Skip to main content

Marnie And Me

Have you ever seen the Hitchcock’s Marnie? It’s not one of his better known movies, but I think it is, without a doubt, one of his most fascinating studies.

Marnie (played by Tippi Hedren) is a thief who goes bonkers whenever she sees the colour red . I won’t give away any spoilers but keep this idea in mind, as you try to decipher why I have a similar crazed reaction whenever one (or more) of my kids scream/s too near to my ears.

I’m NOT saying that the screaming gets me into the kind of frenzy that would make me do something stupid, but it really winds me up – in a way that I get very nervous and edgy, a feeling that can last for up to half an hour after the event.

I can’t understand why this should be the case. What trigger could it be from my childhood? Thinking about it, I did grow up an only child and so am unused to very loud noises, but why should screaming act as a trigger to make me feel so very uncomfortable?

Any Freud’s out there, I’d be fascinated to hear your explanation. Is psychosis starting to set in?

Comments

At your service!

I don't think there's anything deep or repressed going on here. You were an only child... you're accumstomed to quiet and, I guessing, order... and you went from being that person to being a father of 4. And even though you've been a dad for several years, each new voice in the house creates another level of controlled chaos. And now you've taken on the extra task of a classroom?

I'm guessing this is a very natural response. Working with a roomful of kids, and being welcomed at home by a roomful of kids.

I know you're not a drinker, so maybe a short walk after work would help revive you... just to separate the worlds and give you 10 minutes of peace.

That will be $150! I'll go set up my paypal account right now!
The Scribbler said…
Rachael,

I think you're wasting your efforts on that phone line. You've got a talent - please don't squander it.

Popular posts from this blog

Ten Jewberry Muds

To get the full effect, this message should be read out loud. You will understand what 'tenjewberrymuds' means by the end of the conversation. This has been nominated for the best email of 2005. The following is a telephone exchange between a hotel guest and room-service at a hotel in Asia, which was recorded and published in the FarEast Economic Review: Room Service (RS): "Morrin. Roon sirbees." Guest (G): "Sorry, I thought I dialed room-service." RS: "Rye..Roon sirbees..morrin! Jewish to oddor sunteen??" G: "Uh..yes..I'd like some bacon and eggs." RS: "Ow July den?" G: "What??" RS: "Ow July den?...pryed, boyud, poochd?" G: "Oh, the eggs! How do I like them? Sorry, scrambled please." RS: "Ow July dee baykem? Crease?" G: "Crisp will be fine." RS: "Hokay. An Sahn toes?" G: "What?" RS: "An toes. July Sahn toes?" G: "I don't think so."

Our City

Tomorrow night, we will be celebrating the thirty-ninth anniversary of the return of Jerusalem into Jewish hands. Many people around the world continue to deny the Jewish people the right to claim the city as our eternal capital. On the Temple Mount, the Arabs do what they can to destroy any evidence of our ancient presence, yet, despite their efforts, they cannot erase the basic fact that Jerusalem has, is and will always be - ours. This is not to say that the city is less important to persons of another faith. What I am stating and categorically so, is that Jerusalem is accessible to anyone who wants to worship therein, but never it let be forgotten that, at the end of the day, we, the Jewish Nation are the only people who, since time immemorial have chosen this very special place as a destination for all our prayers - she belongs to us. Every time we pray to G-d, we face towards Jerusalem. Every single Ark in every single Synagogue faces towards the city. It’s presence in our psyche

Oh, To Be Loved

I confiscated a tub of Vaseline from a Year 8 student today. The same kid admitted to throwing a stub of paper at me from the back of the room. After the end of the lesson, I refused to return the Vaseline to him, whereupon he curtly told me to “drop dead”. When he approached me at lunch and asked me again for his precious tub, I told him that he could have it back if he wrote me a letter of apology. His response - “shut up”. Sometimes, I wonder why I bother teaching these children. I know that moaning about it here won’t help in the slightest, but at least it makes me feel a little better by getting it out of my system