I had to nip out to the shop the other day to buy some eggs. It's about 10 doors down from our new house. Andrew offered to run down to get them for me, but I didn't want it turning into another of those things that I get him to do all the time because it makes me feel anxious. I have enough of those already. Scooping dinner scraps out of the plughole in the sink. Getting a round in at the bar.
I feel inexplicably anxious about every aspect of our move to the northside. Parking the car. Doing the shopping. Getting the bus. I research it all meticulously on the internet before leaving the house.
Stoneybatter is very authentic. I would like to be authentic too, but I feel like a pretentious, yuppie fake. You don't hear "yuppie" much any more, do you? People are always talking about hipsters, but I'm not one of those. I can't wear skinny jeans and I drive a Mitsubishi Carisma.
Andrew had gone to the shop the day before to buy some bin tags but forgot what he was looking for when he walked in and the lady behind the counter was having a smoke. It was just so unexpected. Maybe I should have a cigarette on my way there I thought so that I'll smell of smoke too and she'll be my friend. Or maybe I should just cop on and go and get the fucking eggs. "I'll go, love" I said. I shoved on some shoes and checked my purse for change and my handbag for courage and marched out the door towards the shop. I hope I don't look like I'm posh I thought.
I didn't. I don't think I could if I tried, what with all the shopping I do in Penneys.
I stepped out onto the street and straight into the path of Fireman Sam, helmet askew as he pedalled furiously on his plastic truck, shouting NEE NAW NEE NAW NEE NAW and swerving to avoid my shins. His grandad gave me a big smile and an apologetic hello. "Where's the fire?" I asked Sam, but he clammed up and hid under his yellow hat, so I walked on to the shop.
It was stacked high with boxes, bursting with biscuits and promise. I picked up some caramel digestives, a small batch loaf and some eggs. I was at the counter, about to pay, when the little fireman came bursting through the door, shouting "WHERE'S THE FIRE?!? GET ME SOME WATER!". His grandad followed him in, the plastic fire engine under his oxter. I wanted to stay and chat, to make friends with the smoking shop lady and the proud grandad and the little fella. I wanted to tell them that we've just moved in and for them to say that we're very welcome and ask who we are and where we come from. They might have. Or they might not. A lot of people move in and out on our road. But I just went a bit red and counted out my coins and said "tanks" and went home.
Later, there was a knocking at our front door. I froze in the kitchen. Stranger Danger. Andrew went for a look through the spyhole. It doesn't have any glass in it - I suppose it's just a hole. I like to freak him out by looking in it when he's coming to the door. I know he'll look out and see me staring back at him. There was nobody outside when he looked this time. He shrugged and came back in to the sitting room, then the knocking started again. This time he opened the door, to find a little fella with a plastic hammer and saw, fixing the jamb. "Hiya!" said Andrew. "Just fixin' the door" said the little fella, all business. "I'm really sorry" said his mam, who was standing beside him, wrestling with bags of shopping and the key to her front door. It turns out that Fireman Sam is Kevin (age 3) from next door on his days off, and when he's not attending to emergencies in the shop, he likes a spot of DIY. "Now" he said, looking at his imaginary handiwork with the air of a man who takes pride in a job well done "I'll just get some paint". He wobbled in home and returned a minute later with a cardboard cut-out of a can of paint and a little cardboard brush. "Just a quick coat, Kevin" said his mam, "I have something I need you to paint for me inside". She was worried we'd be too polite to close the door on him. She's right, we would.
We haven't met the neighbours on the other side yet. Our kitchen looks right into theirs, and our yards are separated by some rusting, waist-high virgin-blue railings. Neither of us has curtains up, so I spend a lot of my time in the kitchen busily not looking into theirs. They look a little like us. One of these days I'll wave, and smile, and hope that they wave and smile back. And then I'll put up some curtains.
I feel inexplicably anxious about every aspect of our move to the northside. Parking the car. Doing the shopping. Getting the bus. I research it all meticulously on the internet before leaving the house.
Stoneybatter is very authentic. I would like to be authentic too, but I feel like a pretentious, yuppie fake. You don't hear "yuppie" much any more, do you? People are always talking about hipsters, but I'm not one of those. I can't wear skinny jeans and I drive a Mitsubishi Carisma.
Andrew had gone to the shop the day before to buy some bin tags but forgot what he was looking for when he walked in and the lady behind the counter was having a smoke. It was just so unexpected. Maybe I should have a cigarette on my way there I thought so that I'll smell of smoke too and she'll be my friend. Or maybe I should just cop on and go and get the fucking eggs. "I'll go, love" I said. I shoved on some shoes and checked my purse for change and my handbag for courage and marched out the door towards the shop. I hope I don't look like I'm posh I thought.
I didn't. I don't think I could if I tried, what with all the shopping I do in Penneys.
I stepped out onto the street and straight into the path of Fireman Sam, helmet askew as he pedalled furiously on his plastic truck, shouting NEE NAW NEE NAW NEE NAW and swerving to avoid my shins. His grandad gave me a big smile and an apologetic hello. "Where's the fire?" I asked Sam, but he clammed up and hid under his yellow hat, so I walked on to the shop.
It was stacked high with boxes, bursting with biscuits and promise. I picked up some caramel digestives, a small batch loaf and some eggs. I was at the counter, about to pay, when the little fireman came bursting through the door, shouting "WHERE'S THE FIRE?!? GET ME SOME WATER!". His grandad followed him in, the plastic fire engine under his oxter. I wanted to stay and chat, to make friends with the smoking shop lady and the proud grandad and the little fella. I wanted to tell them that we've just moved in and for them to say that we're very welcome and ask who we are and where we come from. They might have. Or they might not. A lot of people move in and out on our road. But I just went a bit red and counted out my coins and said "tanks" and went home.
Later, there was a knocking at our front door. I froze in the kitchen. Stranger Danger. Andrew went for a look through the spyhole. It doesn't have any glass in it - I suppose it's just a hole. I like to freak him out by looking in it when he's coming to the door. I know he'll look out and see me staring back at him. There was nobody outside when he looked this time. He shrugged and came back in to the sitting room, then the knocking started again. This time he opened the door, to find a little fella with a plastic hammer and saw, fixing the jamb. "Hiya!" said Andrew. "Just fixin' the door" said the little fella, all business. "I'm really sorry" said his mam, who was standing beside him, wrestling with bags of shopping and the key to her front door. It turns out that Fireman Sam is Kevin (age 3) from next door on his days off, and when he's not attending to emergencies in the shop, he likes a spot of DIY. "Now" he said, looking at his imaginary handiwork with the air of a man who takes pride in a job well done "I'll just get some paint". He wobbled in home and returned a minute later with a cardboard cut-out of a can of paint and a little cardboard brush. "Just a quick coat, Kevin" said his mam, "I have something I need you to paint for me inside". She was worried we'd be too polite to close the door on him. She's right, we would.
We haven't met the neighbours on the other side yet. Our kitchen looks right into theirs, and our yards are separated by some rusting, waist-high virgin-blue railings. Neither of us has curtains up, so I spend a lot of my time in the kitchen busily not looking into theirs. They look a little like us. One of these days I'll wave, and smile, and hope that they wave and smile back. And then I'll put up some curtains.
