The two of them just sat there in the evening’s shade,
the sun just then was setting,
but oh how they wished that it had stayed.
For in both they could feel this moment,
this chance to be alone,
deep in side themselves they knew that
too soon it would all be gone.
Though a definition to partner includes the idea of two people undertaking any amount of actions, the word can be found littered across business to sport, from dance to relationships, in all instances it does have that cooperative feel but within the realm of romance I get the feeling that now, well for the last 10 – 15 years ( I’m working to the prehistoric scale here), it has taken on a role much like Ms did before it. Exploring Ms /miz/ we find ourselves delving into the feminist world, and the struggle within it, as with PC (political correctness not personal computer), to redefine somebody without attaching a stigma. Miss was very much unmarried, Mrs married, but Ms allowed for ambiguity, of which an advantage may be gained where people would be of the tendency to discriminate on the first two titles. Employers come to mind.
Well for me the word partner cropped up more and more often as the nineties grew older with people perhaps finding themselves victims of discrimination if their marital status or sexuality was to become public knowledge. In a world too often dominated by conservative values unmarried couples with children and same sex marriages were, and let’s be honest, still are frowned upon even in more liberal socities. Whereas the latter group have highlighted this point through their reception at Gay Pride marches, the former too finds itself getting the short end of the stick when it comes to basic legislation. A former student of mine, on hearing that my girlfriend was expecting, actually advised me to get married if I wanted to avoid the reams of paper work which would most certainly be incurred. I didn’t listen to her and needless to say in hindsight it was the worst thing I could have done.
I, personally, still use girlfriend when referring to my partner as we are unmarried but sometimes wonder as to the juvenility of that. Some of my friends have even suggested that girlfriend seems less commital, though these people also reside in the married domain and therefore may be begging the question.
Occasionally I have to wonder as to a person’s sexuality if they mention their ‘partner’ but allow time and further information to raise me from my ignorance. Now ‘girlfriend’ as sometimes used by my female students to refer to their friends who are girls still manages to draw a giggle. Boys will be boys!
On the whole whether you use partner, wife, lover, girlfriend, spouse it makes no difference for love by its nature renders the inane tolerable, and by inane I mean any debate on titles! Careful now!
The sunlight threatened o’er a rooftop.
In the shade my glare weary eyes relaxed.
Still the sheen spelt across the terracotta border
promised something I could not live without.
Even if the fierce light burned deeply,
to the point that my pain limit was tested,
my pleasure was also in extracting
the life source, the energy, the soul.
I closed my eyes at the next gap,
which fell between two tall buildings,
let my eyelids bathe in the evening’s rays.
I allowed myself joy where once there was pain.
I hurried between the cars. At another time it would have been dark, but Spring has arrived dragging summer along, and of late the evenings had been stretching. The flashing green light gave me the right to be on the road but I just wasn’t sure I could venture across without looking. This city was unforgiving to those who were careless or apt to take it for granted. Rules here applied on a hierarchy*: a pedestrian stepping amongst motorised vehicles was the lowest of things. The way was safe, so my senses proclaimed, and I made the far footpath still intact. Engines rumbled about me but in the cooling evening shadow the sound held a pleasant air even if the stink still couldn’t.
I don’t know if he’d spotted me from afar as vulnerable, or was I just one of many. The latter would pertain to truth but for now I felt like the unlucky antelope, singled out for special attention. Why couldn’t that have been my role where girls were involved! Through the hedgerow I first glimpsed him rising from his porchway step, his drunken friends resplendent in their slurring (noodling: ref to Hungarian) support.
His smile, gapped and stained, with his watery eyes, were his weapons, as was his charm, lost on me, however, as I struggled to deciphre words. He may have been chosen because he was the most eloquent of the bunch but as I had sprung my defences early, assuming no understanding – it wasn’t my language afterall – nothing of his initial assault filtered through. He was not deterred, nor was I. The change in my back pocket was ready for use. I only needed to deploy it.
I smiled genuinely, I had no reason not to.
„Mit akarsz?” ( What do you want?)
A mumbled reply.
„Igen igen,” I countered, „ de mit akarsz?”
I hinted at an urgency but in truth my only haste was to sit and have my drink before the bus arrived. It would, therefore, be best if this negotiation could be rendered short but significant.
„Apro.” (Change)
„ Jo!” (Good)
„ Csak egy kicsit?” (Just a little?)
„ Csak egy kicsit!” I replied as I handed him a 200 forint coin. Not much but on these streets not a little.
He smiled appreciatively and left with a goodbye. I, likewise, passed on a salute and perched nearby, opened my bottle, and began to drink. I should go unmolested, I assumed, because, at least, I had been kind. Isn’t that how Karma works!
* http://thehairyteacher.com/?p=439
To say he laughed heartily would be an understatement, he bellowed, and with every expulsion of mirth heads swivelled till at one point an old man stayed fixed on the proceedings. Whether entertained or annoyed I never found out though the Big Man for his part was undeterred, perhaps even thrilled, by all the attention. Stories which would have best been kept slightly hush-hush became public information and just in case there was any doubt as to the validity of many a tall claim his name dropped acquaintances were put in context: “Shur you always see that kind of thing in the Guards.” The Guards, or Gardaí, being the Irish Police force, and he being bulky enough to have the pleasure of being mistaken for one, even had he not been, people who perhaps disagreed with his politics rather kept their mouths shut. He was not a man to be messed with!
Along with his laughter came a package of pride. He was a Corkman and could not for the life of himself imagine why anyone would want to leave that great city by the Lee. When I nearly mentioned for love, I checked myself. I already ran the script through my head on that count. The idea of reading love sonnets to this man was akin to teaching table manners to a Hyena, though the latter in this case I could imagine being civil enough as to ask as to the necessity of the knife and fork.
To say that this man was uncouth, boorish, ill-mannered would be also to betray in myself a sense of snobbery which I struggle not to adhere to and it is for this reason that I take to these characters quickly. He was afterall entertainment on a 3 hour train journey that would otherwise have been a simple game of Cat and Mouse between my partner, Andi, and me, and our daughter, Tara.
This was our return trip so we had already experienced the extent of Tara’s curiosity concerning public transport. To say that the Big Man offered us a welcome distraction would be serving it up diluted. Even she, at the tender age of one and a half, could sense the awe which this man commanded. Her father may be her beacon but this fella was a mountain of being.
Well this ‘mountain’ was most entertaining but just as the train arrived in Dublin, as if he knew, he questioned us as to our destination, ie accommodation, and when we replied, giving the name in question, he offered his mightiest howl yet. At this stage the others began scrambling for the exits, though the train was still ten minutes off, and when we shot him half quizzical/ half sheepish looks he went on to explain. Monday’s their busiest night, it’s Guards and nurses night!!! He needn’t have said more…but he did and, whereas, I’m sure he had no intention of being cruel, the very fact that he had nothing reassuring to convey only served to compound my worst fears.
It had all been too easy: the booking, the price, the location, and now here I was with my partner and child about to head into the jaws of the beast that was nightlife Dublin.
I wish my lust’d been purer,
directed with desire, not fear.
Exposed and foolish in the light
rather than behind a drab net curtain.
I wish my love’d been stronger,
not conditional, rancid with jealousy.
I’d fear the loss of things before
ever I was allowed them.
I wish my mind’d been stronger,
not driven by the whims, critiques of others.
I’m not a bully but I am worse;
I’m the one who fears to speak!
The first thing I want to say is that it is my intention to create a language based site where students can come to read articles, correspond, ask and even answer* questions concerning usage of grammar and vocabulary. Because (!) English is a rapidly expanding language and is important in so many fields, not only business, I feel that an open mind is necessary to appreciate exactly what these changes mean. Forget what your teacher told you in school ten years ago, well not forget exactly, just keep in mind that things have moved on even in the last decade and that what was once true of the language may not now necessarily be so. With the advent of TV the influence of American English started to first creep back across the water, and now so much farther down the line, internet, SMS, for example, we find a truly blended usage of the living language, sometimes to the point that I, as an English teacher, am uncertain as to the original usage.**
*/** As a teacher I have come across questions which I have answered confidently only to learn later that what I’ve expressed is old-fashioned, or maybe even too colloquial. English has this capacity which is one of the reasons that makes it durable, as well as exciting. Come along with me and I’ll show you how.
What a wonder
What a joy
Neither girl
Nor is it boy!
But simply this
A little creature
With black and white
Tuxedo features.
Sometimes portrayed
As being a lord
Or being a butler
In his ward.
What plaudits have rained down on this mischievious fellow, Pingu by name. Now as to opening up the debate about whether or not children should watch TV, well that certainly is not herein my intention. That said, of course, I’d welcome any comments vying for such hearty discussion to begin. Anyway, Pingu has entered our lives as I’m sure it has many others before us, and certainly too, after us. And this little ‘huncut’, cheeky chap, whatever, has captured all our hearts, not least of all Tara’s, my nearly two year old daughter. She announces Pingu’s time like a set clock every afternoon and since downloading finding some episodes on-line things have only got more frantic. She now begs and pleads all day long but I’ve been trained, I grew up the way of the Gremlins time, ‘Never ever feed them after midnight’, and so I’ve applied this as best I can to our Pingu sessions, never ever before midday, though in truth the weekends, especially after a skype session home can be tricky. Tears can flow. As to what I do to avoid such heart-rendering, though I suspect well-rehearsed, moments is distraction the old fashioned way. I play with her! And when I’m knackered or she’s insistent, I just throw in the towel and credit my daughter with some integrity. It is afterall what SHE wants!
„Hello sir. How may I help you?”
Well that’s what he could have been saying but seeing as he was muttering in some God-forsaken tongue he may just as likely have been telling me to shove all and sundry where the sun don’t shine. At this I was slightly taken aback. I had been reassured by the travel agent that everybody in this Eastern European country spoke English, at least to some degree. I guess the Russians won that war. Brr, chilly, chilly.
„Yes, yes! Do you speak English?”
He looked at me a little dumbfounded, poor Commie, so I chose to slow it down and raise my voice. This would surely help!
„DO…YOU…SPEAK…”
„Yes sir. A little.”
He gestured with his thumb and forefinger as he said this. Poor bastard, probably never had a proper education, certainly not under that fellow, Chew-Chess-Coup, or whatever.
I smiled to show that I appreciated his efforts. Christ, maybe I should have brought some treats along for the guy.
„How I may help you?”
I waited. Was it a dramatic pause, or a grammatically mixed-up question? I guessed the latter.
„Well my good man, I’d like a room.”
„Which room?”
„Which room!”
„Yes, which room? For strangers we have 2 room…”
„ For strangers?”
„Yes. You are stranger, yes?”
„Of course, but that’s only because we’ve just…oh, okay. I see what you mean. Stranger. Foreigner. Yes, yes. I am.”
I laughed at this. I couldn’t blame the young chap for that one. Just as well he didn’t ask me if I was an alien. Ho ho. An awkward silence, then:
„Oh yes, em where were we? Rooms. 2…only two!?”
The guide book said this particular area was crawling with tourist hotels. Maybe they just didn’t…ah well.
„I’m sorry…”
„Huh?”
„It seems today but 1.”
„One! Well okay. Is it good?”
„Excuse me sir?”
Good intonation by the way!
„I mean is it a nice room?”
He giggles a little. I mean at first I just want to reach over and punch his lights out, the condescending…but then I notice he seems a little embarrassed.
To hell with caution. Here I come. Captain Adventure!
„Okay I’ll take it.”
He looks at me a little oddly. I’d forgotten. The uneducated buffoon probably thinks I want to remove the room from the building!
Okay. Again. Nice and loud and slow.
„I’LL…TAKE…IT.”
„You want to go there now?”
„Yes, yes. I want to go there now.”
No, no…I’ve flown all this way so I could go there tomorrow, next week, next year. Jesus, this was surely a case of lost in translation.
„Alright. You go this corridor. Go on first right. Go straight down. Three door on left. Room 404.”
Well done. Thought he might crack for a second but no…his nerve held well.
„Okay. Thank you.”
I stand there for a moment and he smiles back. I shift my weight a little. Maybe he needs to be stimulated into movement, those directions having worn him out.
Nothing. I hold out a little more. Maybe its Ruskie etiquette. Nothing. The sliding doors at the front of the foyer shuffle open, then close, then open…
„Ah Jesus!”
„And my key?
„…”
He’s thinking. I can see the steam rising. And then that smile, half giggle again.
„No key. You needn’t key! Just go there!”
Wait a sec. That time there was definitely a slightly patronising tone. The little…
„No key!?”
He shifts his eyebrows. Is he holding back? Is he actually suppressing a laugh? Why that little…
„No key? Interesting. Well, See YA later!”
I shove my joviality in his face. We saved ye monkeys from the gulags. You can’t rise me that easily.
Incredulous, I march off in the direction he had indicated, expletives abounding under breath.
No key, I kept thinking.
What? Was it voice or retina activated? Fingerprint ID? Ridiculous. They didn’t have that info. Hey, and they didn’t have my passport…That’s IT! They must have some kickass new technology. Maybe this is some swanky experimental place like I’d seen on Discovery. All connected up so even your own personal bank card could drive the rental car, operate the penthouse lift…
Well judging by his directions I was very much ground floor. Room 404. Odd number for the ground floor. Still maybe it was a code for foreigners.
Jesus only two rooms for foreigners. Really hush hush stuff. Maybe it’s an ex-KGB building.
Anyway. Room 404
I try the door. It opens easily in front of me.
What the……
… „It’s okay Martin, it’s okay.”
A consoling arm reaches over and around the old man in the corner.
„You can finish it tonight, I know you can.”
Others in the room shout encouragement but the man named Martin is inconsolable.
Minutes pass by. Then John, or Joe, the leader, or organiser, or whatever turns to me.
„Jim isn’t it?”
„Yes.”
„So could you…”
„I’m sorry to interrupt…” but I am curious „how long has he been coming here?” I point to the man, the haggard old man, named Martin.
„Oh Martin, he’s been with us for 5 years now.”
„5 years…and he doesn’t seem to be getting any better.”
Martin tries to interject, sniffles, snorts, clears his throat and tries again. As he looks up I realise he’s not as old as I’d first imagined. 40 at best, but the gaunt features and thinning grey hair make him look older.
„I’m getting better,” he manages doggedly. I nod. Jesus, he’s a mess.
„So Jim…”
I return to John, or Joe, or whatever.
„Uh huh” Still in a daze after what I’ve just seen.
„So would you like to tell us what it was like for you the first time you went to the APEH (tax) office?”
Being a father was always something I’d dreamt about…in the deepest realms of a quirky notion. It never breached the surface of my conciousness, not on anything bar a romantic level. Someone to continue the family name and if not he, then at least to carry on the family genes! Is this what it is ultimately reduced to, some primordial urge to survive, exist, perhaps, postmortem/posthumously.
I would have, in my most cynical, single man days, surmised that all there was to babies was neurotic mothers and hapless fathers, the latter forever tormented because they could never understand what it’s REALLY LIKE!
Well, as for the torment there certainly is some of that to consider. Kicking back after a day’s work with a beer and football doesn’t quite wash with a sleep deprived mother – the father’s lack of sleep doesn’t matter – but really there’s little you can do (right) with a breastfeeding mother other than F-Off (out from under her feet).
