Wots dat?

Posted on December 8, 2008 by Hails

I’ve recently found myself back in touch with a large number of old schoolfriends thanks to the modern marvel that is Facebook.

It’s great, apart from the fact that most of them are now married and have children, which is decidedly disturbing when your last memory of someone is as a slightly irresponsible and giggly 18-year-old. They sort of freeze in your mind and stay exactly as they were then. Then, nearly a decade later, you find each other on Facebook and realise that they’ve become adults. You see the wedding photos, and the pictures of the kids. You see comments from other friends about motherhood and work and making the packed lunches. It’s awfully disconcerting, because in your head you’re still bunking off RE class with one of them to drink coffee in the prefects’ room, and passing silly notes to another one in English Lit., and thinking another one is just soooooooo cool because she has her own car and can drive a group of you to Portrush for the day.

Anyway, despite the weirdness of it all, it’s lovely to be in contact with my old friends again. Which is why I thought it might be fun to take it a step further and see if there are any past-pupil sort of groups for my primary school, now that I’ve become reacquainted with my Cambridge House buddies. Got to be even more bizarre to find out someone’s married, or a teacher, or a parent, or all three, when your last memory of them is as a gangly 11-year-old, right?

Unfortunately, things went rapidly downhill at this point, and I found myself on my primary school’s Bebo page. It was apparently for past and present pupils to join, which in theory is a nice idea. In practice, it turned out to be run by a pupil of the more “present” variety, and it is this that has plunged me into head-in-hands despair.

so tel me, if u cm 2 dis pg o mine ere n i woz wrtin lik dis wud u kep redin or wud u giv up n gt outta ere?

That “sentence” just took me five full minutes to compose, as it is in a language in which I am not (and shall never be) fluent – I had to keep referring to online resources such as the aforementioned Bebo page. It is, however, the way the majority of people (ppl) aged about 25 and under seem to speak these (dez) days, and I do not understand why it has been permitted to (2) take over in such a horrifyingly widespread way. I’m completely serious about this (dis). This is not English, kids (kidz).

I have given up pretending that I am not turning into my parents or grandparents or whatever, and so I’m just going to come out and say this: in my day, people were expected to use proper spelling and punctuation in their written English, and to follow a set of rules known as grammar. If you stuck an apostrophe in the wrong place, or structured a sentence in an awkward way, or made a spelling mistake, your errors would be circled in red, usually with a scribbled explanation if it wasn’t obvious. And what’s more, you’d be expected to correct it!

Apparently teachers aren’t allowed to use red pens any more. Pointing out mistakes is so last century – think of the poor child’s self esteem! This attitude makes me want to knock heads together and do some shouting. How is a child supposed to know if they’re getting something wrong? What is the point of letting them make the same mistake over and over again, for the sake of being encouraging and not denting their confidence? It’s perfectly easy to say “This is a great essay, with some very good points, but you need to take more care with your sentence structure – see examples”. This was the sort of comment our teachers made, and as a result, the majority of us know basic English. The same cannot be said of the kids coming behind us. They get mobile phones at the age of six, and as a result think that txtspk is actual, proper, written English. Argh! Arrrrrrrghhhh!

Txtspk is a great invention in the context of mobile text messages – where, of course, you have a limited number of letters per message, and so obviously want to write in some form of shorthand in order to save space (and therefore money). I get it, right? I ‘dig’ it, even. I use it myself when necessary. But a large percentage of children and teens now seem to think that it’s acceptable to write like this in any context! It horrifies and appalls me. Spelling mistakes and clumsy grammar are one thing (well, two things, actually), but consistently wrtin lik dis n tinkin its gr8 english isa nuder! Never mind the fact that I was one of the last few to make it the whole way through school without ever owning a mobile or sending a text message, and so am now seeing people only a few years younger than me (who spent their schooldays communicating in txtspk) becoming qualified as teachers.

I cannot convey how distressed I am when I see these people – people who are responsible for the education of the kidz, people whose job it is to set an example and maintain some level of literacy amongst the youth of today – exhanging Facebook comments along the lines of lol yea i love you’re photos!!! and your lookin gr8 wots da craic?!?!?. It physically hurts me. These are teachers. Teachers!

I have much more to say on this subject. I could rant for hours about the txtspk “language” itself, and how for something that is meant to be convenient and quick, it’s incredibly difficult to understand endless lines of vowelless “words”, many of which turn out to be absolutely nothing like the original. I could also wax lyrical about how it’s causing kids to have no understanding of how words are supposed to sound, since double letters seem to vanish (see how “another” becomes “a nuder”, which is probably pronounced “a nudder” – and shouldn’t be). I could ask numerous pained questions about the pointless nature of some translations, such as changing “OK” to “kk” (This one makes precisely zero sense to me).

However, I’m far too wound up now, so it’ll hav 2 w8. lololol! (That’s another one – if “lol” is “laughing out loud”, why in the name of sanity would you emphasise your laughter by saying “laughing out loud out loud out loud”?!)

Yes, I am old. I accept it. Then again, this sort of thing would have upset me just as much when I was 10 years old, so maybe it’s got nothing to do with my age, and more to do with the fact that I’m a bit of a geek…

Filed under: apostrophes, childhood, complaining, confusion, culture, foreign languages, freak-out, laziness, rant, sad, school, sheer silliness, stress | 8 Comments »

Slip Sliding Away

Posted on November 25, 2008 by Hails

In a moment of extreme bravery/stupidity, I have ventured outside in spite of the continued presence of the mad snow.

I have been forced outside by necessity, as Riho has apparently barricaded himself indoors until March and we are out of bread and milk, and as I also need to buy wool and post another Silly Hat to a customer, I have more reasons to leave the apartment than he does. I lose.

It is no longer blizzardy, but the snow continues to fall thick and fast here in Tallinn. I have watched unhappy workers from the offices opposite the apartment attempting to dig their cars out from beneath snow drifts; one of them simply walked to his vehicle and then walked away again in defeat, as I have surmised from the lonely set of footprints leading to and from the all but invisible car. Snow ploughs and diggers are out in force around the city, but they can’t keep up with the snowfall – huge white mountains, cleared from roads and footpaths, line the streets, waiting to be shifted by the flat-out snow patrol (or snow men, as I like to call them).

Walking is as close to impossible as anything can be without actually being impossible. I slither and slide my way to the Old Town, which, at a five minute walk away, takes me around half an hour to get to – mainly because I have to stop and take calming breaths every time I narrowly avoid sliding helplessly under the wheels of a bus. The Old Town – its narrow, uneven streets difficult to traverse at the best of times – is now only fit for nutcases and people with skis. I do not have any skis.

Whimpering pitifully, I take tiny nervous steps towards my destination, getting completely lost due to all the streets that already looked quite similar now being covered in snow. I take a brief detour to the Christmas Market. This is totally unintentional, and happens mainly because I am lost and also because I start an uncontrollable slide downhill and have no idea how to get back up without breaking a leg. It is easier to go with the flow. I slide gracelessly into the Square and try a different route, unable to take in the delightful Christmassyness right now because I cannot remain upright for long enough to do so.

I stagger up the steps to the wool shop, purchase my wool, and ask my friend the wool woman if she knows where I can buy some wellies. The wool woman does not know what wellies are, and we have a language barrier sort of conversation that would be very amusing under different circumstances. Glumly, I leave the wool shop, step on to the street, and promptly land on my arse.

dsc01956By the time I make it back to the city centre, I am wet and sore and have a twisted ankle, and I have reached the Death Slide path leading to the apartment, where heavy pedestrian traffic has turned the pavement into a lovely ice rink. I stand at the edge of the scary road, which has two lanes of cars, an island, two lanes of trams, an island, two lanes of cars, an island, and a little filter lane for good measure. This is usually daunting enough, but now I have to climb knee-high mountains of snow to get on to each bit of road, and am limited to very slow baby steps as opposed to my usual gallop, regardless of how many cars are skidding towards me. With a feeling of impending doom, I wait for the green man, and a joker beside me climbs on to the first snow mountain, creates a makeshift starting block out of slush, and braces himself as if waiting for the starting pistol. He says something to me. Ma ei räägi eesti keelt, I reply, and he shrugs, switching to English. That’s OK, since I wasn’t speaking Estonian, he says, embarrassingly.

Markus is from Finland, and he thinks that Tallinn covered in snow makes for a great day trip. We chat until the lights change, and then he notes the change in my tone and expression as we prepare to leap out from behind the snow mountain on to the icy road. You are OK? he asks, striding along confidently as I stagger around in an intoxicated manner. I just… I can’t… I don’t… I can’t walk!! I wail miserably. He looks at me and then grabs my bag, which might normally panic me, but I no longer care about anything other than not being killed as I cross the roads, and anyway, it is much easier to balance with my arms out at my sides and no bag weighing me down.

We make it to the first island. Would you like me to carry you? asks Markus helpfully. I force a smile. You might need to! I am joking, of course, but to my alarm he nods seriously and moves towards me as if he is going to throw me effortlessly over his shoulder. I foresee terrible injury and disaster for us both, and rush hurriedly on to the next bit of road, saying Err, no, no, you really don’t need to aaaaaaarghhhhh!, which is the point where I slide and fall on to the tram line, thus realising my worst nightmare. Markus does not hide his amusement very well, but he does grab my arm and haul me up, half-carrying, half-dragging me across to safety, where he gives me back my bag, wishes me well, and bounds cheerfully off into the snowy distance.

I have investigated the contents of the freezer and decided that I do not need to go outside for at least a week. Enough is enough.

Snow? Bah, humbug.

Filed under: conversations, decisions, Estonia, Fear, how embarrassing, sheer silliness, snow, stress, walking, weather | 9 Comments »

Knit-picking

Posted on November 3, 2008 by Hails

The search for fluffy winterwear has been ongoing since I last blogged about it. I think it’s become an obsession, actually, but at least it’s an entertaining obsession. I can’t walk down the street without looking interestedly at everyone I pass, taking in their hats, scarves, gloves, fluffy-hooded coats and so on; traditional Estonian knitwear shops have become my favourite haunts.

Yet despite all this, I am still seriously lacking in the winter clothing department. I do have a nice fluffy scarf and an even nicer fluffy hat. I do not, however, have gloves, jumpers, a coat, or (most importantly) a Silly Hat. And being a girl of strange priorities, it is the latter that most concerns me. I cannot find the right Silly Hat anywhere. To be slightly more accurate, I cannot find the right Silly Hat anywhere that will charge less than twenty quid for it, and I am not the sort of person who is going to pay twenty quid for a hat, silly or otherwise.

And so Plan B has come into operation. If you can’t buy it… knit it. Excitedly, I ventured into a craft shop and browsed through the overwhelmingly large selection of wool, eventually choosing a fluffy black one with bright neon colours through it, and picked out some needles. And not only have I been knitting, I have been circular knitting! (I can’t help but feel that I’m several large steps closer to being Crazy Cat Lady now.) It shall be decorated with mad tassels and pompoms and the like. Hooray! It’s all gone surprisingly well, until the present moment, when I am having to take a break from the joining/casting-off three-needle bind-off process before I lose my temper altogether and rip the entire thing to shreds. I mean, honestly. The pattern (yes, I also googled “free online knitting patterns” – I’m getting a rocking chair soon, too) said “Easy Funky Hat!”, and it lied. Either that, or I am not a natural knitter.

There’s got to be an easier way, I moaned sorrowfully as I wrestled with a stitch that was stubbornly refusing to be pulled over another stitch. Like… buying a hat. Riho glanced at me, or rather at what was visible of me underneath a large and frightening tangle of multicoloured wool. Ah, he said cheerfully, but then you wouldn’t have all the fun of making it! He is fortunate to have escaped without some sort of puncture wound.

Anyway, assuming I actually get it finished, it seems that I have quite a bit of wool left over, so my next project will be a pair of mittens to match my hat. A spot of research into mitten patterns online has indicated that these are approximately a squillion times more difficult and confusing than the hat, which didn’t look the slightest bit difficult or confusing when I first read the pattern (and given that the part that has caused me so much anguish came from one simple sentence beginning “To finish, all I did was…”, I can’t help but feel slightly duped). Still. They’re only small, right? How hard can it be?

And just to finish with an amusing observation, I was delighted to see a knitting pattern for the Lovers’ Mitten. This is one large mitten with two cuffs, so that each “lover” can put a hand in, and then they can hold hands “whilst walking in cold weather”.

They really do think of everything, these days.

Filed under: anger, cold, confusion, fashion, fun, hats, knitting, romance, simplicity, stress | 3 Comments »

Smoke gets in your mind

Posted on September 17, 2008 by Hails

Ah. I didn’t know Vienna was the self-proclaimed Coffee Capital. Marvellous.

Following my fourth delightful caffiene treat of the day, I strolled happily through the Museum Quartier. I was stopped by a woman in her thirties, who looked exremely distressed. She was babbling frantically in German and rummaging in her bag with the jumpiness of someone not all that well balanced, but she looked genuinely upset, so I chose to believe that she was not searching for a firearm.

I’m sorry, do you speak English? I asked in some concern. She switched languages immediately, her hand emerging from her bag, now holding a purse. I need to buy a cigarette from you, she said urgently, fumbling to open the purse. I laughed, relieved. Don’t be silly, you don’t need to buy it! I said as I opened my bag. She shook her head, looking determined, and pressed a Euro into my palm. It must be penalised! she insisted dramatically.

Erm… the cigarette? I asked, removing one from my pack. She nodded, her eyes never leaving the cigarette. Yes, she said edgily, I have quit, so I cannot buy my own packet. But today my boyfriend broke up with me and I lost my job, and if I do not have a smoke I will have to kill myself. Buying one is better than buying twenty.

And almost as good as killing yourself, I agreed with the genuine sympathy of one who has experienced these things, although admittedly not both on the same day. Hastily I gave her the ciggy and lit it for her. She inhaled deeply and almost collapsed at my feet, an expression of relief and ecstacy on her face. There’s a sort of unwritten rule amongst smokers, saying that if someone begs you for “just one” cigarette after they’ve openly admitted that they’re quitting, you must not give in, no matter how much you feel for them. However, I’ve added a sort of sub-clause, because I’ve been at the point of desperation that this woman had reached, and I know that sometimes “just one” will significantly improve matters. Buying that full packet is the clear indication that you have, once again, failed miserably. You want to put that off for as many months as you can, just to prolong the self-delusion and general misery.

We shared a couple of quiet moments together, smoking in solidarity. We are both women. We are both smokers. We have a bond. Then she smiled gratefully at me and moved on, leaving me staring miserably at the cigarette between my fingers. Is it a coincidence that this poor girl approached me on the very day that I had held up my cigarette packet and determinedly declared After this pack, I quit? She really didn’t inspire me with much confidence, in any case.But the decision was already made, and so there are only three more cigarettes to go.

Sigh.

I’m intrigued by the idea of selling to quitters, though. At that rate, I could make a profit of €15 for every pack I bought, rather than a loss of €5! All I’d have to do would be start targeting stressed-looking people on the streets. I bet at least 50% of them are ex smokers, who’d kill (or pay €1) for “just one” cigarette. In days when income is uncertain and the budget is tight, it’s certainly an idea…

Filed under: coffee, conversations, decisions, smoking, stress | 6 Comments »

I think the house is bugged

Posted on August 6, 2008 by Hails

There was a huge bug on the kitchen floor last night.

Big, black, nasty, crawly thing wearing some sort of armour. I thought it might be a cockroach, but I’m not very well educated as far as bugs go, being as I tend to run away quite quickly when I see one, and therefore don’t spend an awful lot of time observing them. Anyway, this was the Biggest Bug I Have Ever Seen. I seem to have a (completely undeserved) reputation as someone who likes to exaggerate, so I felt compelled to fetch my camera and take a photo of the monster bug so that people would believe me when I told them that it was the size of a small rodent.

Unfortunately, the thing kept leaping about an inch into the air and buzzing loudly at me just as I was about to take the picture. As a result, I now have about six blurry shots of the walls and ceiling, taken accidentally as I squealed and leapt back in fright. Getting more and more jumpy each time, I decided to give up on the photograph and come up with some sort of escape plan before the monster bug leapt on to my throat and killed me by sinking its fangs into my jugular. Just as I was standing up, the monster bug took flight most unexpectedly. I had presumed it to be a crawly thing, not a flying crawly thing.

I screamed the place down, backing away and flapping my arms around. It was at this point that I discovered monster bug #2 in my hair. My screams became howls as I leapt about the kitchen, trying to extract said monster bug from where it was trapped and struggling in the Mad Hair, and simultaneously trying to avoid angry and murderous monster bug #1, which was buzzing loudly around my head.

Eventually I killed both of them, plus an accomplice that I found lurking in the doorway, and returned nervously to the living room. That’s when the buzzing started. The loudest buzzing I have ever heard. This bug was quite possibly the size of a very large rodent. I spent some time sneaking stealthily around the house with my Bug Gun, jumping and squealing at every noise, with the dog following me around and looking a little confused as to whether I was playing a new game or just losing my mind.

I had to go to bed in the end. Shaking out all the sheets first, of course, lest there be a monster bug crawling through them and waiting to devour me in my sleep. Closing the door to keep out the invasion. Whimpering quietly in the darkness.

And so as you can imagine it was utterly terrifying, this morning, to be awakened by buzzing so loud that it had to belong to a monster bug three times the size of the dog. Only after much fear and trembling under the sheets did I emerge, apply reasoning, and recognise the sound as that of a lawnmower. Sure enough, I peeped outside and saw (someone who looked remarkably like) Keanu Reeves mowing the lawn. Shirtless.

That’ll be my gardener, then. I feel safe with Keanu Reeves in the garden. I am confident that he will protect me from the monster bugs.

Filed under: bugs, Fear, freak-out, hair, itching, paranoia, stress, worry | 12 Comments »

Countdown

Posted on July 16, 2008 by Hails

They have a really cool public transport system in Lyon, called Vélo’v. It consists of little mini-stations, each of which houses a couple of dozen bikes. You buy a 1€ card (which lasts for a week), and this lets you hire a bike from one of the “stations”. They charge you €2 per hour, but the first half hour on every bike is free. You see where I’m going with this, don’t you?! Yes, a little warning buzzer goes off after 27 minutes of cycling, to let you know that you have 3 minutes left before they start charging you. Your mission then, should you have absolutely no money as the result of being a victime d’un infraction and therefore have no choice but to accept it, is to pedal madly, scouring the streets for another Vélo’v “station”. Find one, return the bike, and take out a new one… hey presto! Another free half hour!

All very well if you’re not someone with absolutely no sense of direction.

Partly for this reason, and partly because I am too afraid to ride a bike on roads where they drive like maniacs (I’m especially intrigued by the practice of reversing the length of an entire street at great speed – today I witnessed a woman almost being knocked over as she crossed at a designated crossing point, having looked left, seen that the road was clear, and stepped straight into the path of a car zooming backwards from her right), I chose to try out the bike thing at the park instead. Le Parc de la Tête d’Or is quite close to where I’m living, and it’s beautiful. Gardens, walkways, a huge lake, and – oddly – groups of wild animals randomly dotted around. I thought Le Flatmate was joking when he told me to watch out for the lion. As it turns out, he wasn’t.

I cycled merrily around for 27 minutes, taking in the sights, breathing the fresh air, feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin. Bliss.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Beep-beep-beep.

Uh-oh. Relaxation went out the window as my bike announced that It Was Time. Like a meerkat, I sat up straight and looked all around, trying to remember where I’d come from and if I’d passed any bike docks. Erm. Help. Panic inexplicably descended, as if paying €2 would make matters significantly worse or something, and I began cycling faster than I’ve ever gone before. I had no plan. I just kept going. Then, as I passed a familiar-looking tree (what? You don’t recognise trees that you’ve previously encountered?), I realised I’d just done a frenzied circuit.

It’s been a long time since I last went on a bike ride. I suspect it may be quite some time before I go on another one. Breathless, blinded by sweat, and my damp hair plastered to the side of my face, I glimpsed an exit gate. With – oh joy! – a Vélo’v “station” outside. Jumping off (and narrowly avoiding collapsing to a trembling heap on the ground), I wheeled the bike to a stand and secured it. My legs were decidedly wobbly, and other parts ached in a saddlesore kind of way. I sat down rather suddenly on a low wall, pretending that I was just enjoying the view (of the car park).

Cycling is an enjoyable, efficient and relaxing way to see the city. Yes.

Filed under: bikes, fun, Lyon, park, scenery, serenity, stress, sun | 9 Comments »

Not the sort of adventure I was looking for…

Posted on July 14, 2008 by Hails

It’s never a good idea to make a comment like “Must go out and do something tomorrow – I have nothing to blog about!”, as I did yesterday.

That’s just asking for trouble. Today’s post, therefore, originally intended to report on the Bastille Day festivities on France’s national day, is instead about the scumbag who stole my purse when I was on the Métro on the way to said festivities. I have no idea how this was possible, given that they must have opened the velcro seal of my handbag, lifted the flap, unzipped the compartment, and removed the purse, and that I wasn’t sitting next to anyone, nor was there a big crowd of jostling people. I suspect a thief with powers of invisibility, actually, although I didn’t know how to explain this in French to the police, so I had to settle for Non, je n’ai pas vu lui.

As I climbed the steps out of the Métro station, I noted the sudden lightness of my bag and did the frantic, stricken rummaging of a person who knows perfectly well that they’re not going to find what they’re looking for. I was a long way from the apartment, I didn’t know the area, and my cash, bank card and remaining Métro tickets were, of course, in my conspicuously absent purse. In a panic, I approached the first person I saw: a tough-looking biker chick, who was removing her helmet and locking up her bike outside her workplace. In my own unique version of stumbling French, and trying not to cry, I explained my predicament and looked pleadingly at her in the hope that she would take control of the situation. Which, thankfully, she did.

Sandrine, my knight in shining leathers, put a cigarette into my trembling hands (now is not the time, OK?!) and took me to the nearest police station. Neither Sandrine nor the policeman spoke English, but they were admirably patient with me as I battled with tears and a limited vocabulary. Today, while certainly opening my eyes to the Big Bad World, also gave me a touching experience of the kindness of strangers. Sandrine even gave me her contact details, saying that she’ll make any phone calls I want to the Objets Trouvés office. The policeman, apparently saddened by my vulnerable appearance, actually apologised on behalf of the decent people of Lyon! I wanted to laugh, but I had to nod very solemnly and graciously accept his apology. Eventually I left with my copy of the police report and instructions to show it to the people at the Métro ticket desk, who would then let me on to the train for free in order to get back and cancel my bank card.

Not that the ticket desk is open on a national holiday, as I soon discovered. Tempted at this point to just slump to the floor and start to bawl my eyes out, I instead grabbed another perfect stranger and gave him my woeful, grammatically horrific tale. He let me squeeze through the ticket barrier at the same time as him. I feel decidedly like a beggar, but at least I made it back.

And the bank won’t send my new card to France, nor will they send it quickly. So by the time it gets to my parents’ house, and then to me, I reckon I’ll have starved to death or been beaten up as I beg for dinner money on the streets. So this is more of a goodbye post than anything else, really.

Au revoir…

Filed under: charity, conversations, French, Lyon, money, mysteries, pick-pockets, police, sad, sod's law, stress, tears, unexpected, worry | 13 Comments »

One night in Berlin

Posted on July 4, 2008 by Hails

I can’t say I was terribly taken with Berlin. Of course, I’m willing to acknowledge my extreme tiredness by the time I arrived there, coupled with my distress about the laptop death, and it’s perfectly plausible that I am just associating Berlin with these feelings now. Also, I didn’t actually see much other than, erm, the airport. However, I did think that the people I encountered were a little… abrupt. They weren’t exactly rude, but I didn’t feel very welcome, as a foreigner - the opposite of how I’ve felt in Estonia and France. 

In Estonia, most people speak English to some extent, and are happy to do so. In France, fewer people speak English, but they appreciate you making the effort to speak their language, and are very pleasant, patient and helpful as you stumble around in your faded memories of auxiliary verbs and the imperfect tense. Conversations take much longer, and can be quite embarrassing, but all my exchanges thus far have been friendly and punctuated with jokes and smiles. In Germany, I felt a bit stupid and snubbed every time I tried to ask for help or directions. Sad and weary, I finally retreated to a quiet corner of the airport and sat down to read my book.

An elderly gentleman approached with his luggage, indicating the space beside me and asking something in German. I nodded politely, indicating that the seat was free, and he sat down, arranging at his feet two battered leather bags and, quite inexplicably, a tightly sealed crate of bananas. I continued to read. The man fidgeted for quite a while, and then said something else, clearly hoping to have a conversation. This was impossible, because of my tiredness and the fact that I didn’t have a clue what he was saying. Ich spreche kein deutsch I said haltingly, shaking my head with an apologetic smile. He rolled his eyes and gave an annoyed grunt, muttering something under his breath. I chose to ignore this, and continued to read.

Eventually, he got up and just sort of shuffled off out of sight, leaving his luggage behind. I eyed the crate of bananas somewhat suspiciously, and decided to take advantage of his absence to move to a free bench at the other side of the lounge, where, exhausted, I curled up underneath my coat and tried to get some sleep.

I woke up to find myself staring at a gun.

This was a little unexpected. I blinked several times as I emerged from my doze, and let my eyes travel upwards to take in the uniform and face of the gun-wearer: an airport policeman who had apparently been told that I was seen talking to the Possible Terrorist who had abandoned his banana crate/box of explosives. Good grief. More than a little nervous, I explained my non-involvement, feeling the disapproval in his voice and expression, and hoping that he wasn’t going to arrest me. He looked at me with what I can only describe as a sneer, and nodded tersely before turning and walking away to deal with the bananas. Sleep was impossible from then on.

And that was Berlin. It was… an experience.

I note from my blog stats that I have some readers in Germany. I wish to make it clear that I have nothing against Germans – especially the ones who read my blog! Please don’t hate me. I’m simply reporting an experience. For all I know, they thought I was the rude one…

Filed under: airport, Berlin, confusion, conversations, Estonia, Fear, foreign languages, French, how rude, stress, tiredness, travel, unexpected | 6 Comments »

Au Secours!

Posted on July 3, 2008 by Hails

It’s all just one big, giant conspiracy. So said Ally McBeal, and I often find myself quoting her wise words – such is my experience of The World.

So, I’m about to leave for France and my laptop breaks down. This is not even the same laptop that bit the dust a few weeks before I left Northern Ireland. No, it’s official. All computers hate me. Every single one of them. They know that internet access is important, nay, essential for my line of work (and therefore my survival), and they quite simply do not want me to be happy. Or survive, for that matter.

Le Flatmate, being someone who knows a bit about computers, spent my first night in Lyon hunched over my despondent laptop, muttering in French (Le Flatmate, I mean, not the laptop, which was barely managing a stubborn beep by this point) and scribbling technical-looking notes to himself, which might as well have been in a foreign language. On closer inspection, it turned out that they were, in fact, in a foreign language, but translating them into English made very little difference to my understanding of them.

Alas! The laptop does not want to obey Le Flatmate, and must go away to be repaired. It could take weeks, for all I know. This leaves me high and dry. I’ve managed to track down an internet café, but using it for work is completely impractical because (a) it’s so expensive that it would probably cancel out my earnings, and (b) the layout of French keyboards is completely confusing to me, and it’s taking me at least twice as long to type anything. It’s AZERTY instead of QWERTY over here, and it’s making my head hurt.

I have so many amusing travel moments that I want to share with you, but panic about how to do my work is now cancelling out my ability to think clearly. What to do, what to do? I had an extremely wobbly moment last night, exhausted from travel, worried about money, more than a little dehydrated and sick, and feeling very isolated – I didn’t realise how much I depended on internet access until I lost it. As I lay in my new room, trying to think calmly and failing miserably, I almost decided to go home. This would be silly, of course. I’ll get it sorted out somehow, even if I have to buy a new laptop and clear out my bank account altogether. It’ll be fine, won’t it?*

I feel a little better for getting that off my chest. Cheers. I even feel up to telling you that I’ve had several conversations in French! It’s a little scary to suddenly try to think and speak in French again after not doing so for about 8 years. I can read it much better than I can understand it being spoken; they speak very quickly, and I find myself pleading plus lentement, s’il vous plaît! at irritatingly regular intervals. Still – they seem to understand me. I’d be enjoying it if I wasn’t staring unemployment in the face and picturing myself begging on the streets, playing air guitar for about ten cents an hour. Not that I’m one for being melodramatic.

Blogging may be less regular for a while, for all the reasons here mentioned. If I disappear completely, assume I’ve run out of money and am doing the air guitar busking thing as described. Other non-computer career suggestions welcome.

*There will be a prize for the first person to confirm this.**

**Actually, there won’t really. I’m about to crash into computerless obscurity and pennilessness, didn’t you read that bit?!

Filed under: Ally McBeal, blogging, confusion, contemplation, conversations, Fear, foreign languages, freak-out, French, Lyon, sad, sod's law, stress, woe, work, worry | 6 Comments »

Don’t wrap me up in cotton wool

Posted on June 6, 2008 by Hails

Browsing through blog posts on Google Reader as I had breakfast the other day, I noticed that several bloggers on my list appeared to be writing about the same topic: dentists. K-Byrd is smug about his shiny gnashers; Waiter has had the less happy experience of having a tooth pulled. It reminded me of my own most recent encounter with the dentist (and by ‘most recent’ I mean ‘about two years ago’), a traumatic experience worsened by my lifelong – and admittedly quite bizarre – phobia of cotton wool.

When I had my wisdom teeth removed, I spent a week beforehand worrying about them putting that horrific substance in my mouth to stem the bleeding. I actually had to talk to the dentist about it before I’d let him anywhere near me. He observed my pale complexion and tear-filled eyes, and asked gently if I wanted him to explain what he was going to do. Perhaps expecting me to confess to being utterly terrified of needles, squeamish about blood or worried about excessive pain, like a normal person, he was understandably a little surprised when I blurted out “Are you going to put cotton wool in my mouth?”. He did a very good job of keeping a straight face, not making eye contact with the amused nurse etc, and showed me the offending material, explained its make-up and so on. He tried to offer me a piece to hold, and I shrunk back into the chair with such horror that he looked decidedly disturbed.

It was, as he gently explained, “not really cotton wool“, but a gauze-like material. With, as I hastened to point out, cotton wool sandwiched between the two sneakily deceptive layers of gauze. We looked at each other for a long moment in a sort of stand-off, and he made the unfortunate decision to pretend that the conversation hadn’t actually happened.

So it was, then, that after he had wrenched my teeth from their home in an excessively violent manner, he approached my semi-conscious form with a large wad of cotton wool and said “Open your mouth for me”. I shook my head and mumbled “I think it’s OK,” making a valiant effort to ignore the fact that I wanted to spit out the disturbing volume of blood that was swirling around my mouth even as I spoke. He looked at me in the way that a school teacher might observe a bratty child, and to my dismay used a piece of the Horrific Substance to wipe away a significant amount of blood that was trickling down my chin. “Open your mouth,” he repeated, somewhat unsympathetically.

I closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and let him put my worst nightmare into effect.

I may have cried, but I’m sure I blamed it on being slightly weakened by the tooth-wrenching trauma I had just undergone. I lay there for a while desperately blocking out reality, but the only thought in  my head was, of course, “I have cotton wool IN MY MOUTH“. I had to get the nurse to remove it for me when the time came.

I dread to think what might happen if I fall victim to toothache while living in a country where I don’t speak the language. Not only will I be incapable of explaining my No Cotton Wool request, I will be incapable of arguing angrily with the dentist when he flat-out ignores my wishes anyway.

Filed under: conversations, cotton wool, dentist, Fear, freak-out, stress, torture instruments, worry | 5 Comments »

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