Assasin’s Creed – or, Pernickety Snicket’s series of unfortunate non-events

"Gonna travel the world is what I'm gonna do,

then come back and see you.

All I ever do is struggle and strive.

If I don't do anybody any harm, I might make it home alive."

- Bob Dylan, 'Nettie Moore'.

'Beware the Ides of March' - professional social assassin Larry David

It all started over a busted boiler.

A few days ago, we lost all semblance of heat, hot water, or warm foxes whose flat round bellies could be used as hotplates – you name it – at my now permanent residence at Canfield Gardens in South Hampstead, merry old England.

All I wanted, all I longed for, in the coldest week yet, was a hot shower. Standing upright and having hot water pour out over me.

That’s not such a luxury, is it?

Be careful what you wish for.

I learned this afternoon that things wouldn’t be back to normal until next Monday by the earliest.

That’s when I knew I was going to have to take drastic action.

I booked a session at a local gym, briefly surveying what was on offer and using up the free credit I had remaining on Class Pass. Having spent the last three days hiking back and forth between Hampstead Heath – an A-1 spot to recline on seats dedicated by left-behind-lovers to those long departed, to watch wagtails and robin red breasts, and to adjourn to another dimension with illegally cute pugs named Doughy – I love everything about the Heath. It’s my respite and refuge, and restores the balance of equilibrium to my oft off-kilter self.

Most days. Except today. Today was NOT one of those days.

There is a wannabe ‘Hound of the Baskervilles’-type creature that stalks the Heath, lying in wait for the next defenceless human on which to bestow unlimited rounds of kisses. It’s a D.I.W – a Dog In Waiting – meaning it’s going through the rigors of puppy training.

I’m completely the wrong person to have around when it comes to training an animal of any magnitude or circumference whatsoever. If there is an animal on the scene, you can bet your bottom dollar that I will destroy with singular intention every ounce of well-meaning discipline that long-suffering owner has set their minds of instilling in said creature.

Whether I’m egging on an undersized Jack Russell Terrier with a Dogo Argentino complex, or howling along with a talking husky who’s being told in no uncertain terms to simmer down, you’d best stow me away in some far-flung corner and keep me well offsite. I should be voted “most likely to do or say the wrong thing at any given moment” to save future generations from certain calamity. (Both animals and children accept me unconditionally – but you know, they love everything.)

Unfortunately, this quality carries beyond the animal kingdom.

 Turns out I am equally wrong-footed with all creatures, great and small, fair and fowl, if the wrong mood strikes me.

That was borne out tonight as I mistakenly took a foray to a spin class on the pretence of exercising, really hoping only to make use of the shower facilities, quietly fade away in a back row somewhere, and make my way out a fire exit at the first opportune moment.

Tonight was not that night.

I fell into the irreducible (irrefractable?) tractor beam of an Irish gym instructor.

Our eyes locked – and she had me.

All it took was one ear on my accent.

‘Ahhh!’ the little lady with the broguish vocal hue and the blue-green sparkle to her eyes sized me up in an instant.

‘We have a KIWI in our midst.’

From then, I could not escape her. Try as I might, I could not let my concentration up for one moment under her watch – her focus on me didn’t diminish even for a second.

I think she thought if she ignored me, I might hurt myself.

I admired her dedication to my mastery of the ultimate pelvic tilt. However, by the end of the workout, it had gotten – well, a tad much.

“ROSALIE!”

“ROSALIE!” She intoned from the head of the class.

I glanced in her direction, thumbs-upping weakly as I struggled to stay atop my spin bike.

“ROSALIE, I’m losing you. Keep your feet flat. You dun wanna end up with big calves, do you?"

"I might," I muttered. 

I gritted my teeth and carried on as best I could, hoping she would find someone else to pick on.

“SUZUKI.” She had her sights on a young Asian woman near the front of the class.

The girl tried vainly to hide her bemusement. ‘Uh, my name is Mary.’ She spoke with utter calm and control.

But the instructor wasn’t done with me.

“Rosalie!”

No response.

“Rosalie! ARE YER WITH UZ?”

Finally she’d got me. She had my attention.

“Who’s ROSALIE?” I chorused back with equal gusto. “The name’s ROSEL.”

“ROSEL! If you don’t keep your head up, yer gna pass owt.”

“OK, cool,” I said, attempting and failing to sound breezy.

“Is yer head up, Rosel?”

I craned my neck up as far as the ceiling lights.

“I’m sorry, is this too much for yer?”

And then I said it.

“NO –  IT’S OK – I GET IT. YOU’RE IRISH. SO AM I.”

I could actually hear the hiss of the wind as she deflated, ever so slowly. A tiny sonic wave of shock rippled around the class. ‘Did she really JUST say that?’ A little casual racism, now and then, is relished by the wisest men.

Whoops.

Double whoops.

Whoops with a side of Irish cream.

I suppose you’re wondering what was the point of this story. Can I be racist towards a group I identify with? Can I even consider myself Irish just because my Grandfather happened to be born there? Just because I hold dual nationality? The lines in Irish identity are delineated as it is. Even though the instructor (her name was Morag by the way) made a point of bringing up my cultural identity at the very beginning of the class, this didn’t give me a right to draw battle lines on grounds of nationhood. For me it was an exercise in self-defence, a lashing out that I find I go to frequently as a default mechanism when I feel cornered.

Ultimately, I am a New Zealander. The event made me ask some hard questions about ownership of identity. In this instance, I feel as if I got to Morag, and I took things too far. She left me alone for the rest of the class, sure, but I should have taken her banter in the good nature which I’m sure it was intended. I know she MEANT well. It was an illuminating experience indeed to learn about my own hidden, casual racism, brought forth in the heat of the moment, by me taking offence.

There’s something deep in these hackles of mine that raises up when they feel attacked, when provocation is probably the last thing on people’s mind. It usually happens when I feel "othered" – socially, on the out.

I’ve got a constant case of foot and mouth. I let my words run. But if I said them, from somewhere deep down, they must have been lurking. But I can act with intentionality. I can do better.

Oh, I got my shower by the way. I kept Morag waiting to lock up, and she commented on my extensive use of towels, but in the end she was a good sport. We shook hands.

“Good game,” I grinned as I hugged her, and left.

*All future correspondence can be sent to The Irishman, at the Juncture of Social Dismay and Our Lady of Mortification, Warm Foxbelly Road, London.