I’ve always wanted to create a job role for myself. But as soon as reality caught wind of this, it put me in a chokehold and told me that I can never call myself a ‘nothingatician’ because apparently, it ain’t a real line of work. I told reality and told it good, that all the vocation asks is that I simply sleep a lot, wear pyjamas until the clock strikes 3pm, and scratch myself wherever it seems appropriate. The confines of the majestic prison we call ‘home’ is great for that, 'cos it offers us a chance to plunge into a sea of ‘laziness and mucking about’. Nothingatician’s are always talked about in a pejorative context and we are constantly undermined for the lack of work we do, but that in essence, is what the role requires. If we were to constantly work, or do the ‘9 ‘til 5’ lark, it would merely contradict the beauty that manifests itself in ‘nothingancy’. But reality had a point. ‘Cos since taking this job, I’ve realised it don’t pay well.
However, I’ll continue with it as it’s served me well in writing my previous blogs. As many days of my week are treated as holidays, I often thought about the national holidays for banks, who seem to like Mondays (Bob Geldof should’ve got into the banking business, if you ask me) and are quite partial to the first day of certain months. Then you’ve got St. Patrick's Day. According to the well-renowned and sometimes fact-checked Wikipedia site, it’s ‘the lifting of Lenten restrictions on eating or drinking alcohol’, which basically means ‘put all your morals in a bin bag and sling it out of the window’. You’ve got religious holidays like Easter and Christmas (totalling three to four weeks, depending on whether your school is a nob or generous with time off). If World Chiropractor Day existed, it’d probably have people bent and broken into the shape of the letters to spell out ‘Google’ so the whole world can celebrate bone-twisting and cracking. In fact, I do a lot of that on my knuckles and I hear it pays well. So I’m looking into it. For me though, it’s hard to celebrate a holiday. I spend all my time and thought looking forward to the excitement brought by holidays and glorious festivities that when these days actually commence, I’m left with confusion and disappointment. I wake up late (see job role above), see the sun and scowl in the Dracula vernacular, because I haven’t planned anything to enjoy it. Other than my two trips to Pakistan and one in Turkey with some good mates, I have never travelled out of the somewhat safe haven of England.
On my first visit outside Blighty, we landed in Pakistan and I could already feel that things were different. It’s been 15 years since this trip, so I was at the beautiful age of 8, my mind still buzzing and excited at every bit of existence. This fascination with the minutiae of life would soon become a burden to my family whilst I was here. As we picked up our bags and carted off to look for our relatives, I couldn’t help but try to look in every direction and angle that God had made possible for me to see. There were people in traditional garb, greeting family with outstreched arms, and carrying their bags regardless of the weight. Airport security were traipsing around lost luggage, on the lookout for anyone suspicious. When one of them looked at me, I thought him to be some sort of maharaja, his long moustache and stern eyes looking at me, his very being wrapped in professional apparel. I grasped my mum’s hand and walked into the familiar hugs of old relatives, awkward and loving.
We took the rickety old van home as this was, for some reason, the best mode of transport. I didn’t know why at the time, but I kept thinking ‘how come we haven't just gone in Dad’s Nissan, it’s clearly much more reliable and it doesn’t stink of cow shit’. Puzzling over this, I looked over at my two brothers, both of young age, none of us had even started growing facial ‘bum-fluff’ and all of us possessing pre-broken vocals, squeaked at each other in English. My time here was filled with many positives though. We occasionally went to the market, which was bursting with haggling voices, all wanting to increase or drop prices of things I couldn’t care less about. I was busy staring at the gap-toothed merchants (I could fit a tennis ball between those canines), the cartful’s of colourful fruit (maybe they’re plastic like the ones you see in shop windows), the cows walking the street (I wonder if someone cleans up after them, and if so, do they carry spades with them?), who seemed to be scoffing at the prices and scoffing the food for free instead. People were crowding around us, ‘cos we had come from a land far, far away and that meant that we must be millionaires. Oh, their naivety made me laugh. I specifically remember a local shop selling a pack of three biscuits for the equivalent of one pence. I kept saying to my brothers, ‘that’s like a third of a pence for one of these’, impressing all with my maths skills. But taking me out and letting me into all this astonishing culture was a big mistake on my family's part. They should have known by now that I like new stuff. We returned home and I couldn’t wait to go out and be a nuisance.
The first moment of alarm for my family was probably after a week of being there, when I just walked out of the house and out of the garden without anyone knowing. I now imagine them going 'right, let's do a head count. Ok, you're in, he's in the garden, and Adnan is... oh, he's gone to see anything that exists again'. I walked down all the muddy corridors, relishing the squelch and the onomatopoeic resonance of sandal on mud, plodding past door after door of people’s houses. I made instinctual judgements at all possible intervals. I would look ahead and decide. The path ahead splits into a T-Junction. More houses either way. I take my chances with the right turn, and I enter a small patch of land. Again, I go ahead and more houses. I randomly used to choose which door I would go through. ‘This one has a goat in it! Quick, get in!’ was what determined my selection process, and upon entering, these families either welcomed me or thought nothing of my trespassing. When I chose the abode I would stay in until I had to go home, I mainly played one game in particular. I would see how close I could put my hand near a goat’s mouth before it thought I was food (cheap pun #1: ‘finger’ food). I think throughout my time in this wonderful place, I ventured out around 10 different times, and each time, my mum sent my elder brother to look for me. I don’t know how he ever managed it, but he’d find me by hook or by crook. He’d usually burst through a door and see me watching in disgust as people would pat cow excrement in the shape of a chapatti and smack it on a wall. 'Ew, is that real poo? No, it can't be. Why would you touch that? Do they each have a bar of soap they get through after work?'. But it had a horrible charm about it. I was like a grounded Mowgli in my time here, but instead, I lived with the calm wildlife, as I didn’t fancy kipping with wolves.
Nowadays, the thought of forested environments is something I would rather keep away from. I loathe that I think like that, but it seems that with age, we also develop unrelenting cynicism. These early experiences of life are great, where I constantly wanted to know more. And now, I want a follow the career path into the competitive field of ‘nothing’. But I’m starting to combat that desire. With Easter fast approaching, I suppose my thought for the day is do something. Plan something. My brothers and I are hoping to be in Rome soon. I’ll be sure to tell you about it, should anything of note happen. Misfortune and disaster is a great read, and with my track record, expect it in writing soon. So go out and enjoy what you can is what I recommend. Even if it stinks of animal effluent, at least you’ll know what it smells like.
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