Have you ever walked into a shop or a business and been given ‘the face’? The face is the expression reserved for use by retail assistants. It is perhaps the same face you would pull if a shipment of rats rocked up to your house to deliver the bubonic plague. It may be the heat, or I may be giving out ‘go on hate me’ vibes, but it seems I have been getting the face a lot at present. Having made my way in the sticky heat to a certain Nicosia store, I was surprised to find it deserted. While scouting around unable to find my desired item, I heard a rustling, not unlike a large mammal in a paper bag. “Hello,” I called. Nothing but the sound of crickets. Another, longer, “Helloooooo” was met by an assistant who wandered out, gave me the face, and rustled some more in the rubbish bin. I approached my mammalian friend, smiling, wary, and with what I hoped was an expectant look. ‘The face’ was being delivered furiously, but I resisted it’s power of dissuasion, determined to be served. Since the shop assistant was playing hard to get, I made the first move, “Hello”, I offered, “can I help you?” She didn’t get it; nothing but crickets. I did just one economics paper at university so I am not a qualified business professional. I do, however, grasp the general idea that a business needs to sell its products or services to customers in order to consider itself viable. How simply splendid life would be if those selling the goods and services understood that too.
Deserted shops, deserted… everything; what does one do in Cyprus over the summer? Leave, apparently. Like the migration of wildebeest, all friends, family and possible even foes have left these island shores for somewhere colder, generally England. As I seem to be one of only a handful of people left in my one-horse-town of a world it seemed perfectly natural that I saw tumbleweed on the side of the road the other day. Cue sound of rattle snakes and man sleeping under a sombrero. This being my first summer in Cyprus I was a little bemused as to why the townsfolk had got outta Dodge. After all, the complaints about the English weather seem endless, and as it became obvious recently, it is not completely safe from those wishing to impose harm. Now of course I realise it is because those who stay are busy preparing for the next space mission – to the sun. Still there is one saving grace. If anyone knows the name of the person who invented air conditioning please let me know, I wish to start a cult. I am now on a hiatus from worshipping JC, in order to worship AC.
Being one of those people who are unable to wait until Christmas Day to peak at my presents, it was perfectly in character that I opted to have my baby induced this week. This is a multi-person operation requiring a Doula, a husband, an anaesthetist and a doctor. I swept into the polyclinic with my posse, ready to give it a go. As things moved along at a merry pace the word got back to me that the nurses had deemed me not ready to have the baby as “she has not started screaming yet”. Sounded like a challenge to me. Little secret here, lean in close as I am typing softly (I don’t want to put off any expectant mothers): having a baby hurts. Seriously, it really, really hurts. But having had the gauntlet laid down regarding the screaming I stayed schtuum. This was made even more difficult when, during the closing seconds of the game a nurse wandered in and decided to do unnecessary things with a bedpan. While on some level this was mildly amusing, this required me to manoeuvre myself like a masochistic elasti-girl “Are you alright?” someone polite enquired. Through the haze I forced a smile and sweetly responded “Yes, but please get rid of the bloody bedpan.” They were not going to psyche me out that easily. At the close of play there had been no screaming and lo and behold I looked down to find a soggy baby on my stomach. “Well, hello”, I said. She gave me her first face.
Like a good ballet or an impressive football game, once the elation of having a baby has worn off there lies the question “What next?” As my husband and older children went to desert me for the evening I attempted to fill the void with “So, how was it for you?” “Ummm”, he floundered “…you did really well today,” (crickets). He tried again “It’s always amazing watching you give birth.” I nodded thoughtfully, “Well, I aim to please.” Here’s to my new wee girl, Philippa Cate Rangim?rie Stewart.
