AKA - The Imaginary Land of Wales
Mila, 6 days old, showing her appreciation for Ryan Giggs.
“Hello sir. I'm afraid you need to put the country on the envelope.” says the lady behind the counter of the central Budapest post office that I’m currently standing in.
“But I have. Wales.” I say.
She stares at me blankly.
“No. We need the country.”
“Wales. It's a country. It's written there on the envelope.” I say, pointing.
She is perplexed. She turns to a man sitting at the counter next to her and launches in to rapid burst of advanced Hungarian. The man stands up and addresses me.
“Sir. We need the country on the envelope.”
I’m starting to wonder if I’m dead.
“It's on there.” I say.
“Where? I don't see it.” he replies.
“Right here. Wales.”
The man sighs.
“But we need the country.”
“Wales is a country!”
“I don't think so sir.”
“It is! I grew up there!”
“No. I don't think it's a country. I think it's a region.”
“What!? It's a country! It's in the UK!”
“Oh! It's in the UK?”
“Yes!”
“Then please put England on the envelope.”
“No! It's not in England! It's the country of Wales!”
The man and the woman look at each other and then speak to each other softly and inaudibly. The woman behind the counter holds up the envelope and studies it. A man around thirty years of age, standing in the queue behind me, has been listening to our conversation with interest. He steps forward.
“Excuse me.” he says. “But I don’t think Wales is a country.”
I turn and stare at him, agog. This is the most agog that I have been in a long time.
“What?” I say.
“The Olympics. There’s no Wales team in The Olympics. It’s Great Britain. The country is Great Britain.”
He smiles. It’s the self satisfied smile of a buffoon. The man and woman behind the counter nod in agreement at the buffoon. I need to put an end to this madness.
“There’s a Wales football team. There’s a Wales rugby team! Tom Jones, Ryan Giggs, Gareth Bale, Catherine Zeta Jones, Christian Bale, Anthony Hopkins, Super Ted, Pingu…Ruth Madoc! All Welsh! Believe me, Wales is a country. I should know. I'm half Welsh and grew up there! It’s a country and it’s written on the envelope! Right there!”
Boom! How do you like those apples?
Silence follows. They are no doubt in awe of my impassioned and impressive monologue. Eventually, the woman plucks up the courage to speak.
“Who’s Ruth Madoc?” she says.
“It doesn’t matter!” I defiantly declare.
“I think Christian Bale is actually American.” says the random man in the queue.
I glare at him. It is a powerful glare. A fearsome glare. He visibly withers and his testicles no doubt shrink. He slinks back in to the shadows and back under the rock from whence he came, vanquished. I turn to the man and lady behind the counter. I’m exuding an almighty, dominant aura. They feel it instantly, the man nods to the woman and promptly returns to his duties. I make eye contact with the woman. The poor lamb has received one hell of a public beating today, but on the flip side she has learnt a valuable life lesson. She picks up my envelope. She reaches for a pen.
She crosses out Wales and writes GB.
“Következő! (Next!)”