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 »

I’ll be getting my “I heart Tallinn” badge any day now…

Posted on October 12, 2008 by Hails

I’ve said this sort of thing before, you know, but Tallinn is So Damn Cool.

Today Riho and I joined the hatted and mittened Tallinners out for a Sunday afternoon stroll, crunching through piles of yellow, orange and red leaves and taking in the sights in another nearby area, Kopli. It’s a… how shall I say… less prosperous area. Reminded me quite a bit of the place where I lived in Glasgow, only with imposing Soviet architecture instead of tenement flats and, interestingly, some sort of shandy drink instead of Buckfast. It was amusing, actually – every dubious-looking youth or scruffy old man we passed was carrying a brown, plastic 2 litre bottle in a most protective manner. A search of a local shop was no help in identifying the liquid itself, as the labels were in Russian. Some things are probably best left unknown – which is also how I felt about the ominous yellow tape that cordoned off a small patch of grass, with the words “ACID HAZARD DANGER” emblazoned quite worryingly across it.

We were a little surprised to see a hotel in the midst of it all, to be honest. I mean, it’s a residential area, populated mainly by working-class Russians; it’s slightly run-down, and not at all central. Why on earth would anyone come to stay here?! I asked in wonder. Maybe they just sell it as being close to the beach, suggested Riho -  and indeed, a few moments later, there was Stroomi Beach. It was no Pirita, but it was lovely all the same, with a pleasant little walkway alongside the shore, a beach house cafe, and plenty of sporting facilities and the like.

What makes it worthy of being in the So Damn Cool category? The part that at first looks like a children’s playground, but that on closer inspection turns out to be an outdoor gym, that’s what. It’s an ordinary, sandy-floored enclosure off the main path, with lots of brightly coloured contraptions. Only when you look more closely do you realise that instead of swings, seesaws and climbing frames, the contraptions are actually basic, simplified versions of gym equipment that you’d normally be charged a fortune to use. I went on every single thing, just because I could, and my limbs are now aching. But I was interested to note that the “gym” appears to be regularly used – several health-conscious individuals arrived by bike to work out whilst I was there.

Two points: firstly, what a great idea! Free gym equipment for everyone to make use of any time they feel like it. And not in a warm, sweaty, claustraphopic gym environment, either, but by the seaside, in the fresh air! It’d almost make you want to start exercising. But secondly, I just love that that sort of thing can exist here. You couldn’t have had that in any of the areas I’ve lived in before – vandals would’ve wrecked it in a matter of hours. In the last place I lived (housing estate in Ballymena), there were several attempts to provide a playground for the local kids. It was pointless – every time, it was completely destroyed by the next day, by thugs who seem to dislike shiny new things. If you wanted sporting facilities or playparks or anything of the sort, you had to surround them with high walls and fences, charge an entrance fee, and close them at night.

Yet here there are free parks, basketball courts, games areas, and apparently free outdoor gym sets, all completely unattended and also completely unharmed. No matter how run-down an area in Estonia might be, it never feels as if the residents have some kind of hatred of the place. They keep it clean and tidy. Sure, there’s graffiti, but it’s generally hilarious rather than offensive and pointlessly destructive… and more to the point, when they get something nice, they keep it nice. They look after it – they don’t go out of their way to destroy anything. Why would you, if you have to live there – isn’t it much better to be surrounded by nice things than by destruction?

It’s so, so nice to be asking that question in a tone other than one of despair and sadness…

Filed under: Ballymena, community, contemplation, Estonia, exercise, park, simplicity, walking | Leave a Comment »

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 »

Dark times

Posted on October 4, 2008 by Hails

Last night, feeling a bit restless from having been cooped up indoors for most of the day, Riho and I went for a spur-of-the-moment walk around the local area.

Tallinn by night is something of a new experience for me, given that when I was here in the summer I very rarely saw any hint of darkness. This is, however, a country of extremes, and the sillily long days are rapidly being eaten up by increasing periods of darkness. Gone are the midnight sunsets and 3am sunrises; when I got here last week it was already getting dark by 8pm, and now darkness only waits until late afternoon before going about its work. It doesn’t bother me – after spending my very first summer outside the UK, I’ve had my fill of long, hot, sunny days. I’m from Northern Ireland: there’s only so much bright light and warmth I can take before my brain explodes and my body melts in protest. I’m loving the cooler weather and dark evenings, and am suddenly feeling enthusiastic about the idea of spending winter in the Baltics. I mean, having just experienced the hottest summer of my life, it’s fitting that I now go for the coldest winter, too. More on that later, once I get photos of the Estonian winterwear that I intend to kit myself out in. It’s the first time I’ve ever been excited about fashion! If you can call funny hats and furry boots “fashion”…

Anyway, for now it’s just refreshingly cool – perfect for an evening stroll. We headed off through a residential area rather than taking the more familiar route through the Old Town, and I have to say that all the little wood-panelled houses look even more sweet and endearing at night, in the glow of the streetlights. It really is like walking through a fairytale sometimes.

The fairytale became more like a scary story when Riho had the bright idea of getting home by following the old disused railway track. I don’t mean by walking along beside it, on a brightly lit path, oh no. This railway track stretched off into the distance, crossing the road we were on and plunging into unknown territory of broken sleepers, rubble and long grass. We had to walk on the track itself, which gave me another of my Famous Five moments. I had just finished explaining to Riho about the one where they followed a railway track in the middle of nowhere (and then it broke off and they got lost and captured by a group of Bad Men), when I realised that we’d completely left the lights of civilisation behind and were now in near darkness, with only the faint lights from the harbour to guide us. Faint light is worse than no light, because faint light means scary shadows. And scary shadows play tricks with your mind, especially when the wind is making noises and the trees are rustling and you’ve just finished talking about Bad Men lurking at the side of an abandoned railway track much the same as the one you’re currently stumbling along.

Riho lamented my overactive imagination as I became more and more convinced that we were going to die at the hands of smugglers or be run over by a ghost train. I jumped nervously at every cracking twig or moving shadow, and Riho showed his sympathy for my nervous condition by yelling “what’s that?” at regular intervals and doing the age-old reaching around and tapping me on the shoulder furthest from him manoeuvre. When a small heap of rubble shifted beneath my feet and made a sudden noise, I jumped so violently that my instinctive grab for safety and reassurance almost dislocated his thumb (this did not go down very well with Riho, who did a whole big song and dance about his injured thumb as if I hadn’t just almost been killed), and by the time I inadvertently stood on something soft and apparently moving, my nerves gave up altogether. I screamed rather loudly, and shot along the track at a greatly increased speed. I have no idea what it was. Possibly a victim of the Bad Men. Or a large, poisonous rat. So much for a relaxing walk – I could’ve cried when I finally saw the main road in sight.

Darkness is all very well, but I much prefer seeing it by streetlight.

Filed under: cold, darkness, Estonia, Famous Five, Fear, freak-out, fun, paranoia, rats, walking | 2 Comments »

There’s bound to be a mystery around here somewhere, old chap!

Posted on July 23, 2008 by Hails

Vieux Lyon, Lyon’s “Old Town” area, is beautiful.

I think I’m an “Old Town” person, having fallen head over heels in love with Tallinn Old Town in Estonia – I love cobbled streets, rickety buildings, and the feeling of having stepped back in time. I’ve been to Vieux Lyon several times now, but yesterday I went with a mission: to find the traboules.

There’s no exact translation for this Lyonnais word, but my research tells me that it comes from “trans-ambulare,” which literally means “to pass through”. That works: they are covered, tunnel-like passageways, which run through buildings and courtyards to connect one street to another. The traboules were apparently invented to accomodate Lyon’s famous silk industry, as a method of safely (and dryly, presumably) transporting fabrics from workshop to workshop. Yes: they are Actual Old Secret Passageways! This pleases me, Enid Blyton fan that I am. Well, OK, maybe not so much “secret” as “major tourist attractions”, but still. If you hadn’t done your research, you wouldn’t immediately spot them. In fact, even though I knew what I was looking for, I was still a bit hesitant to actually go inside, as the first traboule I found was behind a huge, heavy wooden door. It looked awfully official.

It took New Me to give Old Me another determined shove before I stood up tall and pushed open the door. Old Me ran away screaming in horror, and I marched proudly onwards. It was a little scary, actually. Quite dark – and I’ve been a bit jumpy about the possibility of encountering rats lately, since meeting one in the apartment building. Feeling as if I should be in possession of a flashlight, some ginger beer, and a dog called Timmy, I followed the long, winding passage and eventually came out into another gorgeous old courtyard. This might not sound like much of an adventure, but I repeated the process with every traboule I managed to find, addicted to the anticipation of where I might find myself when I reached the other end. Honestly, it really is not expensive to entertain me.

I also paid a visit to the Basilica Notre-Dame de Fourvière, at the top of Fourvière Hill. As stunningly beautiful and ornate as the cathedral was, I have to say that my lasting impression is of the hill itself. I came across it by accident, walking down one of the afore-mentioned cobbled streets, when I saw a guy cut into an alleyway that turned out to be a staircase. On impulse, I decided to see what was at the top. I’m not a fan of steps (or Steps, for that matter, although I did enjoy their cover of Tragedy), but it seemed manageable:

I had to climb more steps than that to reach my apartment in Glasgow. And so I set off quite energetically. My enthusiasm faded somewhat when, slightly out of breath and beginning to overheat, I rounded the corner you can see just ahead of Backpack Guy, and was faced with this:

Hmmm. However, despite the potential heart failure that was this hill, I chose to continue. Figured there must be something worth seeing at the top. Backpack Guy vanished into the clouds and I plodded onwards, wishing I’d started counting at the bottom just for the official record. Thousands and thousands of steps, there were, I assure you, and you have no reason not to believe me. It started to get a little embarrassing when I began meeting people who were skipping down the steps in a most carefree manner. I had to pretend I was engaged in sending an important text message on my phone each time I paused to try to regulate my breathing. They looked at me in amusement, and said things quietly to each other in French. I just know they were discussing the colour of my face, the irregularity of my breathing and the sweat-drenched section of my t-shirt, but I couldn’t speak to shout “Yah! See if I care!”.

It became much, much worse when people actually started passing me on the way up. I just continued to pretend that I was taking a leisurely stroll (and not, as was the case, on the verge of collapse), and tried to ignore their effortless ascents.

By the time I reached the top (approximately 5 minutes after I’d  stopped believing in the existence of a “top”), I was barely breathing. I hauled myself up the last few steps by clinging to the handrail, and collapsed on a dusty kerb, wheezing and sweating profusely. I remained there for at least 15 minutes, unable to stand up, receiving sympathetic looks from passers-by, one of whom – for a horrible moment – looked as if he was going to throw me some spare change.

Eventually I got to my feet, and, knees trembling, staggered along the road to the nearest gap in the trees. I stood there for a long, long time:

I could see nearly the entire city from where I shakily stood. My camera (alas, only a phone camera) doesn’t come close to doing it justice. It was breathtaking. And it almost – almost – made it worth risking my life to see it…

Filed under: clouds, decisions, Enid Blyton, Estonia, Famous Five, French, fun, Glasgow, Lyon, mysteries, pain, patience, scenery, traboules, walking | 6 Comments »

L’étranger

Posted on July 6, 2008 by Hails

I’ve never been able to read maps.

You know that episode of Friends, where they’re in London, and the only way that Joey can navigate around the city is by “getting into the map”? That’s what I’m like. I have to turn it around so that the street on the map is facing the exact same direction as its real life equivalent in front of me. The words ‘north’ and ‘south’ mean absolutely nothing to me, and are more likely to make me look up and down rather than in any particular direction. It’s no wonder my geography teacher hated me.

Since arriving in Lyon, I’ve spent a significant amount of time aimlessly wandering the streets. I never intend to do this; there’s generally an aim when I start out, like “I want to go to the supermarket”, “I need to find the Métro station” or “I’m going to the internet café”. No, the aimlessness tends to creep in when I gradually realise that I’ve somehow misunderstood the map and have no idea how to get back to a place that I recognise.

It happened again today, as I started out very confidently towards the internet café that I’ve been to for four days in a row. Embarrassingly, I think my mistake was actually turning right instead of left when I stepped out of the apartment building. Whatever the reason, I ended up in a completely unfamiliar area, and could I find it on my map? Nor could I find anyone to ask for help, as apparently Lyon is even deader than Ballymena on a Sunday. Everywhere was closed, there was no one around, and the air was so hot and sticky that I was in desperate need of a drink. Abandoning all hope of finding myself on the map, I trotted down side street after side street in search of a tabac that was open for business.

After much sweating, and hopelessly lost, I ventured into the only building I could find that looked like it might sell me a drink. It was a little old man’s pub – you know, the dark, cramped kind with half a dozen oul’ boys slumped over their pints at the bar, watching the horse racing. They all looked up with interest as a red-faced twenty-something female stumbled in, clutching her map. “Err… bonjour!” I announced nervously, looking for a barman. There didn’t seem to be one, so I spoke to the room in general. “Puis-je avoir un Diet Coke s’il vous plaît?”

One little old man got off his bar stool and shuffled around to the other side of the bar. He began rummaging around behind it, with some creaking and groaning. I wondered when someone had last ordered a Diet Coke in this place, and suspected that should he succeed in finding some, the expiry date would be sometime in 1993. The little old men were all murmuring amongst themselves, sneaking furtive glances at the female in their midst. One of them said something to me, and I didn’t understand a single word of his gravelly-voiced, garbled question. They all looked expectantly at me. “Je ne parle pas français très bien,” I explained, hoping that it was in fact French that he’d been speaking.

That did it. They were fascinated now. I was beckoned towards the bar, and ushered on to a spare bar stool, where they gently but firmly demanded an account of my entire life story. A Diet Coke was triumphantly produced from the cobwebbed recesses of the bar, and poured into a carefully-wiped glass. I gulped it down gratefully, pushing a few coins across the bar. “Ahh, non, non!” chorused the little old men, and there was a great deal of murmuring once again, and fumbling for change. My drink was paid for, and with many nods and smiles I was urged to continue with the “About Me” section of my A-Level French oral exam, without the advantage of having rehearsed it in my bedroom many times throughout the week. A large golden retriever put its head on my knee and looked dolefully at me.

It was a long, long time before I made it to the internet café today.

Filed under: confusion, conversations, French, Lyon, walking, weather | 2 Comments »

We skinned our hearts and skinned our knees

Posted on May 5, 2008 by Hails

“We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun…” I sang happily to myself as I lay on my back watching Jay and E2 play Frisbee in the park.

Being currently under great pressure to get A Lot Of Things done in a matter of days, I was in desperate need of a break, and joined my friends for a picnic dinner in the park. After eating, we lay around on the grass, talking and laughing. The sun was shining, the ducks were swimming, Red and Dirk were making daisy chains… it was idyllic, really. Just the thing to lower the stress levels.

Reluctantly, I got up after an hour or so, remembering the chaos that awaited me at home. Dirk, also needing to get back, came with me, and we strolled contentedly along the path to the park exit. Once again – and as seems to be a common occurrence when I become tired and stressed – I seem to have forgotten how to stand upright, because as we were mid-conversation I suddenly fell over for no apparent reason. With a startled scream (because you just don’t expect to fall over without being tripped or pushed, really) I lurched sideways and was caught by an equally startled Dirk, who dangled me by the arm for a moment, trailing me across the ground as he staggered about trying to maintain his own balance, and eventually hauled me to my feet.

We looked at each other. “Um.” I said uncertainly. “Erm.” he added, confused. We looked back at our friends, who were laughing heartily in their usual sympathetic manner. A random passer-by walked on, sniggering, as I brushed myself down with as much dignity as I could muster up. “What,” said Dirk, finally, “was that?” I looked sadly at him. “Sometimes I just fall over,” I explained carefully. He nodded. We resumed our walk. “I thought you were shot,” he confessed after a few moments, looking a little embarrassed.

The afore-mentioned passer-by had stopped and knelt down to adjust something on his child’s pushchair, and I tried to creep past him unnoticed. Dirk realised what I was doing, and helpfully stopped beside the stranger. “Hey, I’m sorry you had to be a witness to that,” he said in his most sincere and apologetic tones. “We’re still teaching her how to walk.” The guy looked like he didn’t know whether to be amused or frightened, particularly as Dirk was wearing a daisy chain on his head as he supported a 26-year-old toddler.

I have cut my knee. It is sore. :(

Filed under: falling over for no apparent reason, friends, fun, how embarrassing, Mishaps, pain, park, sun, tiredness, walking, weird | Leave a Comment »

“Something Terrible Happened Here”

Posted on October 18, 2007 by Hails

image323.jpg

Went for a dander with Kate yesterday after work, along the river walk in Cullybackey. We hadn’t been there for about a year. Clearly, it has been the scene of a fierce and tragic battle/murderous attack/bizarre incident since then, because we don’t recall ever having seen these brutally decapitated statues before. It really is quite disturbing.

image324.jpg

Kate would be completely useless as a detective, as her response was to stand there going “Oh dear!” and flapping her arms around in distress. Meanwhile, I grimly documented the evidence on my phone and returned home to file my report. So far, I have not made a great deal of progress with the investigation, having found myself stuck on two primary questions.

(a) How?

(b) Why?

Filed under: confusion, decapitation, mysteries, statues, walking, weird | 7 Comments »

Post-Girl Hails, Post-Girl Hails, Post-Girl Hails and her black and white Kat…

Posted on August 30, 2007 by Hails

This week, I have been mostly delivering leaflets.

I volunteered to distribute the 4000 or so direct mailers for our upcoming sale at work, thinking it would get me away from the desk and give me some breathing space, exercise and time to think. Three days and 1500 leaflets later, I weigh much less, have decidedly sore feet, and feel a little differently about dogs than I used to.

I have learned a great deal, so far. For example, there are some houses in Ballymena which have driveways longer than my actual housing estate. (Well, no – that may be a slight exaggeration. But it certainly feels that long when you’re trekking along the 6th one in a row, usually uphill, with a bag of mailers over your shoulder.) Also, certain types of letterbox are unspeakably difficult to open, and can seriously damage your health, or at least the health of your fingers. And finally, there are some very intelligent dogs in the world. (This is setting aside for now the not-so-intelligent ones that assumed, without even giving me half a chance, that I was a burglar, and hence tried to maul me, eat me, bite my hand off, jump on me, deafen me, scare me, intimidate me and/or kill me.) In no less than six houses, I was greatly entertained and surprised by a small but efficient dog waiting patiently on the other side of the door for me to push the leaflet through. I got it halfway in when the clever wee thing jumped up, took it gently between its teeth, pulled it all the way through, and trotted off through the house to deliver it to its owner. “Well, isn’t that something?” I found myself murmuring in delight (after initially pulling my hand away with a panicky “Oh, crap!”, thinking I was under attack again). Well done, intelligent dogs of Ballymena. I salute you.

Also, saw this sign in someone’s garden. I liked it.

I’d get one myself, but the only wild flowers I know how to grow successfully are weeds.

Filed under: Ballymena, exercise, Fear, marketing, pain, walking | 2 Comments »

What Hails Did

Posted on August 13, 2007 by Hails

This weekend….

1. An afternoon’s shopping saw me return home with the weirdest assortment of items ever, including a talking monkey, a bubble party machine, a Thornton’s chocolate plaque and a set of spoons.

2. I accidentally killed Elvis Presley at the swimming pool.

3. I danced with wild abandon at the Spark Party in the Park – in the pouring rain. Drenched, I was.

4. I got up at 4.45am… and on a Saturday, too.

5. On my way home to Ballymena from Antrim, I drifted into a slight daydream, went too far round a roundabout and suddenly realised I was on the M2 heading for Belfast.

6. I played Trivial Pursuit until 1am, eventually giving up and going to bed because the end was nowhere in sight (and I’d realised all the answers were either “Friends” or “Madonna” anyway).

7. I encountered an elderly and slightly barking gentleman in Clinton Cards, who was singing the instrumental parts of “For the good times” as it played on the shop sound system, as well as agreeing with the lyrics (e.g. “Don’t look so sad” Nope, nope! “I know it’s over” S’over… lalalalaaaaa).

8. I got involved in a lengthy discussion about the best methods for inhaling helium.

9. I almost washed my cat in the washing machine by accident.

10. I wrote a list that successfully reminded me that my life is not particularly ordinary – and I love it.

Filed under: cat, conversations, driving, Elvis, friends, Mishaps, singing, swimming pool, walking, weird | 2 Comments »

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