Eu, vulpea si-un kebab de pui

Intr-o seara veneam de la lucru, moarta de foame. Am intrat in kebab shop din colt. Am ales o optiune din meniul de deasupra tejghelei - chicken shish. Dupa cat imi era de foame, am ales kebabul care se facea cel mai greu. Nu mai puteam refuza puiul din momentul in care era deja pe frigare. Intre timp am conversat cu turcii de acolo comparand cuvinte comune: "mushterie" si "cioban".

In cele din urma mi-am luat pachetul si am pornit spre casa. Cred ca eram ca veveritza din "Ice age". Daca cineva ar fi incercat sa-mi ia mancarea, m-as fi luptat pentru ea. Pe strada noastra ea o vulpe in mijlocul drumului. Vie. Locul asta e plin de vulpi. Seara vin din padurici si cotrobaie prin gunoaie. Daca s-ar fi dat la puiul meu as fi strigat "Banzai!" si as fi luptat pentru ultimul cerculetz de ceapa din kebab. La un moment dat s-a retras vulpea intr-o curte si m-a lasat in pace. Dar ma asteptam sa sara din bezna si sa-mi fure pachetul. Ma vedeam luptandu-ma, transformandu-ne intr-o sfera de blana si stofa, care se rostogoleste pe asfalt.

Frig, frig...

Ni s-a stricat centrala saptamana asta. Luni. Ingineru' care tre' s-o repare a zis ca vine numai vineri. Pana vineri am rabdat un frig ca pe vremea cand "era mai bine pe timpul lui Ceausescu".

Stateam in pat ca o ceapa, cu 10 foite de bluze si camasi pe mine. Abia asteptam sa ajung in metrou, la inghesuiala si caldura.

Mergam spre casa seara cu un entuziasm de nedescris. Intr-o seara am vazut pe trotuar o domnisoara cu sandale cu nestemate pe ele. Imi venea sa merg sa-i dau doua palme, ca s-o trezesc sa stie cat e calendaru'. Si precis avea caldura acasa.
La vara o vom vedea cu cizme, cand afara sunt 30 de grade.

Body Worlds

What I like about London is that it always has something new to offer or places to explore. Today I have been to the O2 arena to see some real dead bodies. In flesh and bone, literally.

The bodies are preserved through plastination by a doctor called Gunther, who also signed my life certificate which was handed as we walked out (if you survive the exhibition, you are giving a life certificate).

The exhibition has preserved bodies of some mortals who signed some agreements that they want their body to be used for scientific purposes or who knows for what other dark desires (we live in the same world as Fritzl after all; so I am not sick to think about the worst, I am realistic). The exhibition started with some small embrios. Then we moved to the next room and there was a lady with a baby in the womb, with all organs and inside things in view. I saw the fat tissue that composes the breasts. It's all fat (no silicone), I now, but I never saw some really nude breasts. So nude they had the skin off. I could have touched her, but I don't like to touch dead bodies, even if they are plastinated. And we were not supposed to touch them, anyway. I could see the nails, the teeth, the eyes...

I think I went pale but then I got used to it. After the pregnant woman followed a basketball player, a painter (a skinned body with muscles and bones in view, with a brush in one hand). What I could not watch for too long was a skinned man holding his own skin on a hand, like one would hold a coat (picture).

In a different room, when I saw a man riding a horse and holding his brain in one hand I was thinking - Ok with the man, but what did they have against the horse?

In there I had the impression that I could smell formol and dead bodies. I kept asking people - can you smell something? No. It was not smelly, but I could smell something. Death maybe.

Anyway, it was a good anatomy lesson.

I hate underground suiciders as much as they hate themselves

Travelling on London tube at 9 am may not be a pleasant experience. The platforms are crowded and 3 minutes between 2 trains are meaningful in this sense. If trains arrived every minute (sometimes this happens, but sometimes not) than the amount of people would be acceptable. If the next train arrives 3-4 minutes later this means we have a crowded train in the morning. Not as crowded as in Japan, though. This is Europe, London Underground employees don't wear gloves.

Ok. It's 9 am, we already are in a crowded train where people read free newspapers or put mascara on their eyelashes or listen to music. More people get in than get off for about 8-10 stations. Then at the right station, where you have to get off you become free. Free to walk and to follow the crowd to a different line which is supposed to take you to work. Then you hear a voice announcing "Beause of a person under a train, there are severe delays on the Jubilee Line".
That person just chose to die at 9 am on a Monay morning on te Jubilee Line. Don't they get e-mails with cheap Valium and Viagra offers, do they? A posh (because it is in French) way to end your business is to drink "Vert de Paris". Or if you are on a budget suicide - try Domestos or Tesco Limescale Remover (the blue one).

Apart from pissing the city off with your death, some suiciders also destroy the life of the poor train driver. Some of the drivers never get back to work, after they see the person on the lines looking them in the eyes just before being turned into tomato soup. It's not easy for the driver and I can understand that. It's like you are a cleaner and someone commits suicide with your mop, in front of you. Or you work online and someone blows his brains on your Internet connection. You can't get back there: you change provider and notebook and never mop again.

If you are a future suicider and are reading this, you might want to consider the alternatives I mentioned and start using them on a Sunday evening while people are watching "Desperate Housewives". If you have chutzpah and want to feel you're dying, this way you will stay away from trains on Mondays.

Poppy Appeal

Last year I started seeing people with red flowers on their coats. Men and women, youngsters and old alike. After the 10th man I asked google to see what it meant. They wear poppies "lest we forget"; so that they don't forget about their war heroes and veterans.

Yesterday it was Remembrance Day which does not seem anything to me, but to them it means a lot. BBC has a lot of programs about wars and heroes and veterans in November.

I promise to wear the martzishor in March. That means something to me.

Being different in London

What I like in London is that people can dress however they like and nobody will comment in the streets about that (or worse, shout at them).

One evening I was going to a party in a club and on Regent Street I saw a bunch of happy girls, all dressed in pyjamas and wearing fluffy slippers. Some of them were holding teddy-bears. They made my evening. I couldn't stare because being stared at is something the Brits hate (if I believe what I have read on the Internet once).

Last Thursday I was in the tube station waiting for my train and there were two women dressed as witches. One of them had a greenish face which stroke me as odd, because I am used to see women with orange faces (thanks to the tanning beds). So - orange, yes. But green? I was thinking maybe green is the new orange. But no. They were heading to a Halloween party, I decided. But nobody was whispering or laughing behind their back. Maybe everyone else has an opinion, they like or dislike the way somebody is dressed, but nobody makes you feel uncomfortable in the street with loud comments and laughter. In Western countries I think they accept more the fact that people are different, so they dress different, they have different haircuts, hair colours or no hair at all. On the other hand, the herd spirit is found here as well: all women who wear their bags on an erectile arm to give just one example.

Pap test for mammies

I can't tell women how important is to have a pap test. The other day I got on tube to take me home and I opened a newspaper I found there. And I came across a page with a title like "How I discovered I have cervical cancer". Not the article I wanted to read about, being in a similar situation. It's like your period is late and all you see in the street are pregnant women and mums with babies in prams.

Luckily I discovered the abnormal cells early and I might not die right now. And it all started with a Pap test.

"The Papanicolaou test (also called Pap smear, Pap test, cervical smear, or smear test) is a screening test used in gynecology to detect premalignant and malignant processes in the ectocervix. Significant changes can be treated, thus preventing cervical cancer. The test was invented by and named after Georgios Papanikolaou, but was also independently invented by Aurel Babeş.

The UK's call and recall system is among the best; estimates of its effectiveness vary widely but it may prevent about 700 deaths per year in the UK. A medical practitioner performing 200 tests each year would prevent a death once in 38 years, while seeing 152 women abnormal results, referring 79 for investigation, obtaining 53 abnormal biopsy results, and seeing 17 persisting abnormalities for more than two years. At least one woman during the 38 years would die from cervical cancer despite being screened." (Wikipedia)

101 things to do before I die (reloaded)

1. Make soap bubbles at least once
2. Go and see the muddy volcanoes in Romania
3. Write a book
4. Get permanent residence in the UK
5. Go on a beach with turquoise sea
6. Get a pet (e.g. a cat)
7. Make 2 children
8. Learn to cook better
9. Get a driving licence
10. Love and be loved like at 20
11. Go to a beauty parlour once
12. Touch a dolphin
13. See a Shakespearean play in English
14. Re-visit Praid salt mine
15. Go to a Guns n' Roses concert (I hear they re-unite without Slash for some concerts)
16. Wear skirts more often
17. Go to church at least once a month
18. Ride a horse
19. Play "Guitar Hero"
20. Read Jan Kott's - "Shakespeare our contemporary?"
21. Go to a real football match (i.e. Steaua-Middlesborough, Arsenal-Chelsea, FCK Moskova-Manchester United, FC Birmingham - FC Warwick, Nicovala Sighisoara - Avantul/Prabusirea Reghin)
22. Make subtitles for Romanian historical movies like "Dacii si Romanii", "Vlad Tepes" and many more. I have seen some pieces from "Vlad Tepes" on youtube and I think it was a great film. Also Dacii si Romanii can equal any modern s*** like "300" and any other film they make in Photoshop or similar applications.


(to be continued)

I bought a bottle to make bubbles, made about 50 in the back yard and another 8 in the room. The bottle is still at hand if I fancy bubbles again on a sunny day. (And I will).

Catch Up episode

Catch up with the things I have done last weekend and how I can look myself in the mirror again.

I had two Italian classes so far. The other students are well in their 40s or late 50s. I like to hang out with young people...

Stay tuned, I'll go and grab the ink-pot.

Hell is paved with good intentions

Today I wanted to make an apple pie, because I found some abandoned cooking apples in our kitchen. They are so sour, nobody wants to use them, not even to make an apple-scented shampoo or something. So I bought some pastry which had to defrost in the sun, near the rusty vice from the back yard.

In the meantime - Dickensian enough - the gas in the house stopped because the gas card needs being topped up. It's like the pre-paid phone cards. You pay - you use. No pay - no pie.

10 minutes earlier I remembered my pastry forgotten in the dark, outside near the rusty good old vice. I had to put it in the fridge again.

This evening's prayer:

Good Lord, give us gas, but make sure it does not come from the Russian pipe. If You can't find any other resources I can do without gas. I could use frozen food and the microwave for my entire life.
Tonight we'll see how it is without central heating: we'll put an extra pullover on. Tomorrow pity us with some gas, but not from Gazprom. Amen.

Oh, so... Soho!

I've been out to a club last night, in Soho. First time I heard about Soho in Mr. Sfariac's course at university. He told us about customers sipping their cocktails in Soho bars. It was the British culture and civilisation course. He told us about political parties, newspapers etc. but I only remember the light and useless stuff. Anyway, if vampires suck blood, Brits sip a cocktail. And then another one. And then another one.

I first been to Soho last year with Marian, a friend. He took me to a thai restaurant. We had a place near the window, so that I could watch passers-by while sipping my onion-and-cockroach soup (or whatever scorpio they boil in thai cuisine). And I saw a man and then looked further to see his appendix and it was another man. They were hand in hand. Which is always a nice gesture, but I was not used to see 2 men doing it. They were not sipping cocktails as I was taught, but who knows what were they up to later that evening.

So, last night I got there a bit earlier (it means I got there on time) but I had to wait for my friends who were late. The club was full with young ladies wearing dresses and sequin bags and high-heeled sandals like they were at the opera, not in a dark crowded place where they drink and retch. Besides, high heels, alcohol and square pavement in the streets are not a recommended combination if you ask me.

I met a guy from Moldova. I like the way they talk, the words they use. A Romanian would never use those words, we have updated versions. The language they speak seems to me like it has been frozen for 50-100 years and now it came to life again with all those archaic words. I pity them because politically they want to be with us Romanians (at least somebody in this world wants us), but corrupt communist politicians in their country don't.

We gossiped a bit about Russians, he told me war stories he heard about Russian "heroes".
Someone told him that in 1980 during the Olympics in MosCow, for Russia to make a good impression in the world, they filled the shops with everything, especially food. People felt like in heaven for a week.
In the north of Russia if you throw out of the window some hot tea, it will freeze until it hits the ground. That is why I prefer the sink to throw away unwanted liquids, niet chiuveta (rakovina). But who could understand them?

Today's prayer:
Dear God, I am happy in Soho it is warmer than in Russia. And I don't want Russians in Soho, either. Please, God, keep them away of the European Union and make our borders thicker, to resist their tanks if necessary. Amen.

A memorable first day

September 17th was my first day at work. And I made it a day to remember. Or better - they made it a day to remember.

In the morning, I was almost late because in the tube station at Nothing Hill Gate they stopped us for about 5 minutes, I don't know the reason.We were not allowed to go to the platform and I was to far to hear the explanations. Finally I made it.

In the evening I took the tube to take me to the Central Line. I changed trains and got a central line one and after 5 minutes the train stopped in a station and the driver said that there is a signal failure and we will depart as soon as that is fixed. So I waited for about half an hour. Then I decided to got off the train. In the station there were a lot of policemen, I don't know what they were doing. They could have signalized one every 100m - if the system is not reliable - and the train could have departed.

I asked at the station what bus could take me home and the driver said "W14" and for a couple of seconds I could not figure out what number was "W". My mind was repeating "double u fourteen", I could see the 1 and 4 but W was not in the group of natural numbers.
So I decided to take a bus which would take me closer to home. I waited 45 minutes for a convenient one.

On its way, a man got on and the driver told him something like to get off, because he was last night with a woman and I don't know what the problem had been.The man went: "I beg your pardon?"The driver went: "You were with a woman last night and you got on and [I don't know what he said, because English is a foreign language to me]"The man: "I beg your pardon? I am with no woman. I am single."If I had been him, I would have added: "I masturbate" or "I am abstinent" for a complete picture. I mean I wanted the problem solved and more evidence was needed for that. Oral evidence. Finally they made peace, the driver apologized and the show ended to my disappointment.

The bus's destination changed on our way, so instead to take us closer to home, we had to get off one tube station away. And I waited there for another 30-40 minutes for a second bus. Then I walked home and finally got there. It took me 3 hours to get home. Usually it takes me 1 hour to travel from work to home.