Turning down my music, I looked around to see about half a dozen cars driving in a line, blaring their horns wildly as they proceeded to do a lap of the car park. The first car was pulling a trailer containing two decidedly unhappy looking creatures only vaguely recognisable as human beings underneath their coating of flour, eggs, ketchup, and other random gunk. Their kidnappers, on the other hand, were grinning gleefully and cheering like lunatics out of their nice, clean car windows.

I stood and watched them until they completed their tour of the car park (during which most shoppers paused, looked, and either smiled or gave a cheer).

Just your average evening in Ballymena.

It occurred to me that this may not be normal in other areas of the world, as I haven’t actually seen it done anywhere else but here. A bit of Google-based research today has introduced me to a Scottish custom called “blackening of the bride”, which seems similar, so I imagine it’s a tradition stemming from our Scottish heritage.

Honestly, it never really struck me as odd, when I was growing up. You’d hear the horns blaring in the street, and Mum would say “Oh – somebody must be getting married!”, and that was a perfectly reasonable explanation for the gloop-covered couple that would then go past, trussed up like sad chickens in a trailer, with a load of cars honking their horns. I don’t think I ever stopped and went “Hang on… what?!” until I saw it for the first time since my return from living abroad for several years.

Anyway, although I’ve never taken part in this cultural oddity, I’ve seen it many, many times. This is what happens.

Boy meets girl, girl meets boy, they fall in love, get engaged, how lovely. The wedding is planned, the date is set, the hen and stag (bachelor) parties take place.

And then, shortly before the big day, their friends kidnap them, tie them up, pelt them with eggs, tip bags of flour over their heads, take turns at pouring buckets and basins of disgusting concoctions on them (anything from sour milk to expired food products to manure), then put them into a trailer hitched to a car and parade them around the town while blaring their horns constantly and cheering out of the windows.

They used to then tie them to a lamppost and leave them stranded there, although I haven’t seen an unfortunate, shivering, gunk-covered couple tied up and abandoned in recent years, so maybe they’ve stopped that part of the ritual.

Click the link below for a video of my friend’s sister and her soon-to-be-husband “gettin’ done” last night.

Wedding bliss

I suppose it’s only when you step out of the world you grew up in and then return to it after a few years that you stop and actually question this type of behaviour. I can find no explanation for it online, and anyone I ask looks baffled and eventually answers my “but WHY?!” with “I don’t know, actually.”. I’ve just interviewed my parents about the matter, and you could see them thinking about it and realising that it is in fact extremely weird.

“They did it to me,” said Dad, “threw stuff over me and left me tied to a lamppost.”

He doesn’t know why.

Mum somehow escaped this ordeal but knows someone who was a mechanic and had grease and oil poured over him, which wouldn’t wash out and subsequently ruined all his wedding photos.

She doesn’t know why.

There doesn’t even seem to be a name for it, other than “gettin’ done”.

It’s yet another reason against ever getting married, in any case.

———

Pictures courtesy of my friend Norma, whose sister’s “doin’” it is.

Video courtesy of David McLean Photography. 

——

Founder (verb); foundered (adjective): To make very cold. ["Would ye close the door, thon draft would  founder ye!" ("There's rather a cold breeze coming in through that open door; please be so kind as to close it."); "S'wile cowl out there, ah'm pure foundered!" ("It's terribly chilly outside today, and I'm very cold as a result.")]

Cowl: cold.

Yer man / yer woman: someone whose name you’ve temporarily forgotten or don’t know. ["I heard it from yer woman that works in the bakery"]

Wee man / wee doll: younger person whose name you’ve temporarily forgotten or don’t know.

Listen tay yer man/woman! or Look at yer man/woman!: said when someone (known or not) is saying something a bit hypocritcal or doing something silly.

Affronted: embarrassed. ["Ah couldnay mind his name, ah was weak affronted so ah was." ("Unfortunately his name escaped my memory, which was rather embarrassing.")]

Take a beamer; take a redner: to blush. ["Ah was affronted, ah took a pure beamer so ah did."; "He took a weak redner!"]

Wee: Not just “small”, as you might think. “Wee” can be used multiple times in a single sentence for no reason whatsoever. ["Howl on a wee minute wee pet, ah'm just givin' me supervisor a wee shout to get a wee price for that wee lettuce - do ye have a wee Clubcard there? I'll just put your wee receipt in your wee bag here." ("Hang on, just getting my supervisor to get a price for this lettuce - do you have a Clubcard? Your receipt's in your bag.")]

Lethal: brilliant, cool, excellent. ["Ah'm goin' tay Spain for me holidays so ah am." "Lethal!"]

Hai: said at the end of any sentence. ["S'cowl the night hai!" ("It's cold tonight.") This one is the bane of my existence, as people from all over Northern Ireland (and the South, for that matter) make fun of Ballymena people for "hai". In the 90s there was a TV ad for a mall, and the guy at the end said "Fairhill - it's a big shappin' centre in Ballymena, hai!". No matter where I go in the world, there is always at least one person who asks where I'm from and then gleefully quotes this line at me while I smile weakly and try to refrain from geein' them a dig in the bake.]

Gee someone a dig in the bake: to punch someone. ["If ye don't stop yer slabberin' ah'll gee ye a dig in the bake so ah will!"]

Slabber: (literally “drool”) (verb) To spread lies/slander, to stir up trouble with words. (noun) One who slabbers.

Boys/boys-oh!: used at the start or end of a mildly surprising statement. “Boys, there’s the sun!”, “Boys-oh, so it is hai!”

Boys-a-dear!: Dear me!

Crater: unfortunate and/or innocent being. ["This is my wee niece in her wee cot." "Aww, wee crater!" or "Everything has gone wrong for me this week, I could cry!" "Ach, ye wee crater!"]

Dote: (verb) to become forgetful in old age, or to lavish affection on someone/something; (noun) cute little child or baby animal. ["Great aunt Sarah's startin' tay dote - she left the door lyin' open all night."; "Awwww, the wee dote!"]

Footer: to dither around without really achieving anything. ["Ah footered about wi' thon new TV for a while but ah couldnay get it workin'."]

Shoogle: to shake or move from side to side.

Blether: (verb) to talk incessantly about nothing of any interest, or to gossip.; (noun) a person who blethers. ["Would ye stop yer bletherin'? Boys, yer a while blether so ye are!" ("Kindly shut up, you really are quite a talker.")]

Skelp: sharp slap, usually to a misbehaving child.

Skelpin’: very hot.

Blegher: to cough a lot. ["Ye'd think he was dyin', tay listen tay his blegherin'!"]

Sammitch; piece: sandwich.

Tay: a hot beverage often taken with milk and sugar, or dinner. ["Will ye take a cup o' tay?"; "WEANS! Come on in, yer tay's on the table!"]

Skitter: a naughty child or pet. ["Look what thon wee skitter's done now!"]

Buck eejit: exceptionally idiotic person. ["What did ye do thon for, ye buck eejit ye?!"]

It’s Baltic: The weather is cold.

Yegitten?: Are you being served?

Suckin’ diesel: doing very well, getting the hang of it. ["Now yer suckin' diesel, boys!"]

Sicken ye!: said when someone experiences a mild misfortune, or when a joke backfires on them.

Feel rare!: said when someone says or does something that most people would find embarrassing.

Put on the beef: to gain weight

Brave: quite large ["Yer man's put on the beef, he's a brave size gettin', so he is!" ("That man has gained a considerable amount of weight and is really quite hefty now.")]

Wheen: a few. ["We've been there a wheena times so we have." ("We've been there a few times."')]

Brave wheen: a lot. ["Ah'm no feelin' great, ah'd a brave wheena drinks last night so ah did."]

Bladdered; banjaxed; steamin’; blootered; pole-axed; stocious; blitzed: drunk

Chip buttie: a hot sandwich of white bread and chips (fries), dripping with butter.

I taught my students in an accent that bordered on American, since I was required to teach American English and American pronunciation. When with my friends, I eased off a little bit, but still mostly spoke in a neutral accent – to the extent that, when I encountered someone from closer to home than the States, they’d  often seem surprised. “You don’t have a typical Northern Irish accent” was the usual comment.

Now that I’m back home for a while, however, I’ve had to perform the same accent/slang/dialect alterations I worked so hard on before… but in reverse. I mean, obviously my neutral accent can be understood here in the motherland, but the natives really don’t like it. I’ve been laughed at, teased, imitated, and called pretentious, a poser, and a snob, thanks to the occasional English or American accented word slipping out in conversation. You’re from Ballymena: speak Ballymena! is the general consensus.

And so here I am, trying to drop my ‘g’s and find my glottal stops all over again.

However, what’s struck me most about “speaking Ballymena” is that it’s about so much more than the accent. I’d always described the dialect here as Ulster Scots, which would be how people mostly of my grandparents’ age speak. I don’t speak Ulster Scots (which is a dialect, but one which speakers constantly fight to have reclassified as a language), but I do understand it, and can talk easily with someone who is using it even though I’m responding with something that is more easily understandable as English with a lot of local slang. I probably could speak it if I wanted to, but it doesn’t come naturally.

Anyway, sorry, this was meant to be a short introduction to a list of vocabulary that might be of interest to… I dunno. Someone, mibbay [maybe]. I’ve been jotting down words and phrases as I hear them, because they now stand out to me, as an ESL teacher and friend to people of many nationalities. And so, without further ado, I give you the first (or perhaps only, depending on how I feel) Coffee Helps guide to how to speak Ballymena.

General Pronunciation Rules:

• Drop the g on every ing. [doin', goin', thinkin']
• Lose your ‘t’s. ["bottle of water" = "baw-ul aw waw-ur"]
• The “ay” sound [face, eight, Hayley] becomes “ee-ih” [fee-ihs, ee-iht, Hee-ihley]

Greetings

• Bou’ ye? [Hello, how are you?]
• Awrigh? [Hello, how are you?]
• Lo there. [Hello, how are you?]
• Howzih goin’? [Hello, how are you?]
• Smiserable, innit? [It's quite a cloudy, wet day today, don't you think?]
• Thassa scorcher the day, innit? [The temperature has risen to just above freezing, did you notice?]
• The nighs er quarely drawin’ in, aren’ they? [Have you noticed that, with the hour we lost due to Daylight Savings Time, it's getting darker rather significantly earlier each night?] (said on autumn/winter evenings)

Common Words/Phrases

• Aye: yes [Anawrun? Aye.: I'm going to the bar, would you care for another drink? Yes.]
• Naw: no. [Whose roun' izzih, yers? Naw.: Is it your turn to purchase the drinks? No.]
• Pure: very [Ah'm pure scunnered, so ah am: I'm very displeased/bored/sick of this.]
• Weak: very [Thon's weak cool, shem!: That's very cool, my friend.]
• Wile: very [S'wile cowl the day, innih?: Today's weather is very chilly, don't you think?]
• Clean: very [Me car's clean boggin' so it is.: My car is very dirty.]
• Thon: that
• Thonder: over there (also: yonder)
• …so it is / so she is / so they are / so he does (etc.): Added to the end of practically every sentence, apparently for no reason other than a reluctance to stop talking. [Ah was pure knackered, so ah was: I was extremely tired.]
• Wait til ah tell ye: I’m about to tell a story, so please look attentive. Generally said as one conversation topic peters out but the speaker doesn’t want to relinquish control of said conversation. ["...ye know lick?" "Aye." "Aye." "...well, ah-" "Here, wait til ah tell ye! Huv ye been in thon new place on Welton Street (Wellington Street) yet?"]
• Class: cool, brilliant. [Thon's class lick!: That's brilliant.]
• Shem: I don’t know what this means. I used to think it meant ‘friend’, but you can basically put shem at the end of any sentence and it will make sense. [Awright shem? : Hello, how are you? / Ah'm pure knackered, so ah am, shem.: I'm extremely tired.]
• Lick: Ballymena pronunciation of “like”; used similarly to American version, but at the end of sentences rather than as a comma. [American version:- And I was like totally and he was like I dunno like whatever. Ballymena version:- And I said class lick, and he said he didn't care lick.]
• Truth: Lie ["Ah worked wi' Liam Neeson lick." "Truth!": "I once worked alongside Ballymena's only celebrity, Liam Neeson." "I don't believe you for a second." (Also, "Aye right!"]

Vocabulary

• Ah: I [Ah woulda, buh ah couldnay be arsed: I would have, but I'm far too lazy]
• Swell seen: It’s obvious [Swell seen he's no fray roun here: It's obvious he's not from Ballymena]
• Messages: everyday purchases such as milk, bread, dinner ingredients. [Ah'm away down the streeh tay get me messages.: I'm going to the local shops to purchase some basic essentials.]
• Shap: shop
• Beg: Plastic carrier used for carrying one’s purchases home from the shaps.
• Haunbeg: Handbag (American: purse)
• Gee (pronounced with a hard ‘g’): Give (past tense: geen) [Gee me wan!: Please give me one of those! / Ah geen him a piece aw my mind, so ah did.: I let him know what I thought, in no uncertain terms.]
• Boke : vomit (verb, noun); disgusting (adjective) [The weans wur bokin' thur ring up all night, so they wur (shem): The children were unfortunately rather ill last night and I didn't get much sleep. / Huv ye tried thon new Indian? Pure boke so it is shem.: Have you yet had the misfortune of dining at the newly established Indian restaurant in town? The food is rather substandard, to be honest.]
• Bin lid = gulpin
• Gulpin = eejit
• Eejit = gipe
• Gipe = bloon
• Bloon = arsewipe
• Arsewipe = turnip
• Turnip: idiot [Thon gipe/bin lid! / He's a pure turnip, so he is. / She's a weak eejit, so she is. / They're wile arsewipes, so they are. / Thon's a weak bloon. / Ye gulpin! It has just occurred to me how many words for idiot there are in Ballymena.]
• Wheesht!: Shhhh!
• Quare: quite impressive/big/good [Thon's a quare day! The current weather is pleasing to me. Ye get a quare feed in there lick! That restaurant serves satisfyingly large portions. He's a quare fella! He's a very decent person.
• Cheeky: rude (not in a playful way, usually prefaced by 'weak') [Seriously?! That's weak cheeky!: Did she really say that? That's extremely rude!]
• Clout: rough slap around the head. [He was bein' weak cheeky tay me, so ah geen im a quare clout.: He spoke rather disrespectfully to me, so I'm afraid I lost my composure slightly and resorted to physical violence.]
• Reely: (1) Mental/crazy (2) Cool [He's pure reely so he is.: He's crazy, in a crazy-fun way that makes everyone want to cautiously be friends with him. Thon new place is pure reely!: That new drinking venue is very cool.]
• Oul boy: father (or unknown middle-aged or elderly man)
• Oul doll: mother (or unknown middle-aged or elderly woman)
• Wean: child (pronounced ‘wee-un’)
• Gurn: whine/complain (adults); cry (children) [Wid ye quit yer gurnin' wid ye?: Please shut up.]
• Scunnered: fed up (Ah’m pure scunnered this day lick so ah am, shem: I’m feeling somewhat despairing and stuck in a rut today.]
• …an’ gettin’ on: and so on [Them weans huv me head done in, they spent all day gurnin' and gettin' on, so they did.: The kids were playing up today.]
• Yam: the sound a cat makes. [Let thon cat in, she's standin' yammin' an' gettin' on at the winda.: I think the cat wants to come in.]
• Heatwave: warm enough to take your winter coat off.

I could go on for pages and pages, but I suppose I should get back to Actual Work…

Just to give you a taste of Coffee Helps in the meantime though, here is a typical wee moment from my day.

So, I was walking down a street in Belfast, sipping on a Diet Coke and trying to remember where I parked the car after leaving my poor sick Macbook at the Apple store. Someone was approaching from the opposite direction, and I couldn’t help noticing that Someone was in fact a very attractive man. Very cool clothes, unruly hair, stubble, tall, scruffy, undoubtedly listening to an incredible band that has yet to be discovered. “Try to also be cool, Hayley”, said my natural Hot Man Approaching radar. I changed my walk from a confused and lost shuffle to a confident saunter, held my head high, and smiled knowingly about something.

It was all going very well.

Then, as we were just about to meet and do the typical Irish make-eye-contact-nod-smile-comment-about-the-weather thing, I took another sip of Diet Coke.

ERROR.

At that precise moment there appeared from nowhere a paving slab 2mm higher than the others. I tripped. I stumbled. The Diet Coke bottle made rapid and unexpected contact with my nose. All hell broke loose.

The Diet Coke (whose name was Chloe) promptly erupted in a volcanic aspartame explosion all over my face, while I staggered around in a desperate attempt to remain upright. In the process, I managed to fall off the pavement into the path of an angry taxi driver, who yelled something insulting about the unattractiveness of drunk women, mostly drowned out by the blaring of his horn.

Getting back on to the footpath, I obviously tried to pretend that nothing had happened, and attempted to recoolify. Hot Man and I were now about to meet. I smiled at him in the sexiest way that one can while staggering around Belfast with Diet Coke running down one’s face and an angry cabbie yelling insults in the background.

Unfortunately, foam from the Diet Coke explosion was also up my nose, and just as Hot Man opened his mouth to speak, I sneezed rather violently. Really, I have to admit, there are probably not all that many things less attractive than a girl who can’t walk in a straight line and greets you by blasting a soft drink through her nostrils at you.

Hot Man and I did not fall in love at first sight.

The Diet Coke was not even worth it as there was no vodka in it.

I found the car after another hour and returned home alone.

The End.

I look uncertainly at him.

My conversations with taxi drivers here have been entertaining, confusing, embarrassing, and (mostly) very trying. The drivers usually fall into one of three categories:

1) Wary of foreigners, refuse to speak at all, even in response to “thank you” or “goodbye”. I used to hate these men on account of the sheer rudeness of not even bothering to acknowledge someone’s existence, but they may now be my favourites – purely because they require a lot less attention and effort than the other two (much friendlier) kinds.

2) Eager to show off English abilities, regardless of skill level. Entire journey will be spent in the role of an English teacher, despite your early morning tiredness / attempts to write an email on your phone / hangover.

3) Very excited to have a real, live foreigner in the car, seizes opportunity for thorough interrogation, entirely in Korean. It doesn’t matter if you attempt to answer as best you can in your clearly terrible, broken Korean, or if you flat out say “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Korean” – this taxi driver will continue to talk rapidly at you, pausing for answers to questions you don’t understand after the standard first 5 (where are you from, is Ireland in England, what do you do in Korea, how old are you, are you married).

So, tonight’s taxi driver falls into category number 2. He apparently speaks no English, nor has he attempted to speak to me in Korean, but he keeps looking back at me and he has that nervous, self-conscious look about him. It’s the look they get when they’re trying to psych themselves up to say something in English but are scared of making a mistake. Finally, he clears his throat several times. Here we go! I think to myself. I prepare my best encouraging smile for the impending “where are you from?” or “do you like Korea?”.

“Eeeeepuh,” he says, somewhat unexpectedly. “Eeeepuh….”

This is a new one. I have no idea what he’s saying, nor do I have much remaining confidence in my belief that he is speaking English. Eeepuh, eeepuh… I search in the dark corners of my brain, but there is no eeepuh there.

“Eeepuh?” I ask gently, trying to sound encouraging.

“Eeeepuh,” he agrees. “Eeeepuh, eeeepuh!”

This is not going very well. He sees my blank expression and looks flustered. “Uhhh…. i… ehpuh… eeepuh!” he adds for clarification.

Oddly enough, this helps, and I suddenly understand. “Ahh – i… f…. if!” I say with some relief. “Got it. OK. If….”

“If!” he repeats with satisfaction. There is a pause, and he clears his throat again.

“If you do not think about the future… then you cannot have one.”

I am too confused and taken aback to come up with an appropriate response to this, so I end up saying a polite “thank you”.

He smiles shyly at me, clearly relieved to have said his piece. We do not speak again for the remainder of the journey. I am fairly certain that that is the only thing he knows how to say in English. Forget “hello, how are you”, forget “what’s your name?”. No, his one English sentence is: If you do not think about the future… then you cannot have one.

I am going to miss this place.

Not only did it give me the chance to do the thing that I love, but it opened up a whole new world for me. Through Coffee Helps, I began to meet people who were to change the direction of my life. Some were readers whose encouraging comments gave me confidence in my writing. Some were fellow bloggers who became useful contacts, friends, and employers. Some connections developed into cherished friendships – a couple even blossomed into love and romance.

This little online catalogue of my embarrassing moments, strange encounters, and rambling thoughts gave me something I’d been searching for throughout most of my life: an identity. I used to be painfully shy, and there was no comfort or encouragement to be had from my awkward attempts at talking to new people. If I managed to pluck up the courage to introduce myself to a new person, the conversation would simply die.

“Hi, I’m Hayley.”

“Hello, I’m X.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

***silence***

***face reddening***

***awkward exit***

I didn’t believe I had anything to offer, and it showed. I saw myself as boring, uninteresting, awkward, and generally unwelcome – and so, perhaps, it was one of those self-fulfilling prophecies that was true only because I believed it to be true.

6 years later, I am a different person. Sure, I will always be a bit on the quiet, shy side in big groups of people, and I’ll probably never be the social butterfly who flits around the room making easy conversation with one person after the next… but I know who I am now. I’m Hails, I write, I travel, and I have stories to tell. I know this because the past 6 years of my life would not have been what they were without being able to write about them, and share my tales with an audience, however small. Turns out I’m not boring after all! You might have to work a little harder with me than with others to get the conversation flowing naturally, and maybe I do tend to babble when I’m excited about the topic, but I’m no longer scared to be myself.

This blog, and the people it’s brought into my life, has made me who I am today. The girl who realised she was not made for small town life, and packed it in to take off around Europe, writing about her experiences. The girl who learned that heartbreak and pain is all part of life, and makes for a better writer. The girl who crashed on the couches of complete strangers and made genuine, lasting friends through it. The girl who found herself housesitting in luxurious locations, sipping champagne by the pool as she wrote about her surroundings… and the girl who found herself homeless in an underground bus station in Estonia, with her clothes in a couple of tied bin liners at her feet. The girl who got travel articles published in a few different European countries… and the girl who stayed up all night writing 50 articles about dog food or green tea, and leeched off the free wifi outside fancy hotels so she could submit them and earn enough money for her next train ticket and a decent meal. The girl who went to Korea on a whim and became an English teacher there for nearly 4 years. The girl who took part in vodka ceremonies with nomads in the Mongolian wilderness, walked on the Great Wall of China in the freezing snow and ice, rang the Peace Bell in Hiroshima. That girl. That’s me!

Sometimes I can’t quite believe it – but then I can go back and read all the stories I’ve written here, and it gives me a feeling I never used to have. Confidence mixed with happiness mixed with the assurance that however bad things seem, there’s a whole world of options and opportunities out there. However much pain you’re in, time really does heal. However financially dire things seem, there’s a way to get back on your feet again. However badly your plans go wrong, you can find a way around it. However spectacularly you fall flat on your face, people will always help you to get back up again. I have 6 years’ worth of blog posts to prove it!

Life is a Choose Your Own Adventure story, and you don’t know what will happen until you make your next choice. This is my 1000th blog post, and I would never, ever have imagined where I’d be writing it, back when I was writing post number 1 – or indeed, the story that the next 999 posts would eventually tell. One page at a time. Post by post.

I might not be getting paid for it, and I might never be a published author or a known travel writer, but I am doing what I love. That’s all I need – and it’s because of this blog, and all the people, adventures, relationships, experiences, and opportunities it’s brought into my life. To someone who doesn’t write, my attachment to this jumbled collection of words and stories probably seems weird, and it’s not something I can easily explain. It’s my baby, you see. I created it, I nurtured it, I watched it grow, I’m protective of it, I’m proud of it. It has brought so much into my life. I love it. It’s mine.

Thank you, my humble little blog. I can’t wait to see what the next 1000 posts will bring us!

Sometimes – well, a lot of the time – I feel sort of guilty that you got me as a daughter. I hardly ever call, I’m not someone who often sends cards and presents, I’m not very thoughtful. I’m scatterbrained and forgetful. I never remember to ask about the little details in others’ lives. I don’t like “visiting”, and hate talking on the phone. I travel around and live on the other side of the planet instead of settling down like a normal person and being a good daughter.

I’m sorry!

But I never want you to think that me being the way I am means I don’t care. I think about you every day, even if you haven’t heard from me in weeks. I have a picture of you on my wall, and I often see or hear something that makes me think immediately of you.

And more than all that, I love you! I might be terrible at showing it, but I am really, truly thankful to have a mother like you.

Thank you for staying home and devoting all your time to raising us when we were small. I don’t think I ever realised how uncommon that was becoming, or how fortunate we were to have a mum who was always there to look after us.

Thank you for cooking good food that was varied, healthy, and tasty. I find it hard to make the time to plan meals for myself for the week, never mind a family of 4 for all those years!

Thank you for writing me a note from Santa getting Santa to write me a note on the typewriter “he” brought me for Christmas one year. I was so excited – I told everyone about it! It still makes me smile now when I remember how I felt when I saw it.

Thank you for never pushing me to get high grades, yet always being proud of me if I did. I never felt under pressure from you. I always felt trusted to do my best.

Thank you for always knowing what I wanted for my birthday.

Thank you for never fighting with Dad – or at least, for never fighting with him in front of us. It never dawned on me, as a child, what a wonderful thing it was to grow up in a peaceful, loving household. I just took it for granted.

Thank you for giving me such a wide taste in music!

Thank you for being a mother who planned fun activities to do with her children, instead of just sitting us in front of the TV all day every day.

Thank you for encouraging me to go where I want and to follow my dreams, even when they probably seem a bit crazy.

Thank you for being my friend.

Thank you for teaching me by example: respect, kindness, politeness, truthfulness, love, and humour – lessons that can be learned from a good mother much more effectively than from a textbook.

Thank you for being the sort of mother that I could never, ever be, and for giving me a true, proper role model to try and live up to.

Thank you, Mum, for being my mother. I am grateful for you every day of my life.

Yet again, I am not there with you to celebrate your birthday. I can’t take you out for dinner, or clink glasses with you in a birthday toast. I’ll be there in a couple of weeks to personally deliver belated birthday hugs… and until then, I hope these words from the heart will make up for my not being with you.

I love you, Mum. Happy birthday!

Love,

Hayley

xoxo

Mum and me, 1982

Mum and me – more recently!

Having said goodbye to my friends after brunch at a nice little cafe in town, I decided to walk home – the sun was shining, the flowers were pretty, I needed the exercise. And anyway, the brunch place is only about a 15 minute walk from my apartment – getting a taxi would be a tad on the lazy side when the weather is neither cripplingly cold nor meltingly humid.

Sadly, I had only been walking for a few minutes when I felt the ominous volcanic rumbling in my stomach. Obviously, getting home was no longer my primary objective. From that moment, my entire goal in life was simply to find a bathroom.

One of the handy things about Korea is that there are public toilets just about everywhere. Any building containing shops, bars, or other businesses generally has a toilet on every floor – you can just walk right in and find one. So I paused and looked around frantically, but my poor heart sank when I realised that the stretch of road towards my home was completely devoid of any such buildings. This never happens, so obviously it would happen to me at this precise moment of emergency.

There was no way I could make it home. In sheer desperate panic, I veered off the main road and headed down a side street, where I could see shops and buildings that could plausibly contain public toilets. The first one I went into turned out to be an apartment building, which was of no use to me. I tried the next door, and found myself in an English hagwon being stared at by a confused receptionist and a bunch of screaming children – I was much too mortified to ask if I could use the bathroom, so I quickly backed out and continued down the street.

Nothing.

I hurriedly chose another winding street and went into the first building there. Result! Oh sweet manna from heaven, there was a toilet at the top of the first staircase! I ran up the stairs, grabbed the door handle… and discovered that it was well and truly locked. As were the toilets in the next two buildings I tried. Why? WHY?!!!!

Cursing the universe and its continued hatred of me, I stood in the street turning in frantic circles before taking off at a run down another street. Finally I found a building containing some kind of fancy photography studio, and (in total despair at this point) poked my head around the door. There was the restroom! Clearly marked “private”, but it was a restroom and the chances were high that it wouldn’t be locked, if it was for the use of customers. I didn’t care about the things I wold normally care about, such as the “private” sign and the swankiness of the building and the security camera in the corridor watching my every move. I made a run for the bathroom, barely able to refrain from letting out a whoop of joy when the door opened and I saw the blissful sight of two toilet cubicles.

Of course they had to be squat toilets.

I will just say this: no matter how many times I encounter these crimes against humanity, I am firm in my belief that there is no dignified way to use them. Particularly in the throes of predicament I was experiencing. I didn’t have much time for contemplation, however, so I made the perhaps slightly bizarre decision to hurriedly remove my jeans and underwear altogether before I attempted it.

You would think, really, that that is as embarrassing and undignified as this tale could get. Hello, have you met me?! There I was, semi-naked in a grotty squat toilet cubicle, jeans and underwear draped around my shoulders due to the impossibility of setting them down on the extremely unsanitary floor, when I heard the restroom door open and a man’s voice call out in Korean. “Who are you? This bathroom is for customers only!” (or something to that effect), he was telling me. Oh, for the love of all that is holy. Deciding to play dumb and hope that he was one of those people who freak out and run away when someone tries to speak to them in English, I called back “Ummmm, I don’t understand! I’m sorry!”.

He hesitated briefly, and then yelled something I didn’t understand. Then he actually rattled the door of my stall. I repeated my babbling in English, suddenly stricken with the fear that he would climb up and look over the partition at me. Being seen in that particular position, naked from the waist down and with my jeans and underwear around my neck would surely be the most mortifying thing that has ever happened to anyone in the history of all time. With renewed panic, I struggled to my feet.

Well. If there is no dignified way to use a squat toilet, then there is absolutely, positively no dignified way of getting up from one. In my haste, I fell back against the wall and dropped my underwear on the floor next to the door, making it now clearly visible to Angry Dude on the other side. Oh, the humiliation. He fell suddenly and understandably silent as I clattered around trying to stand up and get dressed at the same time, in a very limited space with a water-filled hole in the middle of the floor.

When I finally opened the door and slunk out, my face burning with shame, he could do nothing more than simply gape at me in astonishment and confusion while I hastily washed my hands.

“Ummm…. sorry. Thank you.” I mumbled as I pushed past him and took to my heels, leaving him rooted to the spot and staring after me in amazement.

And the icing on the cake? When I paused to catch my breath on the street outside, I realised that I had absolutely no idea where I was. I couldn’t even find myself using the GPS on my phone, but as I knew I couldn’t possibly be far from home, I couldn’t hail a taxi for fear that I was about 30 seconds away and the driver would yell at me for wasting his time. All I could do was wander cluelessly for an hour around the area I’ve lived in for nearly 4 years, until, finally, by some happy accident, I recognised a building and sheepishly realised that I was right across the road from my apartment.

All in a day’s work for me, kids.

So, I go into a shop for a bottle of water. I have been walking briskly around for over an hour (having gotten completely, hopelessly lost in my own neighbourhood, which is a very embarrassing tale for a separate post) in the warmth of this pleasant afternoon in springtime.

The sun is shining brightly. My face is bright red; I may even have a touch of sunburn. I’m carrying my light jacket, having taken it off a long time ago. I’m fanning myself. I literally have beads of sweat running down my forehead. Now, this is important. I am clearly, visibly, obviously overheated. I swear to you, if you saw me, you’d remark to your companions, “Goodness! That girl looks awfully warm, doesn’t she?!”. If I were a laptop, I’d be making that whirring noise that happens when it’s been on too long and is trying to cool down.

The two women behind the counter look stricken, and say a lot of shocked-sounding things to each other before one of them can’t contain herself any longer and asks me in a genuinely disbelieving and horrified tone…

(wait for it)

(seriously, this actually happened)

(are you ready?)

… “Aren’t you cold?!”

With the exception of someone actually sitting in a sauna, sweating from every pore in their body, nobody could possibly look less cold than I do at this moment.

I am beyond trying to hide my utter stupefaction in this country any more. I just look at her in total disbelief and give the only response I know how to in Korean. “I’m hot!” I tell her in the way that one might speak to a particularly slow learner in the classroom, wiping some perspiration from my forehead for added emphasis.

Korea, you have been wonderful to me in so many ways, but I will never, ever understand you. The majority of the time, I feel like I’m living in some weird Douglas Adams style alternative version of reality, where absolutely nothing makes any sense whatsoever.

In one of my first Korea blog posts, I wrote in frustration: “I don’t get it. I. Do. Not. Get. It.”. A fellow expat in Asia commented: “Welcome to Asia. “I do not get it” will become your catch-phrase.”

How right she was!

*For further commentary on this inexplicable “aren’t you cold?!” phenomenon, please refer to this post from last year.