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Handbags not house bricks

29 March, 2010

The reality of becoming a Londoner is, for some, too overwhelming.

You see until 18 months ago when someone said ‘great tote’ I was looking round for a bookies. I’d never bought a handbag. I may have worn at least four (sometimes up to eight) layers of clothes, but I’d never put perfume on to go to work. If you’ve ever had a colt tap you on the head with a front hoof (they glued up the hole and I couldn’t wash my hair for a week) you’ll know why. I’ve now learnt how to dress for air conditioning and not the weather, but still don’t own any perfume.

I bumped into an old client and friend last week, who I hadn’t seen since my racing days, who said they wouldn’t have recognised me I looked “urban”. Ehy? I think I’d rather be called a country bumpkin. But it was my hands that had apparently undergone the greatest transformation. Gone were the calluses and in grained dirt mixed with horse feed. Although they’re still shaped like shovels they’re no longer being used as such.

So, I thought I was ready for the final transformation. With the prospect of a steady, if small, income from June after landing an internship at Bloomberg, I decided it was time to join the rat race proper and move into London.

Most people my age are just considering doing the reverse – finding a nice home in the country for the kids to grow up in with the Labrador and chickens in the garden. Me? I seem to be living life backwards. I had a cockerel called Colin six years ago, the horses loved him, but it was a nightmare when he started cock-a-doodle-doing contests with the neighbours cockerel at 3am.

Anyway, after spending – or should I say wasting – a Saturday looking at postage stamp size hovels in the arse end of south east London (no offence) I knew I couldn’t do it. I need space, even if I can only see it out of my window. With my budget I’d have to live somewhere I wouldn’t want to be spending any time in when I wasn’t working. Plan B? Compromise. I’m becoming a proper home counties commuter. For considerably less money I’m moving into a little 2 up one down with a garden so I can grow my herbs and enjoy the summer sunshine – when it’s not raining and I’m not working. About one day in six months then? You’d think, after working outside for 15 years, the novelty of being in the great outdoors may have worn off, but it doesn’t. I’ll be back to my crack of dawn starts again, just so I can wake up and see the grass and sky, instead of a row of bricks and a red bus. But I have finally bought a handbag.

First ever handbag purchase. A bit Maggie T?

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A culchie conversation

Now there are many good things about having dual citizenship. However, there are also some disadvantages. Aside from feeling confused about your roots, where your loyalties lie and who to support in a rugby clash, on the practical side, living and conversing in two different countries can create some puzzlement.

You’d think, being that both countries of citizenship have English as their official language, that things would be pretty simple on the communication front, but you couldn’t be more wrong. Add to that the use of rural terminology when I now live in the middle of a city and there’s much lost in translation. Having lived and worked a decent drive away from any town nevermind city for the last 15 years there’s a whole new vocabulary causing much confusion on both sides. Here are some of the words and phrases that raise a smile, a furrowed brow or worst still a look of misguided horror when said in the middle of high brow London and consequently make me feel like a provincial culchie.

“A cup of tea in your hand” – a quick cuppa basically. How is it that no one inside the M25 can work that one out?

“Yourman” – with a silent ‘o’. Very handy when you can’t remember someone’s name but seemingly (another one right there seemingly) Londoners think this particularly provincial judging by the facial expressions I get in return for the use of this word

“Yourone” – similar to above but usually referring to a female

“Himself” – not preceded by “The man…” and more often referring to the husband/boyfriend/man of the house. This seems to cause particular confusion and recoil

“Plug out” – simple but equally not understood. Logical really, if you plug (a socket into the wall) then why not plug out rather than unplug?

“Feck” – this is not a swear word like the real ‘F’ word in England and is accepted on prime time national television. So people, don’t look so horrified when I say “Feck” very loudly

“Yoke” – again very handy when you can’t remember the name but in this case referring to an object usually some sort of gadget, rather than a person. I suppose an English person would say thingummy or thingummy jig

“A glass of…” – when ordering drinks in a pub. Here they’re called halves or half a pint, back over, they’re called ‘a glass’ say the wrong one in the wrong place and your cider could arrive in a wine glass

“a horse’s hoof” now I thought this must have been a London rhyming slang thing, but seemingly not. Anyway it means spoof or exaggeration

“Foxy looking” – no, no, no, no no … it doesn’t mean sexy or even sly, but refers to a red head/haired person

Now do you understand?

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Mixing it with the kids

There are a lot of things I imagined I’d grow up to be when I was a child: a vet, but I was no good at science; an explorer, but everything had been found; a jockey, but I kept breaking bones; and even a journalist. But I never imagined that when I grew up I would become a student.

Once north of thirty you’re “too young for the bowling green, too old for Ecstasy” to steal a phrase from Rab C Nesbitt. It’s the no man’s land between the middle-aged and the twenty somethings. When you realise you can remember what happened 20 years ago and the first white hair sprouts out of your hairline, as unwanted as a teenage spot appearing just hours before a first date, but worse because it’s not going to disappear in a few days.

Generally speaking, outside of family, we tend to spend time with our own age groups, give or take a few years. So once the decision had been made to go and get an undergraduate degree after passing the big three zero, the prospect of hanging out with the under 25s filled me with dread. While initially fighting hard against the instinct to spout advice and wisdom (‘mature’ I maybe but Yoda I am not) and trying not to sound like Lee Perry, I constantly had to remind myself of what I was like a decade and a half ago: feral.

The greatest difference the advanced decade or more creates is the focus and growing sense of impatience. Not earning a salary after 15 years of working full time takes a bit of getting used to, but it’s the sense of urgency to reach the end of the three years of an undergraduate degree which get you out of bed in the morning. Most regular students enjoy wallowing in their university years, as they should. I wish you could pack those three years, by studying high days and holidays, into one year. It’s the sense that time is not on our side and a concern that prospective employers will silently agree.

To my surprise there have been benefits of being the oldest one in the classroom and mixing with students who were being born when you were doing your A levels. Insider information from another generation reveals a world I had almost forgotten – of strange music and bad habits. But also a place that is very different from the one that I knew. This passing of information can be, and often is, an interesting exchange. Although mostly it’s the banter and bravado that allows me to revert to my mental age (of
just 17) for a few hours every day, which not only makes me smile but may just keep me young enough to stave off the attack of grey hairs and wrinkles…for now anyway.