A bit of a moan June 12, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
Now between you and me, I’m as tight as a gnat’s chuff. Not to the point where I’ll go and hide in the toilet when it’s my turn to buy a drink, or let everyone buy me a drink and then go home just when it comes to my turn, or make sure I buy an early round when only a tee-total old lady and I are present. Anyway, this is Germany, and we don’t really do rounds here, so this is a bad analogy. Mind you, I saw a good case of this a summer or two ago when two hetero English gents visited for a weekend of Bier, Fussball und Frauen, but sort of without the Fussball and Frauen. Gent one went off to chat up strangers, because he was abroad and thought he had to, during which pause the second visitor dashed to the bar and got a drink in for himself, me and the Russian. Hetero one came back, bored of having to pretend to be interested in 18-year-old strangers, raring to buy booze and mystified that we had full glasses. The truth dawned on him, at which point he called his friend a bitch, which I liked as a choice of swear-word between heteros… But no, I’m tight in the sense of hating waste. I’m not sure if this is from having lived in relative poverty in Russia or whether it’s related to late-arrival recycling fervour instilled by living in Berlin. In any case, I’ve grown averse to throwing anything away.
Sorry, this is already making for a gloom-inspired post. It’s the work, you see. Which means I can’t be out in the sun. Well, not properly, although I have now positioned myself on the balcony for our five minutes of sun in a position where I can see – not that I’m interested, really – the Czech Republic v USA about to begin. I remember watching them play in a former World Cup (1990, perhaps?). The Czechs, presumably then still in Czechoslovak guise, won about 200-0, and the commentators kept going on about the Americans’ naivety. My brother’s then American girlfriend – sorry, I mean American then girlfriend, I suppose. She’s still American – thought the spirit of participation might have got more of a mention in the commentary. Anyway, judging from this World Cup, the days of massive drubbings seem to be behind us. (I’ll cope if I’m proved wrong by England being thrashed 10-1 by T&T.) (I think the Czechs are vying with the Argentinians for team with worst average haircut.) (Christ, that was quick. The Czechs are already in the lead. I’m surprised they can see the ball with those perms.) Anyway, the computer – the big one that isn’t a laptop – is now lovelily off and I’m hoping a bit of balcony blogging will remove the gloom.
So, waste. We had homosexual guests of late, as I’ve mentioned here before, and we stocked up on delicious morsels for them to feast on. Including kilos of cheese. But English folk just will not eat cheese for breakfast – at least not those still resident in the Kingdom – as much as you try to convince them that it will instantly turn them into Europeans and all sorts. The extent of my cooking is normally removing Weetabix from the packet, but I ventured into the fridge today for a bit of a closer explore. And there’s tonnes of fucking cheese. I should organise a cheese and wine party this minute. (You bring the wine.) The cambozola was only at the early (extra) moulding stage, so I’ve chowed through as much of that as my appetite would allow. The camembert is thick with mould, but I’ve tackled that as best I could and chomped away too. Some may call this gluttony.
Anyway, the wasted/wasting cheese, combined with the dreary work, combined with the not-being-able-to-lounge-in-the-sun, combined with the Nordbalkon, combined with another attempt at not smoking, combined with everything, has sent me into an ungovernable gloom. Which I enjoy, of course, because of my fake Slavic soul, but I do very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very much wish I wasn’t a translator. Has any resident of Berlin or the Bundesrepublik who happens across this page ever worked in a supermarket/fast-food chain? If so, can you hazard a guess at whether it’s even more horrid than sitting in front of a computer all day, at home, translating utter nonsense about utter nonsense? Berlin bloggers, when are we opening that caff? (I’ll provide the cheese.) (And I’m good at Weetabix.)