High Flying Adored

Checking the post in the morning is always an exciting moment of my day. If a package I’ve ordered has arrived I can fool myself into believing it’s my birthday – even if I paid for it myself. Of course these days the mail is polluted with referendum literature. Try as I might I find my interest wavering after the second sentence and the booklets invariably find their way quickly to the recycling bin. Of course I never mention this when I complain later that we don’t know enough about this damn austerity/stability treaty.

Anyway a couple of days ago I was overjoyed to find a letter addressed to little old me and tore it open with unbridled excitement only to discover it was an invitation to a ‘Group Engagement Session’. It was from the Social Welfare Department and they cunningly followed up the word ‘invitation’ with a string of straight forward threats. If I didn’t attend I’d be forced to declare bankruptcy and locked in a room for a week with 2Unlimited played at speaker-busting volume.

Instantly I had images of ending up betroth to a random Kerry job seeker and wondered why we were being required to get engaged en masse. Shouldn’t my Very Own Newfoundlander be invited too? Before I let myself getting carried away with the idea of an engagement party, instead, I worried about what to wear and then became distracted by something shiny and promptly forgot about it until yesterday morning when I set off to find the venue.

As I walked through the doors I began worrying that it was going to be like Pauline’s sessions in The League of Gentlemen and we’d be divided into the occupational groups of Bramble Pickers and Babysitters. I’d have to ensure no matter what that I’d be chosen to join the pickers side as I have very little patience for screaming kids.

Instead of Pauline and her pens we had a stereotypical Kerryman with an impenetrable accent going through information that I had already received many times before. He informed us of our options to start our own business. But it has to be realistic he warned. You won’t be allowed set up a company offering helicopter rides of North Kerry. You’d be bust in a week – nobody can afford these sort of luxuries these days.

And just like that, without ever knowing before, it became blatantly clear that this is exactly what I wanted to do all my life. What’s not to love about helicopters? They’ve got to be easier to park than cars and there’s hardly ever a traffic jam up there! Mine would be a sturdy but sleek shiny green specimen with an alternating black and grey border.  I ran through some possible names – Conor’s Copters – Air Borne Identity –  Sky Sports. Legal issues surrounding names aside there would be no way this could fail. How on earth could this man dash my brand new life dream – literally before it even began?

In a full on excitable daydream I looked up from my doodles of helicopters to notice that people were leaving and the session was over. Not one wedding had been planned, although we were ‘invited’ to a one-on-one meeting next week, presumably to hone the marriage arrangements.

I’ll bring up my helicopter business idea then I decided. I have a week to perfect it. All I need to do is devise a business plan, obtain a helicopter pilot licence, overcome a mild fear of heights and change this egregious economy so people can again afford ‘these sorts of luxuries’.

Now, does that mean I should vote yes or no I wonder.  Will the third sentence in that booklet make things clear? The recycling bin it is!

A Simple Prop to Occupy My Time (4)

Prop 4 – Conversation Mugging

Most of my conversations of late have been with people I hardly know or have never even met before. Being ‘stranded’ in Tralee means that I am so far away from my real friends that I’ve had to improvise with anyone who crosses my path, whether they are willing or not. Or even if they haven’t gone anywhere near my path.

It’s a highlight of my day if I can spot the postman and rush out to collect the mail directly as this means we can swap a few words. Even if they might be mumbled in a thick Kerry accent. One nasty wet and windy day when I felt glad I didn’t have to leave the house I spied the man coming up the drive clutching a few envelopes and the promise of some human interaction. Gao..ch… ahirid.. day he said with a concerned look and gestured around him. Wading through the impenetrable dense Kerry fog of pronunciation I assumed that he was complaining about the weather. I mean everyone’s at it – it’s either that or the economy really so I felt pretty safe in responding oh I know, it’s terrible isn’t it? All of a sudden his enunciation improved dramatically and he looked at me in fierce alarm as he replied with accusation I said isn’t it a grand soft day. 

After that I took to conversing online. Well not so much conversing as leaving opinions on news articles on thejournal.ie.  I was delighted when people replied. It stroked my need for interaction, at least somewhat. And then I discovered that people not only can show their appreciation of your view point by clicking a little ‘thumbs up’ icon but also convey their disgust by choosing the downward pointing alternative. I began to quickly despise those nasty little thumbs and wondered with hurt how so many people could vote me down. Butthe more comments I read the more I was shocked at how many horribly racist and narrow minded people are on that site thumbing down anyone with reason or a progressive mind. I vowed to abandon this medium of communication but not before I sprinkled a shower of thumbs up in the hope that a few there would feel good about themselves.

Instead I found myself texting radio shows and writing to newspapers. Unexpectedly I then became penpals with my local Supervalu supermarket. But the less said about that the better as it more than borders mortification (although I will admit that they subsequently provided a box to recycle batteries and restocked my favourite products).

One successful venture was my communication with the Oxford English Dictionary. On the topic of same sex marriage one (of the many) fools on thejournal.ie had said the word marriage should not be used as the Oxford Dictionary defined it as ‘The formal union of a man and a woman, typically as recognized by law’. Cue the following frantic e mail to said dictionary;

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Dear Sir/Madam,

I wish to question your definition of the world marriage as ‘the formal union of a man or woman’. I have countless friends around the world who are married to a partner of the same sex. Their marriage is completely recognised by the law and society. In fact there is no other term to describe their union. This is not a judgment or an opinion but a fact.

Even more puzzling is that the OED further implies that there is an informal use of the term between married partners of the same sex. I will admit that there can be an informal use to describe other unions between differing and same sex couples however a legal marriage is clearly different. I must reiterate that my friends are legally married – this is not informal in any way and there simply is no other term that can be used in this case. It is not a civil partnership but a marriage, as recognised by the law.

I would appreciate if you could clarify what English word they are to use to describe their union as the OED would seem to imply that there is none.

Thank you for your time and attention,

Conortje

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I was ecstatic with joy when I received the following the very next day;

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Dear Mr Conortje,

Many thanks for your email to Oxford Dictionaries regarding our definition of marriage. Your point is a very valid one, and we have been considering this issue in some detail recently.

As a result we have revised the wording of the definition so that the subsense previously reading ‘informal a union between partners of the same sex; a civil partnership’, now reads ‘(in some jurisdictions) a union between partners of the same sex’. This revised definition will appear on our website at the next update (which should be in around a month’s time).

Thank you, once again, for your comments on this matter. They are most appreciated.

Best wishes

OED

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While I have all this time on my hands nobody is safe from me pouncing on them to elicit some sort of response to remind me that I am still alive. Most of my attempts sadly end up annoying or embarrassing me, but I have time on my hands and I can only take so much daytime TV. Although it’s startling how your tolerance for mediocrity can change when you’re unemployed. Of course all this means that if you write to me I will definitely reply, probably every day for a month. Whether you like it or not!

Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans

While patiently waiting to become a real person again I have found myself doing all sorts of things to bide my time and distract me from the realities of finding a job in this disastrous economy.

Clearly blogging has not been one of these. My Occasionally Genius Sister asked me why I wasn’t keeping up my blog and my answer was sure what on earth would I write about?. I suppose I could blog about how I’ve become an expert on daytime television or my unlikely chats with the postman. Would anyone be remotely interested in these, or how I discovered the loveliest lady on earth working in the supermarket. My engineering of strategic queuing to ensure I’m at her checkout is something I’m certain would not make for engaging reading. Maybe I should ask her to be a guest writer instead…

But now my patience for watching other people buying property in the country or singing bad karaoke in the hope of being famous has worn desperately thin. And in truth I have been doing other things, unremarkable though they are. So this week I’ll attempt a roundup of these activities. When you start shaking with desperation at the tedium let me know and I’ll point you towards the week’s finest afternoon television extravaganza.

Under African Skies

When I was a kid I fainted, dramatically, in class when we were being educated on the intricacies of the heart. It wasn’t just that I was jealous that biology was stealing attention that was rightfully mine. Every time he mentioned blood I got a little weaker. With each diagram my pulse quickened. And the description of veins and arteries had me wavering from nausea to panic until finally I’d had enough and subconsciously turned off the lights. Immediately my reputation grew and it became accepted wisdom that you didn’t so much as say the word Band-Aid in my presence.

I think the body is incredible – wonderful even – I mean I’m very fond of mine – I just don’t need to know how it works and I’m happy to believe that under my skin is simply more skin. No small wonder I’m a vegetarian.

So when I was deciding what would be my next step after my short career as a professional squirrel watcher in Fredericton no one was more surprised than I that I chose to be an open-heart surgeon in Ghana. Also surprising is the fact that all I know about this country is that it’s highly important in the world of Chocolate. Its high production of cocoa beans is in fact matched only by its startlingly high levels of malaria!

So all in all, a perfect choice for a stint as a volunteer in a medical centre? My Very Own Newfoundlander and myself will be living in a tiny village in the north of the country. So small and so north that my futile efforts to locate it on a map has me questioning if it really exists. While he has a proper job to do, looking after 18 exchange participants I will be launching my medical career, for free.

I have my visa, my guide book (there is apparently only the one in English), my malaria meds, sun block, water purification tablets – all that’s left to figure out is what these people really expect me to do at the clinic. Seeing as my only medical knowledge comes from the half of that biology lesson I managed to stay awake in – it’s more than likely they’ll simply have me making tea. If I’m lucky they may need me to teach the skills involved in perfecting my Kermit The Frog impression.

But maybe, just maybe they’ll be expecting me to arrive armed with a scalpel and an ability not to loose consciousness at the sight of anything red and fluid. I don’t know if I’m more worried for them or for me.

Let’s talk about sex, baby!

Living in Fredericton has seen me accomplish all sorts of feats I had never even dreamed of adding to my list of things to achieve. The one I’m still quaking from is reading erotic fiction aloud to a bunch of strangers. How do I get myself into these situations?

In a double attempt to tear myself away from under My Very own Newfoundlander’s feet AND to become the next great Irish writer I joined a writing class in Fredericton, intriguingly called Writing Hurts.

MVON drove me to the first class all the while reassuring me that everything would be fine. I was petrified that the other students would actually be real writers – as opposed to a lazy blogger with aspirations far overshadowing any talent. I imagined half of them to be sporting berets and the other half to have Dublin 4 accents. Don’t worry about grammar the introduction e mail had informed us. Grammar isn’t important. This is about writing and it will hurt!

It was no wonder that I came up with ten good reasons not to open the class room door when I got there. But someone else did it for me and without time to compose myself I was facing the teacher asking are you Mr B, in a voice that resembled a startled mouse. That depends he answered in a booming authoritative voice, who are YOU?

 Off to a great start I thought. When my identity had been confirmed I sat down, meekly in the corner, trying not to shake. We are going to deal with topics that are difficult to write. Immediately I thought of broken relationships, lost youth, yearning for the meaning of life…

Today we start with SEX he almost shouted. And we’ll begin straight away with your first in-class assignment. You have ten minutes to write a sex scene and then we’ll each read what we’ve written. Go! I spent the first three minutes panicking and wishing for an old fashioned grammar lesson and the last four minutes desperately scribbling something that resembled sex but could still be read out to a group of strangers without my face turning into a tomato. Or so I thought.

I’ll spare you the results and the following hour and a half. Mainly because they are locked tightly away in my enormous denial vault. Suffice it to say that I will not be launching a career in erotic fiction anytime soon. In fact I’m half tempted to dispose of my pen and join a monastery.

One thing I have learned without a doubt so far; writing DOES hurt!

I found this photograph, stashed between the old joist walls

One of my greater but sadly lesser known traits is that I am a champion daydreamer. Astonishingly it is not generally acceptable to shout this from the rafters or proudly present it in my CV. Instead I feel almost ashamed, and hide it guiltily beneath the more mundane, palatable skills like filing and being able to do a mean Kermit The Frog impression.

But on my blog I can say what I like. Both my readers are polite enough not to leave comments informing me that I’m a deluded eejit and would be better off shutting up and leaving them alone.

Here I can pretend that I was once an international rock megastar, an intrepid explorer, or an emerging philosopher whose Kermit impressions are known throughout Asia and South America.

And so, today (Mathew) I am going to be a photographer!

Feeling more than slightly uninspired by my hometown ( if you have ever had the misfortune of experiencing Tralee you will know what a gigantic understatement this is) I’ve decided instead to believe that I am still travelling and simply taking a much needed rest to organize my photos and finally respond to all those requests for interviews.

And why have just the one blog when you can have hundreds? Who cares if it takes all you have just to maintain the one?  I’m pretty sure that I don’t possess any laurels but just in case, I decided they would not be abused by me lounging on them. And so I have painstakingly built a new photoblog. It’s an easy peasy WordPress blog but I am stealing the internet signal from my generous brother and being next door the connection is challenging to say the least. Thus the painstakingly!

And here it is, Conortje’s Eyes! Enjoy. Or dismiss. Or simply pass by and say oohhh that’s nice – even if it’s not – I want to see if I can crash my brother’s internet!

Now, I’m off to practise my impression of Kermit’s young nephew Robin. It’s a little trickier but even more rewarding.

Running to stand still

I’m making a bigger effort to economise I proudly announced to my Occasionally Stationary Friend during his most recent visit. Over a chilled glass of white wine I explained how I could no longer justify the fees for my yoga class and I’d started buying the cheap brand of spaghetti in a bid to finally inch my way out from debt.

He sat back in his chair taking it all in with another sip of wine. This wine is delicious, what is it? he asked, momentarily distracted from the topic at hand. Isn’t it wonderful I enthused, it’s a 2004 Meursault, €25 a bottle but it’s divine – I wanted to celebrate your visit! I see he said with raised eyebrows so what’s really going on is that you’ve given up exercise in order to afford your expensive taste in wine?

Thinking he might have a point I decided to at least augment my wine recreation with a spot of jogging – free exercise I like to think of it as. I set off with my Occasionally Sleeping Friend last week, full of recession beating optimism. Our route took us past banks of spring flowers in full bloom as we meandered about under leafy trees, up and down forest paths admiring how green everything was. This is so invigorating I thought as we reached the 40 minute mark and chuckled to myself with glee. After an hour I wheezed enthusiastically about how vibrant the grass looked and how much healthier I already felt. After an hour and a half of jogging I could hardly breath any more and my limbs were on the verge of permanently ceasing up. The last stretch almost killed me but the relief was as big as my pride when I finally stumbled in the door catching the look of triumph on my red sweaty face in the mirror. 

I did it! I’m great! I spluttered as I wobbled into the kitchen steadying myself on the counter top while the room began to spin. As I struggled to catch my breath my gaze fell on the clock on the wall and slowly the appalling truth became apparent. We’d only really been gone 20 minutes. 20 minutes? How is that possible when every inch of my body violently ached – this recession is going to kill me!

Oh that magic feeling, nowhere to go

I spent a good 15 minutes studying the route I was going to cycle the first time I went to my Occasionally Sleeping Friend’s house on the other side of The Hague. He is so far away from the centre that I think it’s pure cheek to still call it a part of the city. I did my best to memorise which roads to take and where I needed to turn off. Of course it was all pointless as I got woefully lost and had to phone him for directions. I’m in front of a windmill and a field I shrieked well aware of the fact that windmills are rarely found within cities.

The next time I had a revised, simpler route. Having examined where I had gone wrong I was determined to accomplish the goal with minimum trouble. Within ten minutes I found myself lost again. This time however I didn’t call for instructions but decided that if I continued cycling straight I’d eventually come across some tall landmark that would lead me out of suburbia. Before I knew it I was in front of his door – quite unexpectedly. By attempting an alternate route it seems I had accidentally cycled the way I had intended to go the first time.

This pretty much describes my uncanny knack for directional disaster. I could never tell you where north is. I’d probably struggle to do so even with a compass in my hand. Maps terrify me to the point where I’d prefer just guess where it is I need to go. Sadly this has a 97% failure rate.

One might think that I’d be better off staying at home or going everywhere by public transport but I like to think this particular character trait of mine makes travelling even more fun. You just never know where I might end up. Imagine what would happen if I decided to go travelling for a long time. A year or so say – imagine what kind of troubles I’d get myself into. I could start off in North America, make my way to South America – bounce over to Australia and New Zeeland and finish up with a long adventure in Asia. The opportunities would be thrilling if not utterly frightening. But believe it or not this is the plan. This is my plan!

At the moment the idea is in its infancy with an expected kick-off date somewhere in September. That gives me lots of time to gather up advice and hear other people’s stories of travelling. I’m leaning towards the idea of a round-the-world ticket and have already begun canvassing helpful tips. I am also hoping that friends will come join up with me for various legs of the journey to help me beat the loneliness and read a few maps for me.

At the moment the journey is all for planning so if there is a part of the world I should definitely visit please let me know. All suggestions and recommendations re places, accommodation, fares, etc are warmly welcome – just don’t tell me to go to the other side of The Hague again.