According to traditions in England and Russia if we spill salt we’re supposed to toss a load over our shoulder. In Russia you still believe that by doing this you avoid conflict whereas in England

Superstitions

According to traditions in England and Russia if we spill salt we’re supposed to toss a load over our shoulder. In Russia you still believe that by doing this you avoid conflict whereas in England nowadays such action invites conflict unless you’re willing to clean up the extra mess you’ve just made.

The following shall be an example of a typical 24-hour day in the life of a Russian student we shall call, Sergey:

Sergey had an extremely important exam the following day and was going over his notes he scribbled in a lecture some months back. Sitting in a loud café environment having learnt near to nothing, Sergey decided it was high time to head home to do some last minute cramming. He didn’t take his usual route home on the metro but instead made a slight detour to Plochad Revloutii in order to rub a brass dog’s nose that millions of other infected hands have touched. Nevertheless, Sergey felt reassured having rubbed the dog’s nose that luck would be on his side during the forthcoming exam even if he were to catch a viral infection by unknowingly licking his hands a while later.

Standing on the metro gazing blankly at floor and chewing his nails out of exam apprehension, Sergey’s thoughts were interrupted as a hoard of commuters pushed and shoved onto the train at Paveletskaya. Suddenly a two-meter body builder accidentally trod on Sergey’s foot as the tide of passengers moved down the wagon looking for a free seat. Our student regained awareness and hunted down this ripped body builder at the other end of the wagon. Sergey approached the mound of muscles, stared him down and then continued to stamp his feet in retaliation. Sergey made the correct decision and hastily got off at the next stop.

Sergey finally got home, opened the door and was immediately welcomed by his uncle who popped by for a chin-wag and to borrow some money. Reaching out his hand in a gentlemanly gesture, Sergey’s hand wasn’t shaken but rather grabbed thus getting dragged over the threshold where Sergey and his uncle shook hands properly. Taking off his shoes and hanging up his jacket, he greeted his mother with a yell as he headed to his bedroom to place his exercise book under his pillow for good luck.

As all Russians do when getting home, Sergey went to wash his hands and remembered that the shampoo was practically empty. He asked his mother that during the shopping trip later that evening there will be no need to stock up on shampoo until about two days later (after the exam). Picking up the soap in his wet and slippery hands, the bar shot out and landed behind the washing machine. Forgoing a soapy wash, Sergey went to the kitchen whistling as if hiding the fact that he’d done something wrong. Wanting to tell his mother who was in the process of seasoning her Borsch that there was no more soap, rather unexpectedly Sergey got a clip around the ear for whistling causing his mother to spill some salt which resulted in her tossing a load over her left shoulder which landed on Sergey’s sister, Sonya, who was sitting on the corner of the kitchen table. Sonya thus moved into a more desirable position not because of comfort and the risk of impaling herself on a sharp jagged edge but because she was still planning to get married someday.

Sergey’s mum noticed that he was sniffling and suffering from a mild runny nose. She then continued to interrogate him when in the café earlier if he had either sat next to air-conditioning or a strong draught. Denying both, he felt some pain in his chest and complained to his mum that his chest was a little tight. Over the loud clanging of crockery and running water in the sink, the mother asked Sergey to repeat a tad louder where the second time around he gestured at his chest repeatedly to show where it hurt. Not only that, Sergey went on to explain (still gesturing on himself) how his old school friend once complained of chest symptoms only later to have both lungs removed (still gesturing on himself) and lived a few years longer in an iron lung. His mother dropped the ladle into the soup, darted over to Sergey and, what seemed to be, brushing and blowing air or dust or something off her son. Fearing the worst and to prevent any deterioration in her son’s health Sergey’s mum cut up some garlic to add to the soup.

With dinner over and Sergey’s mum having returned with a spot of shopping and definitely no shampoo, our conscientious student considered retiring to his room to do a bit of revision. But before that he needed to relieve himself but was unable to. Unfortunately Sergey’s uncle got blind drunk during dinner and collapsed in front of the toilet door. Not wanting to step over him and stunting his uncle’s growth, Sergey had to find a bucket on the balcony which would have to act as a substitute. Using the sink in the kitchen to wash his hands, Sergey grabbed the kitchen rag to dry himself. Our poor student was once again clipped around the ear since his mother was apparently also using the same rag to wipe her hands. With a beady eye aimed at her son, the mother was adamant that she would not share a future love-episode with Sergey.

And out of the blue the door bell rang. Upon asking who that ought to be, Sergey’s mum replied that his Aunt was here to pick up her intoxicated husband who had been blocking access to the toilet for nearly two hours. Sergey proceeded to ask how sure his mother was that his aunt was at the door to which the reply was “I dropped a fork earlier.”

Sergey was delighted to see his aunt and was even more impressed that a piece of cutlery could make such a prediction. Removing her jacket in a gentlemanly manner and escorting her to the kitchen rather precariously, he asked how many months were left until she gives birth. The bump was huge. It could be twins. Since Sergey loved his aunt, he popped into his bedroom after he gently sat her down and fetched a small plastic bag which he handed to his pregnant auntie. As soon as she pulled out a pair of baby’s socks that Sergey bought a few weeks back, our poor student was met with yet another rather forceful clip around the ear followed by his mum and aunt both spitting over their shoulders. So what could our Sergey do to defuse the tension? That’s right, being a gentleman as Sergey was, he struck up a conversation by asking if his aunt had thought of any names yet. This new conversation was rather short-lived as his aunt practically clipped his ear right off - followed by more spitting over shoulders. With the kitchen becoming somewhat unsanitary, Sergey headed off to his room and slammed the door shut.

It was getting late. There was certainly no time for any last minute revision. Hearing his heavily pregnant aunt drag his unconscious uncle out of the flat, Sergey rested his head on his pillow feeling his exercise book underneath and shut his eyes. Despite having really sore ears, Sergey felt confident about the test tomorrow.

The next morning Sergey rolled out of bed and turned off his alarm clock by merely knocking it onto the floor. He hastily threw on his clothes and sat himself down in the kitchen to have breakfast. Beside his bowl of porridge was a note from his mum explaining that she had to leave early to get the train to their grandparents in Irkutsk since granddad needed some help. He couldn’t help but partially ignore the message because he would not let himself get distracted from the task ahead; the exam. Mopping up the last remnants of porridge in his bowl and leaving the screwed up note on the table, Sergey knew that he shouldn’t risk cleaning up his breakfast remains including the specs that fell on the floor for as long as his mum’s journey to Irkutsk takes.

He caught a glimpse of the time and hurtled to the front door to throw on his jacket and dash to his institute. However, getting his shoes on was a cumbersome task because his mother was in fact sitting there on the only available chair saying nothing; lips pierced shut and apparently in deep though clutching her luggage. Sergey using the shoe-horn got his left shoe on, kissed his mum on the forehead and left. But how on earth would he get to the institute by metro having left his ticket in his wallet which was left in his bedroom? Turning the key in his front door and slamming it open, threw off one shoe and hopped into his bedroom, picked up his wallet, hopped back to the hallway, awkwardly put his shoe back on as the only available seat was still annoyingly occupied, looked into the mirror for a minute, kissed his mother once again and shut the door behind him locking it tightly not knowing how long his mum was planning to sit herself down before her long journey ahead.

Sergey’s day wasn’t going particularly well. A black cat had already walked in front of him and when asking for a lighter to spark up after getting out of the metro station, he was uncannily offered a candle by a stranger who then beat him to within an inch of his life. Poor Sergey should have been more observant when getting dressed earlier; wearing his shirt back to front did invite someone new but also wearing the shirt inside-out rendered him with broken ribs… by this new acquaintance. But our student remained calm and composed. He knew despite these recent drawbacks that everything would turn out fine. After all, he did rub the dog’s nose and kept his exercise book under his pillow. And to top these off as Sergey was walking towards the entrance of his institute, a bird thought it appropriate to shit on him. Failure now was out of the question!

Quietly sitting at his desk waiting for the exam to commence breathing deeply mentally conditioning himself, Sergey’s concentration was momentarily interrupted as his friend wished “Neither fur, not feather” to which Sergey replied, “Go to the devil, old friend. Go to the devil!”

However, much to Sergey’s disappointment, he did in fact fail the exam. He put the blame on having slightly boasted about his chances to pass with flying colours three days previously. Even during the exam he noticed his cheeks feeling slightly warmer than usual and was unable to shift the idea from his head that someone somewhere was speaking ill of him. Maybe he didn’t rub the dog’s nose at Plochad Revolutii hard enough? Maybe it wasn’t bird shit that landed on him but a fellow student spitting over their shoulder? We shall never know. And for sure the lack of revision played no part whatsoever. Not in the slightest!

… and the flat was already starting to smell rather foul since Sergey’s mum still had one more day until reaching Irkutsk.

The following would be a superstitious day in the life of an Englishman we shall call Brian:

Brian was a rather jolly yet conservative old fellow who enjoyed nothing more than a stroll in the morning after rush-hour had died down. But today was a little different from the usual routine as Brian was off to meet a lady for an early lunch at the local bar, whom he had found on a local dating website. Closing the front door and turning the keys in the lock, Brian walked towards the front gate and was off on his merry way in the hope of finding true love.

Closing the gate behind him and turning to head down the street with a proud grin on his face, suddenly out of nowhere Brian was met by a black cat crossing his path. Brian froze. He didn’t move a muscle. After all it was a black cat. And after all there was CCTV set up every few meters so he was unable to kick it out of the way. The bad luck a black cat brings could result in a police caution or at worst community service should the RSPCA use surveillance footage in a court case – if Brian were to kick the cat, that is. So Brian inched his foot forward to meet the cat and when satisfied that any apparent animal abuse would be kept to a minimum, Brian nudged the cat causing it to jump and run away. Was Brian concerned about the black cat? Was it a bringer of bad luck and misfortune? Only that Brian was running two minutes late and that the cat had seemingly marked its territory on Brian’s gate. Apart from that Brian was totally indifferent.

Indifferent until, yes, Brian came across a ladder leaning up against a shop window just down the street. Did Brian think that walking under the ladder was blasphemous? Did the ladder represent gallows from days long gone? If Brian walked the path of death, would he remember to spit three times through the rungs? Or would he choose option two: to spit on his shoe and not look at it until the spittle had dried? Or would Brian not even consider any of the above for a millisecond and merely walk around the ladder out of practical reasons and habit? Yes, he would. Besides, the bucket was leaking and there was a ‘Made in England’ sticker on the side of the ladder which is definitely a bringer of eternal frustration.

Brian’s heart was pumping. He was approaching the bar where his blind-date was anxiously waiting. Thoughts were running though his mind bringing on unwanted apprehension; will they hit it off? What will she think of his appearance? Will she appreciate his black humour? Will… It was precisely at his moment where Brian, staring downwards, noticed a crack in the pavement and managed to swerve and avoid it. The last misfortune Brian could wish for right now before his date was for his mum to break her back suddenly. Good thing Brian was looking down then. Anyway, will she like his tartan tank-top that Brian wears on special occasions? Will she like Danish pop music from the 1980s? Brian recalled his last date which proved an utter disaster since the poor lass insisted doggedly that Belgian Electro-rap of the early 1990’s could beat anything from Denmark hands down. In order to avoid a repetition of the previous experience, Brian, looking around for wood and finding none, instead knocked on his head three times for luck.

Just before Brian went for the handle to swing the door wide open, he reached into his pocket to fetch out his pocket mirror to ensure his hair was in properly slick; using his index finger to brush a single strand over his left ear. Winking at his own reflection the mirror suddenly cracked, not because of his manly good-looks but because the mirror was 49pence from a second-hand shop and had a life-expectancy of two weeks. Did Brian consider for a minute that the mirror would bring seven years of bad luck? Of course he didn’t. He merely tossed it into the rubbish bin by the front door and the thought of seven years bad luck didn’t even cross his mind for a second.

As Brian anxiously opened the door to the bar, a young couple was on their way out. And being a gentleman, he let them through although he did cast a sneering look towards the young lad who had opened his umbrella before getting outside. Not that it unlucky to do this in British culture, but it’s a pain in the backside to get a large open umbrella through a small door. And it wasn’t even raining despite a heavy overcast.

Brian had now been standing at the bar for a good ten minutes. Rubbing the end of his silky red tie for luck, he was getting ever more apprehensive. Would his date recognize him from his descriptions? Did he make the arrangements crystal clear; where and when to meet etc.? Facing the bar and sipping his pint of cider, he heard from behind him a loutish “Hi there. Are you Brian?” Our dear gentleman turned around sheepishly to see standing right before him a mid-30s woman dressed in clothes most likely stolen from a charity-shop, no teeth and a waist size that even Pavarotti would say, “Wow, she is large!” Brian’s upright posture, a clear gesture to display his masculinity, melted as if his shoulders were melting down the sides of his body with a look of despair. Love, it seems, was still not quite within his reach.

What was this abomination? How did Brian end up with such a woman? What misfortune did Brian bring upon himself? Was it that he had come across a black cat earlier that day or had broken the mirror? Was his lucky tartan tank-top in fact not a lucky charm? Should he have paid more attention when rubbing his silky tie between his thumb and index-finger? Should he have rubbed with his thumb and middle finger instead?

None of the above even crossed Brian’s mind to be honest. On his joyless walk home, his dejected mood was interrupted when he finally admitted to himself that he ought to learn to read at his ripe old age and to purchase some better glasses in order not to make the same mistake twice.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04