The best laid plans

I came to Kyiv with all sorts of grand ambitions: I’d really get my Russian up to scratch, further develop my career, broaden my range of reading, exercise regularly, be a bit more adventurous with my cooking, keep in better touch with friends, and update my blog more regularly, even 2-3 times a week. So much for all that. I’ve instead become drowned in work with barely enough time to breathe. In that sense, I suppose I am ‘furthering’ my career. And though I have started Russian lessons, I’ve been unable to dedicate myself much to this pursuit. Instead, I’ve gone and done silly things like watch way too much crap Ukrainian football and joined an amateur theatre group, with rehearsals for a Christmas pantomime now taking up 3 of my precious hours every Sunday. At least I’ve managed to get away to Lviv for a weekend already.

In the meantime, I plug away at work, which despite one or two hiccups (mainly due to my ongoing technophobia, to be discussed in an upcoming post) is going rather well. But fret not kids: uncle Danny isn’t about to bore you with details of work!

Ignore the following paragraph.

[Current inner monologue revealed: I must eliminate the posturing, the waffling and just get down to it. In other words, stop trying to deliver a well thought-out, polished piece every time, and just concentrate more on throwing a few thoughts together on a more regular basis.]

Tennis, anyone?

I thoroughly enjoy playing tennis and deeply regret that I’m unable to play more of it. It’s one of the few sports I take seriously, too seriously, in fact, when I play. I’ve never been great at it, but I think I can hold my own against the odd semi-decent player.

One of my students has been on at me to play tennis with her, which would be tempting for various other reasons, though in this case the task is awfully daunting: she’s a former junior Olympic champion! Like hell I’d stand a chance against her without humiliating myself.

This calls to mind many years back when I worked in Boston, when of one of my colleagues Christine and I discussed playing some tennis after work. We had agreed on a date when my colleague Jim so kindly called me over to his computer and showed me a few news stories he’d gathered discussing Christine’s tennis prowess at university: she’d been the #1 player on her team and had won all sorts of titles. Sod that, I thought, there was no way I was going to stand a chance there and I promptly made my excuses and we never did play.

One of the great faults of taking any sport seriously is that tempers often get in the way of my performance. Playing tennis my first year at university with Dr Wasabi Islam was a great treat for me, probably not so much for him. One evening, there were 4 of us on court playing under the lights and I was losing my cool when the shots weren’t going my way. At one point, I let loose with a torrent of foul language and whacked the ball baseball style out of the courts and onto the street.

‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ asked Dr Islam. ‘Go get the ball, come back, and sit down over there. You’ll watch us play.’

I duly obliged, and went off in a sulk while the rest of them played. After about 20 minutes of this punishment, I was invited back into the game.

‘Are you going to behave yourself now?’

‘Yes,’ I muttered sheepishly.

At the extreme level, I broke my fair share of racquets, which is fine if you’re Marat Safin and can afford this type of luxury. In one of my darker moments, whilst on holiday in Grenada with my girlfriend, I smashed a racquet after only a few minutes of playing. My girlfriend was by no means a good player, and this was meant to be nothing more than a bit of light-hearted pitter-patter, so she was no doubt taken aback by my antics and refused to take any further part in my petulant charade. So it was back to the pool and the swim-up cocktail bar for the duration of that trip.

Besides tennis, I’ve been known to lose my cool at other sporting pursuits: baseball, where my crowning moment of glory was being tossed from a game for hurling my bat at the umpire’s legs after being called out on strikes (in my defence, it was an atrocious call); miniature golf, where I’ve been known to whack balls in rage when they don’t roll the right way, regular golf, where I’ve launched the odd club or two off into the distance and even snapped an iron; and bowling, not a sport I’d want to profess to taking too seriously if I want to maintain any street-cred, but one in which I definitely stropped and huffed around way too often. Another favourite tactic used to be slinging my hat down onto the lane after an errant ball.

Though I’m not terribly good at regular golf, I tend to lose my cool only at sports I’m at least halfway decent at. So rest assured, my dears, that when it comes time to play a bit of football, basketball or skiing, I generally maintain my composure no matter what minor tragedy befalls me.

Back to the story at hand, and this pesky student

I’ve tried to explain that I’m not on her level but she doesn’t seem to care. Now, and I’m not sure whether this has any relevance at all, but she’s a very attractive young woman. And very attractive women who play tennis very well are even more attractive (see Caroline Wozniacki, for example, who would be merely just ‘attractive’ if she didn’t play tennis, but is infinitely more so because she’s so good). This is, thus, a huge distraction and even more of an imposing task. I don’t want to embarrass myself, especially when I have to face her a couple of times a week in the classroom. She wipes me all over the court, and suddenly she’s got all the leverage.

On the other hand, I really want to get back into playing, and I am sorely tempted – time permitting, of course – to take some lessons in the interests of getting back into form. It would be a tremendously great feeling if I could break her serve a few times and take a game or two off her, at the very least.

I should also point out that I’m good at dealing with adversity on the tennis court. One of my proudest moments came a few summers ago, when I was playing with my sister against the doctor’s orders. It was back when my foot was in pretty foul shape and I had no business being on a tennis court. My stubbornness won out in the end, and I played against my sister virtually on one foot. This has to be one of the proudest achievements of my life, the more so considering I beat her 7-6, 6-0. She will no doubt claim her ‘tennis elbow’ was acting up. What’s truly disturbing is that I still remember this in so much detail. I think it’s time to move on.

Back to the women playing tennis thing: I’ll confess that this is not my theory, but that of my high school pals Ravi and John, but they used to claim that there was nothing more unattractive than an attractive woman who can’t play tennis. In fact, it’s one of the most awkward sights one will ever witness the fairer sex performing and is a massive turn-off, along with the chicken dance and the Macarena. Conversely, of course, is that an attractive woman is that much more attractive if she plays tennis well. We’ve covered this route already.

Let me apply a corollary to Eastern European fashion: high heels. I’m no great lover of high heels (I go more for the high boots), but women who can’t walk well in high heels is equally as unattractive as lousy tennis players. The trouble is, high heels are absolutely de rigueur in these parts, yet I’d say roughly 70% of women can’t walk properly in them. When you factor in the ubiquitous cobbled streets, that number soars to 90%. And the further east in Europe you go, the higher the heels seem to go. That means that only a tiny minority can pull this treacherous feat off with any aplomb. For the rest, it’s the daily awkward sight of women stumbling around uncomfortably simply for the benefit of mankind. But surely men can’t be attracted to such clumsy women? I’m probably the wrong person to ask, for even that 10% at the upper echelon fails to really do it for me. I’m a big fan of a woman being comfortable – that is far more attractive to me than anything else. 

The moral here? Stick to what you’re good at. And keep your cool.

One excuse out of the way

That of the quest for a comfortable computer chair. Though it wasn’t nearly as easy as it should have been.

To save myself the bother of putting a chair together at home, I bought one ready-assembled from the furniture store. But this involved lugging it onto the metro and trying to get through the throngs of people without whacking anyone in the process. Passers-by were generally amused at the sight of me carrying this chair, and even more so when I plopped myself down into it whilst on the train. Eventually, after a bit of huffing and puffing, I got it home, and sat down, eager to start working away at my computer.

Barely a couple hours later, as I leaned over for my coffee, the whole bloody chair gave way and I went tumbling over onto the floor, thankfully unhurt, and with coffee unspilt. So much for that.

A few days later I returned to the shop, determined to get a refund. I knew this would be a daunting endeavour, what with the standards of customer service and the general public’s impatience to queue for anything. After a lot of jostling and bickering, I managed to at least exchange the damn thing – they refused to give me a refund, claiming I must have rocked back and forth in it. Anyway, it was onto act 2 with me and the chair and the metro and the same bemused passengers smirking at me in my chair. This one has held up – for now.

By the way, incidents like these are a textbook example of what my sister calls The World Against Darnell Syndrome, or TWADS. In a nutshell, the deck hasn’t been stacked in my favour, and I generally have it more unfair than most in this world. It really is difficult being me in this world when so many forces are conspiring against me. I can’t reveal the origins of this condition, for it stems from the most absurdly politically-incorrect origins, and I’d lose most of my readership and a third of my friends if I revealed the reasons behind it. I’ll have to leave it there for now.

As for this amateur theatre group malarkey I’ve got myself wrapped up in: never make a drunken promise, one. Two, don’t keep a drunken promise. Three, don’t go to an ‘audition’ of something you aren’t sure you want to be a part of and then put in a stellar performance to get a plum part or two.

This is the position I’ve become embroiled in. I’ve dabbled in a bit of theatre before with the kids, usually at summer schools but also in San Sebastian where I directed a ‘Theatre Club’ performance with a group of whippersnappers and put on a spectacle called The Day of the Robots in front of a packed theatre of friends and fellow teachers. And I’ve done a bit of acting here and there, but nothing too serious. Until now.

I thought it would be a bit of a laugh: do a couple of rehearsals over a fortnight, have a few drinks, a bit of banter, and then a small show, mainly improve-style, in front of a select audience of my peers. But no: this is some serious shit! Over 2 months of rehearsals, 3 hours a week for the first month or so, then 5-6 for the 2^nd month; original, full-blown costumes and everything; a production crew with light and sound ‘experts’; and to be performed in a proper theatre with ticket sales and advertising and an expected decent-sized audience consisting of much of Kyiv’s expat community. And there’s a fair range of people acting – a few teachers, but mainly some older teenagers, younger brats and people from the local community. This isn’t childs’ play at all! I’ve got to memorise lines and everything!

Damn it.

As for the play, if you’re familiar with the Reduced Shakespeare Company’s repertoire, where all of the bard’s works are performed in a comedy-packed 2 hours (there’s also an American History version), then you’ll recognise this effort: it’s titled The Brothers Grimm Spectaculathon, and your dear author, after putting in a stellar audition, has been ‘rewarded’ with 3 roles: Rumpelstiltskin, the main [unnamed] dwarf from Snow White, and the host of a ‘This is Your Life’-type show. A lot of responsibility has been thrust upon my shoulders, and I can’t be letting them down now. With my sieve-like memory, this is going to be one hell of a challenge.

If anyone happens to be in Kyiv on 12 December, by all means come along. On second thought, you’d better not. By then I may have humiliated myself as a sportsman and a thespian. As well as a teacher, for good measure.