Windows October 29, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
Tags: darkness, syphilis
Darlings, I’m in such a panic about work that I think I might have to do quite a lot of blogging on subjects ranging from the weather, underwear and cars to syphilis. I’m sure by the time I’m done, I’ll flick back to the other windows – is that the word? – daring to be annoyingly open in the blue line at the bottom of my screen and hope that some translation imps have invaded my computer and done the bastard for me. I think that sort of thing happens quite often.
Darlings, I don’t think I’ve ever blogged my flat before, perhaps for fear of being overrun by mobs of marauding, naked, muscular blog-fans. But I think this photo is neutral enough for me to sleep soundly knowing that my geographical anonymity will not have been challenged. Our flat looks a tad like a hospital ward, without the drips and ill folk. All white walls and not much in the way of adornment. One Euro-guestess once asked how long we’d been living here as I provided her with some bakewell tart and a nice cup of tea – to prove that England can do cuisine too – and she didn’t do that good a job of hiding her surprise when the answer didn’t come back as, “We moved in ten minutes before you arrived”.
Anyway, the point of the window is… look, it’s dark at this time! We all know that putting the clocks back or forward doesn’t make darkness happen only an hour earlier or later. Yesterday it was bright outside till, ooh, at least 11pm, whereas today it was dark by about one. Cue thoughts for the next eight months of moving to Australia. (I would have happily said Thailand or Equatorial Guinea a few years ago, but after another night last night where I struggled to speak to our Eurotastic guests in German, I think my hot place needs to be in some bit of the world that the British once colonised. Canada doesn’t count.)
So winter-time it is. I next plan to leave the house in June, give or take the odd eaSyjEt commitment. Our Eurotastic guests yesterday were from a selection of countries east of the iron curtain, so the conversation was heavy in fantasy. The Russian and I caught on remarkably quickly for old-timers and peppered the proceedings with unlikely destinations for a bit of winter sun. By the time we got the Slavs out the door at some obscene hour, their innards sloshing happily in booze and the most calorific food this side of a 5-year-old’s birthday party, we’d convinced everyone, bar ourselves, that we’d probably AT LEAST make it to Peru, Mauritius and Israel this winter. But just in case we don’t, I’ve tracked down my long johns and look forward to resembling a mentalist, just as soon as I’ve learnt how to roll my own cigarettes, for the foreseeable future.
Weather – done. Underwear – done. What next? Cars. Here’s a snap of one I don’t own and can’t drive. Nice, innit? A Nissan, of all things. I felt very unfashionable falling for a Nissan, having hoped it might be the latest Trabant or Invacar model. Saw it – or its twin – in Scotland (where I visited a nuclear family. All pop music and laundry. How do folk bear it?). Do I really have to bother saying where I’ve pilfered it from? I can’t remember, obviously. And won’t worry inordinately much about feeling the long arm of the law coming down hard on me.
Ha! Defeated by blogger once more. Mid-post, it has decided to stop letting me upload photos. Or perhaps it’s a decency policy, as the next upload was going to be Dix’s Syphilitiker. Slightly à propos of nothing, but in stark contrast to all the old frumps I saw at the Rembrandt the other day. I need more Dix in my life. (Boom boom.) I need splashes of colour (not that this Dix has any), and folk with venereal diseases, to brighten up the winter months.
Oh god, it’s gone six. The imps haven’t done a thing as of my last check. I’d better get back to some high-octane panicking to the accompaniment of Shura, Russia’s least likely heterosexual pop-star. (Though Russian pop is not to be blogged. Zemfira almost did for me.)