Diary entry:
I don’t like it!
I don’t want to stay in Belfast.
I thought I would give it a second chance.
I thought that maybe this time I would feel differently about it, but I don’t!
It was a mistake to come here.
London, Gatwick to Belfast
Things got off to a great start!
Feeling light as a feather in my decision to go to Belfast, I was horrified when I saw the weight of my suitcase registering seven kilos more than the allowance. My light-hearted joy was instantly brought down by the gravity of my belongings.
I had no idea how I managed to accumulate an extra seven kilos over the last three weeks. Aside from an additional skirt or two, I had nothing to show for it.
I stared at the number on the digital screen and then back at my suitcase. Baffled. While money wasn’t tight, it wasn’t in abundance. I had no job and therefore, my budget was finite for the time being. I was loathed to pay an additional fee but also reluctant to part with any of my belongings.
Exhaling, I braced myself for the inevitable bill. It was, what it was! Besides, I had every intention of settling myself in Belfast, so an additional one-off fee was fine. It wasn’t like I was returning to London anytime soon. Or, so I thought!
Walking up to the check-in counter having already made peace with the excess luggage fee, my dread was quelled by the service-desk attendant. He gave me a big old smile and a wink. ‘Your bag is far too heavy… but I won’t tell anyone if you don’t’. With a giggle he passed my suitcase through the big rubber curtains and down to the holding dock.
I couldn’t believe it!
Stuff like this never happened to me! Usually I got checked-in by the arsehole who wanted to quibble over five-hundred grams.
It was definitely a fantastic start!
As I turned away from the check-in counter and made my way to the escalator, my phone rang. I answered. It was a recruiter who had viewed my CV from one of my online job applications. Cheerfully, I was informed that there may be a job for me in Belfast.
I scored again!
Not that I wanted a legal job, but at this stage money is money and beggars can’t be choosers. Feeling fantastic, I boarded the plane!
Moving to Belfast was definitely the right decision to make. Or, so I thought!
The Shedder
Once I took my seat, the energy shifted, and things started to fall apart. Literally fall apart. Specifically, the man sitting in front of me was falling apart.
When we were boarding, I noticed this poor man had the most shocking skin. He looked so itchy and was scratching his arms and scalp on repeat. The corrugated scars that ran up his arms were clearly visible. From what I gathered, he must have had psoriasis or eczema. I wanted to cry for him. Skin conditions are often downplayed as mild inflictions. I’m aware they can be debilitating, and this poor man appeared to be a text-book example of that fact.
Originally, the man concerned was not sitting in front of me. He was sitting in the chair diagonal from mine. Prior to take-off, he moved over to the vacant seat in front of me.
While I was filled with sympathy for his condition, when he sat down in front of me, I was instantly hit with repulsion. Just like a blizzard, slithers, NO, shards of scalp flaked, NO, fell off his head and drifted back onto my top and lap.
Obviously, I couldn’t say anything. I tried to ignore the fact that I was likely breathing in a significant amount of his skin when… HE PUT HIS CHAIR BACK… ALL THE WAY!
The proximity was beyond intimate, and there was no doubt I was inhaling his skin shards.
My nose was only centimeters away from his flakey head. Twenty minutes into the flight, and I was certain that I had inhaled at least a ‘nose’ worth of skin. I was becoming increasingly distressed. I appreciate that his condition could not be controlled, nonetheless, to recline all the way back was a shocking disregard for hygiene boundaries.
In an attempt to divert my breaths from the plumes of outer-body, I leant to my right and faced the window. I leaned so far in fact, that I was practically lying on top of the elderly Irish woman in the seat next to me.
Right before our descent, the Shedder scratched his head and pulled off a long shard of skin with hair attached and…
…ATE IT!
Fuck!
I had no words.
Belfast
I caught a bus from the airport into town and spent the entire journey blowing my nose in an attempt to clear my airways of the Shedder.
By the time I arrived in town and found the hotel, I had managed to compose myself and felt as though everything was good once more. I checked-in and the room was great, in fact, fantastic by comparison to the dive I stayed at in London.
I was feeling optimistic once more.
Not wanting to stay in the hotel room the entire night, I ventured out for a stroll.
I strolled past a hair salon and thought, my hair needs a cut. The ends had gotten so split that a solid fifty percent permanently stood on-end in the absence of a hair-tie.
So, I walked into the salon, which also happened to be a training school. A rather unpleasant woman in her fifties approached me with a curled lip and asked if I wanted a student to do the cut. Getting a student would be cheaper and it would mean I could get it done straight away. I nervously asked the woman if it was safe to opt for a student.
Clearly unimpressed with my question, she snapped back: ‘YES’.
So, I said OK… and what a MISTAKE that was!
The young lass who cut my hair was lovely. She was the picture-perfect representation of a young Irish woman. Very slim, she had a light smattering of freckles over her nose. Long straight auburn hair framed her bright green eyes. Her thick Irish accent gave pixy vibes. I felt like I was in a fairytale, and then she cut my hair and the fairytale turned into a nightmare.
Long story short (but not short enough), I paid seventeen pounds and fifty pence for this lass to cut the bottom of my hair off. Literally, that was all she did. She ran the scissors over the bottom of my hair once before triumphantly declaring herself to be: ‘DONE!’
It was not a haircut; I could have done THAT myself.
My hair is layered, and while I want to grow the layers out, they still needed to be trimmed. I looked like someone had taken an axe to the bottom of my hair. I had one razor-sharp line across the bottom, while half of my remaining hair stood on end.
It was disappointing.
Walking back to the hotel looking half wind swept in the absence of any wind, I walked past a fully accredited salon that offered a full cut and blow-dry for ten pounds.
Fuck!
The next day things weren’t any better.
Diary entry:
Belfast isn’t what I would call a happy place.
People don’t smile or at least, I certainly haven’t seen anyone smile.
There seems to be a lot of poverty and hardship on the streets. Everyone swears, everyone smokes, the shop assistants aren’t pleasant, and the general vibe is a downer.
Maybe it’s the season…
Beautiful it may be, it’s not a city I can see myself in for the next twelve months.
I don’t want to stay here.
I decided less than forty-eight hours after arriving, that I needed to plot my exit. Being in Belfast had made me appreciate London. I was so caught up about not doing the stereotypical Australian/London gig, that I let it cloud my judgment.
Eighteen months prior to my Viking Venture, the Pharoah was accepted into Oxford University. He had asked me to go over with him. While the plans never eventuated, I had applied for and been granted a working visa.
I had the visa but had not activated it yet. There was a two-year window to do so. This is why I was able to move from Sweden to the United Kingdom on a whim. Universal orchestration, I guess. I had lined up my paperwork before I even knew I would be on this year of self-discovery.
All the tracking around and spending money on flights was eating into my savings. I needed to commit to one place. I needed to commit to London! I decided to trust the Universal orchestration.
I already had the visa; I just needed a job. It made sense.
Now all I needed was to work out how I was going to get back to London. The flights were crazy expensive, and I resented having to spend more money on a flight.
I had no idea what I was going to do.
I spent the entire third day in Belfast hauled up in my hotel room. I couldn’t go outside because of the torrential rain and lightning. I entertained myself by watching cable television, browsing the web for flights back to London and texting the Pilot.
Yes, THAT Pilot. The Pilot I met at speed dating in London.
The messages were pleasant until the Pilot got all ‘fresh’ on me and started suggesting a dirty weekend together.
I was outraged! I didn’t really know this person and he was propositioning me for sex. I texted him back and told him point blank: NO.
Then I thought about things a bit further and decided to send him a follow-up text. In this text I informed him that he was VERY rude and if he ever wanted me to forgive him and allow him to take me out on a date, then he would have to get me back to London because I had decided not to stay in Belfast and couldn’t afford a return ticket!
And you know what: HE DID IT!!!
The Pilot got me back to London!
I had an early morning flight back to London.
I arrived at the Belfast airport at about seven in the morning, less than a handful of days after arriving. Getting my bags cleared was a breeze, especially considering I had a staff ticket!
Once I was checked- in, I cleared security and made my way to the waiting area. Surprisingly, there were more pubs in the airport than there were coffee shops. Not surprisingly, there were more patrons in the pubs than there were people in the coffee shops.
Welcome to Northern Ireland: nothing like a pint of the old’ gold with your bacon and eggs!
I was ready to jet.
Viking Ventures and Nordic Nonsense
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Gumtree Gargoyles
Gumtree Gargoyles Book 2, being Episodes 5 to 8 has now been converted to a Kindle E Ink reader version. This is for those who read off devices that do not support print replica books. You can access this version here.
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Intriguing story. I will definitely look into your earlier entries.
Thanks!