Stumps

Friend on the phone. Hand the phone to Tan who’s cutting 7 month old baby C’s nails. Tan, distracted as she take the phone casually asks me to finish cutting’s C’s nails. There’s only one more to cut. Thumb nail. Jumped up on my second cup of coffee I take the baby and proceed to demonstrate my breath taking efficiency and ingenuity with the nail cutters. The rules of nail cutting:

1. Restrain baby
2. Distract baby
3. Don’t allow baby to see what you’re doing

But I’m a prodigy. I put him in the high chair where he is free to move, see and most importantly, participate. I take his little hand and deftly slip the cutting implement under the nail and snip. My brain is confused. Baby C’s brain is confused, he was watching as well. For moments forever sliced more finely upon repeat play back in my mind I look for the Houdini like slip of the hand. THe nail was clearly in the blades. I cut. I look and the nail is intact. But I felt the resistance of the cut. Something fell out onto the shiny white table of his high chair. It looked like nail. He begins to wail and then scream. There’s blood. My heart shrinks. I have cut my little baby’s thumb. It’s a tiny sliver. Tan’s hung up and standing next to me in a blur. She is completely non judgmental, quietly explaining the rules again. Meanwhile grief and guilt are wrestling on the floor of my mind and in the commotion they blame my wife. It’s her fault. She should never handed those baby nail cutters to a maniac. Moments later he’s fine, he doesn’t mind. I’m quietly haunted. I’m so careful, usually. We have a great time together. My wife and I have agreed that our baby should have talons, lest he end up with stumps.

Excuse me, but that stick appears to be on fire

This is another extract from the emails I sent to my sister back in 04 while I travelled through Turkey with my dear friend Darren, hence forth known as Daggs.

Dear C.

Okay. Some time after arriving in Fethiya Mark our guide offered to take us to the Barber for a shave. This struck me as weird. What’s wrong with the privacy of one’s own bathroom. Darren seemed confident about the whole thing so I mildly followed along.

Mark drops us off and says see you in forty minutes. The place was empty except for a couple of barbers and three of their friends drinking tea or something. So without much ceremony we’re seated and this chap starts lathering me up.
And proceeds to get WAY too intimate. Far to close to my personal space, right up in my face. I quietly explained that really, in Australia, we only let women do this sort of thing. Otherwise nice men, like your dear self, get smacked in the head. I laughed kindly as I said this. Turns out that none of them spoke English. He keeps working away and then pulls out a cut throat razor, and starts shaving.
He shaves, good.

And the he starts again.

After dousing me in this lemon smelling stuff, he finishes shaving and then gets out the scissors. Trim, trim, trim - happy, happy, happy until he shoves them up my nose. What the hell compelled him to do that? Up. My. Nose. Have you seen my nose? Is there something you haven’t told me. Is this dear sweet soul the first to confront me over this issue? I doubt it. I sat very still - saddened by the subtle violation. Perhaps he was laying bets with his mates about how he can stick scissors up the nose of Aussies.

Then he walks off.

And reappears with a blazing stick. Just in case you missed it: a longish stick that looked an awful lot like it was on fire. He then placed the back of his palm against my face and started hitting this blazing stick against my face just above his hand. And yes it was hot. A hot burning stick being smacked against my face.

The funny thing was they all started laughing when I said 'Holy Crap what is THAT?' As I said, none of them spoke a scrap of English until a taxi driver walked in and started answering our questions in English. Apparently the fire burns off ear hair. That’s refreshing. Who wants ear hair. But is there such a thing as a preventative for ear hair? Because I ain't got any.So why was he burning down my face? Another dare perchance. Reckless individual, I could have been anyone. Unfortunately for me I was a nobody from Oz.

Possibly to make some amends for potentially setting me on fire he then proceeded to massage my face, eye lids, neck, parts of my back - and it was only our first date. Having a man doing that who I can’t communicate with is just wrong on so many levels. Having done all of this, he shaved my face again. I would have had a face like a baby’s bottom had it not been set on fire.

The Business of Monkeys

A couple of years ago in the midst of my stint doing stand up comedy I talked about going to the zoo a young family, much like my own and all the associated merriment. I recall that at the time the zoo was going through some sort of financial difficulty and were lamenting this in a very public fashion. Having said this I may have dreamt it. In one particular section of my 'gig' I considered that if the zoo wanted to fix it's fiscal problems it should allow people to bring their dogs along. In fact it should become a more interactive experience. Take for example the smaller monkeys, the Tamarin Monkey.



Not a particularly beautiful creature but versatile, I think you’ll find. Why not have races, create little vests and racing caps and secure the tiny simians to the backs of Jack Russels or Silky Terriers with a spot of gaffer tape. In fact, why not dress them up as ninjas? Of course with that kind of breed you run the risk of the dogs turning on their riders and tearing them to piece. Not a spectacle for the younger ones but a revenue raiser none the less. It was met with deafening silence from the audience. In fact they looked horrified. I was, of course, joking – reflecting on the dangers of commercial enterprise compromising the integrity of innocent ventures like a trip to the zoo. Well, it seems someone somewhere didn’t have someone in their life to say, ‘No – that’s a really bad idea”. Or perhaps they didn't raise the idea in front of my particular audience. . I will concede however that perhaps the Kelpie breed and whatever that terrified monkey is were perhaps a better mix than I envisioned.

On the subject of Englýsh.

Currently I am attempting to read through a history of Political Philosophy from Socrates to Rawls. The thought of it drains the blood from my hope. My Blog has been nagging at the loose threads of my mind for months now and in keeping with bumping into C yesterday (one of my students from the Philosophy class last year – I call this person C not out of any malevolence but that’s the first letter of their name and I’m not sure if they would want me writing names in blogs etc… so out of respect for them I’m simply writing ‘C’) I have decided to write something. Given the constraints on my time, that is how long it is possible for a person like me to sit in one place and concentrate I have decided to shorten the process by sharing some of the emails I wrote to my sister during my trip to Turkey in 2004. I’ve always meant to record these on my blog but never made the time. I also have four hours of video recording of our trip that I will one day get around to editing.

Well things have continued to remain interesting. Today is Saturday and it is really cold here. Spent some time in McDonalds writing and thinking.

Couple were getting a little too hot and heavy in one of the booths so I got out of there. No one was in there anyhow and I wanted to be where the action was. The other action. This McDonalds has a great view of the square, which is actually a circle, so that’s why I sat there writing. Most people were across the road in a big Turkish fast food place that serves bread stuffed with cheese etc... I tried to ask one of the staff why McDonalds was empty, he just kept saying yes.

I'm starting to develop this expression - kind of a bored stare of mild disbelief, it stems from the following - you ask someone on the street if they speak English? Like in the following example where I had taken an interest in a peculiar building with a dome shaped roof covered entirely in grass.

I politely inquired of a gentleman who looked like he was waiting for someone,'Do you speak English?'
Very enthusiastically, 'YES, YES, speak English!'
'Good. What is that building over there?' I pointed at the large ancient ruin with grass on it’s roof in the middle of this giant turning circle (called a square) surrounded by new and old five to six story buildings - obviously of some significance this building. It’s right in the middle of everything.
'Taksým square.'
'No...' I pointed at the building, making square in the air with my fingers around the building and for some reason began speaking in pigeon English'...building right over there, building in front of us, right in front, what is building?' This is a terrible habit of mine. I tend to mimic the inflection, if not the accent and general way of speaking.
'Is bus.' Man is clearly surprised at my stupidity.
'What? No behind bus!' Now I’m making jumping signs with my hands,’behind bus is building, what is it?'
'Is city.'
'City' I repeat. 'That tiny little building is a city.'
'Yes is city' Man is now making broad sweeping gestures.
I stare politely at this man before wishing him a good day by saying Merribah which is actually hello.

I was asking Darren something about the structure and another man interrupted, answering my question he apparently overheard about whether or not anyone spoke English. 'Yes I speak English,’ he said and then had absolutely no idea what I was talking about - structure with no windows, in the square, very old, grass on top, what is it?. Zip. Stare. Finally answers 'Hotel' Yes, of course. Thanks. Thanks very much, it’s clearly a hotel with no windows and grass for a roof. It turns out that when people answer "Yes, I speak a little English!" that is precisely what they mean, that is the only phrase they know - "Yes, I speak a little English."