Last weekend I headed over to one of the best refuelling spots I know - Złoty Osioł (The Golden Donkey), a fantastic vegetarian restaurant and perhaps the only one within 100km. I was ambling along with a Polish friend of mine and despite nursing a bit of a sore head caused by too much partying (if that's possible) the night before he was on great form.
He'd really enjoyed himself and was keen to tell me all the gory details and so I listened, as he recounted tales of drunken debauchery. It started with the usual chatter about places and faces but became more interesting when he suddenly got visibly animated. He's been single for about a year now since he split up with his girlfriend of five years. It hit him pretty badly, actually. Some people don't do so well on their own and he is one of them.
Anyway, what he'd wanted to say was that whilst he had been on the dance floor a good-looking woman had started chatting to him. Basically, she came on to him whilst he was dancing.
Only he didn't say that. He omitted one crucial word. I took his comment in isolation (what else could I do) and almost fell over. It took me a full minute to get out of him what had actually happened and, to be honest, I don't think it was my dirty mind in action here, as he seemed so incredibly energetic about the whole experience.
I don't think my day has ever been made by a phrasal verb and although it's close it has probably beaten the pasta moment I had in Italy in October. Some days I love living abroad.
I think it’s fair to say that definitions vary from person to person. You need look no further than the social networking sites for proof of that. So, with such sites in mind, I suppose I’ve come to realise that my notion of friendship may well be different from that of some of the people I’ve come into contact with over the years. I should add that I’m saying this as someone who’s recently chosen to have his Facebook account expunged due to this very obvious difference in attitudes.
So. When does a social networking site become an anti-social networking site? Well, if you’ve ever found yourself making audible noises followed by a pursing of the lips when someone has poked you or vampire bitten you or invited you to join a group (the membership of which should mean an automatic bar to civilised society) or has merely prodded you to browse photos of their latest DIY project, office party or rainy caravan holiday in Wales then you’ll understand what I mean.
I was, at times, overwhelmed by the number of ‘friends’ I had on Facebook and, in all honesty, that I really did give less than two hoots about. People that I had known for a couple of years at school or had met via a friend of a friend at a party, for example. People I had actively avoided in person were now able to interact with me, able to see what I was doing in my life and more disturbingly were able to comment on it. In truth, I never should have accepted their invitations but, for all my moaning, curiosity and politeness rule me.
What also unnerves me (and, in fact, leads me to question my own value as a social animal on occasion) is that there are people I spent a lot of time with in England who I barely keep in contact with. Even then when an email drops into my inbox I feel pretty much nonplussed. No waves of elation or giddy feelings of joy wash over me. Invitations to parties, weddings and other such gatherings are all politely passed up by me, as I, time and again, play the ex-pat status card for a soft social landing and people-pleasing answer in the negative.
I sometimes worry about my capacity for isolating myself from some of the people I know. Is it possible for one person to change so much that they no longer feel a connection with some of the people who were once such a part of their almost daily life?
It’s unlikely that I’ll ever meet any of you, dear readers. Unlikely that we’ll ever sit down over a drink and chat about everything and nothing but that’s ok. I’m all right with that. It’s enough to read a little about your lives, your thoughts and, on occasion, your doubts. It’s life at its most honest, unencumbered by the pressure of people’s previous assessments of us.
The problem with ‘friends’ is that so often in their eyes we are static. We will forever be the person they met at the beginning. Our desire for growth, for personal development and all the associated eye-opening pleasures that it brings will be wasted on them. We know this and it restricts our openness with them. It makes many of us not so much dishonest as less honest.
So, I’ve come to realise that we must spend less time on these ‘friends’ and instead focus solidly and unwaveringly on our true friends. The people who make us feel more than we are. The people who contribute and comfort and, with us, weather the odd shower that passes our way. Friends are the people we think of and worry about. Their happiness and life is important to us and we celebrate with them in times of happiness and support them in times of sadness or upheaval. For true friendship distance is not a measurement of quality and neither is frequency of meeting. Many of the people I consider to be good friends (people who make me feel alive and who I am always overjoyed to hear from) live nowhere near me: There is Tim in Morocco, James and Marie (who got married on Saturday – sorry I couldn’t be there!) in Japan, Samantha in Canada and Greg and Toco in Thailand.
The point I’m trying to make is that my mood is always lifted when I see a message from them in my inbox. I’m always keen to see their pictures and to read their words that describe the comings and goings of their life and that paint pictures that stay with me.
We are all looking for a tribe so perhaps social networks serve the most important purpose. Perhaps they bring into focus what is really important to us, what we look for in friends and what we in turn hope to bring to the friendship party. They show us what is undesirable and cross out what deep down we don’t want thereby leaving us with a clear image and list (for lack of a better word) of people who are important to us.
I’m happy that I’ve binned the Facebook club. It’s made me less lazy in keeping in contact with my real friends. It’s true that there is no longer the safety net of a social network but this can only be a good thing, as real friendship requires thoughtfulness and contact not a slapdash comment and a glance at someone’s status.
Life after Facebook can be no bad thing. After all, everything in life should be about quality not quantity and that’s an adage that’s stood the test of time.
At the beginning of May last year I took a trip with some friends to Bratislava, Vienna and Prague. Eight months is quite a long time but luckily it is still so clear in my mind. I hope you enjoy it.
From happy sigh blues and yellows to varying shades of soulless grey: Overnight the weather had spitefully changed from friend to foe and whilst some may have taken it as an omen we were far too busy talking ten to the dozen about what adventures lay before us on our short but well-packed tour, which would take us from Poland through Bratislava to Vienna before finishing with beer and Kafka in Prague.
At the earliest possible hour we boarded a fantastically old fashioned looking train at Katowice, disappeared into the deep seats of a small and fusty compartment and gently chugged southwards at about 20mph for five short hours. Polish trains are famous for their speeds and it takes an eternity to get around the country. A 50 mile journey can easily take you 1hr 40mins, however on that day we were happy just to enjoy the journey, the scenery and the excitement in each other’s voices.
Arriving bright eyed in Bratislava we excitedly exited the station to meet the sun and get our bearings before heading off to hunt for our digs. For one reason or another we hadn’t booked a hostel and it became painfully apparent after chatting with the almost overly helpful hostel hostess that every cheap and cheerful place in Bratislava was packed to the rafters and that the only option was a cheerful but far from cheap hotel. Now this was probably a well-established scam on the part of the hostel/hotel especially as the better-dressed Dutch guys in front of us were directed to a different and significantly more expensive hotel than us. Looking, as every traveller should, at the positives, the Dutch guys had been to all of the other hostels in Bratislava thereby saving us the wasting our time. A silver lining if only a thin one.
It was no matter, as that day, buoyed with the prospect of adventure, we were as far from weary as can be and in fact had already decided to trot on to Vienna after being fed, watered and placed out in the Bratislava sun to soak up as much as possible in the time.
Bratislava is a joy to walk around with its abundance of trees and green spaces dotted with historically and locally relevant statues and its curious alleyways leading to secluded courtyards and refreshing fountains and ivy-covered walls.
The visual parade doesn’t stop there, however, as just a few minutes walk from the main part of the city there is a wonderful blend of buildings, some rejuvenated and others beautifully aged and decaying from all the effort of city living. We all wished that we’d had more time to explore as we had the distinct feeling that only the surface had been caressed.
On the train journey from Katowice there had been bold talk of staying out all night in the numerous bars, cafes, and clubs of Bratislava and then resting the next morning in a sun tickled park to recuperate before beginning our westwards journey to Vienna. As it was Bratislava seemed closed on Sundays with those bars, cafes, and clubs so numerous offering nothing but closed signs and anything but the promise of a long night ahead.
So with our ‘what if’ thoughts hanging heavy in our heads we ambled in the evening sun through the cobbled streets that demanded more time and along the tree-lined paths that cried out for more attention, more appreciation, and back to the station.
Perhaps it was only the evening colours that had transformed Bratislava into another place, one that appeared calmer, more inviting in its call, or perhaps it was the very real understanding that we had failed to give it what it deserved, that left us feeling low. We had merely flirted with Bratislava and, as with so many flirtations, the experience was to stay with us long after the stunning scenery of the Slovakian/Austrian border area flowed easily past and the outskirts of Vienna came into view.
Vienna was to be a very different place to Bratislava.
I’ve always thought of travel as an excitable child with a bubble-maker: The bubbles tumbling out in a captivating cascade before popping in glistening showers of emotion. As every traveller knows, with any trip there is a very real necessity for Carping The Diem, as Stephen Fry once put it but what of trips of a less specific duration? What of working abroad and the relaxing of time pressures that brings?
Having committed the grievous crime against the self of graduating with a degree in Economics I was sentenced to an indeterminate sentence in the financial sector wing of the English hard labour market. What followed were five long years of digging through the seemingly solid rock of debt that separates most graduates from freedom or, more accurately, freedom of choice.
After many Sunday nights of stomach turning dread, a sickening amount of debt repayment and much brow-furrowing, I stumbled across the perfect job: A job that would provide me with a steady flow of exciting experiences and ample avenues for child-like awe and all all far from the shores of dear old Blighty. What was this perfect job? Why, the teaching of English as a foreign language, of course!
So, on a brighter than usual day in September 2005 I escaped from the chain gang of paper pushers and desk jockeys and ventured out beyond the white cliffs to Kokura on the north eastern point of Kyushu, Japan’s third largest island.
Looking back I’m not really sure what mental preparations can be made for a place like Japan. There’s certainly no social kit bag or emotional Swiss Army knife to help your adjustment to this very different and very wonderful place. The same is true, to a certain extent, of Poland, as whilst it is European its customs and people have been etched with a very different tool from those of the English speaking nations who seem to share some commonality.
Like time, the bubble machine never stops so how do you ensure it keeps churning out happy, energetic and exciting bubbles? The best way I have found is to make friends with the locals, as at the very least, it provides anchorage and prevents you from drifting into the windless waters of an expat lifestyle. No man is an island but unfortunately TEFL can be Tenerife if you allow it to be. However, that’s not to say that a dose of homeward-looking chat about, amongst other things, how much better the English are at roasting potatoes isn’t welcome because it is!
I’ve lost count the amount of times I’ve said ‘Wow!’ in the past two and a bit years and there are memories enough that I don’t think I’d get bored even if I were shipwrecked on a desert island for years.
In Japan, among other things, I enjoyed Chūhai-fuelled barefoot piggy back racing, numerous 5am ramen sittings (yum!), Hanami (cherry blossom), all manner of interesting foods from crab brains to horse sashimi, shared a hiker’s hut on Yakushima island with about 20 snoring Japanese, danced New Year’s eve away in Tokyo before heading to Meiji Shrine to welcome in the New Year, temple-hopped in Kyoto, shindigged in Fukuoka and, of course, took part in numerous sessions of loud and talent-free karaoke one of which included a duet to Love Shack in Arnold Schwarzenegger accents (surprisingly effective actually).
And my time in Poland has, so far, been just as fun with Polish versus Foreigners snowball fights in the streets of Katowice (we won although only after resorting to viciously dirty tactics), roller coaster tram rides, the supping of fantastic beers, skiing in Poland and Slovakia, hiking in the Beskid Śląski mountains, and trips to Krakow, Bratislava, Vienna and Prague whilst the whole time enjoying the company of the incredibly warm and funny Polish tribe.
So, first Japan and then Poland (and Italy for a little bit) but what happens when it’s time to settle, time to commit to a place and its people with all their quirks and mystery? Most teachers settle in one place because, well, they fall in love and I am no exception. I am, however, doubly lucky to have done so in a country that is so perfectly positioned for exploring the surrounding countries should you want a break from the forests, lakes and castles that fill this very rich country.
One further (and warming) benefit of living abroad is that you come to appreciate the beauty of your own country every time you return there for a visit. For me England is a land with incredibly diverse scenery: From the breathtaking Lake District with its pools of crisp waters nestled in amongst mountains to the purple heather drenched moorland of Exmoor, which drops dramatically where it meets the sea. The scenery, traditions and even the weather become somehow enhanced when you live abroad. England isn’t soaked in rain everyday its beauty is frequently cleansed. So perhaps T.S Elliot put it best when he wrote of knowing a place for the first time upon returning to it having explored other places.
I love England but I love it all the more because I don’t live there and so whilst the good bubbles keep on popping I think I’ll stay here, happy and contented, in the middle of Euroland. I'm very lucky.
I leave you with a short movie that I took from the top of Mt. Adachi, a short walk from my apartment in Kokura.
Note: The best thing about the movie is actually the music.
As I blurted out before, I've very much caught the skiing bug and am utterly at its mercy. The timing was so perfect, however, as I've got a little bit of time off work at the moment.
And to make sure that the time away from the coal face is as fun-filled as humanly possible and not an opportunity wasted I've arranged a couple of day trips to the mountains with a friend. I've even bought my own boots and skis as rental ones almost disabled me last time with their lack of fit.
So, time off work - check. Own ski equipment - check. Snow - snow? snow? Where's the snow?!
Well, it looks as though some Aslan-like creature has vanished it all away. Is there any chance that a lovely big snowy weather front will bundle into Polish airspace and dump a hefty amount of the powdery white stuff on the mountains?
Doesn't look like it. So what do I do now? I'm pretty much bored with wearing my skis in the apartment and to be honest they're a little dangerous when I'm in the kitchen. So what now?!
I have a new concentration-grabbing passion and whilst passions of the hobby variety always tend to be rather fleeting with me this one could be a worthwhile winner. Mind you, that being said, I've thought this before on many an occasion. A few years ago, at vast expense to the Bank of Flowers, I purchased some extra long golf clubs (long for no other reason than me being a tall soul). However, after venturing out onto the course a few times I quickly realised that the golfing set were undoubtedly not for me. They're so horrifically serious! You've got to be quiet, you've got to be sensible, oh, and you've got to ooze pedantry like it's going out of fashion. And the 19th Hole personal play commentary was enough to.... OK, I'm going to stop there because I'm boring myself just thinking about it.
Why do so many people associate being an adult with being serious? In our jobs we must usually be serious; we must play a role, a responsible role at that, but surely, surely, in our personal lives there is little room for self-imposed seriousness. Life throws up enough things to be serious about without us actively approaching more things with our seriousness hat on, doesn't it?
But SKIING!!! I am a true and unquestioning convert. I love mountains and in them is my favourite place of all to be. I'm always at my happiest when I'm away from man and woman-made things and snow seems to convey such a powerful sense of purity that it's all so easy to be entranced by the experience. Couple this feeling of appreciation with adrenaline and it's a heady mix.
I had the chance to go skiing for two days over the New Year period and now I need more. The Polish mountains are a beautiful sight and my girlfriend was long-suffering enough to teach me what I needed to know to get going and stay going. Bless her.
There's talk of a trip to Soszów on Saturday. Fingers crossed!!!
I hope all of your New Year's celebrations were as fun-filled as mine. I had the hangover from hell one day due to Polish hospitality combined with their ridiculous capacity for vodka consumption. Ouch.
UPDATE: This post can also be seen over at the online travel magazine, The Weekly Wanderer.
New Year's Eve is almost here!!! A-l-l-l-l-most-hee-yar!
In a few hours I'm heading back to Poland and my girlfriend. I've bought new winter wear including a great hat, as on Sunday we're heading, with a clutch of Poles (not sure if that's the correct collective noun for Polish people), to Ochotnica Dolna about 65 miles from Krakow for our New Year's celebration.
I've been asked to drive my friend's car as she's getting plastered tonight at a big family party. Left-hand drive: I had some practise in Italy but it was without an audience. I hope I don't make an idiot of myself.
Anyway, whatever it is you are doing this holiday I hope it brings you much fun and laughter. Enjoy!
My sister lives in Seoul and over Christmas I've been hearing a bit about her adventures since I last saw her a year ago. The conversation moved perhaps naturally to talk of China and the wonders, both geographic and architectural, within its borders. A few friends have spent time there and found it to be an amazing experience. I, unfortunately, only spent 14 hours in a Beijing airport hotel last year. Oh well, perhaps one day.
The first snow of the year is here...on the ground and it is such a welcome change from the soul-raking rain that has drenched this concretey town for the past couple of weeks!
I feel buoyed, revitalised and enthusiastic. Everywhere people are talking of skiing trips to mountains near and far and I'm getting really excited. I attempted skiing last year and to be honest it didn't go too badly: I had fun and didn't break anything important so that's a couple of ticks in a couple of boxes.
What a difference a thin layer of white powder makes!
I am homeless. I am without a home. I am not without a roof and a warm bed thankfully but I am without my own place, as since arriving back in Poland - at extremely short notice - I'm staying with my girlfriend and her three female flatmates in the World Of Woman and all the assorted bottles of lotions and scents this contains.
Whilst their hospitality knows no bounds [innocent comment!] this is just until I can find somewhere wonderful of my own. Somewhere I can close the door on the busy world, settle down in an armchair and warm my lap with my notebook.
Oh, how I miss access to the Internet! How I miss wandering the aisles of the new global library and dipping into other's lives to see what they are up to. In recent weeks I have been extremely quiet on the comments front and for this I apologise. I have not forgotten you!
I hope - pray - that normal service will soon be resumed!!! Somehow I feel less of a person without the Internet. I think I may have a problem. Can anyone help?!
1st November, for those of you with a religious bent, is All Saints' Day and although I'm not a member of The God Squad I've taken the oppotunity to get involved with the cultural aspects of the day.
We escaped the concretey mass of Katowice late last night for a muddy mass near the border with the Czech Republic and as I type away I'm looking at a wonderful sight : Blackbirds gathering in the field outside for a chat and some grub, a thick bank of copper-shaded trees hanging out along the edge of the busy field and, closer to home, an apparently never-ending stack of chocolate and toffee-coloured chopped wood for the forever dancing fire that is gently heating the house. My girlfriend's parents are attending mass, as is their custom, and my girlfriend and her bubbly sister are preparing something for breakfast in the kitchen. It looks - at least in method - like they are preparing concrete; a large wooden board with high sides sitting on the table top, filled with all sorts of ingredients that are being sweepingly and expertly mixed together into something sweet smelling.
All Saints' Day in Poland, at least, is marked with a visit to the cemetry to visit the graves of family members passed. Coloured jars containing lit candles are thoughtfully placed as a very visual reminder and the view and feel, although fleeting in the greater scheme, is something incredible. Last year I remember passing a huge cemetry on the way from Gliwice to Katowice by train and to see the sea of coloured lights was certainly an experience.
Later, when it is dark, we'll be walking to the local church to experience it all at first hand. I've no idea what to expect. Will it be a somber affair or a celebration like in other countries? Only time will tell but right now I'm heading back to the kitchen to see how the concrete is coming.
The last few days have been a blur, a whirlwind of organisation and a veritable bonfire of emotional energy.
I decided last week, for various reasons, to vacate Italy and to move back to Poland.
The main reason is a matter of the heart: My girlfriend is Polish and I have been fiercely missing her. There seems little point in being in a beautiful country within shouting distance of Milan and the lakes if the only person I want to share the experiences with is hundreds of kilometres away in an ugly grey, concretey city in the industrial region of Poland. Ah, the things we do for love.
Anyway, I decided to apply for a job in Poland and so I approached my old company on Thursday morning for a reference. On Thursday evening I received an email back saying that a reference was no problem but how would I like a job instead. I booked a ticket the same evening.
I never thought I would be so happy to come back to this industrial pit. That being said, there are infinitely more opportunities for skiing, hiking and, of course, the drinking of good quality beer with the wonderful Polish people.
I share an apartment (an island surrounded by crazy old Italian ladies, it would seem) with two other people. One of them, a New Zealand woman, has the most wonderful habit of quite innocently serving up hefty and regular helpings of double-entendres.
I really couldn't tell you the context in which her latest one was set but this is what I heard when I came into the kitchen last night in search of another glass of wine:
Yeah, I've got more guy mates than girlie mates so I'm used to keeping my mouth shut.
It's a shame that she's moving to Dublin on Monday, as I've enjoyed my regular nasal wine washes.
Insanity-Suits-Me (Dawn) over at Twisted Sister tagged me with the Ten Random Facts About Me meme. Never done one of these before so here goes...
When driving solo I like to turn the signs into songs with the style of the road dictating the mood of the song.
I love love love taking long showers and have in fact lost height and weight due to water erosion.
I'm addicted to Tabasco and whilst it hasn't affected my sense of taste it has almost certainly heightened the sensation in my lips.
I'm a one-pot-wonder cook and just love food combining.
My bed has too many mattresses on it and wobbles.
Everyday I regret the academic choices I made when I was at school. Interest Before Practicality should have been my mantra.
When I'm drunk and in bed with the room spinning I imagine I'm on a roller coaster and the sensation of pukiness goes away and I drift into a Disney-esque dream.
I love the song Over And Over Again by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! and could quite literally listen to it over and over again.
I have a fear of spiders - I think - due to one running up my sleeve and, of course, disappearing when I was eight years old.
It makes my day when people I don't know smile at me for no apparent reason.
As with almost everything in life there are rules, however, rude as it is for someone who has been invited to do so, I've amended them slightly due to laziness...and because I hate odd numbers.
Link to your tagger and post these rules.
List 10 random facts about yourself.
Tag 10 people at the end of your post and list their names (linking to them).
Let them know they’ve been tagged by leaving them a comment on their blog.
As Sharing Is Caring is the order of the day here are the fabulous people I thought I would tag:
Today was a great day. One of those days that makes you reflect on all manner of eye-sparkling things long after you’ve closed the front door, drawn the curtains and shut out the world.
I’d arranged to meet a friend for lunch: Nothing smancy, just a light-bite in the park. More an opportunity to catch up on each other’s news and to inhale deeply the non-conditioned air than anything near a true culinary distraction.
Anyway, even given the criminally short breaks for lunch most companies in this fine country allow I still wasn’t surprised that my friend was late in arriving. Of course, she works nearer to the park than I do and, of course, she has a wonderfully relaxed job, which allows her incredibly lazy and lengthy lunches but still (still!) she was late. She’s always late. It was no matter, though. I was more than happy to sit, lean back and enjoy the September sun on my face.
“Is that yours?” a voice next to me on the bench enquired.
I opened my eyes, squinting whilst they re-adjusted to the bright light, and looked across at the dark haired and slightly dishevelled woman.
“Sorry?”
“Is that yours?” She nodded at a point midway between us on the sun-parched bench.
“The book?” She gestured again this time with her little finger; her remaining fingers and thumb delicately gripping a rather sad-looking sandwich.
I looked down at the bench, which seemed to have shrunk, before gazing back at her with a highly confused look and in a stumbling manner that would probably have led the woman to believe that it was the first time I had seen a book or even heard its designation.
“Well” she said pausing to pick up her battered bag “It is now”. And with that she tottered off down the path towards the lake.
I eyed the book cautiously like it was a £20 note someone had dropped and would shortly return for and wondered whether to lift it from its place in the sun or to leave it thereby avoiding any possible accusations were the owner to come back for it.
I picked it up, opened it slowly and was pleasantly surprised at what I found inside.
According to The Sunday Herald there are 500 Polish people coming to the UK everyday. I'm lucky enough to know two of them and they are a lot of fun (even if they do lead to hangovers).
One of the central features of any good Pole is a solid sense of humour (they need it to put up with the butchering foreigners do to their unfathomable language) so you can thank my vodka swilling friend for this.
Airports are strange and interesting places, aren't they? I hacked my way around the London Orbital last Saturday and up to Stansted airport to stick a friend on a plane back to the land of potatoes, vodka and Catholicism.
So, strange and interesting: Interesting because of the wonderful human interaction and blend of emotions on show and strange because of the not always commonsensical bubble of fear we exist in when we travel.
I helped my friend with her incredibly well-stuffed bags as she checked in and zoned out for a while during the "Did you pack your own bag" session. My attention, however, was pricked when, asking if she had any sharp objects in her hand luggage, she mentioned that she had a nail file and a couple of sewing needles.
"I'm sorry, madam. You'll have to transfer those items to your checked luggage".
Nail file, yes. Of course! But sewing needles? Those tiny thin and unwieldy pieces of brittle metal that are so well associated with haystacks? We were confused, visibly confused.
"Those are the rules"
I'm not even really certain what sewing needles could be used for in the highjacking of a passenger plane. Recently – perhaps - there was a voodoo terrorist cell broken by the intelligent services. A dastardly gang of mentalists hand-carving images of flight crews, which would later be openly taken onto flights on which they would cause the crashing of the plane through the pricking of the dolls with? Yes, that’s right, the sewing needles. Or perhaps they could be pushed into the stale baguette sandwiches they serve on these short-haul flights and fashioned into a sort of mock-medieval mace. Who knows but at least the check-in staff asked politely.
So, what’s your most eyebrow raising or confused airport story? Nosey customs officials pawing through your delicates in front of a troop of nuns on a faith-focussed, beach-based jaunt? Or something worse perhaps?!
Yesterday, whilst chained to my desk (imagine medieval stocks with a raised keyboard add-on), a girl from the north end of Cube Farm sidled up to my fresh-from-holiday co-worker and began an energetic conversation for all to hear.
“Soooooo?”
“So, what?
“Sooooo, how was the date with the Park Bar guy?”
“Well, it’s a bit strange really. I mean, we got on really well and he was such a great listener but it’s been almost two weeks and he still hasn’t returned my calls.”
Unreturned calls? What happened? What was it that deflected Cupid’s arrow from hitting these two?
Well, from information gathered through further eavesdropping it would seem that her dating skills were not all they could have been.
I’ve always thought of the dating game as being a bit like an archaeological dig: Buried somewhere below the surface there could be something fantastic waiting to be unearthed and if you’ve done your pre-dig research then your chances of uncovering the perfect find should be greatly improved.
Of course, to reach the longed after buried treasure it is vital – vital - that the layers are excavated carefully and slowly so as to prevent damage to (or the utter destruction of) the potential find. This takes time, concentration, and a steady metaphorical hand. You should use the social equivalent of a 4" pointing trowel. You should not (as it would appear my co-worker did) use a large scale Caterpillar hydraulic excavator.
So, what was the verbal form of this brutal and hurried excavation, you ask? Well here are the highlights:
1. Full disclosure of all past boyfriends and past boyfriends’ inadequacies including:
- Reasons for break ups. - Her understanding of how her ex-boyfriends saw her ‘as a person’. - Her friends’ views on her ex-boyfriends. - Her current contact status with her ex-boyfriends.
2. Full disclosure of her relationship with her family including information regarding recurring arguments with her sisters and mother, the effect her parent’s divorce had on her, and a list of disappointments throughout her formative years.
3. Full disclosure of her future plans including the type of house she wants to raise a family in, the number of children she wants, the highlighting of common mistakes made by couples who have been together for a while.
And she wonders why he didn’t call!
“Oh, no!” her friend cried.
“I just wanted to be honest” she replied with a furrowed brow of pure sincerity “I wanted to make sure that nothing from the past would get in the way of a new relationship”.
Since when did honesty become a euphemism for venting spleen and self-obsession?
I couldn’t bear it any longer so I asked her in a soft and friendly manner:
"Where did he grow up?”
Blank look.
“Where do his parents live?”
No answer.
“Has he been on holiday this year?”
Nothing.
“What is his surname?
"McCarthy” she answered quickly and with wide and happy eyes.
“Rachel McCarthy” she said trying on his surname for size.
“Oh, that’s nice,” said her ‘friend’.
And they were off again, drenching themselves in a praise-fest of all her good points and how he must be an idiot to pass up such a wonderful catch.
The sad part of this story is that she’s actually pretty wonderful: She’s fiercely protective of her friends and family, she’s always the first to offer support or a kind word, she doesn’t bitch about people behind their back and she seems genuinely to care about others. In fact, without her our sprawling cube farm would be an infinitely duller and coma-inducing place.
So why didn’t her friends put her straight? Could it possibly be that they are also aboard the good ship ‘honesty’ when it comes to dating? I think that’s fair to assume, yes.
So, I have to admit to being more than a little confused about all of this. Surely there must have been someone from the usually sensible world of womankind who told them that this approach would damage their chances at a meaningful relationship and that continuing down this path would lead to an over-consumption of wine and an addiction to cheesy chic-flicks and self-indulgent overly-emotional behaviour? Surely!
Or am I wrong (and arrogant) in thinking that this is behaviour that would want to be avoided? Perhaps this tiny minority (and I stress tiny minority) deliberately create this soap opera to pep up their otherwise boring lives. Perhaps all they actually want is a cardboard cut-out of a man against which thoughts can be bounced. A boyfriend being nothing more than an accessory, something that goes with the latest in vogue handbag and that next season it’s all change or else.
My girlfriend says (with wine glass in hand and a cheeky glint in her eye) that they’re just attention seeking social retards and that I should be happy that I met her before someone else snapped her up but it can’t be that cut and dry, can it? So, if anyone can shed any light on why a small department of Woman Corp International uses a different mission statement from head office could they let me know?
All I can say is that I thank my lucky 4" pointing trowel (no double-entendre intended) that my girlfriend likes digging.
After weeks (perhaps months) of procrastination, I finally cut some time out of the weekend bedrock of things I ‘should’ do to schedule some time away from the human zoo. Without doubt it was a well-needed and well-earned dose of escapism given the busy week I’ve had. Meetings with coffee and meetings without coffee that’s the only distinction I can make these days. Needless to say a trip south to a cosy hotel off a beaten track traipsed through some stunning countryside was just what the internet-savvy self-diagnoser ordered.
We arrived late and depleted on Friday evening and managed nothing but the other half of a motorway service station sandwich and a swift drink at last orders in the local pub before turning (or rather falling) in.
Waking earlier than I would have liked the next morning I decided to get up without disturbing sleeping beauty. I pulled on my clothes, grabbed the camera and picked up my walking boots to put on downstairs.
The thing that struck me on leaving the hotel was just how much the village had changed since my last visit almost 14 years ago. There are still the visual reminders, of course, the odd familiar sign nestled between the boutiques, which have taken the place of more traditional shops and then there are the occasional landmarks peering out from amongst the new-builds that sit behind the high street like the unpopular members in a family photo. The inclusive feel of the place, however, has long since faded and has been replaced, all too noticeably, with an uncomfortable sense of detachment. Of course, to the newer inhabitants the village is entirely as it seems; a mixture of charm and tradition blended – as well as could have be envisaged – with the arrival of the affluent and Europeanised city folk.
It’s said that you aren’t truly a local until your grandfather (and grandmother presumably) is buried in the village graveyard, which means that, shy of exhumation and reburial, the newcomers still have a long way to go before gaining full and unquestioning acceptance. To their credit the locals seem to appreciate, with as much grace as was possible, the long needed inflow of money that is channelled into the pubs, restaurants, and remaining shops – remaining more because of their quaintness than anything else.
When I got back to the hotel sleeping beauty was sitting up in bed reading a pamphlet on the local area whilst munching on a rather flattened breakfast bar she must have neglected earlier in the week (she’s more of a coffee and air kind of breakfaster).
I explained that we had a wonderfully tiring day of exploring ahead of us topped off with a good couple of hours in the Sparrow’s Nest before the others met us and with a smile and a playful look asked her if she was ready to go.
“Give me a minute,” she beamed before bouncing off the bed in the direction of the bathroom. “I’m almost there.”
How can anyone have that much energy so soon after waking up? Any ideas?
