Anyone for proverbs? July 30, 2007Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
Darlings, we haven’t had a game for ages. So let’s have a game.
Now I’ve decided it’s about time we upped the level around here. I’m a big boy now. 36. I should have been over the poo-stage at least a year ago. So it’s time to get wise. Which has nothing to do with street-smartness. I mean it’s time for some wisdom.
So, darlings, I want you to make up some proverbs, and then I’ll put on my reading-glasses when they come in and analyse them all wisely.
The Russian’s to blame, of course. He was meant to fly to Russia on Friday but Her Britannic Majesty’s Visa Section hasn’t sent him his passport back. No way of knowing when they will, either. You can check on-line, but that’s been saying it’s been in the post for a week. There’s a helpline you can ring for $14 (no, not euros or pounds) which will tell you what you can see on-line. I was told as much by the woman from the normal, wrong, non-visa, British-Embassy-in-Düsseldorf number I phoned to see if I could find out any more. She was forbidden from putting me through to the visa people, she explained. She also explained the new(ish) system was crap. And broken. And behind schedule. And whatever you do, don’t phone the $14-dollar helpline. “They’re not even in Germany. They’re in Hungary.” Which seemed to be her ultimate condemnation.
So the Russian and I are here together. And as he couldn’t make it to Russia on Friday, he has decided to compensate by creating really horrible tasks which would use up the same amount of energy as, say, jogging to Russia would take. I came in from some non-errand or other on Friday to find all the flat’s internal doors closed and the place reeking of paint. I struck bingo with the first opened door (because it’s the closest. Not because of wisdom). There was the Russian in nothing but shorts, a mask and rubber gloves painting the kitchen table which he’d placed on an old shower-curtain, now being given a second chance in life as a dust-sheet. The kitchen table, which we found on the street, was being made over from a rather nice blue, which used to make me think it might easily not be out of place in a painting in Arles, to white, which made me think it might easily not be out of place in a particularly sinister hospital ward, which is what the kitchen has now become. (Not literally. We haven’t started curing folk.)
“It’ll need four coats,” the Russian said relievedly, thinking the more work it was, the less time he’d have to think about how hard it is being alive. But nothing can need four coats of paint, can it? This just has to be the Russian soul thinking the more suffering the better. In any case, I think the Russian’s come round to thinking the kitchen table looks rather sinister white and has asked if there’s anything I’d like to paint on it which he could then lacquer. (Any ideas? That can be a separate game. Maybe if one of you comes up with an especially good, table-appropriate proverb, I’ll immortalise you… until the Russian decides to change the table’s colour again.)
Anyway, what this all means is that we’re having to eat not in the kitchen. (Oh god, I thought I’d reached blogging rock bottom with the poo. Perhaps new depths can still be plumbed.) Which was awfully convenient, especially for a more-than-seven-years couple. This flat is minuscule, vaguely, and eating in the kitchen meant sitting next to each other and staring at the wall. Which made conversation tricky. Which meant we could just be silent nicely. But now, while the final coats wait to be applied, we must sit OPPOSITE each other in the living room. Which is awfully embarrassing. I tried to talk of taxation and disestablishment of the church but it was no use. The Russian explained there was no sage in the Buletten he’d made. I examined closely the point at which the radiator pipes disappear into the wall. He went to turn up/down/over the music. I nicked a forkful from his plate while his back was turned. And I had my proverb. “Food never tastes as good from another’s plate.” I’m sure it’s probably awfully deep.
Right. Your turn.