It has been eight months since I’ve moved house for anyone and I have been getting a little edgy. In the classroom I get the students moving their chairs around frequently but it’s just not the same. So, desperate to keep my hand in, I have moved house myself.
I had other reasons of course. I have been sharing accommodation now for most of my life and I really fancied dealing with my domestic eccentricities by myself rather than forcing them upon others. I also didn’t want to be cleaning up after housemates who had, up until fairly recently, been relying upon their mothers to do just that. There has also been a new addition to the house in the past week and I’m pleased that my departure has coincided with his arrival. At the other end of the scale to Al and Tom, weighing in at fifty six years of age, Frank is an Australian who has the unfortunate combination of being verbose, a bore and having had his humour gland removed some time ago. He has been everywhere and done everything with knobs on, and that’s my forte. I feel sure that there is not room in that very large house for both of our egos.
However the list of reasons to move continues. I have been offered a job at another school which offers more money and a possibility of competence which seems to be sadly lacking at my current school. I shall say no more on that subject for the time being, other than that I thought it best to get some independent accommodation. The final reason has been the disapproval from the school about having people stay over at the house, especially those of the opposite sex. And that will never do.
I have found that everything happens exceptionally easily here in Medan, no sooner have you desired it than it manifests itself; at times I have truly wondered if I am going to wake up and find that Bobby was in the shower. One example of this has been my desire to move to my own place. I let it be known that I wanted somewhere to live and almost before I had time to think about it, I had been offered a place. Marc, a Dutchman whom I met of course down the pub, and his Indonesian wife, Sari, are opening a small school which has just finished being renovated and they wanted someone living there.
It’s lovely. I have the second floor, with a kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. The bedroom has a lovely balcony overlooking the street at a respectable height to not have people noticing that I’m watching them with a beer. There is also a roof terrace which overlooks trees and a lake; greenery being a rare commodity in Medan. Yesterday morning I went up there and stood watching the sunrise over the city; hazy mountains in the distance and birds darting about doing their mating rituals. One pair of these birds came swooping down and flew within an inch of the end of my nose. I thought I was entering the realms of Hitchcock when they came in for another attack and once again missed the end of my patently unmissable conk. When they came around again I decided I would stand firm and not flinch this time. They came within millimetres, one behind the other, and then went off again. It was amazing; I could feel the air turbulence from their wings. They must have done it over half a dozen time before I decided I’d better go and get ready for work instead of being target practice for a couple of kamikaze birds. There was no nest that they were protecting so I feel that it must have just been playfulness; for whatever reason it was, it certainly put me in an excellent mood.
Sure do miss Crook though.... he’d have had ‘em.
I needed a haircut this morning and so went to find a barber in my new neighbourhood. Waiting third in line for approximately half an hour in one establishment, while watching the barber meticulously snip one customer’s every last hair, I calculated that the next World Cup would have started by the time I got my turn and so left. He made the rest of his countrymen look positively frenetic by comparison.
Further up the road I found a quieter place where there would be no waiting required. I was promptly seated, wrapped in a towel and then treated to the must luxurious barber shop experience I have ever had. The grade two shearing of my noggin was over in next to no time, at which point the cut-throat razor was brought in to play. He cut an immaculate line all the way around the edge of my hairline and then reclined the chair. A soapy brush was dabbed around my lower face and I was scraped clean of whiskers. I must admit I’ve always wanted to to be shaved by a barber with a cut-throat razor; it conjures up images of Westerns and Mafisosi movies and I desperately wanted to have a cigar sticking out of my mouth while the barber pared away at my chin.
Next, my face was rubbed with peppermint oil and massaged. Scissors were produced and my protruding nostril hairs were lopped, followed closely by my wayward eyebrow hairs. My scalp was massaged and then my shoulders. My face was buffed and dusted and, thankfully, I was tipped back on to my feet before he got any ideas about starting on my bikini line. The whole thing cost me 50p. I must say I can’t wait for my next cropping.
