The 72 day itch

Kim Kardashian is getting divorced after 72 days of marriage? What a joke! I’ve had food in my fridge for longer than that. Granted I should have thrown it out after it began to smell, but at least I know a thing or two about commitment. How bad could things be to call it quits after only 2 months and 2 weeks? Most people are still in the honeymoon stage at that point. Even after my humble 4 and a half years of marriage, I still hate being away from Will. He recently went home to South Africa to shoot a wedding, and I missed him terribly while he was away. So much so that I became quite a useless individual:

1. The inability to cook - Men may relate to this one more, but when my husband is away I can't see the point in making an entire meal for just one person. It takes longer to cook the meal than it does to eat it and dishes are your dirty reward at the end of it. One evening was a delicious meal of bacon flavoured crisps (my meat and veg), blueberry yogurt (fruit and dairy) and a cup of tea - at least I made sure it was a balanced meal. The fact that I haven't cooked a meal in 4 years also weighed heavily against any culinary brilliance whilst he was away.

2. My IQ level lowered significantly - There are certain movies that I am not allowed to watch because my husband refuses, and vice versa, it's called compromise. I haven't seen a Will Ferrell movie since we met because my hubby can't stand him. I, on the other hand, loved movies like Elf and Old School. So when he was away I thought it the perfect time to watch movies that I ordinarily would be banned from seeing. My movie choice comprised of Scream 4 (I had seen the first 3 and it would just be wrong not to complete it), Stepbrothers and Blades of glory. I see now that there is a reason I have been banned from these movies. My mind felt like porridge by the end of it, unable to hold an intelligent thought.

3. First sign of madness, I began talking to myself - ‘The Female Brain’ by Louann Brizendine states that women speak an average of 20,000 words a day, compared to men who only speak 7000 words per day. Whether or not this is scientific fact, it is definitely true in our marriage. I hate silence, and I like to fill it, either with music, TV, or the sound of my own voice (or sometimes the sound of my own voice OVER the TV or music.) You can imagine what torture it was for me to not have Will to chat to in the evening. I began to discuss things with myself, and tell myself what I think we should do next. I was, understandably, getting very bored of my own company by the end.

You can imagine how happy I was when he returned home, the promise of decent meals and intelligent conversation returning with him!

Your mission, should you choose to accept it. . .

I had a fun evening out last night, which ended up feeling a little cloak-and-dagger. An exchange was to take place, at a certain location with an unknown contact. The ‘contact’ was to meet our friend in Wimbledon to sell him a keyboard at 8:30. As the evening progressed, and 8:30 was now a distant memory, we became more skeptical of this stranger’s intentions. He had smsed to ask if he could be met at a different location. We immediately thought this sounded a little suspicious and our friend insisted he stick to the original arrangements. By the time 10:30 rolled around, we had surmised that this man didn’t want to sell a keyboard, but might very well use Gumtree to lure his victims with the promise of shiny keyboards only to end their lives outside the Hand and Racquet in Wimbledon. When a sms finally came at 10:30 which simply read ‘I’m outside’, the boys bravely decided to go outside and investigate while the girls remained inside to keep away from the pending danger. What we were met with, to our relief, was a rather cute looking British lad with well styled hair from Southend-on-sea. And most importantly, he actually did have a keyboard to sell. He ended up staying for a drink, and telling us how he was also a little apprehensive about the meeting, expecting to be confronted by a shady character with ill intentions.
I’m glad to say that our little adventure ended quite well, with our friend totally smitten with his new toy; and no one’s lives were taken at the hands of the mysterious Gumtree killer.

I don’t wish ill on her, just a very irritating day. . . . .

It may seem that I have a vengeful nature, but as I said, I do not want some sort of tragedy to befall her, only a slightly more irritating day than usual; like missing her train, or stepping into a rather muddy puddle on her way to work.

Perhaps I should explain…..

My hubby and I have been casually browsing possible new places to live. Since we are not in a hurry to move I have allowed myself to be a little more fussy; and so we haven’t found anything that we love yet…that is until last night. Happy to house share, we went to meet a couple that were renting out a room in their home. Viewing a shared accommodation always feels like going for a job interview. You have half an hour to convince strangers that you’re a wonderful person with whom they would love to live. I was therefore feeling apprehensive before we met them, but my feelings were soon displaced as I walked into the house. The house was perfect, spacious with plenty of storage, clean, an easy commute to work; it even had a garden. We got on well with the couple and the place would be available in a month as that was when the other tenant would be moving out. It was all sounding so perfect. We left quite assured that the place would offered to us, and went for a celebratory dinner to McDonalds (or more accurately it was almost 8 o’clock at night, we were starving and McDonalds was right there).

At about 9pm we received an email from the landlady informing us that we would have been welcome to move in; however the current tenant had had a change of heart and wasn’t sure when, or if, she was going to move out. We would be the first to know if the situation changed.

Deflated from the news, we went to bed.

And that is why I wished said tenant a rather irritating day. However, I believe karma came knocking on my door as it was I who had the irritating day. Let’s just say that the transport system and I were not the best of friends.
And so our casual search is continuing. But I can’t help but wonder if all unsuccessful candidates were told the same story of the indecisive tenant as a way to soften the blow of rejection?

Nah……they loved us! We’re wonderful people.

NHS

I received an invitation in the post! It was from the doctor for a “lady-type” examination. But I still felt special; it’s always nice to be invited to something.

I went for my appointment today. I gave my name to the receptionist and took my seat. While I was waiting patiently a gentleman walked into the practice.

“Good afternoon. My name is Mark Jacobson. I have an appointment today at 4:30 and I’d like to cancel it”, he said to the rotund lady behind the desk. I thought this was a weird thing to do; surely it would have been far easier to phone with such information?

“You have an appointment?” the rotund lady asked.

“Yes.”

“And it’s been cancelled?!!” she said, clearly shocked by the news.

“No, but I would like to cancel it.”

She nodded; ensuring him she understood and began to tap away on her keyboard.

“Name?” she asked.

“Mark Jacobson.”

“The appointment was at 4:30?”

“That is correct,” he said.

“Right. And would you like to cancel it?”

I was quite tired after this conversation.

After a few more minutes of waiting a red headed nurse opened one of the doors. “Dynielle Adams?” she asked the waiting area. I was the only one in the room. I wondered why she had felt the need to question a room full of empty chairs. Maybe she had thought the other patients had grown bored waiting and had decided to play a game of hide-and-seek and I was the one that was ‘on’ and she had in fact just interrupted me as I was in the middle of counting to 100.

“That’s me,” I said, entertaining her.

 She seemed very timid, as if she were scared to say the wrong thing or a rude word and I’d get offended. I felt as if I needed to reassure this woman that it was ok and that I did want to be there.

I’m an inquisitive person and tend to ask people with any amount of knowledge a lot of questions. Like why we needed to have this “lady-type” exam only once every 3 years? Back home it was done once a year. If it was any longer than this panic would set in. What life threatening occurrences were developing in there!?! It’s been 368 days since my last check up!! 

So when I read in my invitation that it was done once every 3 years the hypochondriac in me began to shout out. What?! Only once every THREE years? That’s plenty of time for life threatening occurrences to develop in there!

The exam was more or less uneventful and we made polite chit chat throughout. At the end I thanked her very much, told her to have a beautiful day and put my hand on the door handle to exit. It was at this point that the nurse decided to start up a conversation about the weather. I understand that this is a particularly exciting topic for Brits; but why did she leave it till the last moment, with my hand on the door handle? I didn’t know if I should remove my hand and turn around to face her. She carried on talking. I carried on smiling, my hand lingering on the door. It was awkward. I decided to take the plunge and open the door, proclaiming to her my intention to leave. But I couldn’t. It was locked.

She stopped mid sentence, something about how warm it’s been. “Sorry. I locked the door,” she said.

I ended up apologising (not sure why), fumbling with the lock and finally opening the door. She seemed sad to see me go.

The first time I visited the doctor in England I couldn’t quite believe that I didn’t have to pay. Not one cent. I felt so nervous after the appointment that I went to reception just to make sure and asked them if I could just leave. They looked a little confused that I was asking this and said it was fine I could go. I felt like I had just robbed the place. I kept looking behind me as I walked down the street; half expecting an angry doctor to come after me asking for his money.

I’m a Londoner

It’s so nice to have family visiting! My in-laws are here from South Africa. It was lovely showing them our little haunts. I found, however, that the visit did expose me for the pushy little Londoner I have become. It is shameful to admit, but I have been known to get on the tube before letting the other passengers off, and tutting to myself when the map wielding tourists are dawdling in front of me, breaking my speed walking momentum. I wasn’t always like this. I was utterly intimidated during my first weekend in London. The tube map looked like an undecipherable maze I was bound to get lost on; everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going and if you got in their way they simply pushed you aside; I had never used public transport before in my life and wondered how I would ever figure out exactly which bus to get on. I remember sitting on the bus on that first weekend and watching a woman run toward the stop so she could catch her bus. Horrified, I turned to my husband and remarked, “I will NEVER run to catch a bus, how embarrassing!” Oh how naïve of me!

I am a fast learner. When it’s cold and you’ve had to wait at the bus stop for over 20 minutes (because the busses are rarely on time in London), simply because you missed your bus; you will be very sure to run to catch it if you see it coming before you’ve reached the stop. You don’t care what you’re carrying; you don’t care that the boots you are wearing have heels; you don’t care that you have to hitch up your knee length jacket so you can get a good stride. When you see bus 164 turning the corner, you run as if the spirit of Usain Bolt has come upon you, regardless of who’s looking.

I was also unaware of the amount of walking I was to do in my new country of residence. Back home in S.A we had friends from England who had invited us one night to go out for dinner. We met at their house and they revealed that the restaurant was only 10 minutes away and suggested we walk.

Walk?! Walk? Why on earth would we walk when we could simply get in the car? Plus it was dark outside; who knew what dangers lay behind the blackened bushes. I looked at my husband beseechingly. Surely he would agree with me.

“Sure,” he said to the group, “let’s walk!” The traitor.

It must be known that I now walk, a lot. Why pay £1.30 to go a couple of blocks when you can take a stroll. After work we all make our way to the South Kensington station. When I first got here I could hardly keep up, almost out of breath at our destination. But now I’m just as speedy as the rest. Being a Londoner certainly does change you!

These posters can be seen in the tube stations. They're a good chuckle to read.

           

Twitter, Tweets and Twitpics?????

I have recently started tweeting. I am admittedly a late comer to this twittering phenomenon, mostly because I thought it was a ridiculous idea and a waste of time. I find some peoples face book updates a little arduous at times; do I really care who you are now friends with, what page you like or that you just had the best latte ever? No not really. (This has yet to stop me, however, from spending hours at a time on facebook, adding my own inane commentary).  So a format that was mostly continuous status updates sounded irritating and pointless. But I succumbed; I’m weak, I have no willpower and I was curious.

It is a little daunting at first and I didn’t know where to start or what the lingo meant. I couldn’t write directly on someone’s wall and had no idea what hash tags were for! What I found most difficult was finding something to tweet. I like to choose my words carefully and couldn’t believe that anyone cared where I was going, what movie I had seen or that I had just had the best latte ever!

But I eventually – and after much research- dived right in and can conclude that it is a little addictive. People are actually saying interesting things, with interesting links and interesting opinions. It is an influential networking device which keeps me up to date with what’s going on in the world.

I even have followers. It makes you feel strangely powerful and important having followers; like the leader of an obscure and ineffectual cult. I find that following others can stir within me feelings of envy as some people have 20000 followers and I only have 7; one being my husband and the others companies that wish to attain business from me. It makes me feel like a looser, dashing all my hopes of ever leading a successful cult.

Nevertheless I love it; it’s fascinating and fun and I am a devoted twittee!!!!

My Champion

 

It may be a bit clichéd, but I do believe there is a little part inside a man –probably left over from when men were warriors and would go to battle over land- that needs to find where he’s going without stopping to ask for directions. I think they need to figure it out for themselves and show their ladies that they can figure out how to get to the location, or fix the computer, or assemble the chest of drawers without any outside assistance. Girls are different. We’re not bothered who aids us, as long as we get there, or the drawers get built.

But men are conquerors, it’s in their genetic makeup; seeping through the centuries from the days when conflicts were fought and conquests were common place.

But for the average middle class male there is no battle, there are no conquests. There is only the exhilaration of programming the T.V without reading the instructions.

As a supportive wife I will follow proudly as my husband refuses to ask for directions; and we will eventually get there in the end. But sometimes I just want to go into the store, find the section with the duvet sets and get out of there. And as my husband strides down the aisle in search of the bounty; I will slip off to the side to find a shop assistant to help me. And once I have subtly led him to our destination, I will not argue when he thinks he has found it himself. What use are shop assistants anyway!

We will leave the store triumphant, my husband clutching the prize, content in his victory.

Another day, another battle won……

Blind Dating For Friends

Moving to a new country is tough, especially one where you don’t know that many people. Growing up in the same place for 27 years means that you know a lot of people. There are always friends available to see and many plans to choose from on a Saturday night. There would be weekends back home when I would ask my husband if it could “just be the two of us this weekend”. A quiet weekend at home with no social events; just for a change. (Being a bit of a home body I probably asked him this every weekend. He thankfully declined this request on most occasions, and we would go out).

However, I seem to have gotten my wish here in London as meeting people is a bit of a process; and there are many weekends where it is “just the two of us”. Thankfully we are not just a married couple but also the best of friends, or else boredom would have ensued. So we have loads of fun together; but there comes a time when you need the company of others.

And so it begins, accepting ANY and every social invitation offered to you. It could be people you just met or people your husband knew from high school who he hasn’t seen or heard from in 10 years. But you go anyway, or else it’s you, a cup of tea and ‘So You Think You Can Dance’ on a Saturday night. It usually goes something like this: *Jenny and Michael invite you out for dinner. They seem nice, albeit a little dull; and Jenny has an irritating laugh. But you have high hopes for these new potential friends and you start to tick off the boxes

o    Do we like these people?

o    Do we get on, do we have any common interests?

o    Will they just be acquaintances, people we invite to make up the numbers?

o    Would we invite them to Christmas dinner?

o    Would I invite them to my Birthday?

o    Would we never invite these people to anything? Ever.

X  We don’t like Jenny and Michael. We won’t be seeing them again…….

Meeting new people is made even more difficult here in London. It seems to be a very fluid place. People are constantly moving in and out, settling for 6 months or 2 years then moving back home.

Not too long ago we accepted one of these invitations and met some new people. We struck up a conversation with another couple and found we had a few things in common. We liked these people, and yes we would invite them out again, maybe even to my birthday, or Christmas dinner!!!!!!!!!!

“So how long have you been living in England for?” we asked, with high hopes for our new found friendship.

“It’s coming up to a year next month,” they replied.

We “ooohed” and “aaaahed” appropriately. “How are you enjoying it?” we asked

“Really loving it, but looking forward to going home. We’re going back in June this year.”

And that was that, back to square one; and back to tea with ‘So You Think You Can Dance’ on Saturday night.

 Now where did I put Jenny and Michaels number??

*names have been made up as these people are fictitious. ;)

I don't sound like a New Zealander......

......so it confuses me that 80% of the people I meet ask if I come from New Zealand. You can ask any of the New Zealanders I work with, we don’t sound the same. This is the first time I’ve even left my country, so it amazes me that I have magically picked up this new accent. But this is not the oddest part of these conversations I so frequently have here…..

“So are you from …..(dramatic pause as they try to pick the correct country)…..New Zealand?”

ME: “No I’m from South Africa.”

“Oh Wow! (Another pause) I have a friend that went to South Africa.”

It is at this point that I’m not sure how to respond. Should I phone this friend and carry on the conversation with them instead? We would apparently have a lot more to talk about.

“That’s nice,” I say. “Did they enjoy it?”

“I think so.” And then they conclude, “You really don’t have a South African accent.”

And as I change the subject I can’t help but wonder how they are so certain if they haven’t actually ever been.

No Fear

I went for a walk in Clapham Common today….just because I can. An hour and a half walk….just because I can! I don’t like to run my country of birth down, but there is something so freeing in the fact that I can go for a walk on my own without any fear. I will be the first to say that life in London isn’t necessarily better, it’s just different. Like being able to go for fear free strolls. And public transport. Getting used to public transport has been fun.

My favourite comedian, Michael McIntyre, does a stand-up skit about tube transportation in London, in particular telling of a commuter who, in desperation to get onto the carriage, took numerous hits by the closing doors before squeezing his way onto an already full train. Hilarious stuff. Even more hilarious when you actually witness it in person. How desperate are you to get onto the carriage? Being late for work I can tell you that you can be extremely desperate. As you stand on the platform and edge closer to the front of the crowd; you secretly declare that no matter what, you ARE getting on the next tube. Once you have crammed on, safe in the knowledge that no one else could POSSIBLY fit in; the train stops at the next station and another 3 people push their way in; having probably made the same declaration as you.

One such morning I was on the Northern line; inappropriately invading several commuters’ personal space next to me. Even more people boarded at the next station, taking mine and my neighbors relationship to the next level. At the stop just before mine my lunch packet took a brutal beating as several people pushed their way past me to exit. One lady decided she had enjoyed me in her personal space and wanted to take my arm with her. I was flattered, but I declined and retrieved my arm with my now torn lunch packet. And even more people had boarded the train. Next station was my stop. I turned toward the door announcing to those around me that I planned to get off soon. They didn’t seem to notice. In fact when the doors opened and I even said “Excuse me” no one noticed. Panic set in. I was already at risk of being late for work and didn’t want the doors closing and having to make my way back from the next station. So I did what every other Londoner does. I pushed….aggressively.

I made it to work on time, but have now developed an intense dislike for the Northern Line. And I lost my yogurt.

I took the bus home.

Speaking of living in no fear; I just let a very cute little man in the flat who wanted to check our boiler. I’m not alone in the house, so if I go down my oblivious flat mate is going down with me. He had a round face, and a lisp; how bad could he be? And he has all the genuine boiler gadgets, and definitely seemed to be doing boiler specific things. Aright I’ll admit that letting strange men into the flat is not a good idea, and maybe next time I should first ask for some boiler-man credentials. The lisp must have thrown me off….