of it. We shall, therefore, call it The Revolving Factory.

Sister and The Boyfriend wanted the Sunday Roast, but couldn’t see the seperate menu cards they usually have for it. The Boyfriend approached a passing waitress. “Excuse me,” he said politely, “do you still do the Sunday Roast?”. “YES!” she bellowed, as if she was talking to someone on Wellington Street, as opposed to someone standing right beside her. “Err, thanks,” said The Boyfriend, slightly deafened and starting to back away. The waitress was not finished. “YOU CAN HAVE CHICKEN OR BEEF!” she roared. If it had been a cartoon, you would have seen The Boyfriend’s hair blown back and his face contorted in the manner of one who is on a very fast rollercoaster or motorbike.  Full credit to him, he didn’t clap his hands over his ears screaming “My ears! My ears!”, as I might have been tempted to do. Instead, he recovered enough to stutter “Ch-ch-chicken or beef – right – thank you”. “CHICKEN  OR BEEF,” confirmed the waitress, in case he hadn’t heard her. The only way this would have been possible is if he had been (a) stone deaf, (b) at a very loud heavy metal concert and (c) wearing earplugs – all at the same time. The Boyfriend backed away as the waitress smiled in a very business-like manner before marching off. He slunk back to the table, shaken and possibly in pain. “They- they are still doing it,” he informed Sister, weakly. “Chicken or beef.”

We were silent for a while.

 ”Well,” remarked Sister. “She was scary.”

Dad went up to order food and drinks at the bar. He came back 2 days later with the drinks, incredulous at the barmaid he’d just encountered. “You’d think there’d be one main requirement when you’re applying to be a barmaid,” he ranted. “Like the ability to pour drinks.” No one disagreed, so he continued. “I asked for a pint of Harp. She said I’ll just get one of the other girls for that. Then I asked for a pint of Guiness. She said I’ll just get one of the other girls. Then I asked for two Diet Cokes, and she disappeared for 10 minutes. When she finally came back, she said Sorry, that was a Diet Coke and a…? Diet Coke, I replied. I mean…. come ON! I’ve half a mind to go up and order a Rob Roy, a Martini and a Screwdriver, just to see what she’ll do.”

Dinner itself was lovely. Sister and I went up to order coffee and desserts. The barman processed the dessert order and disappeared under the bar for some reason. Sister and I hovered uncertainly. A random pint appeared at the other end of the bar. “Is that The Boyfriend’s pint, do you think?” asked Sister dubiously. I looked at the pint. “Where did it come from?” I asked suspiciously. She didn’t know. We were debating whether or not to claim it when we were suddenly distracted by some activity around the coffee machine. Three of the barstaff were crowded around it, looking at it with expressions of bewilderment, in the manner of a group of OAPs staring at an iPod. I groaned, regretting ordering a coffee. Sister looked worried. “It’s OK for you,” she said sadly. “How wrong can a black coffee go?” I felt for her, as I recalled her ordering a cappucino.

In the end, we grabbed the pint and legged it. We returned 10 minutes later in search of our coffee, to find one waitress staring blankly at the two cups and another turning in circles behind the bar. “Milk. Milk. Milk,” they were muttering. They didn’t even notice when we calmly took our coffees and left. We, in turn, did not question why they were searching for milk to put in a cappucino and black coffee.

It was a very odd dining experience. And at the end, my mother gave me a t-shirt.

It says Stonehenge ROCKS.

Filed under: Ballymena, coffee, confusion, conversations, parents, restaurants, Stonehenge, weird | 3 Comments »

Parental Travels: Update

Posted on August 14, 2007 by Hails

Re: yesterday’s post, concerning the parental unit’s trip to Cultural Places In England.

 Just got this text from mum.

Just bn 2 cheddar gorge. In cave! Wow!! Now in bath. Rain.

What can you say to that?

Filed under: caves, confusion, culture, holidays, parents, tourists, travel, weird | Leave a Comment »

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