Stretching

The scene: An English-language bookshop, somewhere in Prague.

The players:

The bookshop salesperson, earnestly pretty

A well-spoken customer, elegantly dressed

A new customer enters. She appears to be constructed entirely from wool.

Salesperson: Hello, can I help you?

Woolly customer: No, no thanks. Just looking.

Removes enormous fuzzy hat and begins to unwind two layers of scarves. A nose emerges.

Salesperson: Ok, just let me know if you need some help.

Woolly customer: Yes, thanks.

Leans casually against a bookcase in an effort to push her right arm towards her coat buttons. Attempts to look nonchalant.

Well-spoken customer: So anyhow, I was saying to P. that next time I came we simply had to review this. It's quite extraordinary, and so very moving.

Salesperson: Yes, of course.

Well-spoken customer: But of course, I really should have come on Friday not on the Saturday, so I'm very sorry about that.

Salesperson: Really, it's no trouble at all.

Well-spoken customer: Well thank you, dear. And heavens isn't it cold? We've had eleven metres in Bucharest, if you can believe it, and it's been minus 16.

Meanwhile, the woolly customer catches sight of her hair in the glass and discovers that the removal of her hat has back-combed random sections of hair into three poorly-executed fuzzy quiffs.

Tries to smooth hair down. Removes gloves. Tries to smooth hair down again. Realizes she has a choice between looking mad because of mad hair, or looking mad because of her attempts to de-madden her mad hair. Decides to remove all her outer layers and leave her hat on.

Pauses in satisfaction at clever resolution of seeming insoluble dilemma.

Salesperson: It's been very cold in Slovakia too. Minus twenty or twenty-one I think.

Well-spoken customer: Heavens, that's terrible. It's supposed to be moving here too.

Salesperson: Yes, it's already getting quite cold.

Well-spoken customer: And later, moving towards England.

Salesperson: Next month I hear.

Woolly-hatted customer worries that the wearing of a solo outdoor hat indoors might appear vaguely trendy and hipster-esque. Wonders if the armload of woolens is sufficient to counter this impression. Remembers that anyhow she is now closer to the mad cat lady age anyhow. Wonders if she should get a cat.

Well-spoken customer: Anyhow, dear, I really must be off now. Thank you again very much for your help.

Salesperson: It's not trouble at all, thank you. Here are your things.

Well-spoken customer: Goodbye dear.

Salesperson: Goodbye.

Well-spoken customer leaves in a blast of cold air. Woolly-hatted customer wanders over to the cookbooks and thinks about stew. Somewhere, an espresso machine grinds on.

Enter, pursued by a bear

Once upon a time there was an evil auntie who had a blog. First, she was a fake auntie, then a real auntie, but always there was the blog.

Sadly, the evil auntie had a job, and as the years progressed the job sucked up more time and energy. And so the blog withered and dwindled.

However, it had not been wholly forgotten by the evil auntie, who would occasionally drop by to see if it had been infested by spambots, or turn around post ideas in her mind. But the actual writing of the actual post, well, that was always going to be trickier.

However, as is the wont of evil aunties everywhere, this evil auntie was somewhat bloody-minded and couldn’t quite give up the idea of the blog. And so she eventually returned. And thus, the most evil entry to date came about. The dreaded, fearsome and horrific catch up question post.

1. Where have you been?

A. Busy. Stuff. Slow internet. Work. More work.

2. But geographically, where have you been?

A. Prague. Still Prague, more Prague. Some holidays.

3. Gosh, you must be older now.

A. Yes.

4. And that monkey? You know, the one that, er…

A. Monkey? What monkey?

5. Umm… that monkey? You know, the one that got bored with writing Shakespeare sonnets, and… er…

A. …awkward pause… I think you may be confusing me with someone else.

6. Yes, yes of course. No monkey. So Prague? Still? Wow, you must really like it? Job going well, that sort of thing?

A. There has been that world economic crisis.

7. Ah, yes. Haha. So, um… what have you been reading?

A. Cookbooks.

8. Oh, FF’s sake. Now you’re really being bloody-minded.

A. I’m interviewing myself in a virtual vacuum, and vaguely annoyed by the fact that I felt the need to euphemize my language. Of course I’m bloody-minded.

Next time: the dreaded what-have-I-missed post.

The story of last month (mostly)

Look! Ebook
Look! Ebook
Ebook! look!

This nice e-book!
This nice e-book!
I cannot read
This nice e-book!

Do you like,
E-ink displays?

I do not like this,
Ebook haze!
I do not like
This ebook maze!

Would you like it
PDF?

I would not like it
PDF.
I’ve said this to you,
Are you deaf?
I do not like
This ebook maze
Although I like
E-ink displays.

You can buy A
or PM.
Would you like it
DRM?

I cannot shop A
And PM
I do not like this
DRM
I do not want it
PDF
I’ve said this to you
Are you deaf?
I do not like this ebook maze
Despite their nice e-ink displays.

Please download our
Free software.
A table here lets
You compare.

No free software.
No questionnaire.
A or P M
No DRM
I do not want it PDF
I said before, are you quite deaf?
I do not like this ebook maze
Despite their nice e-ink displays.

Would you? Could you?
On a MAC?
Encrypted files,
Ever hack?

I would not
Could not,
On a MAC.

You must find your
PID.
Then plug in the
USB.

I cannot find my USB!
Nor anywhere my PID!

I clicked the link for free software
But these devices cannot share.
Why can’t it read acsm?
Sod this bloody DRM.
I’ve lost all these old PDFs
Why did I change IP address?
I’m lost inside an ebook maze
Seduced by nice e-ink displays.

A Palm! A Palm!
A Palm! A Palm!
Could you, would you,
On a Palm?

Not on a Palm! I cannot see!
Not on a MAC! No! Not for me!

I downloaded the new firmware
No memory! None left to spare!
I like to read things now and then -
Reboot connection, yet again.
The plastic case does not impress -
I click and wait for its refresh.
I fear how fast my temper frays,
Sharp shocks can harm e-ink displays.

Hey!
In this shop!
Here in this shop!
Would you, could you, in this shop?

I would not, could not,
In this shop.

Would you, could you,
Amazon?

I can not, CAN not Amazon!
Geography bars tech’s new dawn.
Interest here may start to dwindle
In the distant light of Kindle.
Not in this state. Not with this card.
Two years to wait. Why is this hard?
E-hopes have turned to e-dismay
Dust forms on my e-ink display.

You do not like
This nice ebook?

I do not
Want this
Ebook pain.

Could you, would you
Join th’e-club?

I would not
Could not
Join your club.

Why not try out
With ePub?

I will not, still not, join th’e-club
I want to read books in the tub.
My favourite books I pass along
In ebook world, this would be wrong.
I’m geographically constrained
The books I want, I can’t obtain.
I do not want to tweak software
Converting files makes me despair.
I do not have a shiny MAC
Encrypted files, refuse to hack.
I do not like this ebook maze
No love left for e-ink displays.

I do not like
This strain.
Ebook.

I will no longer
Take a look.

You do not like them
So you say
Read here! Click there!
And you may.
Click here and you may, I say.

Look!
If you will let me be
Once more I’ll try
You will see.

…
…
…
Beep
…
…
Whirr
Whirr
…
…
Boop.
...
...
Grrreee-
-oop
…
…
Bing!

Hey!
The download worked. Take a look!
I’ve found and filed my first ebook!
And I can read it in my bed
And it can bookmark what I’ve read.

And I can read it on the train
And in the dark, but not the rain.
And I can buy, A or PM
Although I still hate DRM.

So I will read it in my flat
And I must stick to this format
And I must read on my PC
Until I find my PID
And I still hope one of these days
Won’t just admire e-ink displays

At last I've read
My nice e-book!
IT
Degree
I should’ve took.

(with apologies to Dr. Seuss)

Strangely wistful

"Hello."
"Hello, Evil Auntie Peril. This is AYSAVMCL speaking."
"Hello, Attractive-yet-shy-and-very-married-Czech-landlord. Why are you calling apart from a strangely unsettling attempt to freak me out by introducing what seems to be a chick-lit-like element to my unsuspecting blog?"
"I do not understand."
"Oh yes, I forgot that you are very literal, which leads to some very awkward silences if I don't concentrate on the meaning of the actual words I am saying."
"Maybe it is bad connection?"
"No, it's okay, AYSAVMCL. How can I help you?"
"I am outside your flat. Can I please enter to read gas meter?"
"Sure, no problem."
"I will only go just inside to look at gas meter."
"Yes, that's fine."
"I need to check it today, but I will only look at gas meter."
"That's okay."
"So I will go now into your flat, and just look at gas meter in toilet."
"Of cou-- No. Wait!"
"I am entering your flat now."
"No! AYSAVMCL! Stop!"
"I am sorry, I could not hear what you have said because of noise of the key."
"AYSAVMCL! I forgot to say! There is a spider!"
"I don't understand."
"There is a spider in the toilet! You must be careful!"
"It is okay. I will only check gas meter."
"No. You don't understand! A big spider!"
"Yes, yes. This is fine. I am checking gas meter no-- arrrrgggghhhh!!!"
Crunch. Crunch. Sinister laughter.

...or, in a Clue: The Movie-style alternate ending:

"Yes, yes. This is fine. I am checking gas meter now."
Crunch. Crunch. Rustle.
"The number is 6945833002. This is very good. Thank you for respecting my request about control of the thermostat in colder weather. I have killed the spider for you. Goodbye."
"Goodbye."

Back again

It was a dark and stormy night. The sound of footsteps shuffling across the kitchen floor could scarcely be heard above the swish of the rain. The click of the bathroom light was hardly heard above the monotonous whoosh of the wind. A thick silence filled the flat.

“AAAARGGHHH!!!”
Waggle.
“AAARRGGHHH!!!”
More waggling.
“AAARRRGHHH!! You’re back! You were gone!”
Bounce, bounce.
“Go! Leave! Begone!”
Bounce. Waggle. Bounce. Pause. „Nerozumím.” A slightly cynical bounce.
“I banished you! I made the typhoon winds of death with the floppy bottoms of my pyjama trousers at you and you scuttled away. Then I hoovered up your web. Several times. And mopped the floor to remove scent trails and spider germs. In case you use scent trails. You were gone!”
„Nerozumím.” Defiant bounce.
“What do you mean you don’t understand? Of course you understand. I will make the typhoon winds of death again. Understand this, you eight-legged freak!”
Wwwhhhhhffffff. Flap. Flap.
Bounce. Bounce. Snicker.
“Damn. Wrong pyjama bottoms. Can we talk about this?”
„Mluvte česky.”
“What do you mean, ‘Speak Czech’? Have you been talking to Mrs. Jana? You’re a spider. Spiders don’t get to be picky about language choice, especially when they invade my loo.”
„Mluvte česky.”
“No. I refuse. And stop with the Czech speech marks. It's annoying. Like your legs. Get out.”
„Mluvte česky. Or I will crawl on your pathetically exposed big toe.”
“AAARGGHH! No! Gerroff!”
„Chachá!”
“Now you’re being weird. Just because ballroom dancing is strangely popular here, and still an extracurricular activity pursued by many teenagers as part of a well-rounded education is no reason to be making laughing noises in a knowing dance-referenced way.”
„‘Ch’ is like loch. This is how Czechs laugh. Stupid foreigner.”
“I know that. I am trying to distract you while I reach for the loo brush. Stupid spider.”
„Co? Co že?”
Swish. Splat.
„Áááááá!”
(slightly muffled by the wooden door lintel) „At last, my revenge is complete! This door corner is forever mine! Never again will you be able to blithely visit the toilet in the middle of the night, with carefree unshod feet! Know this, stupid toilet-brush-wielding speaker of inferior Czech! I Vill Be Back! Chachachachachá!!!”

Oh crap.

Sitchuashun normal

Feh. Still have the blahs bookwise. Have been trawling the internets looking for things to add to my shopping list and mainly thinking, "Meh," at any fiction.

But in better news, it seems as if my long-awaited ebook reader may potentially arrive in the next few weeks in someone's suitcase (it's been sitting in its box on someone's hall table for the last 8 weeks, and I simply don't trust it in the post). Woohoo.

And better, yet, Tanya Gold was on most excellent form today in the Guardian. In my case it was the incessant demands for fish knives that drove me to a similar level of despair and rage that although banked, still burns. The fish knives and an £85 cotton bathmat. And this was over 4 years ago, when pounds were actually worth something. It's probably a £150 cotton bathmat by now. What in the hell would anyone want to do with an EIGHTY-FIVE POUND bathmat? Frame it?

I want to marry her, and then we can both get all the spoons.

That spider?

...it is gone.

While a better, nobler person would admit *to some feelings of guilt and concern over its homelessness, I am afraid that I am not that person. I am dancing the dance of a thousand empty toilet rolls. In bare feet.

That said, I should probably clarify that no spiders were harmed during the typing of this blog. In fact, the photo is not a crudely exploitational shot of the rather less audacious spider that previously nestled in the corner of my loo door. It is actually a (bad) picture of a 2-year-old stunt spider (this is mature and responsible in spider terms) of sound mind and limb who was paid above-union rates for its participation in this shoot.

But y'know, in the middle of the night, I think my spider got this big and webtastic. Really.

*ETA: "to" not "of". Aaarrrggghhh.

Down the spout

I have almost nothing to say after such a long absence except that a spider has taken up residence in a crack at the bottom of the loo door. It is getting bigger.

I have no idea which of the native Czech 773 species (and 2 subspecies) it may be, but despite energetic hoovering of webs, mopping of floors and making of hungry frog noises it inevitably returns.

Of course, I am truly grateful that I am not next-door in Slovakia where apparently my chances of death by spider would treble. But still… 12th in the world? Why wasn’t I told?

The question now is how to persuade this non-paying, eight-legged (I have counted) flatmate to leave. A trail of breadcrumbs doesn’t seem quite right. Discussions have foundered over the colour of the toilet rolls and petitions have been submitted about the quality of accommodation in the downstairs bins, although an independent subcommittee has ruled that the staircase would appear to offer ample opportunity for web-spinning.

Perhaps I should be more philosophical about things and focus on the positive. And yet, while I loved, loved, loved Charlotte’s Web when I was younger, the ending now seems a touch… ominous?

Catch-up photo, the first.

pre-Christmas, but not by much, and not in Prague

Once upon a time in Birmingham*, they built a new shopping centre on and around the site of an old marketplace. And both the old marketplace and the new shopping centre, and a shopping centre created in the 1970s that no one likes to talk about much, were called the Bullring. And outside the new shiny mall, part of which looked like a giant silver alien beehive hairdryer, they placed an 8-foot bronze statue of a bull.

And to this shopping centre, the mighty Selfridges came from far-off London to open a new department store so that humble folk from far and wide (or at least the ones in Midlandcestershire) could obtain those sturdy, shiny yellow plastic carrier bags with dramatic black writing and thereby declare (in a not-terribly-subliminal-way) "Behold! I have (expensive) style!"

And to the basement floor of this department store of marvels, came an American sweet company. And they opened their only European store with much fanfare and rejoicing for they were able to help the inhabitants of Midlandcestershire, and their visiting relatives, to fulfill their ultimate destiny. And their destiny was, of course, to obtain limited edition Hershey's Kisses and gobstoppers the size of tennis balls. And the crowning glory of this marvellous achievement was an 8-foot statue of the bronze bull made out of jelly beans, and priced at £20,000.

*not the one in Alabama, more the Midlandcestershire area of the UK...

And now featuring one of my absolutest favoritest book series that I read last year

Don’t mind me – I’m just warming up my blogging muscles - such as they are.

I’m not the sort of person who deliberately catalogues what I read in any particular way. It’s more that the vast and growing-ever-more-mountainous-yet accretion of books in my room has a life (and a structure) of it's own. Regarding the first, flatmates have speculated on the leporine breeding habits of the common or garden liber fictionalis (sic[k] - and sorry to any latinists). At least in such close quarters. And doesn't all the noise keep me awake at nights?

But as regards the second, on the Great Paperback Mountain, if you know how to read the topology, patterns emerge... Duly extracted from the third pile of paperbacks in from the left (spines out) at the back on the top shelf of the Bower of Bliss that is my incarnation of A Well-Known-Swedish-Modular-Furniture-Flatpak-Company's birch-effect "Mötesplats"* model I offer for consideration Laurie R. King’s "Mary Russell" series.

Except anything that follows is going to be crap, because whenever I try to explain my adoration for this series, I am woefully ineloquent. I end up talking like this, “They're really, really good. Promise. Seriously. They're soooo goooood. Wait - please don’t read the back cover. It's much better than that, really. You’ll like it. You might love it. Please stop reading the back cover. It's not like that. I promise. Well, okay a little. Yes, it is Sherlock Holmes and yes, he is married. I've just made that sound really weird. But it’s not. Well, okay, he is a lot older than her, but I just sort of channel Sean Connery and it helps. But it's like all about their meeting of minds...

"Wait, wait a sec before you put it down. Please? Yes, that one has Kipling’s Kim in it. But he’s a great character she really makes him her own. Anyhow, they're all sort of inter-textual and each book is like a homage to these classic genres of popular fiction. You know the Gothic mystery, and the Locked Room mystery… And they’re really cool, because she’s a feminist, and there are these ideas about the outsider the observer and how she makes her own place, because she’s half English and half American and Jewish. And she’s a theologian. So she questions everything and doesn't accept the way society would try to limit her. Oh. Okay. Not really your thing. Try this Meg Cabot. A cheerleader has her head chopped off and put in a saucepan.”

But secretly? Secretly, I want to be Mary Russell when I grow up. Just like I want to be Harriet Vane when I grow up. Not for the events or the mysteries or the men in their lives, but for the thoughtful and even (ungrammatically) thinking way they live their lives.

Actually, I owe a huge thank you to Marianne McA who recommended this series to me, and hooked me by way of an extract from the first of the books, The Beekeeper’s Apprentice. I can do no more, it seems. Alas. So don’t pay attention to my witterings – go read the extract.

*(koff) not a the name of the real product - their word means "shop assistant". This word doesn't and I like it better.

Edited to update links. My bad. Thanks Suisan for spotting this.

Updates

Flatmate update:

She came, she collected, she went.

Have a new one now and am focussed on lowering my expectations mightily. I'm anticipating achieving suspicious serial killer behaviour by Wednesday (insert joke about muesli here).

Weather update:

Snooooolluussshh. But cold. The hat with the earflaps has come out of storage, and I am monitoring the incremental plummet of the temperature on the way into work via the digital display in front of the pet supplies store.

Edited to add: except for today, when it went up again. But there's snow in the mountains this year, and people keep sneaking off for mid-week skiing sessions

24 hours in Berlin update:

The only thing that it is possible to obtain in the big shopping mall atop Berlin Hauptbahnhof (I now call it Hbf for that air of Teutonic coolness) that I cannot buy here are fist-sized Dunkin' Doughnuts and fragments of The Wall. Instead, enterprising urchins supply the souvenir-hungry tourist with historic cobbles "from the streets of Old Prague", and we have endless variations on the twisty-sweet-bread theme, but while many are filled, none are fried.

Weird to think that only twenty years ago the sight of a Coke bottle was a novelty, and that a lot of the people I know here can still vividly remember the arrival of the first MacDonald's in Prague. But they did have little brown plastic hand-held video games of a fox/wolf and a duck. It seems a little like a parallel universe where the playmobil figures were machinists and miners, rather than doctors and firemen.

Back in Berlin, luckily for me, B. showed stunning resourcefulness in eventually locating me so I didn't have to take the last train back on Saturday and instead got my 24 hours in Kreuzberg.

DVD addiction update:

Six Feet Under. Blimey it's good. And I think I have a whole 6 seasons to catch up on. Woohoo.

Blogger language update:

It's gone back to Czech.

Mrs. Jana update:

It seems a second Mrs. Jana is hoving into view on the horizon. I will know more the weekend after this one.

Date update

I ate dates in Berlin. Also a persimmon.

Too embarrassed to call it anything but number seven

The thing is, someone else recently told me about one of their former flatmates, the pinnacle of whose appalling behaviour was his attempt to drive out P. from his council-provided splendour with twin offensives in the form of poor personal hygiene and flamboyantly noisy live-in lovers squatting on the sofa. This was followed up by a pathetic attempt to steal P.'s identity and thereby claim his benefits.

The plot was foiled by the aforementioned vociferous and as it turned out, spurned and vengeful lover Revealing All, and I mean All in the menswear department of Dickens and Jones. But it was the seventies, it might have worked.

I am now a little embarrassed at my previous description of my erstwhile flatmate's behaviour as "appalling". A trifle annoying perhaps. A mild social solecism. And of course, now that my own level of righteous anger has faded to mildly pissed off, I feel guilt and ashamedly petty about my own actions.

To sum up, I returned home after a week away to find a message that read, "I have decided I hate it here. I have left work and moved back home. I need to know what to do with the keys. Don't worry about paying me back for the rest of this month's rent."

This would be the person who had agreed that because of her lack of deposit and general uncertainty about life, the universe and tram times she would give me a definite 4 weeks notice of her plans to vacate or pay the difference. The one who had organised her entire life here (including a fall-back career and alternative Friday job) in advance from the other side of the world before arriving. The one who had never lifted a finger to do any cleaning and kept her own store of toilet paper in her room, since it seems that short lets do not dust or have a communal attitude to personal hygiene products (although other people's DVDs are another matter). The one who left only three days before next month's rent was due, which would make it a three days rent-but-no-tenant-bonus. Ice creams are on me.

A few weeks later, no sign of the keys in the post, but a further message, "My friends are coming to stay in Hotel XYZ for the weekend. Please take the things I left behind around to their hotel for me so they can bring them back for me. Don't bother about the food or anything, just the clothes, shoes and bags."

These would be the clothes that had been left in dirty piles on the floor (now laundered) or mildewing gently in the washing machine on my return. With shoes and everything, the enormous canvas holdall allocated to the task weighed about 20 kilos (44 lbs.) and would have required a taxi to deliver.

Gentle readers, I said no.

Today falls on the last day of the weekend of the visitation and I have not taken the items around. The weather is bad, the taxi drivers are angry, the hotel has steps. Twenty navy-blue, canvas kilos of guilt are weighing on my conscience with fraying straps.

Crrrracked.

So last weekend, still in the grip of my emotional maelstrom, and made reckless by a clutch of last month's unused food vouchers* I went a little wild and experimental in the bio-food emporium owned by the 7th Day Adventists (closed on Saturdays - it's very disconcerting. No trading on Sundays is still the norm here for smaller shops).

I should probably add that as a tree-hugging, muesli-crunching, hemp-sandal-wearing herbivore I am a regular patron of this and other bio-shops. It's just that I normally confine my purchases to things I recognise and know how to cook. You know where you are with tofu - it's not usually going to do anything more vicious than wobble alarmingly and take on lurid hues when it's past the sell-by date. And green leafy stuff is pretty much universally manageable.

But all those little bags of dried things can be a little intimidating, and most of the powdered stuff comes hand-labelled with vocabulary that doesn't feature in my "Czech Step-by-Step". They frown on the sniff test in there, too.

However, novelty is a many-splendoured thing, and last Sunday the "novinky" section was filled to the bursting with little (recycled) plastic pots of crackery-biscuitty type things. So after much deliberation I picked up box of "orange-lemon-ginger flax rolls". Sounds yummy. Mmmmm…

Luckily, as a small child I used to eat paper, so the principal texture and flavour didn't come as a total shock. And then, the flax seeds added a certain je ne sais quoi to the whole chewing experience which can only be described as "mucilage". (Is that a word? I have done that thing with soaked flaxseeds as a substitute for egg whites but was never very convinced by it.)

But I did learn the Czech for "Slowly dehydrated at 48 degrees centigrade for several hours to preserve health and vitality." And this made me realise that rather than delighting in biscuitty-goodness itself, I was basically eating the mummified husks of biscuits. The only thing is that I'm not sure if they're meant to reincarnate of their own accord or if I need to stand under a pyramid holding a razor and a dead mouse first. Pass the natron.

*Is this a Czech thing? Because pretty much every company here seems to pay a small fraction of your salary in food vouchers. Just like luncheon vouchers, but they're far more widely accepted, and you can use them in most restaurants, cafés and even supermarkets… Rules and checkout ladies permitting

Gone through the wringer have I...yes...

So... as of ten o'clock this morning, I am a real, genuine Evil Auntie. Words cannot describe (although I'm sure I'll recover shortly).

I've also just finished re-reading The Color Purple for banned books week at Smart Bitches'.

I have snot down my face and my favorite bookshop just gave me free promotional mug.

All in all, I'm an emotional yo-yo. Or is that Yoda? Yogurt?

Whitsun Bank Holiday report

Went to England. Got rained on. Saw many cute small children belonging to friends. Got sand in mouth. Came back. Got roasted. Changed trousers. Got rained on. Lost my will to grammarcate. Got thundered on. Ion activity in atmosphere stimulated plans for wholly new additions to English lexicon. Got lightninged on. Thought about hiding under the bed. Frame broke. Ate a sandwich.

And yes, it was/is a working day in the Ceska Republika. Despite their wild enthusiasm for Easter and May Day traditions, it seems that Pentecost/Whitsun is viewed with a more take-it-or-leave-it attitude.

On the upside, I have 22 kilos of new books to read. Just no time.
I have 3 lbs. of really lovely new tea to drink. But no milk.
The sunburn on the backs of my hands is fading. And also peeling.
I wrote a poem on the plane for SBs. Am unsure of the scanning and left it at home.
Friend is coming to visit for the Prague Spring Music Festival (& Fringe). Haven't bought any tickets yet.

So it's all a bit of a glass half-full, glass half-empty kinda day, which leaves me with no alternative but to go home and do impressionistic dance in my pyjamas to appease the broken mesh-like thingy from the tap in the bathroom basin which has fallen off, causing water to shoot out in wild and unexpected directions whenever it is operated.

Whatever else, at least there will be chocolate.