Giggle
Hessle, Feb 2019
It’s quiet, almost silent, and the room’s full of people.
I’m sitting at the front to the left, next to my Mum who’s next to my brother.
And my Dad’s out the front, a page of notes in one hand, his other in his
pocket jangling loose change. He’s stumbling to speak, his eyes beginning to
glisten, his lower lip trembling. And as he looks over at the stark wooden box,
which now holds his still, still mother, I am wriggling, jiggling, bloody
holding it all in. This is not the time to giggle!
I will my shoulders to stop shaking. I suck my stomach in
to quell the quaking. I think of every bad sad thing I possibly can in that
moment. And as my Dad struggles on, I struggle with him, thankfully unnoticed.
Until he reaches his last line. And there’s a pause. A massive pause. A
ridiculous stretchy when-are-you-going-to-sit-down-Dad?
pause. An I-can’t-keep-this-in-much-longer-Dad
pause. A please-just-fucking-sit-down-Dad-before-it’s-too-late-Dad
pause.
And then, suddenly, music plays. Nan’s favourite Jim Reeves
number. And I just go. Grab the order of service sheet, bury my face in it and
just go. My shoulders heaving, my lungs past breathing and I snort a massive
snort. Someone behind me puts their hand on my back and passes me a tissue,
whispering “It’s alright, Fiona, it’s alright.” And I’m off again, only more
so, their tangible misguided pity hanging in the air.
* * * * * * * * * *
I’d like to say that was a one-off. That usually I hold
myself together with poise and decorum at tricky times like that. That as a
grown-up woman it’s something I’ve grown out of. But that particular Giggle
Fest happened when I was 35. And at 48, I still have my moments, my many, many
irrepressible moments.
My Mum once told me that I’ve had mirth since my birth.
That as a baby and a toddler and a girl I would just laugh, a lot. And that
since, quite probably, it’s been my saving grace. And I would agree, pretty
much. My ability to see the funnier side of things has been a blessing and a
strength in some very trying times. But there’s also been times when it’s felt
more like an affliction. When my capacity for inappropriate giggling has
surpassed itself. And I’ve just lost it, lavishly.
The thing is, it doesn’t take much. A look or a word or a
gesture and I’m off. Walking down the street on my own I can just go. Without
warning. Which can be a shock. And I try my best to manage it. Like bending
down to tie my shoe laces whether there’s laces to tie or not. Or coughing or
pulling my coat tighter or grabbing my phone and laugh, laugh, laughing with
whoever’s just called.
In Delhi airport a few years ago, during an overnight
stopover, I remember really struggling. Standing in a queue after an eight hour
flight from Phnom Penh. 3am where I was. Midnight where I’d come from. 7 in the
morning where I was going. People jostling all around me. No one speaking a
language I could understand. Officials bellowing incomprehensible instructions.
Me dropping my passport and all the papers falling out. And feeling just a bit
beyond it.
Picking it up, I remember looking around, trying to find my
bearings, and my shoulders just going. Shaking, almost heaving. And my belly
suddenly in uproar and then all these laughter monsters tumbling out. It felt
like publicly pissing myself. And all I could do was stand there and let it
flow.
I guess, then, it could be a stress thing. A safety valve.
An outlet when things get a bit much. When there’s too much nervous energy
inside and it needs to be let loose.
What I have noticed from my travels, aside from the Delhi
airport experience, is that generally I’m not nearly as bothered about my
giggles as I am here in the UK. Being a foreigner brings its freedoms and being
a laugher when you can’t speak the language can be a very winning thing. Especially
when I’ve been in a culture where people are really expressive and have no real
qualms about dancing or singing or shouting or crying in public. Sitting round
a campfire one night, celebrating with the Masai tribe, was like a sort of
homecoming. Where everyone was giggling and whooping and shaking and belly
laughing and we all just got it, whatever it was.
That’s not to say I’ve felt rejected as a serial giggler in
the UK. Most people seem to find it endearing. And say it’s just part of me.
Something they like and like being around. And even get disappointed when I
don’t giggle at times I’m most likely to. Like my recent wedding, for example.
When I giggled just for a short moment after walking down the aisle and
standing before my husband-to-be. A giggle of relief and excitement which
landed like a giddy bird and then quickly flitted away. Giving way to a greater
joy and a deep deep peace. Where the urge to splurge just wasn’t there. And all
I could do was grin. And completely, restfully, stay in the moment.
