Show Us Your Thing

Everyone has a Thing.

Or 2. Or 3.

You know, a Thing.

Maybe you can't quite remember how it started but now, it has become something that you compulsively have to do (or definitely NOT do).

I am going to have to give you a f'instance, innit?

But, before I do, remember, you asked, and you must not judge me.

Also, when you DO judge me, as I know you will, bear in mind that you have a Thing too and we are going to find it.

Your little sneaky, hidey-away, Barely Even Knew It Was There, Thing.

Right, I am going to man-up and start us off:

The One About New Magazines or Newspapers

I am a bit better now but it really bothers me, when I've got a freshly purchased mag or paper & I'm not the first one to open/read it.

I know when this started.
1990.  First Year at Uni.

This newsagent is more upmarket to that one back in the 90's

Lemon Sherbets - 20p would get you the
small pile outside the bag.
These people must be millionaires.

Living in Halls (of Residence), every Sunday morning, a few of us would drag ourselves to the newsagents (on Roehampton Lane, SW15, London. In case you know it) for our post-fry-up, Student Hangover Survival pack (which still totally works, btw) of Ribena, Frazzles and 20p worth of Lemon Sherbets.

Whose mouth is watering?

Also, 2 newspapers.

The News of The World (I hang my head in shame now)

&

The Times on Sunday.

We felt that these 2 publications would provide us with all the information we might require, with the broadsheet somehow cancelling out the filthy shame of the NoTW.  Even then, you felt a bit grubby after reading it.

Anyway, back to The Thing.

The words "ooooo, can I have a quick look at your paper?".

I hate those words.

Although I never said as much. Just handed it over. Seems I had no spine in the early 90's.

"NO!, fellow Inspiral Carpet-humming, 50 denier be-tighted, DM-shod, Have My Own Kettle now so can Make Tea in my room using Marvel milk powder*", I wished I could scream "get your own paper!!!".

*one felt dead sophisticated to invite another lever-arch folder toting, "What time is your next lecture?" student back to One's room to offer them a tea, or oh my days!, a COFFEE.

I hauled my arse to the shop.  You didn't.

The anticipation of opening a virgin newspaper (I wonder. Is it possible that Dad & I are the only people to never take the one from the top, always take the 2nd? We might share a Thing) is bliss.

The smell.  The crisp pages. You know it is pure because they are still a little pinned together from the paper-cutting process (or something).  The static between the pages of the magazine supplement.

The second someone else opens it, all that fresh, 'you are my first' loveliness it is lost forever.

A tad dramatic perhaps but this is my Thing so I get to be a bit potty about it.

AND they always return all untidy. Pages all akimbo. Awful.  Violated. Soiled.

I tried to pretend nothing had changed when the paper came back to me. We tried. We went through the motions. Paper & I. But, we both knew it was over.

You may think this is pretty bad but, Sweetie, it gets worse.

Although, as they say things have to get worse before they can get better.

It was on this day that I compelled myself to make a change.  To have a little word with myself and vow to no longer allow myself to be That Person.

It was a Sunday morning.

And I found myself in the Halls of Residence laundry room (I don't really recall going there that much during the normal course of events) ...........

........... standing at the ironing board, iron in hand (again, think that must have been 1 of the 6 times during the 4 years at Uni that I ever stood there)  .........

...... effing-well IRONING my paper!!

Dear God.


It was like the fog cleared and I stared at the iron in my hand.

Holy SH*T! Girl, you are at a crossroads.  Which path do you want to go down? Choose wisely because, there is no going back if you chose to continue down the one signposted 'Bonkers Lady who Irons Newspaper'.

Phew.  I chose good.

I feel I dodged a big ol' cuckoo bullet.

UPDATE
I am MUCH better now but, bear with me if I hold on a little longer than seems right as I hand you my paper, I am still a Work In Progress.

So, there you have it.

***********************

Go on, your turn. Show us your Thing.

You know you want to.

Knife-Wielding Bad-Ass. Me?

Just as a matter of interest, are we, The Trousers & I would like to know, the only people who don't sleep with some sort of weapon by the bed?

I dunno.  I think that it is fairly unusual security step for most British people to take.

Or so I thought.

*********************************************************************************

Recently (yesterday) over a lovely piece of salmon, with friends, I was reflecting on the fact that, on my last night of living in my first-ever shared (student) house (in London) one of my housemates (female) revealed she always slept with a rounders* bat under her bed.

*Americans, this is like a teeny baseball bat

And another, purposely, had an empty wine bottle.  For the same specific reason.

Just as an aside, in those days (as indeed now), anything kept under my bed would not be easily, or swiftly, retrieved amongst the jumble of suitcases, lone socks, mugs & Sunday newspaper supplements "I'm getting round to reading". 

That said, the dusty tumbleweeds, under a 'Student in the 90's' bed alone, could have brought on an asthmatic attack strong enough to floor a charging elephant - so, perhaps I WAS surrounded by a grimy ring of safety.  

Perhaps I WAS, as they say in things like Lock, Stock or Snatch, "tooled up".

I'm not sure I'm really pulling off the Saaaf Laaaandahn villian thing so, I'll stop trying.

Anyway, my point is that apart from the Filth (I refer to the ACTUAL filth, as opposed to the Cops, the Fuzz, PolicePeople) it never occurred to me to weaponise myself.

And, I sort of assume the same of most people I know.

Additional Bit of Information

At this point, I need to add a small adjustment to the above-stated assumption.

When I first moved to the UK, to start Uni, in that Saaaaaaaf Lahndahhhhn, my Dad DID give me a knife. 

The Trousers, whenever he hears this statement, collapses into roaring, tear-wiping fits of laughter.

Rude.

Well, I mean,  it sounds quite serious, right?  Admit it, for a second there it gave you pause, right?  It had to have been somewhat unexpected.

Apparently, my husband does not see me as a Knife-Wielding Bad-Ass.  

That's a good thing, I think we can all agree.

The fact that it was a Swiss Army Knife (Classic - Champ, 91 mm) apparently adds to the hilarity.

Mock if you wish, but, should anyone leaving a Camden Club in the early 90's, have needed some fish de-scaling, I was ready. 

And, yes, "proper tooled-up".

Moving On

This was all decades ago but very recently, it was revealed to me that I was not the only one (female) among my acquaintances who was also weaponised in the 90's.  

She, this lovely lady, went everywhere with a fruit knife apparently.

There's more though.

During the course of the evening's discussion, in the charming setting of a Golf Club in Dubai, it was further revealed that this delightful lady & her spouse had had other security contingency plans, hidden under the bed.

I cannot recall, & stand to be corrected, whether this practice has continued since their residency commenced here in the UAE or whether it was solely reserved for life in the UK.

The details are unimportant.

I merely wish to enquire this:

Does anyone else have a baseball/rounders bat, bottle of wine, hammer, stinger, knuckle-duster, bazooka under the bed?

And:

Should I?

Probably the best I could manage!

Holiday (summer) 2013 - I fell in love, a bit

We went to London.

The smallest of Us has never been to London. 

We wanted to acquaint him with Things British.

Not just general stuff like red phone boxes, London buses & London tourist things but experiences that were once very commonplace to us.

Commonplace, Then, to Us but, Now, to Him might as well relate to daily life on Planet Zog.

We are talking about things like:
* Tube mice,

* Churchyards & gravestones (when people do WHAT?, they get WHAT?! .... WHERE??!!)

* A typical SW London 'burb street, with bushes of lavender or buddlia spewing out onto the pavement

* The Tube - whilst not UNlike HK's MTR or Singapore's MRT, is also VERY!

* Greggs pastries (UK expats, did YOU know they do a Greggs' cafe now? I didn't get the memo)

* Commuters reading on the Tube, newspapers left on the seats

* The stinkiness of some areas of the Underground, some stairwells & .............. ewwwwwwwwwww, those same phone boxes we were gushing bout earlier (in fact, he never noticed this bit.  I did.  I don't miss THAT bit)

When we lived in our ground floor flat, in a Victorian conversion terrace, there were sounds.  Unique sounds I now realise.

I'll give you a fr'instance ...... close your eyes.

You are watching tv, in the 'front room' (which, when you were a student, was actually likely to be a housemate's bedroom).  The window faces on to the street, right?

Early evening, the waves of returning fellow street dwellers start to wash down your road.  Their appearance & progress down your street runs approximately 6 minutes behind each arrival of SW Trains at the nearby station.

The talking and/or the clipping footsteps alert you.

Closer.
Closer.
Louder.
*laughter* "yeah, mate. I'll see you there."
Louder.
Clip, clip, clip .........
Louder
Closer.

HERE THEY ARE.
......................................................................................
There they go.

Further away.
Further.
"I know! This holiday is going to be suuuuuuuuuch a laugh, darling. And I sooooooooo need it. Honestly, she is such a bitch."
Further.
Quieter.
Quieter.

Gone.

Pub Chucking-Out time - same story.  More laughing. Replace *clipping* with *shuffling*. Possibly stronger language.

Back in The Day - hearing GuyUpStairs moving around, presumably sorting out a spot of supper & settling down for the night, made me feel safe.

In these houses, without ever actually exchanging more than a "hello", as you step over the evergrowing but invisible (?) drift of freebie papers & pizza/curry takeaway menus that get shoved through the communal postbox, you know when this Utter Stranger has a bath, flushes the loo or if he is watching News at Ten.

And then, in the morning, you can hear GUS's alarm go off.  You know when he is up out of his pit & moving to his bathroom & his kitchen.  GUS's place is the exact mirror copy of us down here.

I knew when this stranger, who slept about 12 feet above us, was late for work, had a late night, was away for the weekend, had friends round but never a girlfriend.

Our few days revisiting London has also reminded me how much I dislike London public transport in the warm weather, but that horribly hot stuffy conditions on a Bus or train also brings the most glorious smells & sounds of a London garden in the summer.

Just these few days I have remembered the smell of cut grass that so many love (or the Pollen-Challenged hate), the sound of everyone having their windows open whilst watching a huge sporting event like the LionsTour or Wimbledon, the smells of BBQs, laughing & the psssssshhhhht of cans being pssssssshhhhhhhht'd.

Love it.

I fell in love again with London again this July.  It felt rich & full of substance & history (one cannot say this about where we live now).  It made me nostalgic for the Old Days - Student & Post-student times.

But then, when the sun shines everything is lovable.

As an aside, I should say, I didn't come here for sunshine.  I don't frigging need more sunshine.  I wanted moody, morose, cosy gloom.  With gorgeous boots. And hats.

Heatwave. Shmeatwave.