Sticks and stones

Being a long way away from one’s friends makes one vulnerable to attracting bizarre and absurd nicknames. A) Living in the desert and B) working for an airline (albeit in the communications department), you could say I’m asking for it. At another level, I have in many ways (to draw upon a phrase exhausted by my media theory lecturer) become ‘exoticised’.

My ex-housemate now calls me Sand-Pimperoo. Greenpant’s new name for me is Turbinfanny, and he wants to know whether I am working for Al Jazeera yet. Camel-jockey - I’ve heard more than once.

Racoon: How many towel-heads are you pulling?

C4: So tell me Heddles….you selling cheap flights these days…?
Me: No. I'm afraid I only point out emergency exits.
C4: And the brace position? That’s my personal favourite position….

I get the ‘beef or chicken’ line rather a lot.

Because I am a good sport, I let all this slide.

Last night I had the most entertaining long distance chat with my ex-roommate in from varisty. I had a missed call from her and immediately I panicked. Call me dramatic. Either something horrendous must have happened, or she was going to tell me she was gestating a child (which some would argue amounts to the same). So I phoned her back.

Me: Speak to me.
Response: [Crazed laughter]

90% of the call, we cackled like two old sissies dishing up mixed grill for res students. I blew 40 Dirhams in 5 minutes to listen to her absolutely pissing herself, while I did the same. We wheezed. We guffawed. We choked. And in between, asked eachother the same question repeatedly, “how ... thefuck ... are you?!” [Haaaaaa ... hahahaha!] “No, no - how are YOU!?”.

She’s a fine beast of a woman.

Look, we had our highs and lows during that colourful year of practically living in each other’s armpits in the room we named The Petting Zoo (for various reasons). Her lighting up a Stuyvie at 8am on a Sunday morning in bed, didn’t sit so well with me. I’ll reserve the less savoury details of our outlandish existence in that cesspit of laundry tubs of cane and cream soda and the results thereof for another post. In short, our res warden hated our living guts. We have a shoe box full of fines and disciplinary hearings summonses and a trunk full of … repossessed … clothing, which speaks for itself.

It is great to know that not even a continent, a marriage, and dramatically divergent lifestyles could come in between that good old-fashioned hysteria.