Tuesday, 30 August 2016

Not giving up!

I’ve already told you about my pragmatic side (sleeping on the floor with two pairs of trousers for it to be softer) and also about my long journey with a-beyond-average-IQ-professor who inquired if he could test my IQ levels during the stand still of the train (I suppressed my vanity being tested on a full carriage). On that day apart from being late to my volunteer post at the documentary festival and ending up eating my home made sandwich while standing in front of the open toilet door and trying not to look into it, this was really just the first part of the day. Being late for work for an hour was a minor issue, actually it didn’t appear to be a problem at all. I guess I was blessed with the wonderful coordinators/supervisors.
The main issue on that day was rain or in truth - my ignorance (which was not bliss!) and not being prepared for that. The weather site is probably one of my most used web pages in general and I did check the weather forecast for the weekend before packing and setting off. It was made quite clear to me what was waiting ahead (unless people can have varied interpretations about the pictures of grey clouds with rain drops?) Additionally I knew that my post was based outside, but somehow I still managed to ignore the forecast and decided that the rain coat would not be necessary (after ten years of living on this island I have to admit I can be a slow learner). 
To cut it short my newly received festival t-shirt got soaked by the end of day one. I was wet through and the tent floor where I’d left my jacket in a non-waterproof bag had been flooded, so my only jacket was also included to the list of ‘not the driest of my possessions’. Oh, to be clear my lovely supervisors didn’t really ask us to stand in the rain, it was really my own initiative that I helped some others (with coats!) outside during a heavy rainfall. Anyway I have nothing to complain about, I had a warm hotel room to go to and thanks for looking the way I did, I got quite a few sympathetic looks, was allowed to jump the queue when checking in to the hotel and “the wettest gets into the lift first” comment put even a smile on my face. I did have a set of dry clothes, apart from obviously the jacket and the shoes. The latter was a bit of a nuisance when I sat at the hotel restaurant, wet trainers covering my bare feet (as I thought what’s the point of making another pair of socks wet inside already wet trainers), the breeze came through the door by which I’d chosen to sit and I realized I needed to hurry up with my food to get back to the room and under the covers.



But the warm bed had to wait a bit longer as my white festival t-shirt had become slightly discoloured and dirty under the circumstances. So as an exemplary volunteer I washed it with a hand soap in the bathroom sink because reality was that I had to wear this shirt for two more days. After some rubbing and rinsing, it was all white and clean as new. Then I decided to iron the shirt to speed up the drying process, but oops! Bad luck! It appeared that the ironing board wasn’t the cleanliest either and had left some lovely black lines on my white top. Oh well, I sighed and swore, and washed it again!

And additionally on a similar ‘not giving up that easily’ note, but not related to the rain, but just on a journey to another big event years ago. One morning I was standing on the trolley bus on my way to the press centre at the Eurovision Song Contest held in Estonia, holding my dear rucksack in hand, my lovely Nokia 5110 inside the pocket of its shoulder strap. Suddenly on that bumpy ride I felt that something was missing and discovered that it was my phone (I guess its body weight might have given me a sign, as when it wasn’t in the pocket anymore, my bag must have felt much lighter). So my next moves were purely based on instincts (or so I’d like to think). I looked around, saw a bloke standing close by with a coat around his arm. I lifted his coat, spotted him holding the phone (didn’t have time to second-guess it if this actually did belong to me). Anyway, at that moment I was certain this was my phone he was holding, and as I said, I lifted the coat, spotted my missing item, took it off from him, grumbling “it’s my phone!” to the pickpocket and put the phone back into its place in my bag. No one had paid any attention to us but when I looked around and noticed his companion, I started staring at them intently keeping an eye on their every single move (I was obviously so empowered by my own actions). And it worked! In the next stop they didn’t have much choice than to leave the bus (unfortunately quite likely just to wait for the next one with new (potential) victims), but I got to the venue on time, with my phone safely in the pocket, like nothing ever happened!

Tuesday, 23 August 2016

Dated

Last time I told you about my first homes in Estonia and England, today I look back at the media jobs, the very first ones.
I was about seven years old when I took up my first media job, seriously! Alright, it’s a slight exaggeration. Actually as my mum was quite heavily involved in the heritage protection, it also meant I was involved too, mainly just going along to different places and ceremonies, eating cake and drinking coffee with grown-ups (the most important things to remember, and yes, young kids did drink coffee at that time). Once there was a ceremony of one of the statues of liberty and the heritage organisation was also selling newspapers (maybe they were handing out for a donation, but ‘selling’ sounds more like a proper job and I remember dealing with cash), so anyhow at one point they left me on my own to do the duty and sell the papers. My only memory is being successful on this, because a few people were very kind and gave more money than expected. I think being a lovely little girl was my trump (have to admit here, using the word ‘trump’, even if it’s starting with the lower case, doesn’t feel right, either a positive word, but I am adamant not to stop using the word just because of someone).
When I was a student I did another media sales job, covering a friend and selling (legal!) videos in a shopping centre for half a day, but the more serious and continuous role was at the local television studio in Tartu during my journalism studies. It was a very straightforward job. I was greeting the guests, offered them tea and coffee, powdered their faces if necessary. Oh, and as it was a breakfast show I was responsible for buying the morning papers. I have to add that it all happened really early and most importantly, I am more of a night owl rather than a lark. 
So one Friday morning (the live show at the local studio was on only on Fridays) I got yesterday’s papers, took these to the studios, the programme started and the presenters were introducing the papers like pros. No one noticed! Apart from an observant viewer who then rang to the studios and informed us. Oops! Luckily feeling ashamed was enough as a punishment and anyway, I’ve decided to blame the kiosk that sold me the old news. How could they!

My friend and I as journalism students, handling money.
She was my predecessor at the studios.

I can’t think of any similar kind of mishaps in England if I take into account only my first media related jobs. When I was a researcher the only out of ordinary thing I did was being sick on the pavement in front of the building during the sunny lunch hour, although to be really accurate there was a young tree growing on that pavement which roots I generously fed… Oh, and also my excuse was that I was pregnant, but as it was early days I wasn’t able to tell anyone, as I also couldn’t explain to my colleagues about my habit of saving the second cheeseburger in the desk drawer for later… I really did crave those!

And additionally on a similar note - I once panicked that I might not get a job that I desired and started sending e-mails to some magazines asking if they have any vacancies. To save myself from typing the same text, I copy-pasted it, but didn't change the names of the companies I applied for, so they all thought I'm really interested in working in only one of those magazines (yes, I know, they didn't think that, I'm sure they realized my rather stupid and lazy mistake. No wonder they didn't reply!)

Tuesday, 16 August 2016

Home Sweet Home

About a week ago I walked down the familiar road in Tallinn to show my children where I used to live. This was my very first proper home/flat share after leaving the family home. Before that I’d lived in the college dormitory for a year sharing a room with three other girls, but in that lovely flat I had the whole room just to myself and no more strict rules that came with the dormitory life (these rules would take up a separate entry, so I’m not even going to start with how we had to take off a day from school to work (clean!) the building…). So that flat was great!
Yes, in winter time my room was no doubt the coldest and my friend got accustomed to wake me up at least twice every morning as I didn’t dare to move the duvet even an inch. I only tended to poke my nose out a bit to breathe. A hot shower wasn’t welcoming me either because we only had a cold tap in the kitchen. I used to shower at school or use the local public sauna (if you were enquiring about my cleanliness). 
Also why I needed several wake-up calls was that I couldn’t be trusted because of my mishap in the previous year at the dormitory when I’d got fed up with my room-mates not turning the alarm clock off quickly enough. This awful ringing noise in early hours was (still is!) so annoying! That’s why I just very bluntly told them that from then on I had to be in control of our alarm clock. They were all very kind girls and didn’t start arguing with me. In the next morning when the alarm clock made a sound, my reaction and coordination was so quick and apt I could have applauded myself. Actually it was so fast that the others hadn’t really heard the alarm. And as they were all still asleep, I naturally dozed off too, pleased with my quick reaction skills and accomplishment. Obviously we all missed the first class. From then on I wasn’t allowed to touch the alarm clock.



Anyway one day in that lovely brown wooden house (far away from the evil dormitory) when I was home alone (but not as clever as Macaulay Culkin) I had to keep the fire going in the kitchen, but as I had run out of the briquettes I needed to go to the cellar where we stored our coal with the rest of the firewood. So I left the flat, shut the door, heard it lock and clearly the keys were inside. Despite of the misfortune my very first idea was still to visit the cellar and fill the brought-along-bucket with briquette. Why to stand there and stare at the locked door (I could have knocked on it, you never know… once I saw an impatient man knocking on a lift door for it to arrive sooner. Didn’t help though)?
I kept myself busy until the bucket was full, then I sat for a bit but couldn’t come up with any smart DIY inventions as MacGyver would have (I think it’s the Mac I’m missing in my name!). The air was cool and the ground moist and cold. Luckily it wasn’t the coldest time of the year but with some light snow covering the streets outside and sleeting. But as I mentioned earlier it was a flat and we did have a few neighbours whom I didn’t really know that well, we might have said ‘hello’ on better days but normally kept to ourselves. That day though I had to be brave and get some help. After introducing myself to some of them, an elderly couple eventually trusted me enough and invited me in and within a brief encounter and discussion we agreed I better see my friend (she was also my landlady) in town. As I didn’t have outdoor clothes on, this kind old lady offered her own coat. I wasn’t picky and wore it on top of my very worn tracksuit bottoms with stretched-out knees which had one leg noticeably longer than the other. Luckily I had trainers on, not slippers. So I went to find my friend in the old town. She worked at (one of) the most popular theatres and the play was just starting, well-dressed people entering the building… Yes, I did not particularly blend in but at least I didn’t carry the bucket with briquette with me.
My very first house/flat share in London was centrally heated but similarly cold. And the fact that I’d managed to break one of the window handles didn’t help either. Although I guess the room was always airy… Once I returned from work, my pink curtains, wet through from rain were flapping in the wind through a wide open window. ‘Welcome home! There’s a bit of a breeze today,’ my room said (it’s 1am when I’m writing, so the room could have easily spoken to me, right?). But I think I was rather pragmatic about things and just used as many duvets and blankets as possible and also dressed well (not beautifully, just warmly) for the cold nights. The same goes to when for example we had some friends around and stayed overnight, the three of us had to share my double bed and after my friends had fallen deep asleep I didn’t have much room left on the bed. I decided I’m better off laying on the carpet, but to avoid the firmness of the surface I just put a pair of tracksuit bottoms on on top of the pyjamas for it to be a bit softer.

And eventually on the same note - I haven’t really lived in extreme conditions and haven’t squatted (apart from in the toilets which I covered in my previous post) and actually I have been lucky enough to call many places as my home, both in Estonia and England.

Tuesday, 2 August 2016

Comforts

One of my first world problems includes choosing the right toilet paper. After a long learning curve in the UK I’ve found the ones we prefer (you can’t rely on just one kind as it might be sold out when you’ve run out at home or they’ve decided to change the stock in your local shop). Now on holiday in Estonia I am back in the beginning of the curve and staring at the shelves stacked with different brand rolls: thick and soft, recycled, luxurious, gentle, just comfort, or either aloe vera or camomile or orchid (which plant is the best for your bottom? Best to touch or best to smell?)
I know it’s a petty matter which toilet tissue to use, especially as until I was six, I grew up wiping my bum with a scrunched up newspaper (scrunching makes it slightly softer) that my parents had cut or teared up into equal size pieces and left to the toilet tissue holder (it looked a bit like a miniature newspaper holder). I can’t remember anymore if we took the pieces of printed paper with us every single time we entered the premises and stuck the remainders into the pocket or left the pieces there for the next visitor. The latter seems unlikely though as we shared our toilet, located in a hall outside of our flat, with other two apartments on the same floor. That also meant that you couldn’t stay in there for ages, start reading cut up news stories and put them together as a jigsaw, because your neighbour might have needed a loo too. So when I went to do number two, my parents or grandparents used to call me for ‘encouragement’: “Kaka ruttu, karu tuleb!” (“Poop quickly, the bear’s coming!”).


Nowadays I like taking time in the toilet and finish the not-cut-up-newspaper article I’ve started and get frustrated if my children begin asking (irrelevant) questions when I’m in the middle of the article or decide to tell on each other. Can’t they just sort out their problems themselves without interrupting my quiet toilet time (read: newspaper reading time)! I guess my frustration shows that I’ve started to take the comforts of our loo for granted and maybe don’t appreciate it enough. I’m not sure if I should feel bad about not thanking the toilet on every visit, maybe this should be a norm to have such a place and paper to soothe the bottom, and not leave black print marks, but I do feel slightly ashamed when I find myself criticising on the softness and texture of the toilet paper or the cleanliness of the public toilets. 
Although public toilets are a very different matter, because once it was normal for me to use a squat toilet in Soviet Estonia where there were just stone walls or panels between these holes on the floors. No doors! No need to make sure if anyone is using it by trying to open the door (despite of the red sign on the lock telling that someone is in there and locked the door. Yes, rattling the door handle might help you to hurry up the person inside, as shouting to a stranger in England to sh*t quick as the bear is on its way, might not be convincing, because there just aren’t any bears living there… Not that telling to poop faster would be awkward at all). Anyway as there weren’t any doors in certain public toilets, you could just see yourself which were occupied. Simple as that! But I’m not going to get into detail of these squat toilets’ cleanliness and the squelching floors…

And additionally on the same note I am glad that I also do not have to take trips to the outside dry toilets (as for example there wasn’t a loo inside my grandparents' farm house), neither squat on a metal bucket at night time to avoid that trip. I am very thankful for the development of the toilets and pleased to take the enjoyment, also frustration, when choosing the right toilet rolls!