I was in the midddle of explaining an activity in my phonics class yesterday when a five-year-old boy looked up, pointed to my head and asked, ‘Is that a wig?’
I was astonished. Does he really think that I’d pay for a wig that looked like this?
If I buy a wig it’ll be long, straight and glossy, and will ripple seductively down my back as I shake my head – there’s nothing glamorous about looking as though you’ve just stepped out of a wind tunnel, in my opinion.
But as I was pondering the strange nature of his question, I realised that it was Tuesday, and strange things happen on Tuesdays …
Last Tuesday, I was followed by a stalker on my way home.
I contemplated hitting him with the baking tray I’d just bought –
but decided that I’d be safer dashing to the nearest security post, where security guards man the barriers for entry into private roads. The guards gave me the number to call the police, and I rang them.
‘Are you Chinese?’ the police receptionist asked.
‘No!’ I said indignantly. ‘I’m English!’
I don’t know whether my nationality had anything to do with it, but within five minutes three police cars, all with flashing blue lights, had arrived.
The stalker had disappeared, but I was given a lift home in a police car, still with its blue light flashing …
… so that’s something ticked off my bucket list.
Another strange Tuesday experience this month was a cake, baked by an Irish poet who has started a writing circle in my condo.
It looked relatively normal from the outside, but when she cut into it, there were strange green lumps and bits of stringy stuff inside, and it had a solid, yet squidgy consistency –
– if you imagine khaki playdough, you wouldn’t be far wrong.
‘What sort of cake is it?’ someone asked trepidatiously.
‘Okra and chilli relish,’ came the reply.
If you are ever offered cake by an Irish poet, I recommend that you decline politely.
Next Tuesday I’m thinking of staying in bed.