My Man

If this doesn't say, "Good morning, Belfast!" then I just don't know what does.

Good morning, Belfast. Jamie here. Sitting in Starbucks because the phone repair store is neither open nor has posted when it does indeed open. Good thing I didn't end up in City Centre when I'd actually intended to this morning.

According to my countdown calendar, I've only got 99 days left in the land of the greenies, and that doesn't seem like nearly the correct number. I remember looking at the prospect of 10 months and thinking nothing could be shorter. Then, I remember looking at the prospect of 9.5 months and thinking I had never experienced anything longer in my whole life.

Funny how time works that way.

Also funny how things that seem like yesterday were forever ago and things that seem like forever ago were really yesterday.

Today's NI lesson is the concept of "your man."

Now, in The States, if someone asked after "your man," you'd either talk about your husband, fiancé, boyfriend, child, or scream, "WHAT MAN?! FOREVER ALONE!"

Here, though, "your man" could refer to whatever man is in question.

So, when David (our keeper of the house fixings) told me today that he'd call up my man for the laundry, he simply meant that he was to call the laundry man on my behalf.

My coursemate Johanna was recently asked about her man in the context of prison:
"What did your man do?"

During The Troubles, the families, friends, and acquaintances of political inmates would sneak notes and radios and other small such things into and out of the prisons.

Because of this, visit days were extremely important.

When Jo was near about 19, she was chosen by her neighbourhood to serve as the visitor for the son of a neighbour, as the mum was sick.

It was all an uproarious experience, actually, as she had no choice but to go, didn't tell her mother (who wouldn't have let her), and her brother was in the army (enemy of the prisoners and ensuring that he would be informed the moment she entered the prison and questioned as to his sister/family's politics).

Jo had never met the man she was to visit and described to us how very awkward indeed small talk was with a prisoner you've never met: "So...how are things...?"

When their time was through, she got up to left, and as she did, he pulled her in and kissed her on the mouth, shoving something in as he did (no, it was not a tongue).

Freaking out a bit, but not able to show it for fear of being imprisoned herself, Jo made it back to her car, drove off, and drove a mile before risking a spit out.

Inside her mouth was a very tiny note wrapped in cellophane from son to mother.

Genius, her man.

I like this principle of "your man." It's endearing and gives me a sense of community, as though I were actually friends with my house launderer. If he's anything like David, that's something I would like very much indeed.