Aberystwyth Mon Amour
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The Seagull Lady Again
The Seagull Lady was out and about today in a home made outfit consisting of cow print trousers and tunic. She was pushing a shopping trolley, but when she stopped me for a chat it is fortunate that what she pulled from the trolley to show me was not an animal corpse but a steam iron newly purchased from Argos.
Later I saw a man I know who teaches at the university. He'd just seen the Seagull Lady, and she'd told him that I hadn't liked her new iron. I had, she claimed, said it reminded me of a sports car. I had said no such thing, nor even thought it.
The real tragedy is that I haven't made this up. Aberystwyth is like this. Meaningless conversations involving bizarre people are normal, and normal never happens.
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The Human Insect Problem
I've never been fond of moths. I've always harboured the view that given half a chance they'd nest in my hair. They certainly managed to ravage my knitwear when I fail to buy enough camphor balls to stink out their grubs.
I have a new Moth problem. The former lover of the woman next door (another woman, although you could probably deduce that as I continue) decided to have a baby. Lesbian alliances are good for many things, but producing babies is not their forte. Desiree decided to find a man for procreation. His name is Moth.
This being Aberystwth I have asked no questions, fearing that the answers will be less than intelligible. Moth and Desiree have managed to produce a child. They have named her after me.
I am distraught.
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Postal Service
The Seagull Lady doesn't confine herself to skeletonising animal remains, though there are usually several small items of roadkill bleaching in her greenhouse at any one time. Usually squirrels. She has many other talents.
The Seagull Lady sees beauty everywhere, and quite right too, as she is an artist. She once invited me in to view her collection of Chinese sardine tins. She is keen to share beautiful objets trouve with friends and strangers alike.
To facilitate this public spiritedness the Seagull Lady fills a shopping trolley with gifts and pushes things through people's letterboxes. Sometimes the gifts are news cuttings from The Daily Telegraph. At other times she favours such things as sea shells or pebbles.
Thus I knew exactly what had happened when I got up this morning and found on the floor in the hall the (expected) newspaper supplemented by a pile of green stuff. On examination the green stuff turned out to be a bunch of fragrant rosemary cuttings.
Alas we are ingrates. The herby offerings went straight in the compost bin with last week's delivery of a bag of rose petals.
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Swamp Creatures
At this time of year the swamp creatures rise up. Bloodlust is all they know. Yes, it's midge time again.
Anyone who lives on the flood plain, which is basically the whole of Aberystwyth, will now be scratching away, their skin pustulating under the onslaught of evil insects. The fatal combination of heat and rain particularly excites the little buggers, so last night found battalions of the microscopic vampires heading for open bedroom windows to the tune of the Dambusters' march.
There's a particular beauty of a bite on my shin which is a bishoply shade of purple which matches my skirt. Thank god I'm going on holiday on Saturday. I've got to get out of this place.
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Bad Hair Day
It's probably true of most small towns, but it is certainly inadvisable to get a haircut in Aberystwyth. I live with someone who not only refuses to have a haircut here, he refuses to get his hair cut anywhere in Wales.
When I first moved here I thought I could manage by growing my hair to shoulder length and then just getting the ends trimmed. How can anyone make a mess of that? I went to the nearest hairdresser and asked for a trim. "Do you want it cut now?" she asked. "Yes", I replied.
I was guided to a chair where I anticipated a brief discussion of my hair and what I wanted done, before being led away to the washbasins. What a fool I am! She simply picked up the scissors and hacked away at my dry hair.
While I was there a man came in. He didn't ask for anything. He was dressed in work clothes. A woman dragged a chair across to where he stood, climbed up on it, and began to shear him like a sheep.
Actually I couldn't complain. She did literally what I asked, and it was perfectly acceptable. I haven't been back, though.
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The Unbearable Lightness of Being in Aberystwyth
Malcolm Pryce writes his Aberystwyth novels from his convenient base in Bangkok. Lucky him. It's freezing here today. Sea mist rolls in, and suddenly the temperature plunges by 20 degrees and woolly mammoths and sabre toothed tigers start invading Borth Animalarium in the hope of keeping warm.
One of my neighbours found a dead seagull. They are big birds, and my neighbour is over 70 and quite frail. She scooped up the bird, shoved it into a co-op carrier bag, and brought it home on the bus. That bus must have smelt pretty bad.
At home she buried the bird in her garden for a few months. When most of the flesh had been eaten by maggots she dug it up and put it in her greenhouse. Eventually she gave it a bleach bath and proudly invited the neighbours around to view her seagull skeleton.
This week she was sporting new dangly earings. They are made of seagull bones.
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Free Money!
On Tuesday a man walked into Weatherspoons in Aberystwyth at 9.00 a.m. He drank two pints of beer, a normal breakfast for Aber folk, and placed a large bundle of banknotes on the table before him, riffling through them occasionally, as though they were playing cards. At about 10.00 he walked outside Yr Hen Orsaf, or The Old Station, as the pub is known by virtue of being the old, and indeed current, railway station, and began to toss banknotes around like confetti.
The pub opposite is called The Lord Beeching, after the notorious axe murderer of the railways. Their staff spotted this unusual display and rushed out to find the man shouting "Do you want some money? Come and get it!"
Bystanders became by-grabbers, stuffing cash into their pockets. It is thought that around £25,000 was redistributed to the unworthy citizenry and assorted holidaymakers.
The man is now receiving assistance from social services.
The moral of this story is elusive, but its essence is pure Aber. T here are a lot of very strange people in this town.
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