The Curse of the Cubbyhole

Yes, well, that was a bit of a spell away from the Court, wasn't it. I didn't spend it all eating bacon, I assure you.

What happened was I ate my bacon and eggs and then went to put a load of laundry on. And when I got back, my spot at the computer had been taken by Himself, who was looking at jobs in British Columbia.

"Wages have gone up in BC", he announced.

"You are not going anywhere without me", I reminded him.

"Well, it would be a bit of a hoof home to see Little 'Un anyways."

"Yes, it would."

So I guess we're not going to BC this weekend.

Thank goodness for that.

We're going to Ontario in a couple of weeks and that looks far enough right now.

My world is getting a tad small right now. What with the price of gas and all the airlines in the world going bust. But I'm sure it will change at some point. Although I keep telling myself that inhabiting a small world is not a bad thing. Inhabiting the world you want is the thing, isn't it?

Anyhows, back to In Bruges.

As Farmer Brown said on Facebook, In Bruges is a fuckin' fuckin' fuckin' brilliant film.

It is.

We settled into the couch and put it on and it opened with Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson arriving in Bruges and muttering at each other, the way Irish people do, about whether or not it was nice.

Colin Farrell thought it was crap.

Brendan Gleeson thought it was nice.

They sniped at each other throughout most of the movie, but in that loving way that Irish people do.

I could feel a lump that filled everything from my belly to my heart.

People just don't do that here.

People try to outdo each other with enthusiasm here.

People spend a lot of time and energy being polite and apologetic to each other here about the STOOPIDEST things, and then wonder why they die of stress-related cancers.

I'm going to definitely get a stress-related something or other if I have to do it much longer.

I swear to God, I can't do it anymore.

But at least, after watching In Bruges, I have been reminded that it's okay that I can't do it anymore. I am not crazy. I am not a bad person. I am not stupid. I am not wrong.

I am just a grumpy fuckin' Irish woman, with a penchant for sarcasm when I am in a situation I don't like.

Which is most of the time here.

Unfortunately, that's not going to bode very well for my future integration and the successful duplication at some point in the next few years of my wide Irish social circle.

Life is a tad dull here most of the time. Unless Himself and I have a party. Or Ms Maggie Beach. Everyone turns up to them. But either they don't have parties or they just don't invite us to them.

It's very strange here. I am surrounded by people who never invite us anywhere because we don't know the people who will be there (I know all my Irish readers will totally see the logic in this) and who actually say things like 'why would I want anymore friends? I have my elementary school friends' without a hint of sarcasm.

As I said to a colleague the other day, why would you do that?

I mean, c'mon on, the potential to reinvent yourself is severely limited if your social circle all knew you when you were seven.

I mean, that's why siblings often don't get on, isn't it?

Because one or other of them can't get past that time of life.

I have two good friends who have known me since I was four or younger.

I have another three or four who have known me since I was thirteen.

Everyone else I am proud to call a friend is from the time when I was actually capable of working on my personality to improve it.

Or beyond.

It's not that we don't have friends here in Halifax.

We do.

Good friends.

And thank christ for the island and all the wonderful folks who live there and stick with us through thick and thin.

It's just that we have one friend in this city who is actually from this city.

And he was introduced to us by a neighbour who is a 'come from away'.

And he spent ten years in Alberta.

And he's never invited us to his house.

Ever.

....anyways, enough of that.... enough of feeling sorry for myself and Himself.

I think I am going to buy a copy of In Bruges for every member of my work team and say, I am the Brendan Gleeson character, so just deal with it, okay.

Actually, I think I'll wait until I leave and then do it. So they can remember me fondly.

Which is so important.

In blogpost title-related news, Himself and I decided tonight that the Cubbyhole, which is the small apartment upstairs, has a curse on it.

According to Kitty, the newest occupants have split up.

One of them was doing the nasty on the other, according to the shouting and throwing of things.

And now there's only one inhabitant of the Cubbyhole.

What we know for sure is that our wonderful landlord has been to-ing and fro-ing like a headless chicken all week, banging on the door and leaving notes and stuff like that, so something's up.

There must be rent money involved.

Well, our friends and former neighbours who left to buy a house up the road didn't suffer from the curse.....

.... so maybe they laid it.....

Fess up now, Rescue Guys!!