Faye Jones, big bag of bones

Two days to go until we jet off into the unknown.

I started to pack but packing is my least favourite thing in the world (apart from veal's head, beetroots and butter on sandwiches). And so naturally I chose to watch Waterloo Road.

As a consequence, I am not a huge deal further forward. Although it has to be said, I do feel a huge deal wiser about Janeece, Sambuca and Grantley Budgen.

I feel that before we go I should give some airtime to my travelling buddy Faye. For the purposes of anonymity, I might have given her a fake name. However, this would thoroughly spoil an anecdote I will reveal in due course. (Also, I accidentally mentioned her in a previous post, so the cat's out of the bag.)

In order to do so, I shall share a poem I wrote at school, aged 7. Do you remember in primary school when the teacher wanted you to be all creative and write about "my best friend"? And people got really upset because you were their best friend in the whole wide world but quite frankly, they were your third best friend or at a real push, joint second?

Well, the clever way to go around this was to say in as diplomatic a way as a seven year old can muster

"I'm writing about Faye, she's my best friend from ANOTHER school"

We met across a crowded toddler group room.

I'm assuming. I have no idea what our first conversation was.

Although I imagine it was really very high-brow and sophisticated.

Certainly, by the time we got to nursery, our vocabulary had really developed.

"Faye Jones, big bag of bones"

Faye was a tad more creative, employing the use of a half rhyme.

"Philippa Cotton has spots on her bottom"

It is wise to point out here that this is, in fact, slander. But Faye was 3 whole months older than me. And when she is 4 and you're only 3 and 3/4, there is just not a fat lot you can do about slander.

Anyway, this poem was written sixteen years ago (and, might I add, encourages the use of half rhyme).

I've had a friend since I was two
She's a normal person* like me or you
She knows a lot of words that you might not
She shares and cares and laughs a lot
Her name is Faye, She's very funny
So none of you should every worry
'Cause she'll always be nice to you
And you'll like her as much as I do

It is still almost all true.
*Except the bit about her being normal.

Planes, Drains and Other Stuff that doesn't rhyme with automobiles.

I've never been a good flyer.

I don't understand physics and as a general rule, if I don't understand it, it just can't be possible. Films like Castaway and series like Lost certainly haven't helped. A tad irrational I know, but even after the Tsunami of 2004, I spent the next summer sunbathing in France, with one eye open at all times to see if the water was going to rush back and I was going to have to evacuate the beach. All in all I need to pipe down over things I can't control. It's just the whole massive huge metal thing not succumbing to gravity I don't get. Having said that, and as my sister will verify, I don't succumb to gravity. No matter how much of a headstart she gives me, nor how vertical the slide is, I will, as a matter of course, get stuck half way.

People always say you are more likely to die by being hit on the head by a coconut. In the words of Peg, one of my wise grandmothers, Balls.

The moral of all this, is that I am a bit of a scared flyer.

There is a classic joke in my family that one time when we were flying somewhere together, I turned to them all on take-off and said:

"Goodbye sweet friends."

I can honestly say, I have no idea where this came from. All I do know is that it has become an unspoken superstition.

My dad travels a LOT. And before the plane takes off he texts us all - gsf x.

This has evolved to gsd (daughter), gss (sister) and gsp (parents). If I am travelling alone, as the engine begins to rumble, I mutter it under my breath.

One time, on the way back from Malaysia I had a tropical disease. There was no call button above my head and I couldn't see a steward. I staggered to the loo, pressed a call button and lay in a pile on the floor. Whence a passenger found me. And the steward (I'm sure quite illegally) knocked me out for the duration. (I hasten to add with a pill, not a smack to the head).

Another time on the way back from Madagascar (yah yah on my gap yah), I got all het up before the flight and Faye slipped me what she called a 'travel sickness tablet'. It was, most definitely, a sedative. I don't remember any of the 15hour journey. Because I was knocked for six.

This is a very rushed post, but I believe it captures the essence of my nervous-flyerness. I might ask Faye for another 'travel sickness tablet.' Then again, I might see what films are on first.

p.s. the drains bit of the title is just a warm-up to all the smells I will be describing on my travels. I should have just come up with a better title as the last bit is pretty suspect too.

Difficult difficult lemon difficult.

Of my life so far, 78.26% of my life has been spent in education. But there is one valuable lesson they didn't teach me in school and that was how to fill in an Indian Visa.

For a start, I had no idea what my citizenship number was and then it kept asking me to name my spouse. I sat and mused this for a long time and tried to move on to the next question. But no, the boxes were obligatory and asterisked. For a good half a second, I wondered if the rules had changed. Perhaps they only let married couples to India for tourism now. If so, I had 8 days to find a suitable husband. Red in the face, swearing at the computer with smeared mascara at the stress of it all, this was going to be no mean feat. I may as well have been sporting a scrunchie. Only when a colleague helpfully pointed out that I had in fact accidentally stated that I was married, did it all make sense. Meanwhile, I had to faff around with the fact that my mother Jane, isn't really called Jane at all, which made me question my father's identity - had he also swapped his names round? - and further confused the issue when I had untick the bizarrely assumed fact that my grandparents were Pakistani. I can quote Tennyson verbatim, I can discuss the economic state of Madagascar in French and I can analyse and sing each instrument of Stravinsky's Firebird. I have now learnt, however, that I very much struggle to fill in a three page form.

And so I finally submitted the fucker. 

I then had to choose an appointment. Of which there were none.

Crap.

Deary me. Best ring up Fayesy J (my travelling buddy) and explain that we must arise at 6am (on her birthday) to queue at the Indian High Commission.

And so we did.

With cups of tea and muffins in tow, we queued up at the Indian High Commission. An hour later they opened the door. We had a lovely chat with the lady behind the counter. And now we must wait for a text (£1.20 for the privilege of text updates) for confirmation of visa readiness.

But it is Diwali this week.

So we must all cross our fingers.

p.s. I have not yet mentioned, that after a lot of faff with the travel agent (who shalt not be named) which arose after faff at my decision making skills (I tossed a coin to decide whether I should go - heads I go, tails I don't - landing on tails 5 times thus making me cross thus making my decision for me), Faye and I booked flights over the phone to each other. We filled in the forms and pressed submit on a countdown from three.

I received a lovely confirmation.

Faye received a less lovely rejection.

After more faff (the website people said they couldn't help, the airline said ring back in 5 hours), we finally got through to an Indian chap called "Charles" who booked Faye on the flight. She paid twenty quid extra.

Sucks to be her.

Having said that, she will no doubt now be in business class, with a generally better seat. For the price I paid so last minute, I'll defs be in cattle. Next to the loos. And a crying baby. And a nervous flyer.And someone who takes up more than one seat and impinges on my personal space and may cause DVT to my spindly frame.

Maybe I should ring Charles back and offer to pay an extra £20.

Oh well, at least those going from Heathrow won't have Delhi Belly.

Yet.

Paris - the most romantic city in the world.

Before I start writing about Injah, I will share this article I wrote a couple of years ago after I got back from my year abroad. Maybe I'll insert a few titbits about places I have already been to. 

Meet cynical two years ago me:

Paris. The most romantic city in the world. Beauty, dressed head to toe in black, struts down the Champs Elysée. Sophistication personified. Charm oozes from the cigarette of the tall, dark stranger. Strolling hand in hand by the sparkling Seine, soaking up the splendour of the Sacré Coeur, stealing a kiss under the bright lights of the Eiffel Tower…    

Try spending a year there.

Paris. The land of the rude. Arrogance, dressed head to toe in black (frumpy may I add, not chic), swans down the Champs Elysée knocking down everyone in its path. The metro, engulfed in an overwhelming stench of urine, thunders through the rat-ridden tunnels. By all means stroll hand in hand by the Seine but be sure not to stare too long into each other’s eyes lest you find yourself ankle-deep in dog dirt.

The French: a nation who prides themselves on their rich language, a nation who fights to protect that full and vibrant language from the evils of English, a nation who, despite all, favours one simple word – non. Non, non and thrice non. After living there for a year you realise the frogs aren’t as charming as they’re cracked up to be. Try conversing with a Parisian. Address them in English and be greeted by a look of disdain and a smug response in English. Speak in French and the fleeting glimpse of surprise in their eyes is quickly replaced by annoyance and then a smug response…in English. And that’s if they’re kind enough to admit they understood you.     

Don’t be fooled by the illusion of romance. Sadly, there are no moustachioed onion-sellers in stripy t-shirts. Instead, faux-fur clad fifty-somethings line the walls of rue Saint Denis waiting for clients, their haggard faces lit by bright neon signs advertising ‘adult’ videos.

The Gare du Nord has become a sort of gypsy encampment. Begging in the form of cardboard scraps screaming “Give me money”. Head towards the platform, push through the crowds, run down the stationary escalator headfirst into…a strike. Another strike. Fun? Not after the fiftieth time. You ask the important looking lady in a hat when the trains will start running again. She looks down her nose as if she has smelt something unpleasant. You ask if there’s another way to get there. She bares her teeth and snarls “j’sais pas”. You stop asking questions and back away slowly.

Paris. The most romantic city in the world? Maybe for a weekend. If you constantly scan the ground for canine faeces, avoid all train stations and metros, don’t talk to anyone, pretend not to notice the disparaging looks and close your eyes and imagine the romance. Maybe you think I’m cynical? Maybe you should try spending a year there. 

The World is Your Peanutbutter Sandwich

Once upon a time, somebody told me that my life was definitely created for the purposes of the internet.* I have never written a blog but I love writing and travelling so here is a little pint-sized taster blog started for the purpose of a little (and very spontaneous) trip to India. Then maybe it will continue. Who knows.

So,we all know that bog-standard expression - The World Is Your Oyster. No matter how much I try to enjoy them, oysters will always be a bit of a mystery to me. Do you chew them? Do you swallow them whole? Frankly, I can't get over the fact that they look pretty like mucus and furthermore, definitely feel a bit phlegmy in your throat. All in all, I'd say that despite supposedly being an aphrodisiac, with all the wincing, sea water, bits of grit and gagging, it isn't that attractive a prospect. The moral of this story is, I don't think the world is my oyster. It is more like my peanutbutter sandwich. Smooth. On thick white bread. You can't go wrong there.

So here begin my travelly musings but first, I need to clear up a couple of common misconceptions people have about me.

1. that I went to public school
2. that I did a Gap Yah
3. that I ride horses
4. that I look like Linda Barker

In conclusion, none of the first three matter but I must state for the record that I categorically do not look like Linda Barker.

Rudyard Kipling once said: "The first condition of understanding a foreign country is to smell it"

I tend to agree. Being sensitive of nose, this can sometimes be a problem for me. Generally because places tend to smell a little bit like shit. Having already being to India before, I know this will be no exception.

The end.

*NB: I realise this sounds vaguely dodgy but I mean in a statusey, writey kind of way, rather than whatever you are thinking.