‘There’s nothing worse.’ How many times do we say that as a throwaway line of sympathy? It always makes me laugh when I hear someone say it, and I thought of it this morning while I was making a cup of tea. More precisely, while opening a carton of milk, and cutting my finger on the plastic stopper, which refused to part from the carton unless it came away in various unintended pieces. It was so stuck closed, I had to force it open, thereby denting the carton to such a shape that, when I did get the top off — mangled — I then couldn’t get it closed. At some point along this pointless, first-thing-in-the-morning debacle, I managed to cut my finger, which meant finding a plaster, which then involved a tussle with the plastic strips, and the sticky side not going where I wanted it, while blood was dripping into the sink, and my tea was stewing beyond its taste-by time. But I got there in the end, muttering, ‘Nothing worse.’
Well, having your eyeballs burnt out by the Spanish Inquisition was probably a little more inconvenient, but there you go. It’s one of those things we say.
I also wondered, while trying to get the lid of the milk carton back on, that there are levels of this ‘worse’ situation. Last night, for example, I heard that one of the boats was going to be delayed, and instead of arriving in the early evening, and wasn’t going to get in until two in the morning. ‘Oh. There’s nothing worse.’
There probably isn’t when you’re keen to get somewhere, but that’s one thing. What I was wondering about was all the people affected by this delay. There are the people who work on the boat, for a start, and the port authorities who’d have to come back in the middle of the night to see it off, plus those called in to repair it (it had broken down, I believe). Then I wondered, what about people waiting to greet it at the other end? We can assume that some of the passengers were trying to get home from a simple day out shopping, but they then had to reach home, and who knew who was meeting them there for dinner, now to be held in the early hours? Then, what about accommodation hosts who were due to meet their guests at eight, but had to turn out at two instead? The taxis that had been booked, the transfer drivers, minibus drivers, and show-in greeters who would have to get out of bed at 1.30 to meet, carry luggage, and deposit new guests? Then, of course, there might be first-time visitors and guests on the boat. What about those who booked a quick and allegedly cheap Airbnb where all you get is a map and a code for the key box? Imagine arriving here at two in the morning after a six-hour delay, and not having anyone to meet you? Take your map, point it the right way (always helps), trudge up 400 steps in the dark, with luggage, and then try and find your cosy studio in the back lanes of Horio, when there’s no-one around to ask directions, and your Google Maps is directing you to the main road (ie., the Kali Strata), or to the ‘Symi Cycle Route’ (the what now?), or to some other spurious landmark.
Imagine the hassle some people went through last night all because of a blown gasket or a failed rubber flange, or whatever it was. There’s nothing worse. Except, of course, dripping blood into your only pint of milk at 3.45 in the morning, and over-steeping your first cup of tea. I don’t know how I survived.
