Righto...

I seem to attract awkward situations. To be fair, it probably doesn't help that whenever an awkward situation does arise instead of powering through and manfully ignoring it like any normal repressed British citizen, I usually finding myself drawing attention to the situation by announcing something heinous like "AWKWARD.COM". How moronic. I literally can't help myself though, to revel in awkward situations is part of my nature. It's one of my many theories that everyone has it, just some people choose to tap into it and others - wisely - ignore it.

I witnessed and indeed participated in a classic awkward.com moment very recently. I was at a parental unit's birthday party, so naturally the only representatives of "the young" as we are so condescendingly known as were just my brother and myself, outnumbered and surrounded by wise elders. This of course lead to thousands of "what are you up to now?" questions, which needless to say, I loathe. It's all very well when you are working at some amazing job and can happily prattle on about how wonderful your life is, but when you are unemployed and living with your parents and the days are frequently spent merely killing time between getting up in the morning and going to bed at night... it's not so easy. I am, however, no stranger to these social land mines and I think, defended myself pretty well with lots of sweeping statements, swift conversation changers and, obviously, copious amounts of wine.

Having determinedly battered the conversation away from myself and my lack of prospects I was enjoying an extremely neutral and pleasant conversation with one of my parents oldest male friends about, that well-tapped common ground "travel". To be more precise, "places in the world I would simply luuurvve to visit". Sweet, I thought to myself, all this requires is a few choice nods and plenty of hyperbolic "oh I've heard that it's GORGEOUS there", so basically no brain power required and I can concentrate on getting merrily pissed and thinking about the usual mundane things which fill my brain. Perfect.

Or not, as the case may be.

Things were going fine, the waitress had just topped up both of our respective glasses with wine and we were discussing the many appeals of South America. As it would turn out, some things closer to home also held an equal amount of appeal. This I discovered when, said ancient and familiar family friend stopped abruptly mid discussion to inform me that:

"doesn't that waitress have the kind of look about her which makes you want to take her outside into a dark alley and give a good seeing to! Guffaw! Guffaw!"

...Righto. I did, tactfully inform him that it was me he was talking to, not an Italian builder, and then I helplessly stared at my fork, as if it could somehow help me.

awkward.com

I am now quite settled into my state of unemployment. I could describe it as one long euphoric high, but frankly I would be lying.

My time has been consumed with the following inanities:

Rodent wars

Raging a battle against the hoards of mice which choose to trample around my room each night, callously gorging themselves upon my impressive collection of black wires which look important and which I have therefore never thrown away.

Staring out of the window

This is generally a morning activity. I glaze over* wondering what I should do with my day, and then thinking about how interesting it is that my mind is blank. Whenever I am told to "clear your mind" my mind is always filled with pointless consuming thoughts such as "Oooh I just blinked!". Sod's law eh?

* NB this is not a pun on double glazing.

Making playlists on Spotify

This has become one of my favourite past-times, it makes my day feel like it has an edge of purpose. The purpose being of course that I can subsequently inflict unsuspecting friends with my music taste whilst filled with a completely unfounded opinion that my music taste is the best in the world. (Needless to say, this is of course, true.)

Cycling

Until a few days ago I was going cycling every day. I have swallowed my pride and resigned myself that in order to keep ones ears warm whilst I charge along at fantastic speeds I have to wear a hat which basically... well it makes me look like a twat. This was all very well, however, until my stream of bad luck with bikes reached a dramatic climax last Tuesday.

The original bike bad luck was that my first one got stolen, which sucked. I then invested in a new one for which I could swan around Leamington mentally shouting "walking wankers!" at everyone as I smugly sped past. My smugness was however, cut short when on a nice downhill stretch the fucking brakes fell off. I cannot really emphasise how inconvenient this was. It is not a pleasant experience to hear a clunk, presume it was something unimportant, glance around and see "bits of bike" strewn across the ground. Needless to say, I survived, but I was pissed.

Surely this was the pinnacle of bike related bad luck, it couldn't get worse, I naively thought as I continued to happily peddle about. Well, I can confirm it bloody well can get worse; Especially when your front wheel falls off. Granted, I was to a degree responsible for this. Although I could claim that the force and speed at which I was cycling forced it to spin off, unable to keep up with such terrific exertion that's quite clearly bollocks. No, my fault lies within the fact that I did suspect something was wrong as it was making a rather unusual noise and seemed to wobble a bit but in a true feat of bloody-mindedness I went to for the classic technique of "ignore it and hope it goes away". Well, this let me down in quite a spectacular fashion. I won't go into the gory details of me (obviously) falling off the bike, or having to fish around in the ditch to retrieve the rogue wheel. It did, leave me in the then extremely awkward position of being stuck, a mile from home, with a fucking haphazard self-constructed unicycle and, in a freakish twist of fate, an inordinate number of cars driving past. All of which contained their very own smirking driver who took (it seemed to me) an almost sadistic amount of pleasure of whizzing past whilst I, manfully struggled on, still looking like a twat, not just because of my ridiculous hat but also because I was attempting to manoeuvre a lump of metal in a homeward direction.

Time to look for a job.

The world is my oyster. Shame I hate seafood.

As of this afternoon, at 5pm I will be thrust out into the wild and woolly land of the unemployed. Half of me is quite looking forward to this, I will have plenty (just to re-emphasise this, plenty) of time to do whatever my heart desires. I can sit around and watch the Wire and become like the masses of people who seem to restrict their viewing hours to the small hours of the morning. There! Another fun factor, I will have the time to do it whenever I choose. It will, however, not be easy, I will face challenges. Namely that I refuse to watch Grey's Anatomy. Will I make it through? Will I emerge at the other end of this period with my "Grey's" virginity still, thankfully, in touch?

Probably.

However, I am not as shallow as to be entirely content with spending my days watching television. This, however, throws me into a terrifyingly unfamiliar setting. I feel like I am being dropped into the Australian bush with only a can of "Deep Heat" for protection and a Jaffa Cake for sustenance. Horrifically unprepared, in other words. Although I probably would still be just as fucked if I had a compass, water, suncream and a years supply of bananas. I can't read a compass (didn't pay enough attention in Duke of Edinburgh), would probably drop the water and get bored and see what happens if you repeatedly throw bananas at a variety of wildlife species.

You get the picture, this period of unemployment is unfamiliar to me and I am not entirely sure how to deal with it. My greatest fear is that I will be bored to the extent that I have to have a "hobby"... oh god, please don't let it happen. Maybe I could revisit my childhood and play with lego? Or dinosaurs, I definitely remember being obsessed with dinosaurs when I was a kiddy. Namely the act of shoving things down their throats as a means of storage... Quite a novel take on the concept of the piggy bank I think.

Realistically, I will spend my time watching Jurassic Park (the love that never dies), reading Jilly Cooper and musing (without actually acting upon) what on earth I'm going to do next.

I will no doubt conduct a vast number of these musing on this blog, so you have all that to look forward to.

Next time: The result of my haircut which is occurring on Monday (needless to say, the highlight of my Monday) which way will the scissors fall... La Roux or Hugh Grant...

HUGH HORSLEY IS DEAD

No doubt from any number of dangerous household items which we continually surround ourselves with. Drawing information from my incredibly reliable source for such statements - which is of course, the Daily Mail - we could potentially get cancer/die a horribly slow death/become mutants overnight if we continue to live with, touch, see or even think about the following items:

Vitamins, Asparin, Bacon, Bras, Calcium, Deoderant, Facebook, Sun cream and obviously, obviously that renowned killer...grapefruit.

This is actually a tiny sample of the real list of everyday dangers which we somehow manage to battle against and occasionally win. Whenever I pick up the Daily Mail for my daily dose of casual racism, homophobia, melodrama and self-righteousness I find myself exhausted by the time I get around to throwing it upon the fire. The constant barrage of "things you shouldn't be doing" leaves me rather feeling like a hobbit in the final lord of the rings battle. Realistically, they don't stand a fucking chance, and yet somehow they manage to make it out.

Surely if we all abandoned our sense of ration which we have been so gloriously endowed with and actually believed what the Daily Mail told us...we'd probably all end up like poor old Hugh Horsley. In other words, we would probably all end up like dried fruit, if we deprived ourselves of silly frivolities such as water, vitamin C and and especially in my case - tea. Complexly tied into this problem as well is the fact that as mobile forms, the internet and presumably using ones vocal cords will also cause ones vital organs to pack it in, if one suspects that imminent death is coming up on the agenda how the hell are we supposed to deal with it? It's not like you could bloody ask someone, that would be dangerous. Consequentially the only solution is to avoid consuming any fluids, solids or oxygen and just hope for the best.

Fear not though, it's not all bad. Granted Hugh was rather an extreme case, and his story I shall dwell upon another time. But right now... well I'd love a cup of tea, cheers.

?

???????????????????????????????????????????????????

???????????????????????????????????????????????????

???????????????????????????????????????????????????

For anyone who is wondering: “What is the point of writing so many question marks?” I would like to congratulate and thank you. With such a simple statement you have thus proven yourselves to be members of a worryingly dying breed.

I am of course, referring to the increasingly rare breed of people who have, after years of learning, trials, errors, tears and blind faith…discovered, the question mark.

Many of you might scoff at this contention that there are people who haven’t discovered the question mark but believe me…THEY EXIST. They are real,
I’ve seen them, I can picture them in my head and perhaps worst of all… I have spoken to them. The memories would make me shudder normally, but luckily I am wearing a jumper today so frankly there isn’t much point. For theatrical reasons, however, please just presume that I did just have a ridiculously hyperbolic shudder.

ANYWAY.

Example:

Person A: Hi how’s it going I think we met briefly last week at the pub. What’s your name?

Person B: Person B

A: Ah cool. I’m Person A.

B: Right.

A: So…how’s it going?

B: Yeah good thanks.

A: Have you been up to anything interesting recently?

B: Meh not so much.

A: Did you see that program on TV about window frames?

B: Yeah I did. It was really interesting.

A: I’m gutted I missed it, I was actually out at a gig at the time…

B: Too bad.

(cue mandatory awkward glancing around room for anyone better to talk to.)

NB This gesture is usually accompanied by either the swift consumption of any alcoholic drink to hand or the aggressive demanding of one to subsequently swiftly consume.

B: It reminded me of…………..(this then leads onto a lengthy – one-sided I hasten to add – discussion of person Bs fascinating summer holiday on the Isle of Skye in 1997 when there were many beautiful window frames. BLAH BLAH FUCKING BLAH.) Somehow person B has transformed into a non-stop tedium MACHINE, and you are stuck talking to them! How, HOW does this happen when they haven’t used a question mark in conversation since the age of 12 when they repeatedly asked their poor demented mother over and over again:

“Can I have a lolly?”

So yes. They exist, and they could be in a pub NEAR YOU.

Unfortunately I have discovered the hard way that there is no clear cut way to avoid these menaces. I personally award myself 5 points every time I ask a question. 5 points in my “you’re a superior human being chart” that is of course.

You could if you are feeling dangerous try and launch a counter attack. That is, give them a taste of their own medicine and only talk to THEM in statements. I advocate using this technique with extreme caution however. You don’t want to dance in the face of temptation for too long and go over to the dark side… There are quite a lot of them out there and maybe some of them found their way there without intending to. They will however, never know. Why? Because they never ask ANY FUCKING QUESTIONS of course.

The beginning of the example was an insight into the other dangerous type of conversationalist. That is those who only talk in statements. They too, are on the loose but I shall save my rant about them for another time.

Gambling on Gambia

After a quite impressive 36 hour delay I eventually made it back to the UK in one piece. A few highlights from the mission which turned out to be my return journey include:

• After a 6 hour delay eventually boarding the flight...only to be told half an hour later that we had to get off.

• When we landed in London after said 36 hour delay, everyone sped through security and passport control only to have to wait for an hour for the baggage.

By this point, having being subjected to what was verging on cruel levels of sweaty, angry beetroot coloured English tourists I had resigned myself to the amusing side of the situation and found it funny. This was the time to sit and read War and Peace and fill myself with an undeserved feeling of superiority.

It did however, give me plenty of time to reflect upon my 5 week trip. Since I have returned to the mothership I have obviously been quizzed over how the whole experience was. I have been finding it difficult to give a succinct answer to the question.

I would hate to be one of those people who return from a trip and proceed to jaunt around the English countryside proclaiming "It's chaaaanged me" to the local wildlife - which in my experience are the only creatures which resign themselves to listen. Eveyone else will just walk off - far ruder than saying "shut up" as it suggests they can't even muster the energy to vocalise words and project them in your directions.

In all serious though, my experience in the Gambia did have, a profound effect on me. Perhaps more on my awareness more than my soul but they must be interlinked to a degree. It was fantastic to be so involved in an organisation which is making such a difference to the standards of health care throughout the country. Despite starting the job with practically no background in Riders, at the end of my 5 weeks I now feel an extremely strong affiliation with the charity. Having travelled extensively throughout the country and seen the spectrum of influence upon the people and the health care organisation which Riders is having, it would have been impressive if I came back feeling anything except the intense pride which I now associate with the experience.

Obviously, part of the experience is to have challenges. Some of these, were difficult to deal with at times, understandably. One particularly haunting moment was when Ken and I were interviewing the administrator of a hospital which has yet to receive a TAM ambulance. This means that their ambulance is maintenanced and fuel is provided by Riders. In the midst of our interview, a nurse knocked on the door to alert to the administrator to a problem - there was a patient who need referring and the ambulance had no fuel.

The administrator turned to me, looked me in the eye and asked me what I thought he should do. His exact words were "Lady, what do I do? Do I just leave this man to die?" Not an easy question to have to try and answer.

There were several others along the way who took the opportunity of talking to us to slag off Riders and what it's doing for purely personal and selfish reasons. These are the small minority of people who wish to use the ambulance for their own needs and therefore dislike that with the Riders system every kilometre is logged and if fuel is being misused, they would be found out. For example, the people in the Lower River Region....who used the ambulance to transport a cow.

Although the challenges were sometimes frustrating, and occasionally, upsetting they gave an extra and important dimension to the work. It also meant that when we would talk with people who were happy with the work which was being done had so much of a positive impact by comparison.

Gambia is an extraordianary country and I feel extremely privileged to have had an opportunity to explore it. Turns out, taking a gamble on the Gambia? Well worth it.

Tea? Actually...maybe not....

So I am now staying with a Gambian family which means I am an participant of a true Gambian experience. So far, the Gambian experience I have gathered is that they tend to spend vast amounts of time sitting. Sometimes just sitting, most of the time watching awful, and I mean AWFUL Nigerian and Ghanaian soap operas and drinking green tea.

I don’t mean green tea in the UK sense of “calming herbal tea to drink when you’re feeling all floaty and mellow”. I mean hardcore, turn your liver black, dissolve your teeth sickly sweet amazingly strong SHOTS of green tea. Being the polite human being that I am I have somehow given everyone the impression that I am inordinately fond of this tea, and so I am frequently given some. As I have described it comes in a shot glass and is such a dark green that I originally thought it was shots of coffee. It also comes in batches of four. Hence my surprise when I had somehow dispatched with the first shot and was just downing (subtly) copious amounts of water and reassuring my petrified taste buds that they would learn to love and taste again when... along comes another shot. I was reassured that this was weaker than the previous, I can neither confirm nor deny this statement.

The soap operas are rather hilarious. So far these are the topics they seem to cover on the most regular basis:
Incest
HIV
Selling babies
Topping up phones
Maths lessons

My favourite scene so far has to be, in a moment of heart-felt teenage angst and despair a young boy in a fit of torment was throwing his basket ball repeatedly against a poster... of R Kelly.
Another classic was a documentary about a guy from Panama called Jeff who wanted to attend a Muslim festival and need a VISA for his trip. Approximately 15% was about him converting to Islam and the festival. The remaining 85% was him waiting for his Visa.

***SPOILER ALERT***
His Visa didn’t arrive in time.

When I arrived on the Friday it was Tobaski, a big Muslim festival the equivalent of our Christmas. In the morning the head of the family has to slaughter a ram and then there is a big feast. I did, (unfortunately) miss the slaughtering of the ram, but the munch was all fantastic. Because of Tobaski Therese has lots of family members staying, who speak very little English but with whom I continue to preserve to communicate with.

The ones whom I seem to spend the most time in the company of are an ancient old grandmother and her 8 month old grandson. Neither of whom, unsurprisingly speak a word of English. The baby seems to view me as some sort of confusing inanimate object. So far I have been climbed all over, cried at and licked. I do get the impression the grandmother is also a bit of a legend. On one occasion however, my ingrained need for polite conversation against all the odds was tragically foiled. Don’t ask me why but somehow, I was trying to convey to her that I had been bitten a lot by mosquitoes recently and that I thought I must have sweet tasting blood to them. I have no idea why I thought this could be conveyed through international hand language but it seemed worth a shot. I failed, miserably. Evidently she hadn’t understood what I was banging on about as about half way through my mosquito impression she got up and left. She then returned with some, joy of joys... green tea. An unexpected result.

This was the hint I needed; I stopped any attempt at verbal communication and retreated to read War and Peace. I am however, maintaining a totally inane smile whenever anyone walks near me or looks in my vague direction.

On the Sunday I was invited to (unsurprisingly) drink green tea with some local Gambian men. This involved sitting on the street, drinking tea, staring into space and occasionally having some chat about how I can’t speak either Wolof or Mandinka.

Current mosquito bite count = 18. BASTARDS.