It's extremely rare that I post two blogs in one day, but I just went down to collect a (insert appropriately healthy meal here) from the sandwich van, and as the sandwich lady did that weird thing where she goes to put the change in my hand but doesn't quite tip it into my palm and leaves her fingers there a bit too long for the umpteenth bloody time, it occurred to me:
I'm not very fond of being touched.
It's true! I get a bit nervy when people are too close to me (that's about six inches) and I nearly always jump a bit when someone touches me, unless it's something I anticipate (like a handshake) or initiate. I've just realised how self-concious physical contact makes me. It happens all the time - I usually manage to appear unaffected, but get very, very tense. I have a particular dislike of close talkers and people who hover. I think a distance of about twelve inches is a pretty good talking range, and if you're going to hover, I need at least ten inches of space to feel comfortable while allowing whoever to effectively observe what I do. There's a specific person to whom the hovering applies, and every time they do it, their face about a handspan away, I just have this urge to nut them or give them a slap. People shouldn't be that close unless they're, well, you know.
In a complete switcharound, however, I have no real problem with initiating contact myself. I'll happily offer a hug, or a shoulderpunch or a shove or whatever, just not the other way around. I chalk it up to my ridiculous amount of innate selfishness, but maybe there's more to it. Or maybe I'm reading into it too much, I don't know.
It's not a phobia by any means, I don't quake with fear or anything; I just don't like it.
Anyway, that's enough rambling for today.
Thanks for putting up with me!
Love, Odsox.
Monday 7 July 2008
"Don'fuhgetchateef!"
Let me tell you about my Wii injury.
It begins way back, through the mists of time, in Essex, somewhere closer to Barking than Colchester, outside a huge block of flats built in the traditional council estate fashion, at night. The blocks are huge and imposing in the darkness, looming over their concrete gardens like gritty sentinels, covered in thousands of glass eyes, some lit, some dark.
A red mondeo pulls up to the kerb about a hundred metres away from one particular block, just by a small, foot-high brick wall surrounding the concrete slope used for games during the day. As the engine dies, the passenger door of the car pops open, faintly illuminating a young boy with dirty blonde hair and a gap-toothed smile. He hops out of the vehicle, turns and shuts the door with a bit more force than is necessary. On the driver's side, a tall, black-haired man with a single gold earring has climbed out, and gives the boy a half-joking frown.
'Christ, shut the door,' he says, turning the keys to lock the vehicle up.
"Sorry, Dad!" replies the boy, grinning and looking around in the dark. His father steps around the car, fiddling with his mobile phone. The boy turns to look at the blocks, and, in the way that young boys everywhere do, sets off at a sprint.
His father has walked perhaps two metres, glaring at his phone, when he hears his son's step falter, followed by a thump, a quiet crack, and a high-pitched wail. He instantly moves into a sprint, heading toward the sound. As he steps over the little wall with his long legs, he spies his son on the concrete ground; on his knees and clutching at his mouth, tears streaming from his eyes.
'Oh bloody hell, come here, what have you done?' he asks the boy, lifting him to his feet and peering at his face. Some blood circles his son's mouth; not much, but enough to prove an injury. The boy speaks, but his hands muffle his voice. His father wipes the boy's eyes with the cuff of his jacket and pulls his hand away. Already possessing a sizeable gap between his front teeth, his son's front tooth has been cracked diagonally by the impact on the concrete, leaving an almost pointed remainder, coated with a little blood. The boy sniffs and whimpers, looking around for the missing piece of his precious tooth.
'I was running, and, and I fell over the wall! It really hurt!'
His father sighs, and grips the boy's shoulder.
'Well, it's your own fault for running off in the dark, isn't it? Come on, get inside and then we'll get you down the hospital.'
'I DON'T WANNA GO TO THE HOSPITAL!'
'Don't be stupid, you've got to. Come on, let's get inside, eh?'
'What about my tooth?'
'I'll come back out and look for it once you're settled in.'
'Okay.. but shouldn't we see the dentist?'
'Rich, we're going to the hospital.'
Fast forward twelve, fifteen years, to Essex again, but in Colchester, more specifically a small, cosy flat stuffed with mismatched furniture. Several young adults are gathered in the room, seated on different pieces of furniture. A big man sits nearest the massive television, seated on a pink sofa, looking quite comfortable with a Wiimote in his right hand and a large glass bottle of cider in the left. He grins as he chats to the others, still gap-toothed but with a whole front tooth where the cracked one once was.
'Weanie mate, this is brilliant. I need to get me one of these.'
'Hey man,' replies an even bigger man sat in a green leather armchair, leaning over to grab his own bottle of cider, 'you're welcome to come over and play anytime.'
'Cheers dude,' replies the young man, dirty blonde hair now a light shade of brown. He swings the Wiimote back and forth, playing against one of his other friends.
This is great, he reflects, eyes and Wiimote never leaving the tiny digital tennis ball zipping back and forth on the large screen, I can drink and play this at the same -
The sudden crack against his front tooth makes him drop the Wiimote, and, staring blindly at the television, he removes the cider bottle from his mouth. As he suddenly realises the idiocy of what he's done, he turns to the others.
'That was very, very stupid,' he says.
'What did you do?' asks a tall, skinny fellow seated on the arm of his girlfriend's chair.
'I.. I was thinking about how awesome it was that I could drink and play at the same time.. then I swung the Wiimote, hit the glass bottle, smacked it against my teeth and cracked it against me fake tooth.'
The other instantly burst out laughing, and the young man can't help but grin as well; he'd laugh too, if it hadn't been him.
'Shit,' he says, feeling the tooth with his tongue, 'That's definitely cracked. I'm not gonna be able to leave it alone, either. Bloody hell.'
Sure enough, over the next day, try as he might, he can't stop running the tip of his tongue across the edge of the fracture. It feels like a hairline, and on inspection he can see the line itself.
Later on, as he's over at his stepdad's, enjoying a slice of apple pie with hot custard, he swallows a mouthful of the sweet pie, and blinks. Cautiously, he taps the end of his tongue against the tooth.
A chunk of it has fallen off. Rushing to the mirror, he inspects the tooth. There. The corner of the tooh, made from a kind of dental concrete, has chipped off, leaving a jagged edge to the tooth, and a larger gap.
'Oh, brilliant,' he sighs, peering at the broken tooth.
'Back to square one.'
It begins way back, through the mists of time, in Essex, somewhere closer to Barking than Colchester, outside a huge block of flats built in the traditional council estate fashion, at night. The blocks are huge and imposing in the darkness, looming over their concrete gardens like gritty sentinels, covered in thousands of glass eyes, some lit, some dark.
A red mondeo pulls up to the kerb about a hundred metres away from one particular block, just by a small, foot-high brick wall surrounding the concrete slope used for games during the day. As the engine dies, the passenger door of the car pops open, faintly illuminating a young boy with dirty blonde hair and a gap-toothed smile. He hops out of the vehicle, turns and shuts the door with a bit more force than is necessary. On the driver's side, a tall, black-haired man with a single gold earring has climbed out, and gives the boy a half-joking frown.
'Christ, shut the door,' he says, turning the keys to lock the vehicle up.
"Sorry, Dad!" replies the boy, grinning and looking around in the dark. His father steps around the car, fiddling with his mobile phone. The boy turns to look at the blocks, and, in the way that young boys everywhere do, sets off at a sprint.
His father has walked perhaps two metres, glaring at his phone, when he hears his son's step falter, followed by a thump, a quiet crack, and a high-pitched wail. He instantly moves into a sprint, heading toward the sound. As he steps over the little wall with his long legs, he spies his son on the concrete ground; on his knees and clutching at his mouth, tears streaming from his eyes.
'Oh bloody hell, come here, what have you done?' he asks the boy, lifting him to his feet and peering at his face. Some blood circles his son's mouth; not much, but enough to prove an injury. The boy speaks, but his hands muffle his voice. His father wipes the boy's eyes with the cuff of his jacket and pulls his hand away. Already possessing a sizeable gap between his front teeth, his son's front tooth has been cracked diagonally by the impact on the concrete, leaving an almost pointed remainder, coated with a little blood. The boy sniffs and whimpers, looking around for the missing piece of his precious tooth.
'I was running, and, and I fell over the wall! It really hurt!'
His father sighs, and grips the boy's shoulder.
'Well, it's your own fault for running off in the dark, isn't it? Come on, get inside and then we'll get you down the hospital.'
'I DON'T WANNA GO TO THE HOSPITAL!'
'Don't be stupid, you've got to. Come on, let's get inside, eh?'
'What about my tooth?'
'I'll come back out and look for it once you're settled in.'
'Okay.. but shouldn't we see the dentist?'
'Rich, we're going to the hospital.'
Fast forward twelve, fifteen years, to Essex again, but in Colchester, more specifically a small, cosy flat stuffed with mismatched furniture. Several young adults are gathered in the room, seated on different pieces of furniture. A big man sits nearest the massive television, seated on a pink sofa, looking quite comfortable with a Wiimote in his right hand and a large glass bottle of cider in the left. He grins as he chats to the others, still gap-toothed but with a whole front tooth where the cracked one once was.
'Weanie mate, this is brilliant. I need to get me one of these.'
'Hey man,' replies an even bigger man sat in a green leather armchair, leaning over to grab his own bottle of cider, 'you're welcome to come over and play anytime.'
'Cheers dude,' replies the young man, dirty blonde hair now a light shade of brown. He swings the Wiimote back and forth, playing against one of his other friends.
This is great, he reflects, eyes and Wiimote never leaving the tiny digital tennis ball zipping back and forth on the large screen, I can drink and play this at the same -
The sudden crack against his front tooth makes him drop the Wiimote, and, staring blindly at the television, he removes the cider bottle from his mouth. As he suddenly realises the idiocy of what he's done, he turns to the others.
'That was very, very stupid,' he says.
'What did you do?' asks a tall, skinny fellow seated on the arm of his girlfriend's chair.
'I.. I was thinking about how awesome it was that I could drink and play at the same time.. then I swung the Wiimote, hit the glass bottle, smacked it against my teeth and cracked it against me fake tooth.'
The other instantly burst out laughing, and the young man can't help but grin as well; he'd laugh too, if it hadn't been him.
'Shit,' he says, feeling the tooth with his tongue, 'That's definitely cracked. I'm not gonna be able to leave it alone, either. Bloody hell.'
Sure enough, over the next day, try as he might, he can't stop running the tip of his tongue across the edge of the fracture. It feels like a hairline, and on inspection he can see the line itself.
Later on, as he's over at his stepdad's, enjoying a slice of apple pie with hot custard, he swallows a mouthful of the sweet pie, and blinks. Cautiously, he taps the end of his tongue against the tooth.
A chunk of it has fallen off. Rushing to the mirror, he inspects the tooth. There. The corner of the tooh, made from a kind of dental concrete, has chipped off, leaving a jagged edge to the tooth, and a larger gap.
'Oh, brilliant,' he sighs, peering at the broken tooth.
'Back to square one.'
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