I, unfortunately, would never survive in the wild.
Yes, this is partly because I am generally terrible at being outdoors. Really. I'm not even ashamed of it. I am rubbish at nature. I give a big thumbs up to the old 'from trees to cave' category we picked as a species way back when we gave that glitzy ol' evolutionary wheel a spin.
Its also slightly because I don't feel I'm prepared enough in the ways of knots- it seems so vital to be an excellent knot do-er in the wild, though I do remain unsure why. Perhaps you can knot yourself a meal. Or knot a sword in times of battle. I'm not judging the world of knots, to be sure, but there are very few times when i REALLY NEED something to attach to a rope. But not just need, but need TO THE MAX. To the point where the knot that everyone does (under over squeezy squeezy until its bigger than your fist) is no longer sufficient.
But I'm getting off the point. Knot my best opening. ahaha well done me and all is forgotten. Anyway, my point.
My point is, I cannot see.
Not even a bit.
My talent for seeing is slim to none. Its not on my CV and I dont boast about it to my friends and colleagues.
I find this very frustrating, as personally, I really enjoy seeing. I bloody love it. And I cant do it. Embarrassingly, I need eye crutches. And I've never been happy about this.
So you can imagine, upon entering an opticians at any time, I'm a little on edge. I always feel a bit like I'm about to enter an exam, and I didn't revise nearly enough. No, its not even that, I feel like I'm about to enter an exam, and I know that they're going to give me a towel to write with. Its the injustice of it all. But there's no getting around the damn thing, I need an update on how supremely crap my eyes are, and they are the only ones who can give it to me. In I go.
Now, my Mum, who is sympathetic about the failure of my eyes, as she too has suffered a similar fate, is generally very good about getting me to and from the opticians. However, she does make me go to Asda opticians so she can get a shop in at the same, and considering she GAVE me the damaged optical goods in the first place, you think we could splash out on specsavers. I don't know what it is, but sometimes I just really, really feel as if I should have gone there. Who knows why.
But anyway, I'm only so grouchy about it because I hate the opticians so much, and to be honest, the prospect of an off the cuff kinder bueno post eye raping is enough to keep the forced smile on my face at any time. The problem is, and the reason I write this to you today, considering what a horrendous ordeal going to the opticians is (and it is, lets not get all spoonful of sugar about this) the women who worked there genuinely seemed to believe they had not only the most wonderful, but bizarrely, the most hilarous jobs in the world.
It began with an attendant type (eye nurse? who even cares) making me sit in a chair and among other things, have a machine blow air suddenly and violently into my eye. Over and over again. As it made a shooty, foamy noise. I know machines can't be rude. But this one really, really did try. I felt someone had instructed a rogue young thug of an extractor fan to spit in my face repeately. 'It might be a little startling!' the young nurse (?) said with a grin. Startling. I'll say. I never thought I'd feel like I was being taunted by a piece of optical equipment. Every time it spat I jumped, and the nurse would giggle away, as if she'd just told a really amusing joke, and the punchline was me getting spat in the face. Excellent.
Thankfully though, it couldnt last forever, and I was able to stand up, my eyes feeling like the underside of a desert vole. I was taken into the sanctuary of the appointment room where the friendly optician lady took my chart, looked at it, paused for a minute as I sat in the waggly feet chair and looked up.
'did you do this test with your lenses in?'
I replied in the affirmative, as I'd told them I had them in when I arrived, and no one told me to do otherwise.'
She burst out laughing.
'AHAHAHA HAHAA oh dear oh dear, yes! You see, it says here that your eyesight is perfect! And that, well, that doesn't happen a lot does it? HAHAHA'
'ha. yes, i suppose that.. that would be classed as some sort of jesus mirac-
'JUNE! JUNE COME IN HERE. Did you do her test?'
June nodded with bated breath.
'she's got her CONTACTS in!'
HAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHA
HAHAHA
I laughed away too (it seemed only polite, no one wants to be the only non-laugher in a room of hilarity, its like turning up to a great fancy dress party wearing jeans and a satirical name tag) but couldnt shake what this would actually mean.
'HAHAH, oh dear.. oh dear. well, back out you go! We'll have to do all the tests again!' She grinned. June grinned. That bastard smug little extractor fan drop out grinned. And we did it again. Only this time I didn't even have my eye armour on.
Post this, I had the fun of actually doing the 'now read the bottom line.. the bottom line, I said. Oh sorry, that is genuinely what you thought it was? oh. oh, oh dear...' and being told with glee that i had indeed slipped further down the eye ladder, and was now approaching the kind of vision a bowl would reject as useless.
Still, I had glasses to choose, and my Mum had turned up, meaning I had exactly 3 minutes to choose which ones I wanted before she started breathing in the way that meant if I took any longer, I wouldnt need them anyway as I wouldn't have a head. So picking two up (it was one for 60 pounds, or two for 70 pounds- and you know you dont need two pairs of glasses and yet... 10 pounds... I could never have lived with myself). Now the fun really began.
June looked devestated. 'I'm so sorry. But these are on different deals. This one here' she waggled a pair I'd given her 'are only 40 pounds. And you want the 60 pound deal'.
I was getting the warning mum breaths on my neck.
'Oh its fine' I said hurridly, 'I'll just pay the extra anyway, I don't mind.'
I was met with silence. Another attendant rushed up as if Gondor had just called for aid.
'I'm afraid-' started June
'You can't override the deal' said the New Attendant in a hushed tone.
'Oh, ' I said, 'but.. but I dont mind paying extra. These are only forty pounds, yes? And I'm willing to pay as if they were sixty. So. So its better, yes? For everyone?'
June and New Girl looked at each other. They looked back at me.
'But thats not the deal', said June. 'They are part of a seperate deal.'
I really wished I had my dealing with ridiculous situations knot to hand.
'But I'll be paying more' I said. 'More. By twenty pounds'. I almost added, 'surely Mr Philip Asda would bloody love a hand-out?', but I didn't think now was the time for fictional characters based on acronyms.
June and N.A looked at each other again. And suddenly, a strange smile dawned on NA's face. It was a curious mix of glee, exhilaration and fear. 'You know what,' she said
'what?' asked June breathlessly
'Those glasses' she pointed at the offending 40 pound lepers, 'were made for a customer. and he never picked them up. We could', she swallowed, 'we could just put them through as sixty pounds, as the register wouldn't know where they came from, as they were specially made for a customer!'
June about shat herself.
'Yes! Yes we could! We could do it!' They both turned to me, where I proceeded to thank them excessively for letting me pay them extra money.
As she was putting the order through, June turned to the other girl and said grinning wildly 'I tell you what, we'll never work at SpecSavers, will we?'
The other girl hooted and replied with relish 'Ohhh no, they'd never let us!'
I suddenly caught a wonderful glimpse of an underworld I'd never imagined before. An opticians mafia, opposing gangs in a west side story type setting, where administractive hitmen got tattoos of their chosen branch on their cornias and bombarded their optical opponants with midnight lens raids. Bi-focal bomb shelters and suicide pact saline nightmares. Specsavers vs Asda. Other name of an opticians vs a different other name of an opticians. Marvellous.
Drifting into this dream as I walked out with my Mum, whose breathing was now back on track, I barely even realised that I'd forgotten to buy my celebratory kinder bueno. Ah well. On the mean streets of the optician underbelly, there was no such thing as chocolatey treats. Just monacle maniacs, untrustworthy red and green circles and eye tests with such tiny letters that any man trying to work them out goes instantly mad. Cripes. No one ever had this kind of trouble in a tent. Forget my past, nature, I'll tie you my best forgiveness knot and lets start this again.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
How To Protect Yourself (Or Your House) From Ninjas (Or Similar)
When I was a young girl, at the wee age of an age where you have no idea what your age is, I woke up to the sound of my parents being attacked by ninjas in the garden.
Now this, as you can imagine, was fairly upsetting. The noise was coming from outside, and was the kind of high pitch 'hiiiiiYAH YAH HIIIII' sound you'd expect from any respectable ninja. Like in the films. The ninja films. With ninja noises ACTUALLY in. There could be no other explanation. Too frightened to look out of the window in case I was spotted by a laser ninja eye, I decided that my parents needed to be called into action. A fairly ridiculous idea, now I think about it, as I'm pretty sure my dad's samuri experience was passable at best, and Mum's never even been a whizz with a fork, never mind anything else. But hey, I was.. however old I was, and at that time, most of life problem's were resolved by asking my parents for help, (rather than now, where all of my problems are solved by asking them for money.) So, foolishly confident in their Eastern combat abilities, I tiptoed quickly to their door (you cant RUN when there's ninjas around, they'll HEAR you), and popped my head through the door.
'Mum,' I said, quite calmly I thought, considering the grave situation the family was in, 'I think there's some ninjas in the garden.'
I waited for a sleepy response along the comforting lines of 'alright poppet I'll get my death rifle', but none came. There was silence. I stretched my wee (but even then already quite powerful and attractive) arm up and turned on the light. To my surprise, the bed was empty. No parents, no death rifle to be seen, and no chance of me going back to sleep. I was surprisingly calm as I stared at the bed, I think because actually, this situation made a lot more sense. Why would ninjas be crying out in a fighting and angry manner if they had no one to fight with? A ridiculous notion, to be sure! Obviously, my parents were outside, and fighting with their fighting skills! In many ways, the logic of the situation was quite reassuring. I only hope mum wasn't grappling with a fork.
So, with the sitatuon at least comfortingly clear in my mind, I did what any child does when she is awaiting the results of her parents death match with subburban garden ninjas, I sat on the stairs and contemplated my future life as a ninja child. I considered waking my brother, sleeping soundly in the next room, then contemptuously dismissed the idea- after all, if anyone in this house was going to be a a ninja child- it was me, and bloody Joe wasn't going to take that away from me like he took away the sippy sippy cup with the clown on it JUST BECAUSE he was younger and 'needed' it more than me. So I sat with my head in my hands, listening to the 'HIIIIYAA! YA YA YAA! HUP HAHA YAYAYA' from in the garden, twinned with the growing noise of my parents shouting a bit and muttering angrily to each other. As I recall it, I sat on those stairs for 7 hours. However, memory is a tricky thing. It may only have been 6. Anyway, eventually, after an unspecified amount of time, the front door suddenly swung open, and I gasped, my heart pounding. A ninja! In a white Cloak! And a Samuri white belt! Unfortunately, he then stepped into the light and what was a dazzling ninja ensemble became rather disappointingly similar to my father's dressing gown.
"DAD!" I yelled, suddenly flooded with relief that he had won the arduous battle against worthy foes, and had claimed me as his prize. I rushed down the stairs and flung myself into his arms, the daughter of a ninja slayer. He gathered me up proudly and placed me firmly back into bed, telling me that everything was OK now, I was safe, and by golly, did I sleep soundly and proudly that night.
Unfortunately it turned out that actually, some of our chickens had gotten out of the coup at about 1am, and mum and dad had chased them round the garden for about an hour and a half in their pyjamas, trying to get them to shut up by yelling at them quite loudly. Still. An eventful night, nevertheless.
The reason I tell this life-altering story (coyrighted, in case you're thinking of turning it into a film), is because tonight I sit alone in a large house, ready to hunker down and brave out the night. There's something about being in your old family home alone that takes you back to a time when ninjas lurked behind every chicken, and for some reason, I can't shake the feeling that if ever there was a night for me to hone my fork skills, this is that night.
Of course, I am well aware that it is ridiculous. And yet I feel compelled to make sure that that sound that I just heard that sounded rather like a dog drinking some water in the kitchen wasn't in fact a man breaking in through the roof with a saw. It also isn't really my fault, as my parents haven't really fostered much faith in the world around me. Any woman who keeps a baseball bat under her mattress under the pretence of 'you'll never know when you might fancy a game' isn't to be trusted, in my opinion. I have in fact woken up to the sound of my mother shouted 'WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING' storming down our drive, wielding a bat in one hand and a dog in the other whilst some young ruffians attempted to scale our gate. Needless to say, they scarpered. I'm pretty sure the dog was trying to do the same, but it did come off as menacing rather than terrified, so thats the main thing.
Anyway, the point is, no matter how unlikely and ridiculous it seems, you just don't know when ninjas might descend. How can you? So, with this in mind, I decided to write up a quick, efficient and easy to use guide entitled
'How To Protect Yourself (Or your House) from Ninjas (Or Similar)'
I think brackets in titles are really going to catch on.
So, for the safety and well being of you, your family, and those you know who aren't ninjas, I give you my advice. Use it well.
If you suspect a ninja (or similar) is entering your house, make sure you immediately do the following-
1. Make your bed- I know it would seem like tidying up should be the last thing on your mind at a time like this, but trust me, a proud housewife is a significantly alive housewife. A scrambled bedsheet is the mark of a panicked inhabitant. If you make your bed- you're as good as not home. There's no looking for you. And you also seem like a person who cares about cleanliness, and ninjas appreciate that. They wear all black dont forget- so stains wont show up.
2. Hide in a wardrobe- BUT (and this is the vital part) DON'T CLOSE IT COMPLETELY. Like most University educated people, i learnt almost everything I know from films about pirates. Closed wardrobes is the first place they check. If you leave it a bit open, with some clothes kind of sprawly, its casual-open-chic, cool man, your room is practically having a cigarette its so chilled out.
3. Take your glasses- damn. that probably should have been number one. Don't go back and get your glasses now if you're already in the wardrobe, but if you have them on you things will be a lot easier. I once groped my way downstairs (not in the fun way) whilst checking out a strange door banging noise, and my lack of sight made things such as walls and carpets look rather more like murderers then I would have liked.
4. Phone your mum- as we've discovered with last week's post, phoning the authorities is not always the way. Often, your mum will supply you with a button or a lever that will fix everything. Don't ask me how it works, but they do it.
5. If the lever is out of reach inside the wardrobe, have a quick search for narnia. You just never know, and it does always seem to turn up at the most bloody useful times.
6. The ninja will be, by now, inside the room, searching for golden dabloons, his long lost father and the peace of mind that means he can go back to his village and carve that chair he's always wanted to carve. Its unlikely that these things will be in your room. Best to keep as silent as you can. If you have difficulty doing this, try to imagine that someone has just said to you 'yeah, but don't you think creationism just sort of makes sense?' And do the silence you would do after that.
7. Its nearly over now. The ninja, having spotted the cunningly made bed, will assume he is alone, and will therefore be off his guard. At this point, you CHARGE the ninja, bursting out of the wardrobe with your bat and dog screaming 'WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?'
8. Oh, and plant a bat and dog inside the wardrobe first. Unless you can source them quickly from Narnia at the time.
9. Chase out ninja with a triumphant battle cry, safe in the knowledge that you have defended your home, your livelihood, and actually did a bit of tidying up for once.
10. and finally, tighten up the wires on your chicken coup. There's no need for two night's battle in a row.
Yakmonster x
Now this, as you can imagine, was fairly upsetting. The noise was coming from outside, and was the kind of high pitch 'hiiiiiYAH YAH HIIIII' sound you'd expect from any respectable ninja. Like in the films. The ninja films. With ninja noises ACTUALLY in. There could be no other explanation. Too frightened to look out of the window in case I was spotted by a laser ninja eye, I decided that my parents needed to be called into action. A fairly ridiculous idea, now I think about it, as I'm pretty sure my dad's samuri experience was passable at best, and Mum's never even been a whizz with a fork, never mind anything else. But hey, I was.. however old I was, and at that time, most of life problem's were resolved by asking my parents for help, (rather than now, where all of my problems are solved by asking them for money.) So, foolishly confident in their Eastern combat abilities, I tiptoed quickly to their door (you cant RUN when there's ninjas around, they'll HEAR you), and popped my head through the door.
'Mum,' I said, quite calmly I thought, considering the grave situation the family was in, 'I think there's some ninjas in the garden.'
I waited for a sleepy response along the comforting lines of 'alright poppet I'll get my death rifle', but none came. There was silence. I stretched my wee (but even then already quite powerful and attractive) arm up and turned on the light. To my surprise, the bed was empty. No parents, no death rifle to be seen, and no chance of me going back to sleep. I was surprisingly calm as I stared at the bed, I think because actually, this situation made a lot more sense. Why would ninjas be crying out in a fighting and angry manner if they had no one to fight with? A ridiculous notion, to be sure! Obviously, my parents were outside, and fighting with their fighting skills! In many ways, the logic of the situation was quite reassuring. I only hope mum wasn't grappling with a fork.
So, with the sitatuon at least comfortingly clear in my mind, I did what any child does when she is awaiting the results of her parents death match with subburban garden ninjas, I sat on the stairs and contemplated my future life as a ninja child. I considered waking my brother, sleeping soundly in the next room, then contemptuously dismissed the idea- after all, if anyone in this house was going to be a a ninja child- it was me, and bloody Joe wasn't going to take that away from me like he took away the sippy sippy cup with the clown on it JUST BECAUSE he was younger and 'needed' it more than me. So I sat with my head in my hands, listening to the 'HIIIIYAA! YA YA YAA! HUP HAHA YAYAYA' from in the garden, twinned with the growing noise of my parents shouting a bit and muttering angrily to each other. As I recall it, I sat on those stairs for 7 hours. However, memory is a tricky thing. It may only have been 6. Anyway, eventually, after an unspecified amount of time, the front door suddenly swung open, and I gasped, my heart pounding. A ninja! In a white Cloak! And a Samuri white belt! Unfortunately, he then stepped into the light and what was a dazzling ninja ensemble became rather disappointingly similar to my father's dressing gown.
"DAD!" I yelled, suddenly flooded with relief that he had won the arduous battle against worthy foes, and had claimed me as his prize. I rushed down the stairs and flung myself into his arms, the daughter of a ninja slayer. He gathered me up proudly and placed me firmly back into bed, telling me that everything was OK now, I was safe, and by golly, did I sleep soundly and proudly that night.
Unfortunately it turned out that actually, some of our chickens had gotten out of the coup at about 1am, and mum and dad had chased them round the garden for about an hour and a half in their pyjamas, trying to get them to shut up by yelling at them quite loudly. Still. An eventful night, nevertheless.
The reason I tell this life-altering story (coyrighted, in case you're thinking of turning it into a film), is because tonight I sit alone in a large house, ready to hunker down and brave out the night. There's something about being in your old family home alone that takes you back to a time when ninjas lurked behind every chicken, and for some reason, I can't shake the feeling that if ever there was a night for me to hone my fork skills, this is that night.
Of course, I am well aware that it is ridiculous. And yet I feel compelled to make sure that that sound that I just heard that sounded rather like a dog drinking some water in the kitchen wasn't in fact a man breaking in through the roof with a saw. It also isn't really my fault, as my parents haven't really fostered much faith in the world around me. Any woman who keeps a baseball bat under her mattress under the pretence of 'you'll never know when you might fancy a game' isn't to be trusted, in my opinion. I have in fact woken up to the sound of my mother shouted 'WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING' storming down our drive, wielding a bat in one hand and a dog in the other whilst some young ruffians attempted to scale our gate. Needless to say, they scarpered. I'm pretty sure the dog was trying to do the same, but it did come off as menacing rather than terrified, so thats the main thing.
Anyway, the point is, no matter how unlikely and ridiculous it seems, you just don't know when ninjas might descend. How can you? So, with this in mind, I decided to write up a quick, efficient and easy to use guide entitled
'How To Protect Yourself (Or your House) from Ninjas (Or Similar)'
I think brackets in titles are really going to catch on.
So, for the safety and well being of you, your family, and those you know who aren't ninjas, I give you my advice. Use it well.
If you suspect a ninja (or similar) is entering your house, make sure you immediately do the following-
1. Make your bed- I know it would seem like tidying up should be the last thing on your mind at a time like this, but trust me, a proud housewife is a significantly alive housewife. A scrambled bedsheet is the mark of a panicked inhabitant. If you make your bed- you're as good as not home. There's no looking for you. And you also seem like a person who cares about cleanliness, and ninjas appreciate that. They wear all black dont forget- so stains wont show up.
2. Hide in a wardrobe- BUT (and this is the vital part) DON'T CLOSE IT COMPLETELY. Like most University educated people, i learnt almost everything I know from films about pirates. Closed wardrobes is the first place they check. If you leave it a bit open, with some clothes kind of sprawly, its casual-open-chic, cool man, your room is practically having a cigarette its so chilled out.
3. Take your glasses- damn. that probably should have been number one. Don't go back and get your glasses now if you're already in the wardrobe, but if you have them on you things will be a lot easier. I once groped my way downstairs (not in the fun way) whilst checking out a strange door banging noise, and my lack of sight made things such as walls and carpets look rather more like murderers then I would have liked.
4. Phone your mum- as we've discovered with last week's post, phoning the authorities is not always the way. Often, your mum will supply you with a button or a lever that will fix everything. Don't ask me how it works, but they do it.
5. If the lever is out of reach inside the wardrobe, have a quick search for narnia. You just never know, and it does always seem to turn up at the most bloody useful times.
6. The ninja will be, by now, inside the room, searching for golden dabloons, his long lost father and the peace of mind that means he can go back to his village and carve that chair he's always wanted to carve. Its unlikely that these things will be in your room. Best to keep as silent as you can. If you have difficulty doing this, try to imagine that someone has just said to you 'yeah, but don't you think creationism just sort of makes sense?' And do the silence you would do after that.
7. Its nearly over now. The ninja, having spotted the cunningly made bed, will assume he is alone, and will therefore be off his guard. At this point, you CHARGE the ninja, bursting out of the wardrobe with your bat and dog screaming 'WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?'
8. Oh, and plant a bat and dog inside the wardrobe first. Unless you can source them quickly from Narnia at the time.
9. Chase out ninja with a triumphant battle cry, safe in the knowledge that you have defended your home, your livelihood, and actually did a bit of tidying up for once.
10. and finally, tighten up the wires on your chicken coup. There's no need for two night's battle in a row.
Yakmonster x
Thursday, September 10, 2009
This post might save your life
I'd just like to take a second today, to have a little talk about fire alarms.
Now. Like many, my first introduction to the fire alarm was when an alarmingly wide bear came to talk to us in primary school about fire and the alarms thereof. Not a real bear. Sadly. If a bear really came to talk to us, I have a feeling the topic of conversation wouldn't actually be paramount to our entertainment. Anyway, for some reason, this bear (Tony The Fire Bear, or similar) was really, really interested in our being good at investigating kitchens, standing on chairs and pressing buttons. Which was funny, because almost every other adult at the time was telling us quite firmly not to do any of these things.
My second introduction was later on in primary school where, apparently having abandoned the fool-proof bear method, the school instead instructed us to crawl through a tent that had been filled with smoke, and get to the exit. Outside. A massive smoke filled tent. When you're ten. Like a ninja. Instead of doing maths. Now I dont know about anyone else in that class, but I spent most of the next couple of weeks looking hopefully at the stove whenever my dad cooked bacon.
My third introduction was some time after this, when I was about 15, I cooked some sausages on my grill (hold on, it gets even better). Why you ask? Because I wanted some sausages. Oh sorry, you didn't- I thought you asked, never mind. Anyway, I was making these sausages, turned away to look fleetingly at a flower perhaps, or a soft and lovely napkin, and when I moved my eyes back the oven was on fire. I stood looking at it for a moment, stangely sober, and then tried quite hard to remember which type of fire it was that made the girl on the advert have her face all burned off when she poured water on it. Chip pan fire, right. I wasn't making chips. But wait- does that advert mean just chips? Or things in pans? or.. or.. a specific type of oil? Oh God. Oh God I dont know. And it turns out there's nothing quite like having an oven casually on fire in the background to make your thoughts less than laser precise.I got the phone, and hesitated for a moment. The fire waited patiently. Did I call 999, or my Mum? Who would consider themselves the expert on things of this matter?
'Hello, Kay Ralph?'
'Hi Mum,'
'Hi Tash. '
'Hi. Erm.-'
'You're up are you? Finally? Have you fed the dog?'
'Well- yes. Yes, but Mum'
'Dont give him the cheese thats on the side.'
I looked at the side. The cheese had melted and was turning a blackened grey.
'No I won't. Mum. Mum- the oven's on fire.'
'What?'
'The oven's on fire.'
'The oven's on fire?'
I suddenly got a strange urge to turn this into a song and launch into a chorus of 'ohhh the oven's on fire and what can ya dooo'. Luckily, I resisted.
'Oh my God. OK. Get out of the house. Get Barney. Get Barney and get out of the house.
I looked at the oven. It looked happily back at me.
'It doesn't seem to be spreading, Mum.'
'It, it doesn't, oh god. Ok, Ok, listen to me.'
She then proceeded to guide me through a process I now cannot quite recall (probably due to some horrible mind trauma repression) which ended in me pressing a button and the fire going out- if only I'd listened to Tony back then, maybe I wouldn't even have needed help. Damn ninja replacement system.
Anyway, my point is, though you've probably already guessed it, fire alarms are fun. Which is why when, last night in Claycroft (a halls of residence at my Uni) when the fire alarm went off, I happily donned some boots, grabbed my keys and jaunted off to the exit. The fact that it also meant interuppting my watching of 'Bedtime Stories'- the worst Adam Sandler film since the last Adam Sandler film (think Nights at the Museum with slightly less money), was another reason for the spring in my step.
Me and my friends Katherine and Annalisa stood outside the building and breathed in the cooling night air. This, apparently, was the worst possible thing we could have done. The Offical Fire Woman of the building, who had mysteriously been yelling at a tree for the previous five minutes, stormed up to us and yelled 'what are you doing here? hmmm? this isn't the regulated fire spot!' She sounded very official, and her face was full of angry officialness. Unfortunatly, she was wearing a baby pink dressing gown with a floral design, some hairy slippers and very little else. Maybe she thought if she shouted loud enough, she's shout some clothes on.
'I have no idea where that is.' I said, very truthfully.
Her face turned red enough to almost be its own hat (almost).
'It's ROUND THE CORNER!' she yelled.
Now I don't do very well with people who are very rude for no reason.
'Ok, well THANKS FOR ALL THE HELP!' I shouted back and smiling at her hat-face off we skipped to the area where fire couldnt penetrate. Unlike where we were standing originally, which was by a large lake.
So, arriving at the Designated Fire Area, which stood proudly in its captial letters, we made casual friends with others who were victims of the fire. I thought about saying how I bet this was the kind of sitation that made people in concentration camps make friends. But then I didn't. Instead I stood making narky comments that amused me and me alone, and waited for my friend in the pink to show up. She did. It turned out, shockingly, that not everything on the world was on fire, and we could go back in. As we started to heave back, an official man in a glowly coat asked loudly 'who is in room 30, block A?'. A sinister silence fell. Slowly, as we all watched with judging eyes, a girl in a beige coat and confused and shocked expression lifted a hand shakingly. The perpetrator. Being as angry as we could be for a group of people who weren't saying or doing anything, we began to drift off. And the girl was taken away, presumably to be punished by Fire Woman opening her robe in front of her.
This story has a point, and it is this. On the way back to the building, I found 20p on the ground. I picked it up, and put it in my pocket. I might put it towards a bag of crisps. See what good come of fire alarms? Oh and also, on the day I burnt the oven down, mum got us another puppy to calm us all down. Probably should have mentioned that earlier.
YakAttack
Now. Like many, my first introduction to the fire alarm was when an alarmingly wide bear came to talk to us in primary school about fire and the alarms thereof. Not a real bear. Sadly. If a bear really came to talk to us, I have a feeling the topic of conversation wouldn't actually be paramount to our entertainment. Anyway, for some reason, this bear (Tony The Fire Bear, or similar) was really, really interested in our being good at investigating kitchens, standing on chairs and pressing buttons. Which was funny, because almost every other adult at the time was telling us quite firmly not to do any of these things.
My second introduction was later on in primary school where, apparently having abandoned the fool-proof bear method, the school instead instructed us to crawl through a tent that had been filled with smoke, and get to the exit. Outside. A massive smoke filled tent. When you're ten. Like a ninja. Instead of doing maths. Now I dont know about anyone else in that class, but I spent most of the next couple of weeks looking hopefully at the stove whenever my dad cooked bacon.
My third introduction was some time after this, when I was about 15, I cooked some sausages on my grill (hold on, it gets even better). Why you ask? Because I wanted some sausages. Oh sorry, you didn't- I thought you asked, never mind. Anyway, I was making these sausages, turned away to look fleetingly at a flower perhaps, or a soft and lovely napkin, and when I moved my eyes back the oven was on fire. I stood looking at it for a moment, stangely sober, and then tried quite hard to remember which type of fire it was that made the girl on the advert have her face all burned off when she poured water on it. Chip pan fire, right. I wasn't making chips. But wait- does that advert mean just chips? Or things in pans? or.. or.. a specific type of oil? Oh God. Oh God I dont know. And it turns out there's nothing quite like having an oven casually on fire in the background to make your thoughts less than laser precise.I got the phone, and hesitated for a moment. The fire waited patiently. Did I call 999, or my Mum? Who would consider themselves the expert on things of this matter?
'Hello, Kay Ralph?'
'Hi Mum,'
'Hi Tash. '
'Hi. Erm.-'
'You're up are you? Finally? Have you fed the dog?'
'Well- yes. Yes, but Mum'
'Dont give him the cheese thats on the side.'
I looked at the side. The cheese had melted and was turning a blackened grey.
'No I won't. Mum. Mum- the oven's on fire.'
'What?'
'The oven's on fire.'
'The oven's on fire?'
I suddenly got a strange urge to turn this into a song and launch into a chorus of 'ohhh the oven's on fire and what can ya dooo'. Luckily, I resisted.
'Oh my God. OK. Get out of the house. Get Barney. Get Barney and get out of the house.
I looked at the oven. It looked happily back at me.
'It doesn't seem to be spreading, Mum.'
'It, it doesn't, oh god. Ok, Ok, listen to me.'
She then proceeded to guide me through a process I now cannot quite recall (probably due to some horrible mind trauma repression) which ended in me pressing a button and the fire going out- if only I'd listened to Tony back then, maybe I wouldn't even have needed help. Damn ninja replacement system.
Anyway, my point is, though you've probably already guessed it, fire alarms are fun. Which is why when, last night in Claycroft (a halls of residence at my Uni) when the fire alarm went off, I happily donned some boots, grabbed my keys and jaunted off to the exit. The fact that it also meant interuppting my watching of 'Bedtime Stories'- the worst Adam Sandler film since the last Adam Sandler film (think Nights at the Museum with slightly less money), was another reason for the spring in my step.
Me and my friends Katherine and Annalisa stood outside the building and breathed in the cooling night air. This, apparently, was the worst possible thing we could have done. The Offical Fire Woman of the building, who had mysteriously been yelling at a tree for the previous five minutes, stormed up to us and yelled 'what are you doing here? hmmm? this isn't the regulated fire spot!' She sounded very official, and her face was full of angry officialness. Unfortunatly, she was wearing a baby pink dressing gown with a floral design, some hairy slippers and very little else. Maybe she thought if she shouted loud enough, she's shout some clothes on.
'I have no idea where that is.' I said, very truthfully.
Her face turned red enough to almost be its own hat (almost).
'It's ROUND THE CORNER!' she yelled.
Now I don't do very well with people who are very rude for no reason.
'Ok, well THANKS FOR ALL THE HELP!' I shouted back and smiling at her hat-face off we skipped to the area where fire couldnt penetrate. Unlike where we were standing originally, which was by a large lake.
So, arriving at the Designated Fire Area, which stood proudly in its captial letters, we made casual friends with others who were victims of the fire. I thought about saying how I bet this was the kind of sitation that made people in concentration camps make friends. But then I didn't. Instead I stood making narky comments that amused me and me alone, and waited for my friend in the pink to show up. She did. It turned out, shockingly, that not everything on the world was on fire, and we could go back in. As we started to heave back, an official man in a glowly coat asked loudly 'who is in room 30, block A?'. A sinister silence fell. Slowly, as we all watched with judging eyes, a girl in a beige coat and confused and shocked expression lifted a hand shakingly. The perpetrator. Being as angry as we could be for a group of people who weren't saying or doing anything, we began to drift off. And the girl was taken away, presumably to be punished by Fire Woman opening her robe in front of her.
This story has a point, and it is this. On the way back to the building, I found 20p on the ground. I picked it up, and put it in my pocket. I might put it towards a bag of crisps. See what good come of fire alarms? Oh and also, on the day I burnt the oven down, mum got us another puppy to calm us all down. Probably should have mentioned that earlier.
YakAttack
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Thank Goodness, eh?
Welcome, you glittery little handbag you,
Its what you've all been waiting for. The Return of Natasha Yak.
Whilst I trekked the crazy town that was noo york city, with nothing but a dodgy accent, a see through dress and a song in my hair, I never imagined I'd have such an impact on the world. Tens, literally tens of you joined me on my quest, and I like to believe, bonded not only with me, but with each other, along the way. Relationships were kindled, my mum nearly had several heart attacks, I still have a few tender answermachine messages from Abdahl- there's talk of a motion picture, but lets not get ahead of ourselves.
So, after 6 weeks of Manhatten Madness, what could possibly tempt a sprightly young reader such as yourself to delve back into the reccesses of my mind? Well. Sure you've had the secrets of New York displayed like a naked sandwich, but what about the secrets of... Warrington? And possibly even Wigan- (Mum might need me to go with her to the vets later- my dog Barney is getting seriously skilled at weeing on antiques). Yeah? YEAH!
Ok I'll be honest. I'm bored. I'm dangerously bored. And I have a dissertation due in less than a month. The only thing that makes any sense is to start a blog. And anyway, I have a few bones to pick with this so called planet 'earth' (if that is its real name), that I'd like opinions on. So consider this my page of me talking about things that probably don't really matter, but DO actually matter in a massive way. And if I somehow end up near Astley or Bootle, so much the better. (Those reading from the South- dont worry. These places you've never heard of can't come and get you.)
So. I'd like to raise a question.
There's been a lot of films lately focussing on the 'bromance'- I'm talking the Judd Apattow films, the Knocked Up, Superbad, The Hangover. We've all seen them, we've all laughed, cried, all wondered at how a cinema can physically charge £5.80 for a box of 7 nachos and some cheese sauce and not consider itself a criminal establishment. My question is, and I know it seems obvious but I dont care, where are the girls? really? A Judd Apatow film (not including Funny People, which i've not seen) seems to go thusly-
A weird looking but hilarious guy + Another fatter weird looking but hilarious guy + A slightly disapproving but unbelievably attractive girl + an adventure she has no part in= Lots of male bonding, drunken frolicking and the happy conclusion of sex to come.
Is this an unfair judgement? I realise the 'point' of these films isn't 'wahey, all the genders ROCK! Every one of them!' But I do wonder why these film-makers don't seem to have any friends who are girls. It is because they are 'geeks but awesome in their own way'? Cos I gotta say, I have a lot of geekish but awesome in their own way boy friends, who I love and honour dearly not only as a human, but qutie literally as a girl. Is this a strange and freakish occurance, or have I been deluding myself all these years? When I walk out of a room to get beer or crisps, or a pen, or any number of the small objections that can fit inside my tiny girlish hands, do people turn and ask 'ok sure she exists, there's no doubt about that, but seriously, why is she here?'
The only reason I ask this question is because I had a conversation with some male friends whilst we were getting ready to go out to manchestaaa, where we were discussing the film 'The Hangover'. I merely stated that I didn't think the film was hilarious, more a jazzed up version of 'Dude, where's my car?' - a claim that I dont think is massively unfair. Come on. It wasn't that good. The bit with the tiger was pretty cool. And thats about it. And I was shot down like a mis-directed sparrow-hawk being attacked by a squid. The criticism was that 'you're a girl, so you don't really understand nights out like that.' Admittedly, the person who said these words is a complete moron. But it did get me thinking (NOT like Carrie Twat. NOT EVER LIKE HER)
I'm not questioning whether girls have the capacity to act like complete dicks, be freakin hilarious, drink, vomit, bond and looking like complete arseholes in front of the people they are attempting to seduce. I know this to be true. I painfully, shamefully, scars-on-my-legs-and-arms-and-more-importantly-in-my-soul know this to be horrifyingly true. My question is, why doesn't the world? Are these films just not getting written, do you reckon? Genuinely?
Personally, I have a theory:
that men and women will never be equal until boys believe, and i mean really, properly believe, in their minds and brains, that women poo. Simple as that. Until that toilet pedestal gets knocked down, the women of show bizzz and the women in boy's hearts will be the ones with the shiny teeth, the hair of spun gold and no history of bowel movements. Yeah sure, you can make pay the same, you can fight for women's sports, you can do all of these things that I can't think of another example for. But I'm telling you now. Until boys relinquish the poo-secret, we ladies aint got nothin.
Perhaps next time I shall have a tale to tell of Birchwood Asda and its hidden fascist depths, or the truth behind the Gregg's sausage and bean pasty, but until then, its just an angry rant about the lack of my people on the big screen. Carrie Twat and Co Do Not Count. Any takers?
Yakky x
Its what you've all been waiting for. The Return of Natasha Yak.
Whilst I trekked the crazy town that was noo york city, with nothing but a dodgy accent, a see through dress and a song in my hair, I never imagined I'd have such an impact on the world. Tens, literally tens of you joined me on my quest, and I like to believe, bonded not only with me, but with each other, along the way. Relationships were kindled, my mum nearly had several heart attacks, I still have a few tender answermachine messages from Abdahl- there's talk of a motion picture, but lets not get ahead of ourselves.
So, after 6 weeks of Manhatten Madness, what could possibly tempt a sprightly young reader such as yourself to delve back into the reccesses of my mind? Well. Sure you've had the secrets of New York displayed like a naked sandwich, but what about the secrets of... Warrington? And possibly even Wigan- (Mum might need me to go with her to the vets later- my dog Barney is getting seriously skilled at weeing on antiques). Yeah? YEAH!
Ok I'll be honest. I'm bored. I'm dangerously bored. And I have a dissertation due in less than a month. The only thing that makes any sense is to start a blog. And anyway, I have a few bones to pick with this so called planet 'earth' (if that is its real name), that I'd like opinions on. So consider this my page of me talking about things that probably don't really matter, but DO actually matter in a massive way. And if I somehow end up near Astley or Bootle, so much the better. (Those reading from the South- dont worry. These places you've never heard of can't come and get you.)
So. I'd like to raise a question.
There's been a lot of films lately focussing on the 'bromance'- I'm talking the Judd Apattow films, the Knocked Up, Superbad, The Hangover. We've all seen them, we've all laughed, cried, all wondered at how a cinema can physically charge £5.80 for a box of 7 nachos and some cheese sauce and not consider itself a criminal establishment. My question is, and I know it seems obvious but I dont care, where are the girls? really? A Judd Apatow film (not including Funny People, which i've not seen) seems to go thusly-
A weird looking but hilarious guy + Another fatter weird looking but hilarious guy + A slightly disapproving but unbelievably attractive girl + an adventure she has no part in= Lots of male bonding, drunken frolicking and the happy conclusion of sex to come.
Is this an unfair judgement? I realise the 'point' of these films isn't 'wahey, all the genders ROCK! Every one of them!' But I do wonder why these film-makers don't seem to have any friends who are girls. It is because they are 'geeks but awesome in their own way'? Cos I gotta say, I have a lot of geekish but awesome in their own way boy friends, who I love and honour dearly not only as a human, but qutie literally as a girl. Is this a strange and freakish occurance, or have I been deluding myself all these years? When I walk out of a room to get beer or crisps, or a pen, or any number of the small objections that can fit inside my tiny girlish hands, do people turn and ask 'ok sure she exists, there's no doubt about that, but seriously, why is she here?'
The only reason I ask this question is because I had a conversation with some male friends whilst we were getting ready to go out to manchestaaa, where we were discussing the film 'The Hangover'. I merely stated that I didn't think the film was hilarious, more a jazzed up version of 'Dude, where's my car?' - a claim that I dont think is massively unfair. Come on. It wasn't that good. The bit with the tiger was pretty cool. And thats about it. And I was shot down like a mis-directed sparrow-hawk being attacked by a squid. The criticism was that 'you're a girl, so you don't really understand nights out like that.' Admittedly, the person who said these words is a complete moron. But it did get me thinking (NOT like Carrie Twat. NOT EVER LIKE HER)
I'm not questioning whether girls have the capacity to act like complete dicks, be freakin hilarious, drink, vomit, bond and looking like complete arseholes in front of the people they are attempting to seduce. I know this to be true. I painfully, shamefully, scars-on-my-legs-and-arms-and-more-importantly-in-my-soul know this to be horrifyingly true. My question is, why doesn't the world? Are these films just not getting written, do you reckon? Genuinely?
Personally, I have a theory:
that men and women will never be equal until boys believe, and i mean really, properly believe, in their minds and brains, that women poo. Simple as that. Until that toilet pedestal gets knocked down, the women of show bizzz and the women in boy's hearts will be the ones with the shiny teeth, the hair of spun gold and no history of bowel movements. Yeah sure, you can make pay the same, you can fight for women's sports, you can do all of these things that I can't think of another example for. But I'm telling you now. Until boys relinquish the poo-secret, we ladies aint got nothin.
Perhaps next time I shall have a tale to tell of Birchwood Asda and its hidden fascist depths, or the truth behind the Gregg's sausage and bean pasty, but until then, its just an angry rant about the lack of my people on the big screen. Carrie Twat and Co Do Not Count. Any takers?
Yakky x
Monday, June 8, 2009
so, its come to the end
So. Here we are. Weird, isn't it? Feels a bit like when you have to do a big massive family goodbye after a heavy christmas, but kind of when you know the car isn't quite packed yet, you might bump into Aunty Pam in the hall 5 minutes after doing the big 'goodbye and thanks for the comb' thing with her, and so you keep it all quite short and jovial just in case, even though you might very well never ever see them again. Until next Christmas. Thats how I'm feeling about doing my final NY post.
And yes I finally did it. I promised I would, so I did- yesterday a pyschic came up to me and Lyds on the street and insisted that there was something about my past she just had to know more about. And by 'know more about', she of course meant 'let you pay for me to know more about'. It was 5 dollars, she said. Funnily enough I had a 5 dollar bill in my hand. Fate? God? L.Ron Hubbard? who knows. But you blog munchers demanded it, and so I could do nothing except obey.
So. Whats in my future? Who bloody knows. What a jip. Why do I keep letting strangers tell me how much is wrong with my personality? Last week or whatever it was my graph mirror that was getting me down in team Scientology, this week its my aura. Oh yeah, my aura is pretty bad. It should be gold, and apparently mine is grey. GREY. But, I was to discover, there was at least a logical reason for this.
'When you were concieved, somebody put a curse on your parents. A curse!'
Oh right.
'Its because of this curse that you live your life under this terrible negativity. You can feel it right? Right under your ribs?'
I could feel something. But I'm pretty sure it was a sinking feeling of wondering how much icecream i could have eaten for my five dollars worth. But still, stick it out eh?
'so my parents were... were cursed?'
She nodded seriously, staring at my palm.
'Oh dear.. thats.. thats rubbish. Erm. who cursed them?'
She peered at my hand. I did the same. Unless the culprits were called creasy mcfinger nail and Thumbs Wristington, I didn't think I would be able to see a name. Apparently she felt the same.
'I cant see right now. The negativity blocking it is too strong. You need.. you need. You need salt. From the seven seas. And a crystal. Only then, when I help you, will you be rid of this curse.'
I had a feeling this wasn't an offer for a charity cleansing.
'How much money do you have to start this journey?'
I was right. I smiled quite firmly, and said 'Oh, none. I'm afraid. None at all.'
'I can see in your face you are about to come into come money!'
Oh well thats very convienient.
'Yes, well, even so, I think I'll just live.. as I am.. for now. Thank you though. For the offer.'
'You dont want to find them? Find the ones who put the curse upon you? Caused your aura such pain?'
'n....no. Not. Not right now. I'm flying home in a couple of days so.. so that'll... you know, take up quite a lot of my time. Thanks again.'
OH though. She did tell me something else. Something MUCH better and really relieved a lot of worries that had been building up in my head. She told me that the person I'm in a relationship with now is the person i'm going to marry, and we're going to have two children. What a load off my mind. Anyone whose been wondering how it's all going to end with me and Jack- worry no more. Its all sorted. Though sadly, Jack didn't seem quite as excited as I'd hoped when I explained all this to him on skype later. When I told proudly how we were scientifically destined to marry and have two children, he replied with
'yeah, I probably don't even have swimmers.'
Which rather put a dampner on things. What the hell kind of celebration is that? Oh well. If she's as good a psychic as I think she is, we'll see who's laughing in the end.
Since I've come to the end of my 6 week jaunt into the loud unknown, I feel that now is a good time to reflect upon what has passed, and perhaps try and draw up some useful things I have discovered for the future. God. Can't believe its been 6 weeks since Abdahl offered me that Tuna wrap. This is pure and utter madess. Here we go then, lets see what happens here.
1. If you need a chat, head for a park and try and do something very much on your own- Company will find you.
2. Violins are a very bad impulse buy- especially for the surrounding customers.
3. Friends can come from unlikely places, including inside walls.
4. Piles of wood are sacred in some cultures.
5. Fish are brilliant.
6. Engrams are terrible
7. You can pay to watch penguins swim about in poo- other penguins' poo.
8. There are disadvantages to not having a full length mirror- Naked based disadvantages
9. There are advantages to not having a full length mirror- potentially lucrative naked advantages.
10. The smell of franchised joy can make you do anything
11. Yellow shoes should be given to those only with the power to control them.
12. Line drawings of girls on ponies can be the most disturbing thing you've ever seen- in the correct massive eye context.
13. Lydia King knows how to do New York properly.
14. I simply know how to find the mentals.
15. The King of the Jews is alive and well and awaiting a court hearing.
16. There is so much loud in New York that the sound of a weeping lesbian becomes more background humming than anything.
17. Never begin a conversation with a stranger with the words 'were you the one who raped...'
18. In theory- I care about cricket.
19. Massive pants can be strangely liberating.
20. Buying a cell phone can sometimes be classed as unwanted therapy.
and finally, of course
21. Never accept a tuna wrap from a stranger. Who knows what else you might be accepting.
Thank you, those who are reading, to have cared enough about my exploits to have come with me to the bitter end. For those who didnt read every post, you are a bastard. And you probably should.
Who knows, I might continue it on, though I'd imagine its a lot trickier blogging about the people you spent time with, when they are the people that read it. Hmmm.
For the last time then, this is Natasha Yak, fledgling scientologist, amateur nude model and head journalist at Hamlet and Cheese Sandwich, signing off. I'll see you on the other side.
xxx
And yes I finally did it. I promised I would, so I did- yesterday a pyschic came up to me and Lyds on the street and insisted that there was something about my past she just had to know more about. And by 'know more about', she of course meant 'let you pay for me to know more about'. It was 5 dollars, she said. Funnily enough I had a 5 dollar bill in my hand. Fate? God? L.Ron Hubbard? who knows. But you blog munchers demanded it, and so I could do nothing except obey.
So. Whats in my future? Who bloody knows. What a jip. Why do I keep letting strangers tell me how much is wrong with my personality? Last week or whatever it was my graph mirror that was getting me down in team Scientology, this week its my aura. Oh yeah, my aura is pretty bad. It should be gold, and apparently mine is grey. GREY. But, I was to discover, there was at least a logical reason for this.
'When you were concieved, somebody put a curse on your parents. A curse!'
Oh right.
'Its because of this curse that you live your life under this terrible negativity. You can feel it right? Right under your ribs?'
I could feel something. But I'm pretty sure it was a sinking feeling of wondering how much icecream i could have eaten for my five dollars worth. But still, stick it out eh?
'so my parents were... were cursed?'
She nodded seriously, staring at my palm.
'Oh dear.. thats.. thats rubbish. Erm. who cursed them?'
She peered at my hand. I did the same. Unless the culprits were called creasy mcfinger nail and Thumbs Wristington, I didn't think I would be able to see a name. Apparently she felt the same.
'I cant see right now. The negativity blocking it is too strong. You need.. you need. You need salt. From the seven seas. And a crystal. Only then, when I help you, will you be rid of this curse.'
I had a feeling this wasn't an offer for a charity cleansing.
'How much money do you have to start this journey?'
I was right. I smiled quite firmly, and said 'Oh, none. I'm afraid. None at all.'
'I can see in your face you are about to come into come money!'
Oh well thats very convienient.
'Yes, well, even so, I think I'll just live.. as I am.. for now. Thank you though. For the offer.'
'You dont want to find them? Find the ones who put the curse upon you? Caused your aura such pain?'
'n....no. Not. Not right now. I'm flying home in a couple of days so.. so that'll... you know, take up quite a lot of my time. Thanks again.'
OH though. She did tell me something else. Something MUCH better and really relieved a lot of worries that had been building up in my head. She told me that the person I'm in a relationship with now is the person i'm going to marry, and we're going to have two children. What a load off my mind. Anyone whose been wondering how it's all going to end with me and Jack- worry no more. Its all sorted. Though sadly, Jack didn't seem quite as excited as I'd hoped when I explained all this to him on skype later. When I told proudly how we were scientifically destined to marry and have two children, he replied with
'yeah, I probably don't even have swimmers.'
Which rather put a dampner on things. What the hell kind of celebration is that? Oh well. If she's as good a psychic as I think she is, we'll see who's laughing in the end.
Since I've come to the end of my 6 week jaunt into the loud unknown, I feel that now is a good time to reflect upon what has passed, and perhaps try and draw up some useful things I have discovered for the future. God. Can't believe its been 6 weeks since Abdahl offered me that Tuna wrap. This is pure and utter madess. Here we go then, lets see what happens here.
1. If you need a chat, head for a park and try and do something very much on your own- Company will find you.
2. Violins are a very bad impulse buy- especially for the surrounding customers.
3. Friends can come from unlikely places, including inside walls.
4. Piles of wood are sacred in some cultures.
5. Fish are brilliant.
6. Engrams are terrible
7. You can pay to watch penguins swim about in poo- other penguins' poo.
8. There are disadvantages to not having a full length mirror- Naked based disadvantages
9. There are advantages to not having a full length mirror- potentially lucrative naked advantages.
10. The smell of franchised joy can make you do anything
11. Yellow shoes should be given to those only with the power to control them.
12. Line drawings of girls on ponies can be the most disturbing thing you've ever seen- in the correct massive eye context.
13. Lydia King knows how to do New York properly.
14. I simply know how to find the mentals.
15. The King of the Jews is alive and well and awaiting a court hearing.
16. There is so much loud in New York that the sound of a weeping lesbian becomes more background humming than anything.
17. Never begin a conversation with a stranger with the words 'were you the one who raped...'
18. In theory- I care about cricket.
19. Massive pants can be strangely liberating.
20. Buying a cell phone can sometimes be classed as unwanted therapy.
and finally, of course
21. Never accept a tuna wrap from a stranger. Who knows what else you might be accepting.
Thank you, those who are reading, to have cared enough about my exploits to have come with me to the bitter end. For those who didnt read every post, you are a bastard. And you probably should.
Who knows, I might continue it on, though I'd imagine its a lot trickier blogging about the people you spent time with, when they are the people that read it. Hmmm.
For the last time then, this is Natasha Yak, fledgling scientologist, amateur nude model and head journalist at Hamlet and Cheese Sandwich, signing off. I'll see you on the other side.
xxx
Thursday, June 4, 2009
The King Has Arrived
Living on my own for so long, I often forget about girl things. I think I do try a bit harder when back in the real world, as society, decorum and the rules of not catching the plague so wilfully demand. By this I don't mean to go on some sort of mad feminist 'BURN IT ALL' type rant, I simply mean that when left to my own devices, I do prefer to inch towards the feral way of living. I simply just cannot be bothered with it. This is something I forgot to mention to Lydia, a girl that not only understands how the counters at MAC makeup work, but strides in confidently, ordering more lip..blast..shade 79.8 to complement the latest face.. sheen with the laserology complex and GET ME A LATTE GODDAMMIT, I'M DUE TO MEET GEORGIO IN 10. -except not in a bastard way, just in a 'this chick knows too much, dont try and screw her over' kind of way. You get my drift.
I met her from the train station with the happiness of one who is very very much looking forward to seeing her friend, and who also gets to show off their knowledge of New York. It was both gratifying and a bit more gratifying to see Lydia, being a seasoned London underground user, clinging to me on our first subway trip whispering in panic, 'never leave me.' Of course this morning she text me telling me its all well easy, but still. I'll always have that moment. We finally got her to my apartment, I proudly showed her the sink, a chair and many other items also under my command. She nodded, made appropriate noises and we sank into my room. She declared that showering was in order. I stated happily that yes, indeed, we have one of those as well. She then asked me if I had straighteners.
I've used straighteners maybe 5 times in my life. They confuse me a bit with their light saber physique and their heat that is made to hurt precious precious ears. I shook my head slowly. She asked me where my hair dryer was. I didn't actually bring one, I explained because.. because.. becuase I didn't actually bring one. We shared quite a slow look. Luckily, she told me, she already knew all of this about me, and had brought her own. Tragedy number 1 smartly sidestepped.
Now, she asked, was she OK to use my Shampoo and Conditioner, showergel and makeup remover. Ah. Shampoo and Conditioner, I fell over myself to say, yes! All yours! Enjoy with the power of someone who has control over how clean their hair is. Now.. as for shower gel and makeup remover..
Well, the thing is, quite early on in the trip, I left a bag of various liquids in a taxi, never got them back and as I still had some good ol' fashioned soap- soap, the item whose soul desire is to clean, I figured to be honest, whats the real difference? Body, face, they all need cleaning, and SOAP is the man for the job! Hurrah! Free! Hurrah!
Apparently this was not a time for celebration. It is difficult to describe the look on Lydia's face when I explained the soapy situation. But it was a bit like I'd calmly explained that there was a dead African boy in the bath that she'd have to step over to reach the shampoo. But hey, she's not going to complain, she's a lovely girl, she's in NY, she's happy! So, with only slight mutters of 'moisturising glove', 'exfoliating..powder' (may be paraphrasing here) she hopped shower bound, and left me to wonder whether my life is a very correct one. She emerged looking a little traumatised, her MAC makeup still clinging stubbornly to her eyes- I helpfully remarked that if she bought really cheap and crap makeup like I do, it would basically fall off her face as soon as she looked in the mirror. God bless you Collection 2000.
But still, she was here, I was here, and New York was looking cheekily in through the window. There was no time for a soap debate! With a final 'we'll buy some makeup remover today Tash, Ok?' we were OFF to experience NOO YORK CITY like it was the first time, and I was very very genuinely ridiculously happy. We decided to go to central park, it was all parky and wonderful, so wonderful and free of the crazies in fact that in a moment of delerium we decided to go to the Central Park zoo. Admittedly, looking back, this was a bit of an error. A small zoo, filled with 'a polar bear' oh that bear, is only ever going to inspire grief at the best of times. But hey, there was a SNOW LEOPARD on the front of the zoo map! They're pretty exciting, so exciting that you might forget how horribly small the zoo enclosures actually are. WE wandered first to the Tropic Zone, but discovered it was shut. A bit put out, we headed off to the Panda... Party (or whatever) to cheer us up a bit. Didn't really succeed, as it turned out it was shut. The polar bear looked as pissed off as we did. Only the sight of a leopard saved us - and it was the picture of the one on the map, as we realised fairly quickly that the leopard enclosure was shut. We agreed that we'd rather see the happy little fellow on the photo running wild and free than seeing a sad chain smoking cat looking up at us with the distain a prostitute gives to her ugliest punter. Going into the Penguin/Puffin Zone (they quite liked the work 'Zone'- and so did I, made me feel a bit like we were on the Crystal Maze), and walked in to instantly see a penguin pooing into the water, and another penguin swimming happily into it. Oh the glories of nature. I couldn't help overhearing a couple next to us, with the woman saying fervently 'oh look! its just like Happy Feet! Did you see Happy Feet?'
the man was silent for a second, and then said without looking at her, 'Yep. Couldn't stand it.'
By this point we were fairly soul-destroyed by the zoo, and felt we needed to go to a place where the exhibits on display were a bit happier, prettier and less expensive. Oh did we find it. Did we ever find it. Sure you could go to the MET, the MOMA and all those other 'art' places for your aesthetic overload, but we discovered somewhere far, far superior. Superior to the point of death. Lydia slowly guided me into a side of New York I had never seen, as my view had been blocked the crazies wielding broken computers. She showed me the world of...Abercrombie and Fitch. Oh. Dear. Lord.
Upon entering, the most beautiful girl I had ever seen bounded up to us and smiled, 'hi! Would you like a photo?' Before I could ask what she meant, the most beautiful man I had ever seen in my life came into view, shirtless, smiling, and waiting to pose. Myself and Lyds were so gosmacked by the beauty in the nearby vicinity we could do nothing but grin like mad fools as a polaroid was taken of us with beautiful man, and then, both of them grinning and waving, we were taken into what I can only describe as the happiest place in the world. The air vents were pumping out a scent called 'Fierce' that was a mixture between pure rugged joy and a really clean and brilliant wolf. Everyone in the shop was happy, dancing and so bloody beautiful you wanted to tear out your eyes and let them eat them. And the music. Oh the music. Some drug had been fazed into the music somehow, as all I could do was turn to Lyds and say 'Lydia.. this music... it makes me feel like.. like.. like I can do ANYTHING.' I looked into her eyes and saw the same hypnotised madness I felt in my own soul. Nothing good could come of this.
But the people though, you dont understand, they were SO happy, and dancey and chatty and BEAUTIFUL. I felt like I needed to savour every moment, because never ever again would such beautiful people look at me directly in the eyes and not slightly to the side for fear of catching something I had. It was amazing. So amazing that we both stumbled out about 7 hours later, dazed, half asleep and clutching bits of expensive material. We held them to our faces, breathed in slowly and whispered 'it smells.. it smells like them.'
Jesus. Thank you Lydia. Thank you for this gift you have shown me. There's no way I would have done this on my own. I probably would have bypassed the shop for an interesting looking 3 legged dog in a hat that limped down a nearby alley.
The final thing I have to mention in this post of hugeness, is that we went to the theatre in the evening, to see a production of Our Town, a play I'd never read, knew nothing about, but a play so famous in america that nowhere on the programme was there any information about the show. Apparently it would be a bit like writing on a Romeo and Juliet programme 'A play by Mr William Shakespeare (English)- who is dead good, about these two people who fall in love and that- not gonna give away the ending but it gets a bit nasty.' We went to the show partially because I'd heard really good things about, and mainly because Jenn Markowitz said she would hurt me if we didn't, and I just don't think she's a woman to make these claims lightly. She knew someone in it, a man called Jeff, who was to meet us for a drink after. All of this, you can imagine, made us very bloody worried we wouldn't like the show, we've have to sneak off at the interval, quit facebook and become children of the rivers- (not a life that would suit lydia). Fotunately, it was bloody brilliant. Thank God. The acting was subtle and lovely, the ensemble was ridiculously strong, the staging was just genius and there was a bit with a curtain that suddenly made you realise the sheer power of curtains. It was wonderful and thoughtful and made you, for want of a better way of putting it, really really glad you were alive. How ridiculous, I know, but its true. So well done everyone. It was good. Quite enough of that I think. We ended up in a bar with a few of the cast and crew, -it turned out we'd crashed Jeff's date, but at least made him buy us a drink to make up for it. After a great chat and lovely beer (mmm the taste of free), Jeff left to get a bus, leaving us a little awkwardly with all the people we didn't know. The only option at this stage was to arm wrestle the producer. That done, we skipped out into the rainy night and danced home- and howww nice it was to have someone else to discuss it all with other than my own brain (sorry brain, you're very nice too).
So yes. Wow. Sorry I've gone on and on. Waiting for the exterminator to come and free us of mice (I'll tell him to avoid Adrain) so I really have nothing to do until he breaks upon us. Oh and we've got bedbugs too. Lydia, I forgot to tell you that bit. If you're reading this now, we have. If you've got a bite, its a bedbug one. So don't worry that its plague. Cos its not. Its bedbugs. Hope thats ok. NEEWWWW YOOOORRKKKKKKKK!
I met her from the train station with the happiness of one who is very very much looking forward to seeing her friend, and who also gets to show off their knowledge of New York. It was both gratifying and a bit more gratifying to see Lydia, being a seasoned London underground user, clinging to me on our first subway trip whispering in panic, 'never leave me.' Of course this morning she text me telling me its all well easy, but still. I'll always have that moment. We finally got her to my apartment, I proudly showed her the sink, a chair and many other items also under my command. She nodded, made appropriate noises and we sank into my room. She declared that showering was in order. I stated happily that yes, indeed, we have one of those as well. She then asked me if I had straighteners.
I've used straighteners maybe 5 times in my life. They confuse me a bit with their light saber physique and their heat that is made to hurt precious precious ears. I shook my head slowly. She asked me where my hair dryer was. I didn't actually bring one, I explained because.. because.. becuase I didn't actually bring one. We shared quite a slow look. Luckily, she told me, she already knew all of this about me, and had brought her own. Tragedy number 1 smartly sidestepped.
Now, she asked, was she OK to use my Shampoo and Conditioner, showergel and makeup remover. Ah. Shampoo and Conditioner, I fell over myself to say, yes! All yours! Enjoy with the power of someone who has control over how clean their hair is. Now.. as for shower gel and makeup remover..
Well, the thing is, quite early on in the trip, I left a bag of various liquids in a taxi, never got them back and as I still had some good ol' fashioned soap- soap, the item whose soul desire is to clean, I figured to be honest, whats the real difference? Body, face, they all need cleaning, and SOAP is the man for the job! Hurrah! Free! Hurrah!
Apparently this was not a time for celebration. It is difficult to describe the look on Lydia's face when I explained the soapy situation. But it was a bit like I'd calmly explained that there was a dead African boy in the bath that she'd have to step over to reach the shampoo. But hey, she's not going to complain, she's a lovely girl, she's in NY, she's happy! So, with only slight mutters of 'moisturising glove', 'exfoliating..powder' (may be paraphrasing here) she hopped shower bound, and left me to wonder whether my life is a very correct one. She emerged looking a little traumatised, her MAC makeup still clinging stubbornly to her eyes- I helpfully remarked that if she bought really cheap and crap makeup like I do, it would basically fall off her face as soon as she looked in the mirror. God bless you Collection 2000.
But still, she was here, I was here, and New York was looking cheekily in through the window. There was no time for a soap debate! With a final 'we'll buy some makeup remover today Tash, Ok?' we were OFF to experience NOO YORK CITY like it was the first time, and I was very very genuinely ridiculously happy. We decided to go to central park, it was all parky and wonderful, so wonderful and free of the crazies in fact that in a moment of delerium we decided to go to the Central Park zoo. Admittedly, looking back, this was a bit of an error. A small zoo, filled with 'a polar bear' oh that bear, is only ever going to inspire grief at the best of times. But hey, there was a SNOW LEOPARD on the front of the zoo map! They're pretty exciting, so exciting that you might forget how horribly small the zoo enclosures actually are. WE wandered first to the Tropic Zone, but discovered it was shut. A bit put out, we headed off to the Panda... Party (or whatever) to cheer us up a bit. Didn't really succeed, as it turned out it was shut. The polar bear looked as pissed off as we did. Only the sight of a leopard saved us - and it was the picture of the one on the map, as we realised fairly quickly that the leopard enclosure was shut. We agreed that we'd rather see the happy little fellow on the photo running wild and free than seeing a sad chain smoking cat looking up at us with the distain a prostitute gives to her ugliest punter. Going into the Penguin/Puffin Zone (they quite liked the work 'Zone'- and so did I, made me feel a bit like we were on the Crystal Maze), and walked in to instantly see a penguin pooing into the water, and another penguin swimming happily into it. Oh the glories of nature. I couldn't help overhearing a couple next to us, with the woman saying fervently 'oh look! its just like Happy Feet! Did you see Happy Feet?'
the man was silent for a second, and then said without looking at her, 'Yep. Couldn't stand it.'
By this point we were fairly soul-destroyed by the zoo, and felt we needed to go to a place where the exhibits on display were a bit happier, prettier and less expensive. Oh did we find it. Did we ever find it. Sure you could go to the MET, the MOMA and all those other 'art' places for your aesthetic overload, but we discovered somewhere far, far superior. Superior to the point of death. Lydia slowly guided me into a side of New York I had never seen, as my view had been blocked the crazies wielding broken computers. She showed me the world of...Abercrombie and Fitch. Oh. Dear. Lord.
Upon entering, the most beautiful girl I had ever seen bounded up to us and smiled, 'hi! Would you like a photo?' Before I could ask what she meant, the most beautiful man I had ever seen in my life came into view, shirtless, smiling, and waiting to pose. Myself and Lyds were so gosmacked by the beauty in the nearby vicinity we could do nothing but grin like mad fools as a polaroid was taken of us with beautiful man, and then, both of them grinning and waving, we were taken into what I can only describe as the happiest place in the world. The air vents were pumping out a scent called 'Fierce' that was a mixture between pure rugged joy and a really clean and brilliant wolf. Everyone in the shop was happy, dancing and so bloody beautiful you wanted to tear out your eyes and let them eat them. And the music. Oh the music. Some drug had been fazed into the music somehow, as all I could do was turn to Lyds and say 'Lydia.. this music... it makes me feel like.. like.. like I can do ANYTHING.' I looked into her eyes and saw the same hypnotised madness I felt in my own soul. Nothing good could come of this.
But the people though, you dont understand, they were SO happy, and dancey and chatty and BEAUTIFUL. I felt like I needed to savour every moment, because never ever again would such beautiful people look at me directly in the eyes and not slightly to the side for fear of catching something I had. It was amazing. So amazing that we both stumbled out about 7 hours later, dazed, half asleep and clutching bits of expensive material. We held them to our faces, breathed in slowly and whispered 'it smells.. it smells like them.'
Jesus. Thank you Lydia. Thank you for this gift you have shown me. There's no way I would have done this on my own. I probably would have bypassed the shop for an interesting looking 3 legged dog in a hat that limped down a nearby alley.
The final thing I have to mention in this post of hugeness, is that we went to the theatre in the evening, to see a production of Our Town, a play I'd never read, knew nothing about, but a play so famous in america that nowhere on the programme was there any information about the show. Apparently it would be a bit like writing on a Romeo and Juliet programme 'A play by Mr William Shakespeare (English)- who is dead good, about these two people who fall in love and that- not gonna give away the ending but it gets a bit nasty.' We went to the show partially because I'd heard really good things about, and mainly because Jenn Markowitz said she would hurt me if we didn't, and I just don't think she's a woman to make these claims lightly. She knew someone in it, a man called Jeff, who was to meet us for a drink after. All of this, you can imagine, made us very bloody worried we wouldn't like the show, we've have to sneak off at the interval, quit facebook and become children of the rivers- (not a life that would suit lydia). Fotunately, it was bloody brilliant. Thank God. The acting was subtle and lovely, the ensemble was ridiculously strong, the staging was just genius and there was a bit with a curtain that suddenly made you realise the sheer power of curtains. It was wonderful and thoughtful and made you, for want of a better way of putting it, really really glad you were alive. How ridiculous, I know, but its true. So well done everyone. It was good. Quite enough of that I think. We ended up in a bar with a few of the cast and crew, -it turned out we'd crashed Jeff's date, but at least made him buy us a drink to make up for it. After a great chat and lovely beer (mmm the taste of free), Jeff left to get a bus, leaving us a little awkwardly with all the people we didn't know. The only option at this stage was to arm wrestle the producer. That done, we skipped out into the rainy night and danced home- and howww nice it was to have someone else to discuss it all with other than my own brain (sorry brain, you're very nice too).
So yes. Wow. Sorry I've gone on and on. Waiting for the exterminator to come and free us of mice (I'll tell him to avoid Adrain) so I really have nothing to do until he breaks upon us. Oh and we've got bedbugs too. Lydia, I forgot to tell you that bit. If you're reading this now, we have. If you've got a bite, its a bedbug one. So don't worry that its plague. Cos its not. Its bedbugs. Hope thats ok. NEEWWWW YOOOORRKKKKKKKK!
Monday, June 1, 2009
Conversation ii
There's a very big difference between trouble happening to you, and you happening to some trouble. Today, I discovered this for myself. And you all (and especially Katherine,) shall hear it.
I think, up till now I can say with an-admittedly small-degree of confidence that any madness that occurred to me, was mostly stumbled across, rather than sought out (with the exception of the Engrams, fair enough.) Today however, I heard the faint call of madness, and rather than turning up my sanity ipod, I ripped off my headphones and wandered happily towards the source. Why? well, why not eh?
So today it was lovely and sunny, and as I'd done weekendy worky things again, I had the day off and I decided that I wanted to go to the park to work on my tan. (Ha. By 'work on my tan', i obviously mean 'get ever more freckled.' If any member of my immediate family accidently step out of the shadows for 15 seconds, they turn the colour of a freshly baked fairy cake. If I lie in the sun for 9 hours, with no suncream and holding up a magnifying glass, all that happens is that my follicle freckle guards call for reinforcements. Major reinforcements. I end up looks like a child's puzzle. Very sad.)
Anyway, there I was, Central Park, soaking up that skyline. Central Park is massive, by the way. Really though. It just goes on and on. I thought to myself, before I leave, I really want to find the fountain that all the 'Friends' do all their happy frolicking in. Standing with these thoughts in the middle of a busy fieldy type bit, I hear a voice behind me, 'looking for somewhere to go?'
I look round, and a man of about perhaps 45, of Indian/puertorican origin (fact- he told me himself, so I'm not even le racist.) with long long silver hair all piled up on his head, one very wonky eye, carrying what looked like a broken computer monitor on a string in his arms. Clearly, this was the person I was meant to meet here.
I laughed, and said 'oh no, I'm just.. waiting, for my friend.'
A cunning and foolproof opening gambit, I'm sure you'll agree.
'Ah. Where is your friend? I shall show you the best parts of central park! Where are you from eh?'
I told him. Seemed like the sensible road to take.
'England! ahh I showed a girl from dublin around the other day! Lovely girl! Come, I can show you the water, the boats are beautiful! I shall show you!'
'But... my friend, erm...'
'Is this a male friend?'
I decided that he was. And I also decided that he was the kind of friend that would be really annoyed if I was late for a meeting. Bit annoying like that, very anal about things, but a good soul. Oh and freaking massive. He's built like a shed, I decided.
'Do you have a phone? You call him! Tell him you will be back in 10 minutes! I will just show you the boats! The fountain!'
Ok, ok. ok. I know what you're thinking (dad), you would be mad to go off with blah blah blah, probably actually a lion blah blah. But this was 2pm on a sunny monday afternoon. Central park was HEAVING with people. There was nowhere to hide anything. He had a gimpy eye. All of these things weighed in my favour in the 'but will he try and murder me' stakes that we invariably play with strangers. I had no plans. I wanted to see the fountain. but EVEN so, I was still leaning towards the 'no thanks, my massive mate will bloody do you if you try anything' type option. And then I noticed something that made me change my mind. On the broken computer monitor he was carrying, I noticed that on the back was a weird pencil sketching of a cartoon goth man. I pointed at it, and made noises
'Ahh yes. I found this! I found it, and i loved the way the lines were so strong, so strict. I decided to draw on it, mirror the lines with the man's strong face. I am an artist, you see.' The man had drawn on a broken computer monitor. In pencil. And then attached it to a bit of string and carried it round. I was sold. 'Ok sure, 10 minutes wont hurt eh?' I said brightly, and off we went, with me staying very much in the bright sunshine, and making lots of eyecontact with passing strangers, just in case.
'So, where abouts in England are you from?'
'Near Manchester, in the North.'
His face broke in a grin, 'ahhhh Manchester! You guys are my friends!'
Slightly confused by intrigued nevertheless, i waited for a reason. None came. In the end I couldnt take it, 'why are we your friends?'
He looked at me (sort of). 'I will teach you something now! Something I bet you didn't know! The people from Manchester, back in the 1600's, they smuggled in machetes for the people of puertorico! Against the wishes of the government! The people of Manchester gave weapons to the public, and gave them back their power! You see that is why they are called MACH-etes. After 'MANCH-ester!' eh?'
Now. I haven't look up the origin of the machete, I'll admit. maybe someone can set me right, but I always thought it had an Eastern birth. The idea that a 1600 Manquinian mobster had handed a bent sword over to the spanish on the down low hadn't really occured to me. So much had never occured to me that I had absolutely nothing to say. I thought for a bit. and then, after a while I said,
'Sorry, machetes.. invented in... in Manchester?'
He grinned and nodded.
'Manchester. The northern town in England?'
He breathed in the clean air and strode on. I suppose so.
So we continued to walk onwards, and soon reached the lovely fountainy rowing boat area, and I happily took touristy pictures, insisted that I got one of him, and waved away his offer to take one of me, a bit worried that he might grab it, shout 'oh! A camera! Invented in Skegness, 2006 by Kate Thornton!' and run away laughing.
This was going very well, I thought. I mean sure, he's obviously a bit of a mad, but he seems harmless enough, and hey, who am I to assume his historical knowledge isn't what really happened after all! Go Manchester! Saviour of the spanish people!
Sadly, all of a sudden, it had to go a bit wrong.
'You see, usually, down there, is where I do my Yoga.' He pointed towards a foresty grove with a sign outside it that read 'murderers cavern'.
'I'll show you? Show you the forest part?' He looked at me hopefully.
Suddenly my pissed off massive friend started to ring me. Silently. But he was ringing alright.
Oh the art of the 'fake phone conversation'. I have honed it over many years of not trusting taxi drivers when riding alone.
'Hi Mum, just on the way back now.. will be about 20 minutes..... yep. the registration plate? What do you want that number for?.. oh mum I'm sure it'll be fine.. mum come on... well.. alright if you insist... and the Taxi driver's name and licence number too? A physical description and any striking attributes? Oh you do worry mum don't you, you silly thing. But ok then...'
etc.
I got off the phone and informed my guide sadly that I really was due back at the grassy field. My date was very worried about me. His brow furrowed. 'No, wait, I just want to show you this area, its so beautiful, the light, really-'
'No, its just, I.. erm.. I really dont like heights.'
The foresty bit was on a slight incline. By all accounts, this was a fairly ridiculous thing to say.
'It... it isn't high.'
'yeahhhh but.. you know.. I get scared really easily, ahahaha, wont catch me up that empire state building, thats for sure hahahaha. hahaha.'
He looked at me sadly. The monitor drooped in a disappointed way.
'Ok, ok, I'll take you back. We'll go round.'
At this point I was thinking that everything really had gone wonderfully, and was congratulating myself on going with my computer art based instinct. Sadly, then things took a slight turn for the mad.
'You know, I am a lucky man!'
'Oh yes?'
'Last week, I came here, met a girl in the park, she ended up taking me to a fancy hotel bar, bought me champange! 4 glasses for 100 dollars! We ended up at a party, and only parted ways at 6 in the morning, it was wonderful.'
He looked sideways at me (obviously), and a bit hopefully. I kicked a leaf.
'Shannon, her name was. She was a lawyer!'
I suddenly wondered whether that lawyer was the same one the subway naked man had gotten to pose for him. It seems that 'having a lawyer' involved in some way is the benchmark by which you an call yourself not a mad. As I was musing back on the hilarity of the naked subwayer, my companion said
'You know, I am an artist, I often ask girls to model for me. But usually we go out to dinner first, as you know, they get, they worry about me, they think I am frightening.'
I nodded, hoping he'd take from that whatever he wanted.
'Do you think that you would like to-'
'WOW central park is huge isn't it!' I said VERY loudly, DETERMINED that I was not going to end up in another ridiculous subwayer situation. Even if he wasn't going to say that. Not worth the risk. Not the greatest observation, to be sure, but it was all I had on the spot.
We were nearing the field again now, and crunching through a bit of leafy-tree-y bit, he said huskily 'this area is, is very romantic, yes?'
I decided to have a brisk coughing fit.
We reached the opening of the field-y bit, and it suddenly occured to me that he might assume he was walking me TO me friend. my friend who, on the whole, didn't exist. Oh dear.
'What are you doing tomorrow?'
'oh erm.. I dont know.. my, my flatmate is organising something for us to.. do. I think, erm-'
'Do you have the internet?'
'Its just gone down actually.'
'Do you have an email address?'
Yes. Yes I did. NatashaYak@gmail.com was back to the rescue, despite her terrible personality problems.
'I will email you, we can meet up again! I'll show you the cove.'
I made some sort of noise, and tried to walk away in the most final, well, see you later then, way possible. He continued to step with me. Dismayed, I stopped, and wondered what the hell I was going to do. As my mind was full of fretting, he said
'I don't do abdominal work-out, you know.'
'I'm sorry?'
'Its all Yoga. You see my chest? Touch it.'
I politely declined.
'I don't do any crunches, anything like that. It's all just Yoga.'
I assured him that I could believe it. Shook his hand. And bid him farewall. I started to walk away, but did a little look round on the pretence of a final wave and he was STILL bloody watching me, looking a bit confused. 'Your friend?'
I nodded wildly, and then.. oh and then.. oh god.
I saw a man (yes) walking in the same direction as me (ie AWAY from Yoga) and without thinking (WHY without thinking???) caught him up, and apologised. Step one, always apologise to a stranger for no reason. That out of the way, I quickly explained that I needed him to pretend to be my friend for the next thirty seconds, so that a man who had sort of ish started following me a bit would leave me alone. Oh dear. Oh the shame.
The man, was ,not surprisingly, rather surprised. And I apologised again. Its what we Brits do best. Then I thanked him. We do that well too. I looked round one more time and Yoga was walking away. What a mess I am. Spencer- my best friend- asked me, interrupting my alternate thanks and apologies, when he started following me. And, well.. well he didn't, did he? It was all my fault. I made up some lie, as seems to be my custom these days about him talking to me at the fountain, left out the bit where I was entranced by a line drawing of a computer goth, and thanked him again. Bemusedly, he said it was fine, we turned a corner and went our seperate ways. 5 weeks in New York and I've finally done it. I've become a mad. Maybe Yoga came to this city as a fresh British girl set on a 6 week internship, but his fascination with the crazies landed him with long silvery hair, a funny eye and a penchant for expensive champagne. I just glimpsed my future, and its not looking good. Oh well. At least I'll have superior upper arm strength, and I'll never even need an abdominal workout.
I think, up till now I can say with an-admittedly small-degree of confidence that any madness that occurred to me, was mostly stumbled across, rather than sought out (with the exception of the Engrams, fair enough.) Today however, I heard the faint call of madness, and rather than turning up my sanity ipod, I ripped off my headphones and wandered happily towards the source. Why? well, why not eh?
So today it was lovely and sunny, and as I'd done weekendy worky things again, I had the day off and I decided that I wanted to go to the park to work on my tan. (Ha. By 'work on my tan', i obviously mean 'get ever more freckled.' If any member of my immediate family accidently step out of the shadows for 15 seconds, they turn the colour of a freshly baked fairy cake. If I lie in the sun for 9 hours, with no suncream and holding up a magnifying glass, all that happens is that my follicle freckle guards call for reinforcements. Major reinforcements. I end up looks like a child's puzzle. Very sad.)
Anyway, there I was, Central Park, soaking up that skyline. Central Park is massive, by the way. Really though. It just goes on and on. I thought to myself, before I leave, I really want to find the fountain that all the 'Friends' do all their happy frolicking in. Standing with these thoughts in the middle of a busy fieldy type bit, I hear a voice behind me, 'looking for somewhere to go?'
I look round, and a man of about perhaps 45, of Indian/puertorican origin (fact- he told me himself, so I'm not even le racist.) with long long silver hair all piled up on his head, one very wonky eye, carrying what looked like a broken computer monitor on a string in his arms. Clearly, this was the person I was meant to meet here.
I laughed, and said 'oh no, I'm just.. waiting, for my friend.'
A cunning and foolproof opening gambit, I'm sure you'll agree.
'Ah. Where is your friend? I shall show you the best parts of central park! Where are you from eh?'
I told him. Seemed like the sensible road to take.
'England! ahh I showed a girl from dublin around the other day! Lovely girl! Come, I can show you the water, the boats are beautiful! I shall show you!'
'But... my friend, erm...'
'Is this a male friend?'
I decided that he was. And I also decided that he was the kind of friend that would be really annoyed if I was late for a meeting. Bit annoying like that, very anal about things, but a good soul. Oh and freaking massive. He's built like a shed, I decided.
'Do you have a phone? You call him! Tell him you will be back in 10 minutes! I will just show you the boats! The fountain!'
Ok, ok. ok. I know what you're thinking (dad), you would be mad to go off with blah blah blah, probably actually a lion blah blah. But this was 2pm on a sunny monday afternoon. Central park was HEAVING with people. There was nowhere to hide anything. He had a gimpy eye. All of these things weighed in my favour in the 'but will he try and murder me' stakes that we invariably play with strangers. I had no plans. I wanted to see the fountain. but EVEN so, I was still leaning towards the 'no thanks, my massive mate will bloody do you if you try anything' type option. And then I noticed something that made me change my mind. On the broken computer monitor he was carrying, I noticed that on the back was a weird pencil sketching of a cartoon goth man. I pointed at it, and made noises
'Ahh yes. I found this! I found it, and i loved the way the lines were so strong, so strict. I decided to draw on it, mirror the lines with the man's strong face. I am an artist, you see.' The man had drawn on a broken computer monitor. In pencil. And then attached it to a bit of string and carried it round. I was sold. 'Ok sure, 10 minutes wont hurt eh?' I said brightly, and off we went, with me staying very much in the bright sunshine, and making lots of eyecontact with passing strangers, just in case.
'So, where abouts in England are you from?'
'Near Manchester, in the North.'
His face broke in a grin, 'ahhhh Manchester! You guys are my friends!'
Slightly confused by intrigued nevertheless, i waited for a reason. None came. In the end I couldnt take it, 'why are we your friends?'
He looked at me (sort of). 'I will teach you something now! Something I bet you didn't know! The people from Manchester, back in the 1600's, they smuggled in machetes for the people of puertorico! Against the wishes of the government! The people of Manchester gave weapons to the public, and gave them back their power! You see that is why they are called MACH-etes. After 'MANCH-ester!' eh?'
Now. I haven't look up the origin of the machete, I'll admit. maybe someone can set me right, but I always thought it had an Eastern birth. The idea that a 1600 Manquinian mobster had handed a bent sword over to the spanish on the down low hadn't really occured to me. So much had never occured to me that I had absolutely nothing to say. I thought for a bit. and then, after a while I said,
'Sorry, machetes.. invented in... in Manchester?'
He grinned and nodded.
'Manchester. The northern town in England?'
He breathed in the clean air and strode on. I suppose so.
So we continued to walk onwards, and soon reached the lovely fountainy rowing boat area, and I happily took touristy pictures, insisted that I got one of him, and waved away his offer to take one of me, a bit worried that he might grab it, shout 'oh! A camera! Invented in Skegness, 2006 by Kate Thornton!' and run away laughing.
This was going very well, I thought. I mean sure, he's obviously a bit of a mad, but he seems harmless enough, and hey, who am I to assume his historical knowledge isn't what really happened after all! Go Manchester! Saviour of the spanish people!
Sadly, all of a sudden, it had to go a bit wrong.
'You see, usually, down there, is where I do my Yoga.' He pointed towards a foresty grove with a sign outside it that read 'murderers cavern'.
'I'll show you? Show you the forest part?' He looked at me hopefully.
Suddenly my pissed off massive friend started to ring me. Silently. But he was ringing alright.
Oh the art of the 'fake phone conversation'. I have honed it over many years of not trusting taxi drivers when riding alone.
'Hi Mum, just on the way back now.. will be about 20 minutes..... yep. the registration plate? What do you want that number for?.. oh mum I'm sure it'll be fine.. mum come on... well.. alright if you insist... and the Taxi driver's name and licence number too? A physical description and any striking attributes? Oh you do worry mum don't you, you silly thing. But ok then...'
etc.
I got off the phone and informed my guide sadly that I really was due back at the grassy field. My date was very worried about me. His brow furrowed. 'No, wait, I just want to show you this area, its so beautiful, the light, really-'
'No, its just, I.. erm.. I really dont like heights.'
The foresty bit was on a slight incline. By all accounts, this was a fairly ridiculous thing to say.
'It... it isn't high.'
'yeahhhh but.. you know.. I get scared really easily, ahahaha, wont catch me up that empire state building, thats for sure hahahaha. hahaha.'
He looked at me sadly. The monitor drooped in a disappointed way.
'Ok, ok, I'll take you back. We'll go round.'
At this point I was thinking that everything really had gone wonderfully, and was congratulating myself on going with my computer art based instinct. Sadly, then things took a slight turn for the mad.
'You know, I am a lucky man!'
'Oh yes?'
'Last week, I came here, met a girl in the park, she ended up taking me to a fancy hotel bar, bought me champange! 4 glasses for 100 dollars! We ended up at a party, and only parted ways at 6 in the morning, it was wonderful.'
He looked sideways at me (obviously), and a bit hopefully. I kicked a leaf.
'Shannon, her name was. She was a lawyer!'
I suddenly wondered whether that lawyer was the same one the subway naked man had gotten to pose for him. It seems that 'having a lawyer' involved in some way is the benchmark by which you an call yourself not a mad. As I was musing back on the hilarity of the naked subwayer, my companion said
'You know, I am an artist, I often ask girls to model for me. But usually we go out to dinner first, as you know, they get, they worry about me, they think I am frightening.'
I nodded, hoping he'd take from that whatever he wanted.
'Do you think that you would like to-'
'WOW central park is huge isn't it!' I said VERY loudly, DETERMINED that I was not going to end up in another ridiculous subwayer situation. Even if he wasn't going to say that. Not worth the risk. Not the greatest observation, to be sure, but it was all I had on the spot.
We were nearing the field again now, and crunching through a bit of leafy-tree-y bit, he said huskily 'this area is, is very romantic, yes?'
I decided to have a brisk coughing fit.
We reached the opening of the field-y bit, and it suddenly occured to me that he might assume he was walking me TO me friend. my friend who, on the whole, didn't exist. Oh dear.
'What are you doing tomorrow?'
'oh erm.. I dont know.. my, my flatmate is organising something for us to.. do. I think, erm-'
'Do you have the internet?'
'Its just gone down actually.'
'Do you have an email address?'
Yes. Yes I did. NatashaYak@gmail.com was back to the rescue, despite her terrible personality problems.
'I will email you, we can meet up again! I'll show you the cove.'
I made some sort of noise, and tried to walk away in the most final, well, see you later then, way possible. He continued to step with me. Dismayed, I stopped, and wondered what the hell I was going to do. As my mind was full of fretting, he said
'I don't do abdominal work-out, you know.'
'I'm sorry?'
'Its all Yoga. You see my chest? Touch it.'
I politely declined.
'I don't do any crunches, anything like that. It's all just Yoga.'
I assured him that I could believe it. Shook his hand. And bid him farewall. I started to walk away, but did a little look round on the pretence of a final wave and he was STILL bloody watching me, looking a bit confused. 'Your friend?'
I nodded wildly, and then.. oh and then.. oh god.
I saw a man (yes) walking in the same direction as me (ie AWAY from Yoga) and without thinking (WHY without thinking???) caught him up, and apologised. Step one, always apologise to a stranger for no reason. That out of the way, I quickly explained that I needed him to pretend to be my friend for the next thirty seconds, so that a man who had sort of ish started following me a bit would leave me alone. Oh dear. Oh the shame.
The man, was ,not surprisingly, rather surprised. And I apologised again. Its what we Brits do best. Then I thanked him. We do that well too. I looked round one more time and Yoga was walking away. What a mess I am. Spencer- my best friend- asked me, interrupting my alternate thanks and apologies, when he started following me. And, well.. well he didn't, did he? It was all my fault. I made up some lie, as seems to be my custom these days about him talking to me at the fountain, left out the bit where I was entranced by a line drawing of a computer goth, and thanked him again. Bemusedly, he said it was fine, we turned a corner and went our seperate ways. 5 weeks in New York and I've finally done it. I've become a mad. Maybe Yoga came to this city as a fresh British girl set on a 6 week internship, but his fascination with the crazies landed him with long silvery hair, a funny eye and a penchant for expensive champagne. I just glimpsed my future, and its not looking good. Oh well. At least I'll have superior upper arm strength, and I'll never even need an abdominal workout.
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