Less Idyllic Cornish Moments

There are some wonderful aspects of Cornish life.

Small children, for entertainment, waving at the occasional car passing them by, and being a little too excited when the driver waves back, being one that I recently encountered.

And there are those aspects that, however homesick I may become in wherever my travels may take me, however deep the yearning that I may endure for the countryside when immersed in pollution, congestion and claustrophobia, that I will never, ever miss.

I have just wiped old mad Cornishman slobber from my ear.

I knew the knock: a distinctive thudding on the front door. Sure I could have pretended I wasn’t in, hid behind the sofa, feigned ignorance at my visitor’s arrival. But the back door was wide open and, even in the ends of the earth where my parents reside, that’s a sure fire sign someone’s in.

Our neighbour is, as far as I can tell, barking mad and is sprouting hair from every conceivable pore on his face. He has also looked around a hundred since 1989. And somewhere in my youth he decided to take a fancy to me.

On this particular occasion, he grabbed my hand (the wrong one I might add) to check for a wedding ring. When I told him that, no, I wasn’t married but yes, I was living with my boyfriend (the prospect of explaining that that wasn’t technically true and he was actually in the other side of the world for the majority of the year seeming like a very bad idea) he winked at me and said how lucky my boyfriend was.

This was a fairly mild encounter. During some of my most uncomfortable teenage years I have endured hugs, leers, lewd comments and a variety of unsettling, slightly unhinged grins.

I am, I might add, not the only one that has had to suffer these awkward encounters. My Grandma vocalised her strong dislike of his advances in her dog walking days (I’m sure his wife can’t be that pleased either). I don’t think he’s ever attempted such banter with my sister but I’m sure she’d probably ensure that he certainly never entertained the idea again.

But I’m a little more of a pushover and am able to scrape a few smiles from somewhere and bear the situation as best possible thinking ‘I must be a good person, I must be a good person’.

He’s old after all. And harmless. Well that’s what my dad says. However I imagine if he’d been kissed on the ear and embraced a little too intensely by said hairy Cornishman then he’d perhaps be a little more sympathetic to my complaints.

Oh god, I’ve just realised my hand smells of dirt. I need to sanitise my skin.

Moments like this, for a heartbeat, I long for a Starbucks. Oh and I’ve locked the door now.