Thursday was eventful. I know it’s Saturday now and I could’ve wrote about all this yesterday, but, y’know, new scanner equals fun. Anyway…
I had quite a good haircut. Getting a haircut is often traumatic for me. When I was a kid, I used to grow my hair into a huge dome, then every four or five months I’d be dragged to the barber shop, and a smoky man would cut my hair and stab me occasionally stab me in the scalp with his scissors.
Since I’ve been in Berlin, though, haircuts have been a lottery. Even when I’m speaking in English, I tend to be a bit vague about how I want it, “About this this long on top, a bit shorter on the side and back.” In German, my vagueness seems all the more vague. But on Thursday, a lovely chap called Pierre cut my hair. He did a wonderful job. I explained the bit longer/bit shorter top/back and sides thing, and he said, “Aaaah, I do it classic look, yes?” And, if it’s not too vain to say so, my hair looks good after Pierre. I think I love him.
A bit later I was on the bus. A Down’s syndrome child and his father sat behind me. The child had quite a gruff voice, and was talking a lot. And I promise I’m not being cruel here, but he sounded so like Timmy off South Park, just in German, and not repeating the same word over and over again.
He made me smile, I enjoyed hearing him shouting out the words for traffic light, lorry, police car, etc. But then, of course, I began to worry about myself: why do I enjoy that? Then the headspin of conflicting thoughts began. Why do I enjoy that? well, why not? should I be enjoying a child’s disability? well, there’s nothing you can do about it, Craig, so it’s okay, isn’t it? but if it was a non-Down’s child doing that, you’d probably be getting irked and wondering why he wouldn’t shut up.
The conclusion to this is, I have got to the age of thirty five, and I still don’t know how to communicate with people with any sort of disability. I’m even weirdly self-conscious if I talk to someone in a wheelchair, even if it’s just someone with a broken leg. I wish I knew how to talk, I wish I’d learned that when I was younger. It’s a fault of mine that I need to work out, but I don’t come into contact with many people with disabilities.
Or am I just thinking about things too much? I don’t know.
I guess, though, Stan from South Park said it perfectly in the episode Timmy 2000, where Timmy joins a rock band, The Lords of the Underworld.
You see, we learned something today. Yeah, sure, we laughed at Timmy, but what’s wrong with laughter? Just because we laugh at something doesn’t mean we don’t care about it. Timmy made us smile, and playing made Timmy smile, so where was the harm in that? The people that are wrong are the ones that think people like Timmy should be “protected” and kept out of the public’s eye. The cool thing about Timmy being in a band was that he was in your face, and you had to deal with him, whether you laughed or cried, or felt nothing. That’s why Timmy rules!
The last thing that happened on Thursday was something that made me angry. And I had a little chat with a neighbour yesterday, and she was similarly irked. After returning home from the above talked-about bus journey, I noticed that there was some dog poo in the hallway of my building. It was quite clearly there cos someone brought it in on their shoe. But I just knew that someone in the bulding would blame me and Billy. Or the family at the top of the building with the cute new Labrador puppy.
I’d forgotten about it, but then at around 9.30pm, the doorbell rings. It’s the guy who gets money off his rent for washing and cleaning the hallway and stairs. The conversation went something like this:
He: Did you see the dog poo downstairs?
He: I just thought that maybe cos there’s only two dogs in the building…
Me: Why would I leave it there if it was Billy’s poo?
He: So it wasn’t your dog?
Me: No, of course not!
He: Are you sure?
Me: Yes, of course I’m fucking sure.
Then I slammed the door.
Not sure what my point is here, I just wanted to get it off my chest. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz….