Tiki-tiki-tak-tak-tiki-tiki-tak

This week was my first “full” week of work: Monday to Wednesday. I had also booked myself my first Canadian gig at a small cafe on Friday night, so during the first half of the week, I’d come home from work at about seven, take a bit of time to sit down and talk to friends from home and eat dinner, then I’d practice my setlist for an hour. After that, I’d turn off my laptop and lie on my bed with a book on my chest, wondering if I should try to summon some energy to actually put the pages in front of my face. Tiredness always won out in the end, and I’d put on my pyjamas and turn out the light.

The gig was at a small cafe in Kensington Market. On Friday night I was running around the house trying to figure out what to wear, quietly worrying myself about how many people were going to come tonight. I know nobody in this city. No-one’s going to come. The very best I could hope for was three. Three people. Athena, Mr. Swipey and Robert. I thought to myself that this wouldn’t be such a bad start, not for my first set in a city where I only know a handful of people. Three is good. Three is okay.

At the cafe, there were seven people, if I’m being generous and include the people who were on shift. Athena, Robert and Mr. Swipey all turned up. There were two guys who came in halfway through — one of them was going to play a set after me. I ran through my songs and gave everyone a little bit of background info about the inspirations for each one. It was a lot of good fun, and I was so happy when I would catch my three friends chatting to each other — it showed me that I was pals with good, amiable people.

After I played my final song, my friends cheered, and Athena bought me a drink. Robert had to go home, but I stayed in the cafe with Athena and Swipey to watch the guy on after me (it would only be courteous, plus, if I’d left, he’d be playing to the staff and his one friend). This guy was tall and kinda cute, and announced that he’d start off with an a cappella cover of a Frank Sinatra song, which sounded interesting, to say the least. He started singing in a baritone voice, and I couldn’t help but put my hands to my face and giggle when he turned to me and basically serenaded me with the line, I suddenly turn and see your fabulous face…

…I get no kick from champaaaaagne! Mere alcohol doesn’t thrill me at all, so tell me why should it be truuuuuue that I get a kick outta youuuuu? *points at me and winks*

The rest of his set was equally interesting. He did a couple of his own songs, and a cover of a Radiohead song which sort of Segwayed into George Michael’s Careless Whisper — which I perhaps enjoyed too much, judging by my saxophone impressions at all the correct intervals. He finished off his set with a Romanian translation of an English translation of a Greek song (a cappella again), which had the refrain, “tik-tiki-tak-tak-tik-tiki-tak-tiki-tak-tak-tiki-tak-tiki-tiki-tak,” which we all joined in on. It was peculiar and wonderful, and as we left the cafe for drinks at Athena’s apartment, we were all “tik-tiki-tak”ing down College Street.

Athena’s friend Michael came round to hang out with us later that night, and he had come at the perfect time, as we were trying to suss out how to do flaming shots of Sambuca. I, being an Aberdonian, had great authority on the subject, having witnessed and performed many a Purple Rain in Priory on Aberdeen nights out (for those of you that don’t know, Priory is a wonderfully vile place, with a wonderfully vile drink called Purple Rain, which consists of downing a flaming shot, inhaling the fumes and then snorting the residue - classy, I know). We had matches, so Swipey went first, trying to set the Sambuca alight. The flames caught the liquid, burning with a barely-there blue. He then poured the contents of the wine glass into a tumbler, accidentally spilling some of the burning liquid on the counter in the process. “Oh, shit.” The counter was now glowing blue with fiery Sambuca. We tried to splash it with water, only causing the eerie flames to spread further. “Is it gone?! Is it still burning?! What’s going on!??!” We eventually realised that our best bet was to throw a wet cloth over the counter, smothering the mini-disaster.

Athena put on some music. Michael and Swipey started to have a very in-depth conversation about the way audiences should interpret pieces of art. I came to the conclusion that there must be something about guys with long hair - both Michael and Swipey had hair past their jawlines and were locked in an exchange of ideas; the longer the hair, the deeper the thoughts, perhaps? Athena and I shared glances, trying not to laugh because of the way her song choice kept butting in to the conversation. All I could hear was, “…Yes but what about the work of art in terms of the-“ “CHOCOLATE RAAAAAIN” “- context of the author, because if you read into that it -“ “CHOCOLATE RAAAAAIN” “- gives the text or song or artwork-“ “CHOCOLATE RAAAAAIN” “- a whole new level of meaning…”

We decided to go out to a bar. It was a tiny place, narrow and long, little more than just the bar counter itself. We all sat together in a corner and drank cheap beer. The long-haired boys were in deep conversation again. Athena and I started chatting, and she said, “You know, I think what you’re doing is so cool - moving to a new country, not really knowing anybody and all that. It’s really impressive.” Impressive, moi? Surely not. I shrugged my shoulders. I guess it was cool. Okay, I mean, it was really cool. But did that make me really cool? I didn’t feel really cool. I still felt like I had no clue what I was doing most of the time. At one point Michael turned to me and Mr. Swipey and said, "so how long have you two been together?" I was still trying to process what he'd just asked, as Mr. Swipey set him right: "ah, no, we're - we're friends." Michael shrugged and apologised, saying that he could normally recognise couples straight away. Was that supposed to be a kind of superpower or something?

After we left the bar, we headed to the local burger joint. I didn’t want anything. Athena and Michael bought food while I stood by the soda machine with Swipey. We pushed buttons and I laughed at how every single soda came in cherry and vanilla. I caught the stream of Coca-Cola with my index finger and tasted it, before putting my arms around Mr. Swipey’s jacket and looking up at him, saying, “Come home with me. Please.” He said it wasn’t a good idea. Please, I asked again, and again and again and again. I was like a spoilt child asking for a pony. He clasped his hands together behind my back and sighed, “We’ll talk about it later,” he said.

So, later: the two of us were standing at the bus stop. I was now having some sort of emotional crisis, spouting the whole, “Nobody cares! Nobody knows me! I’m alone forever!” thing. Scrap what Athena had said earlier that night - I was being very, very uncool. Swipey pulled me in for a hug. “I think what you need is to meet more people. I know some people who I could ask to meet up with you, you’d get along very well. I think you need, like, girlfriends, you know?” At the word girlfriends I lost it. In my head I saw the faces of my girls: Claire, Jenni, Aisling… my girls. I missed them terribly. I started sobbing into the denim of his jacket. Part of me wanted to cry to make him feel bad about leaving me, but at the same time, I didn’t want to cry because it was really rude and wasn’t what anyone really wanted to deal with on a Friday night at 3am. Once again, I was the crying girl. The whole situation reminded me of the debacle I had with my ex-boyfriend over the course of my final year at university, where I was constantly trying to convince both him and myself that we were better off together, when we both knew that it was a bad idea. I was guilt-tripping.

Several busses came and went — we eventually got on one. Sitting down, Swipey put his arm around me, pulling me to him. I held his hand. Soon enough my street was announced, and I had to get off the bus. I didn’t want to get off the bus. Swipey hugged me goodbye and told me that he’d call me tomorrow morning. I hopped on to the street at Landsdowne and Bloor, having a slight panic as the bus pulled away from me and I was left at the junction in the middle of the night, acutely aware of my alone-ness. I wanted to yell and have someone come running, with blankets and kind words and the means to get safely and happily home to my apartment. Instead, I hailed a taxi to take me down the last stretch of the block.

The next morning, Mr. Swipey did call, to my surprise. We talked about dogs and sandwiches and made strange sounds down the telephone to each other. I was glad that he was my friend. He said he was glad of that, too.

The rest of the weekend was good and full of activity. Robert moved into his new condo, only a twenty-minute walk away from me. We ate pizza with his family and looked out the big, wide window, seeing all the way over to the other side of Lake Ontario. I met up with Athena and her flatmate, Emily, on the Sunday. They took me to Value Village and I had the full-blown Macklemore experience, perhaps spending a little too much money on secondhand menswear (who needs plaid shirts!? I need all the plaid shirts!!). We brunched at Sneaky Dee’s, ordering way too much Mexican food.

Back at home, I reflected on the week I’d had — there had been some kind of structure to it. There was work, music, friends and tacos. I thought back to where I was several days before: getting no sleep, having a total meltdown. That seemed so far away now. Despite my small episode at the bus stop when I whimpered into Mr. Swipey’s jacket, I was doing pretty good. I was going to be watching Hannibal by myself in the evening, but I was ok with that. Things were starting to feel normal, feel like home.