Nice People are Creepy

Maybe it’s because I’m Scottish, but whenever someone is overly nice to me, I immediately become suspicious and jump to the conclusion that their niceness MUST have an ulterior motive. I know – it’s pretty sad, but I can’t help it. Nice people are creepy.

I’m sure I’m not alone in this view. On the plane over to Canada, I could easily have pointed out who was Scottish and who was Canadian just by their response to the air hostess’s suggestion that we give “the beautiful Macie” and her “cute, cuddly penguin” a wave. The Canadians giggled, waved, and said a big hello to Macie and her penguin, while the Scots bore an expression that was part confusion, part terror. I, being an extremely nervous flyer, wanted to get off the plane. Anyone who made a bunch of adults say hello to a toy penguin could not be trusted in ensuring a safe flight.

Although, having been in Canada a few days now, I do know that Canadians are actually, just nice. It’s who they are. You walk into a shop and they come bounding up to you, smiling, and say, “Hey, how are you today?”, and what’s more, they actually care about your answer. The first time this happened to me, I almost dropped my bag, and ran out of the shop, screaming, “Take whatever you want!!!!!!! Please don’t hurt me!!!!!!!”, but now I manage to stutter a “fine” and then swiftly, but calmly, make an exit.

It’s funny thinking about it the other way around. I mean, if we are scared of Canadians and their friendliness, what on earth must they think of us?! The other day, for example, we were sitting in a restaurant and as I was reading the menu, Dad slapped me on the head, telling me to hurry up and go order. I laughed, but as I got up, the family sitting next to us looked absolutely horrified. I almost had to tell them that it was just a joke and that the slap didn’t even hurt, but that probably would have confused them even more so I just went and ordered.

Hmm…having thought about it, it’s probably us who are the weird ones.

Aaaaanyway, despite this cultural divide, being in Canada has been pretty great. We used to come every summer, but haven’t managed to make it out in the past four years. The last time I was here, I had just finished school, just passed my driving test and was excited at the prospect of university. Now I have just finished university, just got my degree and am terrified of the prospect of full time employment. How times change.

The journey here was pretty uneventful. I’m getting better at flying thanks to Fly Without Fear. It’s a self help book (I know, I’m sorry) that miraculously, helps. I think it’s because it’s written by a pilot and not someone who tells you to just breathe and count to ten. His voice is so rational, calming, and he’s even a little funny – I think I may have a crush on him. But I really would recommend it. If it can transform me from the pill-popping, Rescue Remedy drinking, hysterically crying lunatic that I was, into a calm, almost normal passenger, then I’m sure it would work for you too. I mean, I still have those moments of incredulousness that everyone is acting like it’s completely normal to fly at thousands of feet in the air in a hurtling tin can, but now (thanks to that sexy beast of a narrator Captain Godfrey) I can contemplate these thoughts without having a melt down – like a curious, open minded spectator of a surreal play.

Mmm…breakfast (pancakes, bacon and maple syrup) is calling. My sister thought I looked a little skinny and peaky when I arrived (too much time spent in the pub) so she’s been feeding me up, and I’ve certainly not been complaining.

Freshers

Is it strange that I am enjoying Freshers a lot more now that I am not a Fresher? I don’t think so. There will be others who think of Freshers as one of the best weeks of their lives, but if I could turn back time…well, I wouldn’t. Although, I’d happily take the first year work load.

So that’s me back in Glasgow. For good. And I’m loving it! Maybe it’s because I know it’s my last year here so I’m all filled up with love – I love my squeaky, taped up bed; I love my crazy carpet that clashes with everything; I love the mice – actually, no, I will never love the mice. They look weird and scary and are getting too cocky for their own good. But I do love everything else and really will miss it come next year. I don’t even want to think about next year – I think I accidentally told the Spar I could work for them, but I’m hoping I passed it off as a joke. I mean, it’s a nice job and everything, but I would like to work somewhere else – got to keep Better Together happy as well. Oh God, I wish I was there for the referendum – Better Together must be absolutely shitting himself right now and I’d love to see what stops he’s pulling to persuade people to vote NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! He’s probably manically burning every single copy of Braveheart.

So now that I’m back in Glasgow, I should get back to the tourist-in-my-own-city blog, although it might just be a bunch of theatre this year – RADA’s made me a tad obsessed. I saw A Streetcar Named Desire last night and holy fucking cow, was it INCREDIBLE. Gillian Anderson was Blanche from her very core and I couldn’t take my eyes off her. On our first day at RADA, they asked us what “good” theatre was and I still don’t know – I mean, I know when I see good theatre, but I can’t analyse WHY it’s good apart from the fact that you get that nice feeling in your tummy. And goosebumps. I almost what to get a bus to London tonight so I can see it in the theatre. There’s a debate in the Theatre World right now about streaming plays in cinemas. Some think it’ll stop people from going to the theatre and that once again, the modern world is taking something personal and making it impersonal, but I am so happy they do it – I would never have seen this play if they didn’t. And I don’t think it’ll make less people go to the theatre as I think theatre lovers will always choose seeing it in the flesh if they can and it just gives those who can’t afford the time and money to travel to London, the chance to see these amazing plays. If you haven’t seen Streetcar, GO BOOK TICKETS. The whole cast was good, but Gillian Anderson was something special – I don’t know how she gets on the stage and does that every night. It’s one of the most haunting plays I’ve ever seen.

GUSH, GUSH, GUSH.

I’m going to see The Full Monty next week, which is meant to be hilarious. Also, I think there might be naked men on stage – woop, woop! Jokes. This doesn’t make me excited. Nudity on the stage actually makes me very uncomfortable (AAARRRGHH A PENIS, AAARRRGHH A VAGINA; WHERE DO I LOOK; WHERE DO I LOOK?!?!?!?!), but at least I’m not sitting at the front. I really don’t understand the people who sit at the front. A play is so raw, personal, and in the moment – who the hell wants a moment staring them in the face? I like to be a least 50 feet away from any moment.

But as for now, I should really, really, REALLY do some work on my dissertation. I have the scariest supervisor in the whole University and if I don’t have any work to show after FOUR MONTHS, he will kill me, stuff me, and then pin me up in his office like a stag head as a warning to all students.

But maybe I can fob him off with some milk chocolate hobnobs…

A Neurotic in London

I can’t believe that I’ve actually made it and you know what? It was so easy! Definitely not worth the ever so slight panic attack I had yesterday. BREATHE BREATHE BREATHE OH MY GOD WHAT AM I DOING I’M GOING TO GET LOST I MIGHT SUFFOCATE ON THE TUBE I CAN’T EVEN ACT THEY’LL ALL LAUGH AT ME I PROBABLY CAN’T EVEN READ I AM MUCH HAPPIER IN THE SPAR BREATHE BREATHE BREATHE.

Now, I can’t yet speak for the acting and people laughing at me (I’m in London for a wee summer school at RADA), but the journey really was easy peasy lemon squeezy. I calmed down somewhat after a vodka at the pub my friend was working in and then calmed down some more when I got on the KNIGHT BUS (take it away Earl) and had my very own bed. I actually calmed down so much that my tummy started rumbling; having neglected to eat that day, I found that I was pretty damn hungry. But no matter, I just dreamt of the fry up I would get when I arrived and fell asleep going over my lines. I didn’t even panic when I woke up and found myself in London. It seemed like such a short journey that I think my psyche has been tricked into thinking that Glasgow is incredibly near. That I could probably walk there.

TAKE THAT YOU NEUROTIC SON OF A BITCH PSYCHE!

And as for the dreaded Tube, I found it within seconds, although I did walk straight past it at first thinking that it couldn’t possibly be a station because of all the shops inside: that the sign saying “Victoria Station” on the building was in actual fact lying and that it really was just a shopping centre. But I realised my mistake pretty quickly, went back and it was then that I was met with another confused Scottish person:

“‘scuse me? Do you know if this is the station? Jist disnae look like one wi all the shops!”

“That’s what I thought, but I think it is!”

“Alright, cheers pal.”

But then he proceeded to walk in the opposite direction so he either didn’t trust me or completely misunderstood me.

I went in though and sure enough, it was both the station and the underground. I found the line I was meant to be on, managed to use my Oyster card, and didn’t fall down the escalator. I was then confidently waiting for the tube, until it turned up and I started questioning whether or not it was actually the right one. I had one leg in and one leg out, barricading the doorway, before turning to a stranger and imploring them for answers. It was just my luck that this stranger was absolutely roaring drunk.

“Sorrrry. I’m so druuunk. I thiiink – hic – this is the right one.”

She then took the initiative to ask someone who was not roaring drunk and yes, it was the right one.

Then I got off and my halls were a mere ten minute walk away and even though I’m not allowed in them until two o’ clock, I was able to leave my suitcase there – there was someone there at eight o’ clock on a Sunday morning! Then I found a nice little cafe down the road (OK YOU GOT ME IT’S STARBUCKS. I promise I’ll be more adventurous when I’ve settled in a bit and do not smell of bus.) and so here I am, drinking a big cup of tea and about to read my play for the third time just to make sure that I really know what it’s about.

I’ll let you know how tomorrow at the school goes.

If I don’t have another panic attack and die that it is.

P.s. It is absolutely pissing it down. I thought the weather in England was meant to be better than in Scotland? I did not sign up (or pack) for this.

Ode to the Spar

I can’t believe I have only four days left at work – SUMMER, Y U PASS SO QUICK?! – and despite sometimes wanting to blow my brains out just so I can leave early, I will actually miss the shop. And I’m GUTTED I won’t be around for the referendum as I suspect things will really heat up. Better Together handed in another leaflet the other day saying that if anyone was undecided about their vote, then he would be delighted to receive them for a cup of coffee and chat/brainwash. Everyone’s really taken to the leaflet, but I fear that this has nothing to do with politics, but rather with the fact that he is definitely the richest man in the village and so everyone just wants to see his house. I’ve seen it (babysitting his grandchildren) and it’s IMMENSE, although I spent the whole evening in fear that I would accidentally burn it down and stain the cream carpet in the process.

AND SO. Since I’ll be leaving soon and I really am hopeful that I will not return to work there again (this will NEVER happen), I thought I would write a slightly more positive blog about all the things I’ll miss. Here goes…

1) The new owners who, despite their over sharing of bowel movements, are lovely people and I really hope everything works out for them and that they somehow manage to make a profit on the entire stock of a closed down gift shop that they have just bought (it’s horrific).

2)The other staff who have, over the years, become like a second family, always making sure I eat well and am wearing enough clothes.

3) The mop. It’s massive and just GETS THE JOB DONE.

4) The hoover. I’ve never seen anything suck like this thing does.

5) The ten o’ clock tea break.

6) Lunchtime.

8) The three o’ clock tea break.

9) Closing time and closing on time.

10) Cashing-up and everything is SPOT ON. This feeling is truly orgasmic. Truly.

11) Getting called a “clever girl” for having the customers paper/fags/medication/milk on the desk before they ask for it. I should probably find this patronising, but I don’t. I’m savouring it all up before I return to university and the sweaty palms and dry mouth that come with the realisation that everybody in the room is far, far cleverer than myself.

12) Some customers.

13) The free samples of food (these are actually meant for the customers, but if the owners insist on putting lime and black pepper kettle chips right under my nose, then I WILL eat them).

There. I could definitely go on, but I’ve decided to finish on number thirteen as I’m trying to face the fear I have of this number head on. YOU’LL NEVER DEFEAT ME NUMBER 13. Aaaaand as I was writing, I just remembered that I agreed to work in the Spar over Christmas. So really this whole tribute/ode thing has been a bit melodramatic.

Oh well.

Another Friday Night, Another Cup of Tea

I MISS DRINKING! Although, considering I have a wee tipple before going to my bed pretty much every night (yes, I’m drinking alone, but no, I’m not an alcoholic – I like the taste and it helps me sleep and also, isn’t a glass of wine a day healthy? SO STOP JUDGING), I’m hardly in the position to say that I actually miss alcohol, so really, I miss getting drunk. Ah, that blissful state of fuzzy wuzziness. Yep, it’s the fuzzy wuzziness I miss.

The fuzzy wuzziness.

Boredom levels have reached a new high (or low?) at the Spar. I was stacking Coke bottles the other night and got so excited (too excited) when I saw a Share one with…and then the name of a friend! Oh my goodness, this is a Dear Diary moment!!!! I immediately took a photo and sent it to him.

I don’t think he was as amused as I was.

BUT THEN, half an hour later or so, I was stacking some more Coke bottles when I saw ANOTHER friend’s name! Freaky or what? So I went and got my other friend (in coke bottle form) and put them next to each other. Aww, sweet. And that was the moment that my awe-inspiring plan was born – Tonight, I will find all my friend’s names and get a picture of them all together! Oh my goodness, this is going to be so much fun. 

Turns out, it wasn’t. Three crates of coke later, I only found one other name, although I did find “Bobby”, which I thought I could use to my advantage since there is a sub-group within our group of friends known as “The Boabies” (Scottish slang for penis). But alas, my awe-inspiring plan just looked sad:

Hey my little coke bottle friends! Looking gooooood!

And then I had to explain myself to the owners:

Owners: Josie, why did you open three crates of coke?

Me: Oh yeah, that – yeah, I didn’t realise that one was already open and then I forgot that I had opened another one…

(Quick thinking or what?)

Owners: Right…

Pffft. They were looking at me as though I was crazy, but imagine if I’d said “Oh that, I was just trying to find my friends!” They would have at least considered letting me go and so it is with this blog, that I do give you another example illustrating the necessity to tell a little white lie to people one barely knows.

Don’t Drink and Mop

Turns out, the tax payers are pissed off:

Better Together Customer (irritable) : On holiday again?

Me (apologetically): Yeah, I seem to have more holidays than I do classes…

I giggle half-heartedly in the hope that I bring him out of his despondence. No such luck.

Better Together Customer (highly unamused): Mmm. And it’s my taxes that are paying for you.

And then he left without a “thank you” or a “goodbye”. I wondered what had got his knickers in a twist since he’s usually a very nice customer – one of my favourites – but now I may have to sneeze on his change.  It’s probably the whole stress of his leaflets being hidden (and his taxes, I guess). Although, when I think back on yesterday, it was a very grumpy day overall. The owners were once again tethered to the Spar after their lovely holiday away so that’s probably why they were tetchy; the other staff had been working long hours while the owners were away so that’s probably why they were tetchy, and I guess the villagers were just fed up with the sunshine:

Me: Hello! Enjoying the lovely sunshine?

Lobster Customer: No. Ah jist cannae get anythin’ done in this bloody heat!

Me: Oh. Yes, terrible. Terrible. Let’s hope it stays away tomorrow and the rain, sleet, hail, and wind come rushing back.

Ok, I didn’t say that last bit, but seriously, thank goodness there’s the weather otherwise no one would have anything to complain about.

But everyone was significantly chirpier today – probably because it’s Friday and they were all away to get pissed. It was my turn to be grumpy this time, although my boss did give me a glass of wine while I mopped up, which was…strange. I didn’t really want it (because being Scottish, I’m just a manic binge drinker), but my boss is very difficult to say no to. He just asks and asks and asks until you want to kill him and so say yes instead as it’s a lot less messy. So I had the glass of wine and I thought it would be ok; that there couldn’t be that many units in the one glass. My Dad, who’s been on the course, always says that it’s ZERO TOLERANCE, but I told myself that it would only be this one time; that I would never do it again. Turns out, one time is all it takes and that after only one glass, my judgments became cloudy and my reactions too slow – a jar of Lloyd Grossman’s Chicken Korma was no more.

So don’t drink and mop, kids. The curry stains will play upon your mind forever.

Spar-ing it Up

So after my lovely travels to Greece, the west coast of Scotland, and Spain; I have now returned to my home village and the job that I have had for the past six years on and off: THE SPAR. I can’t believe I’m working there again – it’s like a drug and I’m reluctantly going back for more. Sometimes I get a bit embarrassed when people come in and go “Oh, you’re back again?” and I think that they’re thinking, So THIS is how you spend our taxes? You get a job that you had BEFORE uni? Why don’t you put that place to good use and get a nice internship somewhere…but I’m sure that’s me just being paranoid – they really, probably, don’t give a shit.

To those who follow my blog (if you give a shit): DON’T FEAR. There are just as many funny stories to come from the Spar as there are abroad and to be honest, the ones from the Spar are probably funnier, although I would laugh at a hole in a biscuit so I’ll let you be the judge of that. If, after the tenth blog about another dropped jar of Lloyd Grossman’s Chicken Korma, you wish to de-follow, feel free.

I won’t cry.

But already there’s a wee scandal afoot. One day, a customer came in to drop by Better Together leaflets, but when, the next day, he came to check that they were still there, they were GONE. DUN DUN DUN. Turns out, it was a member of staff that had hidden them, in a torrent of rage no doubt. DRAMA. But it doesn’t stop there. Another customer, on seeing the Better Together leaflets, handed in her own ones that supported the YES! campaign and you know what happened? Someone hid them! I have my suspicions that it was the Better Together customer, but I can’t be certain. I shall employ my detective skills today and see what I can find out. The owners are on the verge of declaring the Spar a neutral, free-of-politics, zone (we can’t have that, can we? The social hub of the community?) so something must be done!

Yeah, ok, go ahead and de-follow.

 

Bottoms Up

 

Yesterday was the annual highland games in my village – something that was described by a close friend as being “better than christmas” and, while another close friend said that that was by far the saddest thing he had ever heard, I had to agree. Oh how I remember the days when I was younger, waking up to the sound of distant bag pipes, jumping out of bed, and running down the track in my pyjamas to catch a glimpse of the mighty pipe band strutting their stuff. The games, what we’d been waiting for all year, had finally ARRIVED!

Ok, maybe we’re a little sad. But you have to understand that there’s not much in our village. Our park consisted of a dodgy rope swing, a climbing frame no one understood, and some sort of special turf thing that seemed to inflict more injuries than it prevented. To our younger selves, the highland games meant the bright lights of waltzers, three-legged races, eating burgers and candy floss until we were sick and our parents being too drunk to remember our bedtimes.

And then we grew up and it became about us getting too drunk to remember our bedtimes.

And then we grew up some more and I got a job in the local shop and so was there during the games, serving the dizzy, sugar high kids and the dizzy, liquored up adults.  

I was working there yesterday, enduring a questionable version of the song, Jolene.

“Josie, Josie, Josie, Josieeeeeeeeeeee, I’m beggin’ of you please don’t keep my changeee…”

And all I could think about was how I couldn’t wait to get as drunk and embarrassing as them.

I don’t drink all that often, but really bloody enjoy it when I do. Everything is dandy, everything is funny, and everyone is lovely. Even that bitch you always hated. You just misunderstood her. But then you wake up, feeling sick from that entire roast chicken you devoured at six in the morning and wondering whether those flash backs of pulling a dog are from an alcohol fuelled dream or if it actually happened.</p>

It did.

Then come the hangover blues. Aren’t they a treat. What the hell do I think I’m doing with my life? I’m such a waster. Ugh, look at me. Lying here, stewing in my own filth, eating my weight in Wispa Mini Bites, watching Sabrina the Teenage Witch, thinking Salem’s done more things than me. I mean, at least he tried to take over the world, that’s something, and now he’s a cat, who wouldn’t want to be a cat? I may as well be a cat, for all I do. Eat and Sleep. God, I’m so fat and lazy. Why don’t you get out on that bike, you big, fat, waster. Everyone else is cooler than you. They’re out doing interesting things while you’re just lying here. That’s right, just go ahead and click another episode. You’ve probably forgotten how to ride a bike anyway.

But ah, fuck it. Those drunken nights are worth it. And the dog wasn’t half bad.