General musings
Hello everyone, March madness is clearly upon us, as this is the second post that I've done in a month! Don't worry, I'll not post anything after this for a while to give you a chance to recover.
So, the last couple of weeks haven't been particulalry remarkable, but I thought I'd give you another update on the helter skelter life that belongs to me.
The bus system here is quite good, and a definite experience in the grand scheme of Genova things (there's not that much to do here, and the opportunity to be squeezed up against an old lady that smells of pee can definitely be classed as an experience). People complain about the buses, but compared to the sometimes erratic LRT, they seem pretty good. There are loads, and the city centre's pretty small, so you don't normally have to wait long. Also, there's no timetable but a lot of bus stops have an electronic scoreboard thing which tells you when the next bus will be. This is a good thing. Anyway, last week I was on the bus and almost at my stop. We went round a roundabout and for some reason a man was walking across the roundabout and he walked into the road just before the bus went round. The bus driver hit his brakes hard and his horn even harder to avoid hitting him and to politely let him know what was narrowly avoided. The man in the road then went into the classic "shouting and making hand-gestures at the bus driver" routine, which presented an opportunity to respond that the bus driver couldn't resist. So he stopped the bus in the roundabout, got out of his wee cabin thing and started shouting and waving his hands at the man. Unfortunately the doors were closed, so I don't think the man heard the precise details of the drivers ire, but I reckon he got the gist. We then continued the 10 metres to the bus stop and went about our days.
Two weeks ago there was a match versus Cagliari, which I duly went to. However, in an act of comical drinking, I went to the pub at 12, having not eaten, drank a heady mixture of beer and sambuca for 2 and 1/2 hours, and to be honest, don't remember much of the match. Or after the match. Or getting home. There's nothing like a bit of Sunday afternoon drunkenness to prepare yourself for the week ahead. Apparently the match was the best game this season, which thanks to the highlights on Youtube I've been able to relive, but still, a touch disappointing considering I was there and yet don't remember everything. Oops. Needless to say I've been more careful with the devil's nectar this week, and passed all of Sunday afternoon without gettting hilariously drunk.
I went for a haircut at the weekend, having not had a trim since I was in Scotland at Christmas. I wanted my fine Germanic locks to just be a wee bit shorter, and so asked for this. The hairdresser man said ok, and then cut about two inches off my hair. This is not what I asked for, and now my hair is too short. It is comforting to know however, that hairdressers share a universal code of not really listening to their customers and just cut the hair til they get bored with that head. My boss said that I look older and more professional, which is not necessarily a good thing, while my students have said that I look about 18. Noooo! They negelected to say whether or not it gave the illusion of professionalism. I guess they always thought I emitted this aura anyway. Either way, I just want my old hair back, so next time I get drunk I might stage a Watergate-style raid on the hairdressers to take it back. Who says being drunk robs you of your dignity?
Not wanting to blow my own trumpet (mostly because I'm not very good and the neighbours have been complaining about my screeching), but I think I'm a bit of a whizz at making pizzas. The bases are soft while not being uncooked, and the toppings are....., well, it'd be pretty difficult to make a mess of the toppings, but still, damn, I'm good! No Italian has eaten my pizza, so when this day comes they'll probably shoot me down. But anyway, damn, I'm good!
And finally, I have a joke for you.
A Scottishman, an Englishman and an Irishman are driving in the desert when their car brakes down. They don't have any phone reception, and their miles from the nearest town, so after a while they decide to walk. They each decide to take a part of the car to help them in their walk.
The Scotsman decides to take the radiator because there's water in it, and so if he gets thirsty he can drink the water.
The Englishman takes the battery and a headlamp for when it gets dark so he can see where he's going.
The Irishman wants to take a door. "But why?" ask the other two.
He replies: "Well, if it gets too hot I can just wind the window down".
Boom boom.
Ciao!
So, the last couple of weeks haven't been particulalry remarkable, but I thought I'd give you another update on the helter skelter life that belongs to me.
The bus system here is quite good, and a definite experience in the grand scheme of Genova things (there's not that much to do here, and the opportunity to be squeezed up against an old lady that smells of pee can definitely be classed as an experience). People complain about the buses, but compared to the sometimes erratic LRT, they seem pretty good. There are loads, and the city centre's pretty small, so you don't normally have to wait long. Also, there's no timetable but a lot of bus stops have an electronic scoreboard thing which tells you when the next bus will be. This is a good thing. Anyway, last week I was on the bus and almost at my stop. We went round a roundabout and for some reason a man was walking across the roundabout and he walked into the road just before the bus went round. The bus driver hit his brakes hard and his horn even harder to avoid hitting him and to politely let him know what was narrowly avoided. The man in the road then went into the classic "shouting and making hand-gestures at the bus driver" routine, which presented an opportunity to respond that the bus driver couldn't resist. So he stopped the bus in the roundabout, got out of his wee cabin thing and started shouting and waving his hands at the man. Unfortunately the doors were closed, so I don't think the man heard the precise details of the drivers ire, but I reckon he got the gist. We then continued the 10 metres to the bus stop and went about our days.
Two weeks ago there was a match versus Cagliari, which I duly went to. However, in an act of comical drinking, I went to the pub at 12, having not eaten, drank a heady mixture of beer and sambuca for 2 and 1/2 hours, and to be honest, don't remember much of the match. Or after the match. Or getting home. There's nothing like a bit of Sunday afternoon drunkenness to prepare yourself for the week ahead. Apparently the match was the best game this season, which thanks to the highlights on Youtube I've been able to relive, but still, a touch disappointing considering I was there and yet don't remember everything. Oops. Needless to say I've been more careful with the devil's nectar this week, and passed all of Sunday afternoon without gettting hilariously drunk.
I went for a haircut at the weekend, having not had a trim since I was in Scotland at Christmas. I wanted my fine Germanic locks to just be a wee bit shorter, and so asked for this. The hairdresser man said ok, and then cut about two inches off my hair. This is not what I asked for, and now my hair is too short. It is comforting to know however, that hairdressers share a universal code of not really listening to their customers and just cut the hair til they get bored with that head. My boss said that I look older and more professional, which is not necessarily a good thing, while my students have said that I look about 18. Noooo! They negelected to say whether or not it gave the illusion of professionalism. I guess they always thought I emitted this aura anyway. Either way, I just want my old hair back, so next time I get drunk I might stage a Watergate-style raid on the hairdressers to take it back. Who says being drunk robs you of your dignity?
Not wanting to blow my own trumpet (mostly because I'm not very good and the neighbours have been complaining about my screeching), but I think I'm a bit of a whizz at making pizzas. The bases are soft while not being uncooked, and the toppings are....., well, it'd be pretty difficult to make a mess of the toppings, but still, damn, I'm good! No Italian has eaten my pizza, so when this day comes they'll probably shoot me down. But anyway, damn, I'm good!
And finally, I have a joke for you.
A Scottishman, an Englishman and an Irishman are driving in the desert when their car brakes down. They don't have any phone reception, and their miles from the nearest town, so after a while they decide to walk. They each decide to take a part of the car to help them in their walk.
The Scotsman decides to take the radiator because there's water in it, and so if he gets thirsty he can drink the water.
The Englishman takes the battery and a headlamp for when it gets dark so he can see where he's going.
The Irishman wants to take a door. "But why?" ask the other two.
He replies: "Well, if it gets too hot I can just wind the window down".
Boom boom.
Ciao!
posted by michael | 04:09
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