A bit of P and Q
Had a bewildering moment last week when I rounded the corner in Orphanides and found myself in Narnia. Stumbling into a half erect forest of Christmas trees was like being in a chapter of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Slowly it dawned on me that this was some sort of festive nightmare and the commercial carnivore of Christmas was already panting in my face ready to devour my wallet. I should have seen it coming when last year’s baubles appeared, furtively displayed, in Debenhams. My plaintiff cry of “For the love of God it’s October!” was met with a couple of cursory glances from shelf stockers. They were just obeying orders. I have friends who have a rule that as of July 1 they can start using the threat “If you don’t behave we’re calling Santa.” Their co-workers don’t seem to like this. It’s called fighting fire with fire but it may be the way to go as the sight of plastic trees has triggered a list of demands from my offspring. Never mind the Cyprus problem, any real chance for peace (and quiet) in our lifetime will be out of reach until Christmas is reunified with common sense.
Speaking of the money munchers, I have just made it through a birthday. No mean feat really as it involved choosing the right party, the right present and the right level of medication. Some party venues charge like wounded bulls. I have seen cheques written out at a local play park that equate to the cost of my wedding. I opted for the movies (mistake). A jolly romp involving Eddie Izzard as a sand fairy didn’t really wash with the six-year-olds, though using fellow movie goers as popcorn target practice was popular. On the present front, my budding rock star wanted a guitar, so off to Nakas Music I toddled. Am on a musical bent at the moment and in the footsteps of Sheila E and Caroline Corr, have taken up the drums. Basically this involves walking around the house with a set of sticks, hitting anything that looks musical and declaring “Yep, that’s the sound I’m after.” My ‘Victor Firth 7A All American Hickory Drum Sticks’ produce a lovely sound on pretty much anything – except my knuckles. I’m sure the swelling will go down, eventually. My flatmate is not totally impressed and I have been told more than once “Get your (expletive) hickory sticks away from me.” This musical outlet is much quieter than the neighbour with the electric guitar and the Nirvana obsession. Kurt Cobain is dead mate. Move on.
For those of you who missed it, we had autumn last Thursday. Anyone trying to flog autumnal fashion is really trying to rip you off. You need only two wardrobes; winter and summer. They are the seasons here in Cyprus, excluding the two day-long transitions. This suits me just fine as I have a personal feud going on with clothing retailers and am reluctant to try on clothes. It’s a well known fact that lights in changing rooms are fitted with ugliness enhancers. Yes, it’s the lights. Apparently the retailers don’t want you to buy the clothes. Maybe some day it is going to dawn on the people designing these places that there are certain activities that should be done in the dark. The charade of squeezing into pants and handing them back to the attendant with the comment “Must be foreign sizing,” wears on the self esteem. She can drop the smug look too, she hangs up clothes and passes out numbered plastic discs for a living… yes I’m talking about you Miss Stick Insect. If you do ever walk into a changing area and hear a muffled sobbing coming from one of the cubicles… please say hi.
Has anyone seen their local mobile fruit and veg man recently? I almost miss that gentle bellow over the loud speaker as his truck cruises the neighbourhood like a land shark. The first time I heard this I thought it was someone instigating a revolution; a little disappointing to find out he was only selling watermelons. I’m sure not everyone finds him disappointing, the mobile green grocer must be like an ice cream truck for vegetarians. I last saw bellowing men of that ilk packed onto floats in the Limassol Carnival parade. Well, fair enough they could have been singing. It appeared someone had rounded up all the fruit and veg men and were shipping them off together. Perhaps to a colony where they could see out their days discussing pesticide and squeezing their nectarines. The neighbourhood is much quieter now though; or would be if Mr. Nirvana blew his amp. Peace and quiet, yep that’s the sound I’m after.
