Praying for Icebergs

I could not neglect to notice that my apparent distain for an elderly woman is evident in my previous posts.  Let me explain.  I suppose it all comes down to the fact that my neighbour known as interfering Elsie pushed me to the verge of suicide about two years ago. “How is this possible?” I hear you ask.  Well, let us proceed.

It all began on a Wednesday evening in October 2012; I made the mistake of accepting an invitation to enter her lair on the premise that I would drink one of her cups of scalding hot tea before making my excuses and returning to my flat.  As usual, she trapped me.  I was sitting in her flat, surrounded by the creepiest selection of hand sewn toys and mountains of complaint letters, unable to escape.  I’d been in there for over two hours and had been subjected to her lengthy stories about her complaint letters and forced to read the hand written duplicate copies she keeps for her own records.  I think it was at the point when I was mid-way through one of her pet-sitting diaries, detailing her cleaning animal excrement that she abruptly asked:

“Have you ever been on the Waverly Paddle Steamer?”

In my innocence, I replied that I hadn’t.  As she launched into a half hour tale of the wonders of the boat and its sail up the River Clyde, the only polite response was to agree “that sounds wonderful”. 

“Would you like to come on a sail?”

“Of course – it sounds amazing!” I said mistakenly.

Upon reflection, I believe the fault lies with me, in that I am pre-disposed to treat the elderly as if they were my own grandparents.  The assumption being that the elderly should be treated in a polite and respectful manner reflecting how they were brought up to treat their elders and along with that, there is usually a reciprocal caring and generosity which perhaps comes with age.  Let me be clear – I failed to understand that old people can be a complete pain in the arse.

Two days later, on the Friday evening, I was relaxing after a busy week at University.  The letterbox clattered and hesitantly I opened the door.  Elsie was standing in the landing.

“We leave at 7am tomorrow. Wrap up warm the two of you!”

No questions, no planning, no warning.  My Saturday was now assigned, against my will, to a trip on the Waverly.  God forbid I actually had some form of social life or plans for my day off. 

“I’m so sorry, I’m working tomorrow Elsie – I won’t be able to come!” Manu added.

Let me tell you, if ever there is a time when you seriously consider ending a long term relationship, the moment when your partner abandons ship (quite literally) and leaves you resigned to an outing with your pain in the arse neighbour – this scenario fits the bill.  Smiling at Elsie yet projecting an evil death stare at Manu, I closed the door and couldn’t stop myself from saying:

“I can’t wait!” – A sense of underlying dread surfacing.

The next thing I knew, it was 7am and the letterbox was rattling again. 

“The taxi is downstairs” Elsie grinned.

So slowly we descended her with her luminous-green-4-wheeled-shopping-trolley in tow, downstairs to the taxi. In no time we were at the Glasgow Science Centre and seeing as she had paid for my ticket, I handed over a crisp £20 note to the taxi driver.  Boarding the Waverly took a long time. As an able bodied youngster I was cautious, so I feel that trying to describe an elderly woman with a trolley and plastic leg splints could not do the reality of the situation any justice.  “To me”, “To you” by the Chuckle Brothers is about as close as I can get as she was passed between the Ship’s Crew down the gangplank.

If I’m absolutely honest, as we found seats on the deck, I felt a sort of nervous anticipation or in retrospect a horrendous premonition of what was to come.  As we set sail, the atmosphere was excited and the crisp October air ensured that everybody on board was wide awake and ready for the trip ahead.  As with any boat journey, I found myself unable to resist humming the Titanic theme tune as the fated ship left the dock, but sadly my sister wasn’t with me to share the joke.  However, I suppose it was within the first 5 minutes of our voyage that it dawned on me what a terrible mistake I had made.

“Lovely day for a sail” Elsie said to a man with a very impressive moustache sitting beside us.

“Yes, it is” he replied politely

“Where are you coming from?”

“Hamilton” he said, smiling awkwardly.

I have never seen anybody look so relieved as one of his party appeared with a roll and sausage, giving him the excuse to distance himself from Elsie and her awkward questions.  Presuming she was just being friendly, I mistakenly thought nothing of her striking up a conversation with a stranger.  How wrong I was.

“Should we go downstairs and get a spot of breakfast?” she asked me.

I agreed and so the first of many trips around the ship began.  We descended the stairs to the cafeteria at a painfully slow pace, causing a huge human traffic jam of passengers.  Again, thinking nothing of it, I paid for our breakfast seeing as I hadn’t quite reimbursed the cost of my ticket with the taxi fare. 

Writing this, I am finding it hard to put into word what exactly unfolded.  It was over a cup of tea at Dunoon that I discovered that our trip would last the entire day.  Yes, we would not get back to Glasgow until late that night.  As much as the conditions aboard were calm, the words “cabin fever” crept into my mind.  It turned out that the reason for Elsie’s trips on the Waverly were so that she could initiate conversations with strangers.  For hours we sailed on, every five minutes her positioning herself beside some poor stranger to say “Lovely day for a sail!”  Some folk made the same mistake that I did and actually engaged in the conversation before realising that this individual was an embittered old lady, nosey to find out your life story and anxious to acquire your address so as to correspond with you.  There was no escape.  I was being trailed around the ship, being forced to partake in her harassment of people trying to enjoy a nice day out.  I swear to god, to this day the words “Lovely day for a sail” are ringing in my ears and are capable of bringing on a panic attack.  The day was broken up by trips to the cafeteria whereby she managed to alternate our payments so that I bought every overpriced meal and she purchased the cheap cups of tea and coffee.  By the time I was about £60 down, I realised that inviting a gullible neighbour on a Waverly trip was a lucrative move. 

Late afternoon, I was relieved of my duty and informed that I was free to go for a wander around the ship.  I headed to the opposite side of the boat and discovered some men smoking which I had previously presumed wasn’t allowed on board.  I’m surprised I didn’t keel over with nicotine poisoning as I sat and chain smoked for about half an hour.  Sitting alone, the view was spectacular.  I thought to myself, as a couple this would be a very romantic trip, as a family, this would be a great day out.  Instead I was brought back to reality as I heard the words “Are you enjoying your sail?”…

Eventually we arrived at Tighnabruaich.  At this point, the passengers had the option to disembark and watch the Waverly sail off as it turns around to head back to Glasgow.  I previously described myself as able bodied which is not an accurate description, but let me tell you, every fat lump of me ran to shore leaving Elsie on board.  I started imagining my new life there.  Surely a family in Tighnabruaich would take me in when they heard my plight?  I could work in the local post office to pay my fare back to Glasgow.  It seemed like a nice place, being abandoned here wouldn’t be so bad.  If my plan failed, I could start the 17 hour walk and ferry journey back to Glasgow.  I sat on the beach as the Waverly returned.  I was suicidal.

Back on board, I started counting the stops back to Glasgow.  Elsie asked me if I wanted to get some dinner.  I paid. £80 down.  Despite there being plenty of free table she insisted upon sharing with two elderly men as she viewed it as an opportunity to strike up yet more conversations with strangers.  Over dinner she started telling me the tales of friends she had made on her trips around the UK.  At that point I fully understood that what she actually meant was people she had harassed into corresponding with her whilst she had hijacked them on their day out.  One of her most interesting tales was a business man who had given her his address and she had sent some home baking to him in a Tupperware box.  He hadn’t returned the Tupperware.  Her description of the situation was verging on a comparison to the Holocaust.  I wondered if they sold razor blades in the gift shop.

 

 

Upon my discovery that sadly razor blades weren’t available in the gift shop, I went for a wander below deck.  The engine room showing the triple expansion steam engine with all of its pistons, crankshafts and cylinders was a sight to behold.  I was hypnotised better than Paul McKenna could ever dream of by its endless rotations, but sadly thought about throwing myself on top of the machinery in the hope that I was be pulverised and eventually cremated when I made it to the boiler room.  After a half an hour trance, I took out my phone and started texting my parents and even my neighbours Johnny and Mary to let them know that it had been nice knowing them.  Sadly they were all amused at my ill-fated day out in such terrible company.

I found myself on deck later watching the sunset.

Admittedly it was spectacular.  I was surrounded by professional photographers taking advantage of the beautiful scenery.  Looking out over the water, I found myself pondering…”Are there Ice Bergs off the west coast of Scotland?  Please God – Let there be Ice Bergs!”  It was the only way I could envisage myself getting off this god forsaken ship.  Staring down at the icy cold water, I was overwhelmed with the understanding that this was one of those seminal moments in life when things fall into place.  For the first time, all of those boring University literature classes became real.  Camus was right about the intrinsic absurdity of the world and our existence, I indeed was Sisyphus and this ship was the symbolic boulder of my eternal damnation!  Elsie was Charon, ferrying me across the River Styx to the underworld!  There I was, Narcissus, consumed by my own reflection in the water!  This was the modern day Odyssey and Iliad!  Simone de Beauvoir was right! Ok, too far, she was just full of feminist pish…

“Are you enjoying your sail?” I heard.  I gripped the railing to prevent my interrupted subconscious from throwing myself overboard.  Where in the name of fuckery were Jack and Rose when you needed somebody to make false promises of “I’ll never let go” shortly before letting go? 

The honest truth is that I don’t know how I made it home.  Well, I do in so much as I remember it was once again me who forked out for the taxi.  I’m still to contact the student loans company to find out if they’ll reimburse me for being scammed out of my cash.  All I remember is that we approached Glasgow which looked more beautiful than I can ever remember seeing it as it was lit up at night.  Perhaps it was just the sheer relief of being home after a fourteen hour day with Elsie that made it look so wonderful…

As children, we are taught not to speak to strangers, yet I doubt elderly women are what our parents had in mind.  I assure you, the next time that an old woman invites you into her home for a harmless cup of tea; your best bet is to decline.  I may not have come up the Clyde in a Banana boat, but it would appear that accepting to come down it on the Waverly Paddle Steamer doesn’t make me much smarter either.

Hopefully this may explain some of the resentment Up Ma Bit.

It's Always Fair Weather

With the sun making its first appearance of 2014, the past week or so has been slightly calmer than usual up ma bit.  Since the curious incident of the dog in the close, the residents of number 23 have been more reluctant than ever to engage in the type of stairway banter which was once a common feature of the close, perhaps in their reluctance to have their “poaket” or worse, face, savaged by a devil dug.  Nonetheless there have been some minor updates, including a debate at the main door to rival a NATO convention.

“Fuckin’ pirates, that’ll be the next proablem!”  I heard somebody exclaim excitedly in front of the close door one evening.  Not that I’m a nosey neighbour or anything, but as usual my curiosity got the better of me and employing the tactics of interfering Elsie, I peered out from behind the curtains to check if as stated, the street was besieged by Pirate Ships.  Instead, I was amused to discover Johnny on his way out with his two dogs, engaged in a discussion with Old Mick, the street’s resident friendly tramp.

“I’m tellin’ ye, if Alec Salmon gets his way then we’ll be heavin’ wi’ fuckin’ Somali Pirates stealin’ oor oil”

“Well, I’m English but I’ve been here long enough to consider myself one of youse.  Yer right Mick, it’ll be a disaster – I dunno if there’ll be pirates though... There’s already no jobs, no money, we live in this shithole and Independence will make it all worse”

“aye, I know.  Av no had a joab fir about 20 year now, but that’s no the point. Did you see where I put ma Tennants? I’d offer ye a Superlager but I cannae mind where av put them….”

Overhearing Old Mick as he started searching the barren flowerpots for his Superlager, the thought did occur to me that his view of being unemployed for 20 years as “no the point”, might actually explain quite a lot.  Johnny once told me that Old Mick had been a composer, although at present the closest he came to working in the profession was singing in the street of an evening fuelled by alcohol and his performances peppered with profanity hurled at passers-by.  I heard Johnny decline a can and he headed out towards the park.  I have therefore been surprised to discover upon opening the curtains every morning since, so far there are no signs of the street resembling a newly submerged Atlantis, Pirate ships and all.

The only disturbance to report of late was last Wednesday night,  Gavin the South African/Australian (he has an accent that nobody has figured out) who lives downstairs took it upon himself to blast music at such a high volume, the results of which I can only compare to the post Armageddon anticipated dismay of Eschaton.  In the momentary pause between songs, I could be heard shouting “Thank God!” eventually descending into more frustrated “Thank Fuck”’s to indicate my dismay yet joy at a pause in the cacophony.  Eventually after a few hours I decided to knock on Alice’s door to see if she was also demented by the noise before I went downstairs to confront Gavin.  Bizarrely she hadn’t been able to hear it in her flat, but upon opening her door she could hear it in the close.  Whilst we stood chatting the music abruptly stopped, saving me the awkwardness of having to confront yet another neighbour for an atrocious disregard for the wellbeing of their fellow residents. 

“I don’t know about that music, but Jesus Christ – whitever he’s been cookin’ its fucking hoachin’!  Proabably fuckin’ Kangaroo wi’ that smell!”

Alice was her friendly self, yet somewhat more on the ball.  It transpired that, as she put it, she had “had tae fall oot wi’ Mr.Gin”.  Her drinking had been curbed by an incident earlier in the week.

“You ken whit like am ur.  I only go oot to see my maw in the home, go roon tae see oor Tommy (her brother) or tae get ma carry oot.  Will I went oot tae see Tommy cuz he’s got that prosticular cancer and he’s no git loang tae liv – and ah never leave that tumble dryer oan when am oot, but I wisnae oot fir loang.  Neways, I cum back, open ma door ‘n’ the whole fuckin’ joints ablaze! Fuckin’ fire ‘n’ smoke comin’ oot the cunt. Had tae unplug the bastard, I was takin’ ma fuckin’ life in ma hons!  If it wisnae fir Tommy ‘n’ his prostrate I never wooda goan oot”

I laughed nervously whilst imaging the possibility that I could have met my maker if the fire had ripped through the entire building.  I also found myself amused at this presumably new medical phenomenon of “prosticular/prostrate” illness, I’m yet to inform my University of this new anatomical discovery so they can conduct some research.  Long story short, her booze money will now be paid in monthly instalments to a catalogue company providing her with a new tumble dryer. 

“I’m oan they patches fir the smokin’” she added as she took a long draw of her liquorice paper roll up.  “Very fancy by the way” she said, nodding towards the updated décor.

I had decided to end the Phantom Pisser episode by removing the sign she had posted where accusations were still being made.  

Sometimes something as subtle a new door mat can be the symbolic closure needed and will bring about a swift end to confrontation; however I have a feeling that a "door mats' for Crimea" appeal might not be the new "Band Aid" (although Bob Geldof and Bono will jump on any bandwagon).

As quiet as it has been, and as amusing as these tales may seem, sometimes it’s hard not to find everything a little bit depressing.  Of late, regardless of whether the weather be bad or fine, I find that a little bit of escapism does no harm.  So amidst the aroma of Kangaroo, burning tumble dryers and Somali pirates, I invite you fine readers to indulge in a full 4 minutes and 20 seconds of pure bliss.

Imagining myself and the local alcoholic and junkie residents going about our business on roller-skates makes it easier to pretend – It’s always fair weather.

And that’s what has been happening up ma bit.

The Phantom Pisser.

The phantom pisser has struck again up ma bit.  Upon leaving the house for University this morning, I was once again greeted with a very unwelcome sight – a piss puddle on my door mat.  I went back inside, sat on the sofa and dialled the local housing association who deals with the majority of tenants in the close.  Their offices being closed, I took it upon myself to take action.  I knocked Alice’s door:

“Look at that! 3 times now.  This is quite literally taking the piss!” I explained angrily.

Alice was heading round to the housing association office anyways, so she told me that she would add it to her list of complaints.  Before we could conclude our brief conversation, we heard a hurried fumbling – Elsie was opening her door. 

“oh, what a terrible mess!  Is it that nuisance dog again?” she commented with concern.

She had good reason to comment on the mess.  The trail of piss extended from near the third floor almost to the front door with inevitably a pause taken at my front door to cause the greatest offence.  I couldn't be arsed listening to her shite patter, so enraged, I climbed the stair to the third floor.  I knocked both doors in unison.  Shona and Mary answered.

“Look, I’ve been here 5 and a half years and I’ve never had a problem with anyone.  For the third time in just over a week somebody has let their dog piss on my doormat and today it has been trailed down the stairs too.  It’s disgusting.  Whoever is responsible, would you kindly ensure that it doesn’t happen again?”

I stood there and listened to the awkward denial by both parties.  Both swore that they would never allow that or would have at least admitted it and cleaned up their dogs mess.  Having felt like it had been dealt with, I headed back down the stairs.  In my absence for all of about 2 minutes, the close had had a make-over similar to a mid 1990's episode of Changing Rooms with Carole Smilie but from Alice instead.  The door mat had been lifted and placed over the banister, pages of the Sun newspaper had been strewn across my doorway, and a new sign had been erected:

Alice seemed more annoyed than me:

“Av telt ye, it’s a fuckin’ bitch that’s sat doon, a female dug, it’s no a dug dug” she said, all the while pointing towards Shona’s flat.

At this point, although I was angry, I was beyond giving a shit about the phantom pisser as Elsie piped up again

“There’s a terrible smell.  That door mat will need replacing! Would you like a lemon loaf?” she added with such an abrupt change in topic that for a moment I didn't know what to say.

So there I am, standing enraged about the events of the phantom pisser and she’s offering me a fucking freshly baked lemon loaf!  I assume that her kind offer was due the the fact that I was visibly riled, but at that precise moment I was tempted to tell her to shove the entire citrusy confection up her arse.  What in the name of God did I need a lemon loaf for? 

I kindly agreed to take half as a whole one would be far too much.  So here I am, sitting writing this with a slice of lemon loaf, a cup of earl grey tea and erecting a sign to ask the phantom pisser to anonymously donate the cash for a replacement door mat...

That is what has happened today up ma bit.

The curious incident of the Dog in the Close.

I suppose I should really start this story from the beginning.  The very beginning would be five and a half years ago, but to spare you some of the details let’s take things back just over a week ago. 

I am not ashamed to admit that I am a highly stressed individual who fails spectacularly at coping with the daily trials life has a tendency to throw at us.  Considering this, my parents deemed it appropriate to take me away from the big smoke for the weekend for some much needed rest and relaxation.  What a wonderful weekend I had, enjoying long walks on some of Scotland’s finest beaches, taking in the fresh air and of course sabotaging the benefits by overindulging in as many treats as humanly possible within 48 hours.  I felt refreshed, restored even.  By the time I was in the car heading home, I felt an overwhelming feeling of dread rising in me; back to reality and ma bit.

Manu came to the car to help me with my bags and as we ascended the close stairs, I was recounting the details of the wonderful weekend I had had.  It was upon the arrival at our doorstep that we noticed a peculiar puddle-shaped stain on our door mat. 

“It must have been a dog desperate to get out who has had a wee accident” I concluded, slightly annoyed but understanding of the situation.  Nobody was to blame.

After having unpacked my bags and settling back in, Manu handed me a piece of paper which had come through our door from Alice:

After deciphering the scrawled handwriting, I laughed to myself – Alice had sent the note as a wind up in reference to an incident in December when Elsie had made an accusation of animal cruelty.  I presumed that after a few too many glasses of Gin, Alice thought she would write this to amuse me.  It did amuse me, and I thought nothing more of it.

Coming forward a week, I’m afraid there was nothing much to report.  Everybody seemed to go about their business and nothing scandalous happened - until Sunday.

After escaping to my parents’ house for the afternoon, I came home to find and A4 printed notice just inside the close.

“TO THE CLATTY RESIDENTS OF NUMBER 23.  

I no longer accept living in your filth.  From now on I will be cleaning my section of the stairs and the rest of you clatbags can rot in your own filth and muck”

I instantly knew that it was a disgruntled Johnny, who (seeing as nobody else gave a shit) regularly took it upon himself to clean the stairs.  All of the residents had noticed that the cleanliness of the stairs was nothing but atrocious, but quite frankly it was nobody’s responsibility to resolve what had degenerated into something akin to a cesspit.  Chuckling to my so called “clatbag” self at yet another passive-aggressive notice being posted, I headed into my flat, closing the door and literally turning my back on the filth outside.

Today I was up early and convinced myself to brave the cold and throw out the bins.  Upon opening my door, I was greeted by the sight of a huge piss marked door mat in front of me. That was it - once is an accident, twice is deliberate.  Absolutely raging, I phoned the housing association and made a complaint.  Wishing to remain anonymous it was agreed that a general letter would be sent out about behaviour of animals and the general cleanliness in the close. 

It was less than an hour later whilst reposing in the tranquillity of my living room that I heard echoing from the landing:

“HAW JOHNNY, AM WANTIN’ A WORD WI’ YOU”

And there I was, crouched behind the door, hanging on their every word…

“Don’t you be callin’ me a fuckin’ clatbag! I’m Mrs.Fucking clean!  I agree wi’ you, it’s a fucking disgrace they stairs. Av already been roon the hoosin’  and the Polis tellin them bout that fucking devil dug an’ they stairs. Bastard ripped ma poaket aff”

A shy and retiring individual Alice is not.

“No, I wasn’t saying it was you. I just find these stairs disgusting…I’ve taken the notice down now.  I’m telling you though, see if I find the bastard that’s been spitting in the stairs…I know who it is, and if I catch him…” Johnny hesitantly added.

“aye, that’s fuckin’ rank, but I’m tellin’ ye….that bastard dug, it’s a vicious cunt.  I’ve already spoken wi’ the maw.  It needs muzzled, ma poaket is the height of a wean. Cooda ripped a fucking wean’s face aff.”

The bitching session lasted a good 10 minutes; all the while I’ve lost the feeling in my lower body from crouching at the door so long.  I had decided - I was going to have my say.

I bided my time, waiting till it was plausible that I had by chance decided to knock on Alice’s door.  As always, she instantly welcomed me in but before entering I paused to point out to her the piss stained door mat in front of my flat. 

So the two of us sat there on the sofa, me telling her about my outrage at a malicious mystery pisser and her instantly forgetting the pleasant conversation she’d indulged in by immediately accusing Johnny with his 2 dogs.  She went on, filling me in on what I’d missed. She’d been savagely attacked by dear old Lassie on her way out for a walk; her “jaiket poaket” had been torn off by the beast mid-rampage.  The maw, or Greasy heid as Alice like to call her had come to apologise:

“I almost kicked that cunt in.  It’s no only the fuckin’ dug needin’ muzzled, its auld greasy heid too!” Alice exclaimed.

“That jaiket is irreplaceable.  I goat it 20 year ago aff a professional shoaplifter. Fuckin’ irrreplacable…”

We were abruptly interrupted by the letterbox being chapped.  It was Elsie.  I’d barely been in there 5 minutes so she had inevitably heard me going to see Alice and couldn’t resist joining in.  For the next hour we were obliged to hear her talk shite about caring for animals, how the stairs were a tragedy and we need to implement a cleaning rota (which conveniently she is too old to partake in) and we agreed. No clear conclusion was reached about what would happen with the dog, the stairs or the mystery pisser.  Elsie took much delight in stating the obvious about how a sheepdog should be running free and chasing sheep….

“you know, it will turn on those children, what a poor creature….but it’s probably because its cooped up all day…” she commented in her ever so proper English accent.

“…anyways, I made a new friend today. She invited me back to her house…she used to live near here…”

Alice and I carefully avoided any eye contact for fear of bursting out laughing.  Elsie’s speciality was starting up conversations with strangers who then found it impossible to get rid of her.

“That’s very trusting going back to somebody’s house Elsie,  I wouldn’t do that…” I added.

“Oh no, she was old….maybe in her eighties…”

Then failing to resist the urge, Alice chipped in:

“Aye, that’s aboot the same age Jack the Ripper wiz…”

That’s what has been happening up ma bit.