Jekyll and Miss Hyde Vs Hulk

Dr. Jekyll and Miss Hyde Vs Hulk power struggle started a few years ago. Having just arrived in Belfast, I couldn't have found a better place and opportunity to meet people than freshers week. The university was indeed packed with students and stalls, showing the best and the weirdest of Belfast student Life. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining for the first time in weeks as if it were to announce a good omen.

I was strolling around looking at the stalls when a final year student got my attention. He was a dark haired Irish man of 23, wearing a green polo shirt. He looked different from any french man I had known. My heart melted when he made eye contact with me and smiled. In no time, he was shaking my hand with great strength and passion, providing at least five smiles for every one of my frowns. His manners were impeccable. Cupid's arrow had struck.

                                                    

                                                                            The first few months of our relationship were deeply passionate. The relationship was fun and included pillow fights, afternoon sex and most of our time spent in coffee shops. It felt good, we wanted it to last forever. However, very quickly we entered the power struggle phase that every couple is said to go through. Except that Pete and I have never left that phase. Pete and I are not even a couple any more but we have been fighting and arguing ever since. 

Considering myself a rather reasonable  woman, I can say with confidence and without exaggeration that Pete is the most irritating man I have ever known. In fact, I would go as far as saying that Pete is the most irritating man Ireland and France combined have ever known. Probably even of the entire planet! 

Those little habits that I thought were so cute when I first met him, now drive me insane. 

To his current girlfriend, Pete must be the perfect partner as they have been together for five years and there is no sign of a break up on the horizon.

To his mother, Pete is the perfect son.

To his friends, the person they can count on.

To his colleagues, the perfect co-worker.

To my son, the perfect father. 

They don't seem to notice that he eats with his mouth open, scratches his privates in public, makes constant sexual innuendos, reads in the toilet, drinks directly out of my milk container, reads over my shoulder, cannot fold a road map, clips his toenails on my sofa, pees on my toilet seat, calls me 'dude', is always late when picking up our son, never answers my phone calls- emails- messages...

The list is too long... 

Just Your Typical Saturday Night..

There I was, fully excited about a Saturday night I had been planning since Valentine 's  day disaster. Exactly 12 days after I popped the question 'Will you be my valentine?' and received no reply from Mr. B. Charlie, the man I had  already been dating for 3 months. A Saturday night with my girls that had become more and more needed as hours and days had passed and I still hadn't received any reply. 

Saturday was finally at my door, looking more debaucherous than ever, I was ready to unleash my inner disco beast. Those hours spent  shaving/plucking/waxing, picking out the right cloths, doing my hair and makeup could not go to waste!

7.15pm, text received from Laura:

Girl, forgot to tell you it's BYO at the Oh Yeah Center tonight!

A nightclub where you bring your own drink should have put a bug in my ear.  However there I was waiting for a taxi at 9.30pm; wearing a 70's dress and high heels; carrying a six pack of Stella Artois.

-To the Oh yeah Center please.

-Anything nice on tonight?

-A night of pure pleasure and debauchery..

The night had started. Two beers down and I was whipping my hair back and forth on the dance floor while trying to perform some Shakira hip moves. Surrounded by Irish chicken wing dancers, I was trying to stand out as the Latina girl. 'My hips don't lie' Shakira says. Mine were lying big time. I was an impostor pretending I was born this way, when it had taken a lot  of  time and practice in front of the mirror. 

Toilet. Massive queue. Wiggling and leg crossing. Checking mobile. Gasp!

Text from Mr. B. Charlie: 

I am so Sorry I haven't been in touch. I miss you. Please forgive me. 

Sitting on the toilet seat, I was now reading that message for the tenth time. Determined not to let Mr B. Charlie ruin my night, I pressed the delete button. A drink was much needed.  My phone vibrated again. It was a second text from Mr. B. Charlie. I miss you. Pressed the delete button once more. Made my way out of the toilet and went looking for my six pack in the middle of what looked like a cemetery of empty bottles. Unfortunately, my Stella Artois bottles were nowhere to be found, they had been drunk and buried. I looked around and I realized I was surrounded by smooching couples. My girlfriends were nowhere to be seen and my phone was now in a vibrating frenzy:

'I miss you so much'

'Forgive me please.'

'I miss everything about you.'

'So sorry I hurt you.'

'Please answer my message, it's killing me.'

...

It was 1 am. I was  sober. I had no drinks left. I had nobody to smooch. My ex was harassing me. The pounding music worked its way into my blood once more... I was back on the dance floor.


Just your typical Saturday Night..

Au revoir Paris, Bonjour Belfast

August 2004- Landing in Belfast Intl airport looking like a real 23 year old Parisian. Full of hopes and dreams, full of clothes and shoes, and with a pinch of French arrogance. My head held high, I strolled around pushing my trolley, asking for directions in a 'Oh what sexy accent!' - 'Wearr iz de egzit, pliz?' 

It was raining, miserably grey and cold.. Just as the captain had announced when the plane was landing. 'We are about to land, it is 15 degrees in Belfast. Grey, windy and cold'. I opened a suitcase and got my hat, coat, scarf... and a tiny umbrella that fitted in my handbag. I was  ready to face the weather! 

As I stepped outside, struggling to push the  trolley with one hand while holding my umbrella in the other hand, the wind started blowing my trolley in the opposite direction. My umbrella blew inside out. I got soaked. 'Welcome to Belfast' said the sign at the exit door.. 

-'Alright Love?' asked a concerned middle aged bearded man.

-'Hi, how can I get to Belfast from here, please?'

-'Over there' he pointed at the bus stop, not taking his eyes off me. 'Where are you from?' he asked with an inquisitive look on his face. 

-'I come from Paris' I replied, my feelings slightly hurt from the fact that he had guessed so easily I wasn't from here.

-'Paris? What brings you to this hole?'

-'I want to improve my english!' I replied smiling, determined to remain positive. 

I looked and sounded like a foreigner. I queued for the bus, shivering in the cold.  In front of me was a couple with three kids just back from Disneyland Paris. All three kids were wearing flip flops, t-shirts, shorts and Mickey Mouse ears. 'I have nine months to get to know this place' I thought to myself. Not realizing that this city would change my life, that seven years later I would still be living in Belfast. 

It's raining, and it's not men!

'I am 30, single, I don't own a house.. and on top of that I am raising a six year old kid on my own. I am such a failure!'


Every few months I have this conversation with my mother over the phone. And every few months I tell myself that I really shouldn’t call my mum when I am feeling down. She is not the type of person who would cheer you up. Instead she would agree and point out that on top of being a failure I am also a bad mother...
’is he still wetting his bed?’
‘humm, yes’
‘you have to wake him up to bring him to the toilet!’ I can hear the frustration in her voice.
‘humm, ok, I'll try’
So I have been getting up twice throughout the night, at midnight and at four in the morning.
'Listen to your mother, she is always right!' I hear my dad say in the background, eavesdropping as usual. It's true that my son hasn't wet his bed for a few weeks now. However, looking like a zombie has not helped uplift my mood.
Money always comes up next in the conversation.
‘I know I have to be careful mum'.
'If you don't start saving, you'll be borrowing money from your son soon!' she says sharply.
'is she broke again?' says my dad in the background.
'Have you nothing else to do than listen to our conversation?' replies my mum. They usually end up engaging in an argument about how my dad never calls me or my brother.
Men and sex are never mentioned. For some reason, those two words are taboo in my mum's vocabulary. However, now and then, she likes to remind me of how my son was conceived just in case I had forgotten.
'you really don't want to end up knocked up by another immature and irresponsible guy!'
'I am careful now. And anyway I am not seeing anyone.'
'Good!'
This usually is followed by an awkward silence..and my mum changing subject
'So what is the weather like in Belfast today?'
'It's raining, as usual'
"i am not sure how you can live in a country where it rains all the time. No wonder you're depressed sweetie! It's the weather!'