Procrastination

Another day, another bus-load of underprivileged kids at the academy:
Billy: Is it really true that you don’t have to do maths at university?
Olga: Yah, das is true.
They regard me with deep, deep suspicion.

I awoke this morning with an internet hangover: sore eyes, pounding head, and strange memories of an old schoolmate starring in a u-tube horror movie. There must be better ways to deal with insomnia than cackling at online photos of adversaries from yesteryear.

Frazzled by my nocturnal existence in cyberspace and ricocheting from one bureaucracy to another, the highlight of one woman’s day was gloatingly informing me that my latest guilty e-bay parcel has now been packed off to the arsehole of the universe. No wonder they speak to you through bullet proof glass.

Having slotted some community do-gooding and dictionary flicking into a hectic schedule of tax evasion and handbag evaluation I finally collapsed in a pathetic heap clutching glossy tales of ‘Victoria’s LA drama’ and a breezeblock of SCOTTISH shortbread.

And then I hear a little voice in my ear, “Men are the new women” says Richard, cue eyes to the heavens and near spontaneous combustion from Judy, (and proof of universal consciousness as unemployed Britain is momentarily paralysed by mass fantasy involving their telly and an axe.)

Tawdry debate follows, Richard makes sure the nation is aware that he’s cooking Judy’s dinner tonight (can’t help seeing images of that genius kid’s raw pigeon and Ms. Finnigan nodding in approval as she swallows it down to avoid a tantrum from hubby).

And then he says, “We men, we’re not quite sure what we’re for any more.” And if you listen very, very carefully, you can hear the muffled sound of several million women choking in horror as they find themselves in agreement with him.



Good Night and Good Luck
Olga Whim Signing Off.

Lapp Dancing

Woman with clipboard: Hello Miss!
Olga Whim: Are you selling me something?
Woman with clipboard: No. Stress test...
Olga Whim: You’re a Scientologist.
Woman with clipboard: No, yes…Stress test?
Olga Whim: You’re all mad.
Woman with clipboard: Ok.

[…]


Girl with flyer: Comedy?
Olga: No.
Girl with flyer: You don’t want to laugh?
Olga: No
Girl with flyer: You hear that, doesn’t want to laugh- Never!
Olga: That’s right.

The best way to deal with this scenario is to let them catch your eye, indulge the conspiratorial smile, allow them to make the approach, and when they’re just close enough, whisper, “Don’t even think about it.” Menacingly.

[…]

I did laugh again however, against my will. The following transcript is translated from Scandowegian.

Gertrude: Yes Olga, I think you have a point- the emergence of previously non-existent sexual swearwords being used against girls in school playgrounds across Ikea is certainly an indicator of the increasing sexualisation of children.

Olga: And then there’s the Pratz dolls, not to mention the, how do you say, “pole-dancing kits” being sold to kids as part of the weekly shop.

Gertrude: What is “pole-dancing”

Olga: Um…well, you know, (raised eyebrows, asymmetric smile) when a woman sort of dances round a pole…

Gertrude: What?

Olga: She takes her clothes off, or she doesn’t wear clothes, and the mens, they pay money, (absurd gesticulation).

Gertrude: What is the pole?

Olga: Like a….stave? For the mens.

Pause.

Gertrude: Oh….you mean like a, a porn-club?

Olga: (Desperately swallowing an avalanche of laughter) Yes.

Gertrude: And the children?

Olga: They are selling the poles to children- at the supermarket! Don’t look at me like that! It’s true, they say it’s for training- I mean exercise, for the childrens.

Class bell rings, Gertrude looks relieved.

Gertrude: Well, see you all next week.

Previously silent male classmates: Cheers, bye.

Olga: Google it, google “children’s pole dancing.” …God NO! No don’t do that, VERY bad pictures.

END.

Natives

Natives

Today I abandoned my usual duties in order to act as ambassador for the Lanark Academy. This is an annual event whereby a bunch of native children are bussed in and offered elk sausage in the hope that some of the future inmates will be neither royalty nor the offspring of millionaires, ahem.

I gleefully begin the session with a power point presentation of Scandoweigan celebrities. Within minutes a furious row breaks out as to whether Henrik Larsson really has joined Man U. Attempting to return to scholarly activities, I try a little Scandoweigan on them. It’s not long before I come across a language barrier that I hadn’t quite bargained for. The wee dears are calling things for me to translate, trouble is, I don’t get a word of it. “‘Jit’ you say?” comes my shrill voice, “JIT” the small boy repeats. I feel my neck redden and turn to the sniggering teacher for interpreting, “Jet! He’s saying ‘jet’” she sighs. Momentarily I’m still confused, “Oh you want to say ‘AIROPLANE,’ that’s easy ‘flyggplan,’ you know, like, FLY-PLANE” The class roar with laughter and my cheeks burn as I catch sight of my arms in my peripheral vision. They are flapping.

We try to continue, and when think I can’t be more humiliated, the teacher resorts to speaking French to me in the hope that we may develop a little more mutual comprehension. I realise that for four years I’ve been living in the Scottish equivalent of the green zone, beavering away at obscure Nordic tongues, and after all this time I can barely conduct a conversation with the locals, with whom I allegedly share a mother tongue. Shameful.

All’s well that ends well however, and a round of elderflower cordial appears to be popular, as does Scandoweigan once the lads and lassies discover that the word for ‘sport’ is ‘sport’, ‘rugby,’ is ‘rugby,’ ‘football,’ is ‘fotboll,’ and ‘cricket’ is ‘cricket.’

“This university lark’s a right skive!”

So this is what we've come to....

Spring is here, al fresco fag breaks are becoming less chilly by the day, and there’s been a flurry of activity among the inmates here at the Lanark Academy. Yes it’s that time of year again, the student union elections are upon us. They set up shop outside the university library (the wet dream of some 1960’s wank -stain with a slab fetish, you know the type, they write for all the standard undergrad bibles referring to concrete as ‘sensual’). The few of us that actually use the building for a long forgotten art called ‘research’ are subject to a tirade of abuse as we try to gain access without buying a stale SCOTTISH biscuit in support of some under-developed ginger teenager campaigning under the motto “PINTS NOT POLITICS.” The truly worrying thing is that this bloke will be earning six figure sums working for some Hagueite in a few years.

Just when I think I’ve escaped to the safety of my lair (10ft by 10ft, laptop, newspapers, library books, tobacco, bed, 60 outfits, 12 pairs of shoes, selection of postcards; nothing superfluous) I realise this mockery of a fashionable, if slightly archaic, political system, has now seeped into my home. It invades in the form of zee German’s rasping voice discussing campaign strategy with one of his Teutonic floosies on the telephone.

After managing to be something approaching nice for a whole week I can’t quite manage any more. Naz has I think begun to sense the combination of fury and hysteria that radiates from my every pore, and so responds in the usual way, by acting like I’m his mother. He lists his achievements, tells me when he’ll be home, shifts nervously and reeks of the desire for approval. If this carries on I may have to break the news that I’m not his real mum.

Good night and good luck.
Olga Whim signing off.