Be Still My Beating Heart, among other things
Word up my peeps
Your gallant hero joins you continuing to clamber from the cusp of a coronary catastrophe. "Holy mackerel", I hear you not-imagine, let alone not-say! You see, I thought I'd lost my wallet the other day, which would have been quite massively disappointing. The fact that it's as empty as a prostitute's heart is neither here nor there, but it does have all of my cards and ID, and what with this being a country which is only in the developed world by geographical coincidence, I would not be confident of getting replacements quickly. Also, I couldn't be sure that I'd lost it and some scrote hadn't lifted it out of my pocket on the bus or something, which would really have been extracting the urine. But no, thankfully my work-trouser pockets gape as widely as the holes in Good Ol' Pope Benny's ideas that atheism equates to Nazism. But I don't particularly want to talk about that former Hitler Youth member as I've been reading a lot about his wee jaunt round Britain and it's getting a bit dull now.
In other news, last weekend was massively taxing. On Friday night I went to the pub for a wee while to try and retrace some forgotten steps from the previous weekend, which although didn't become a particularly heavy night was a late one. Then on Saturday I got up early (who knew that 10am exists at the weekend!?) to go and have a coffee with Clare, Patrick and their tiny baby girl Aoife. After a couple of hours of chatting with them and trying to say her name correctly, I wandered home for a wee sleep. Then, Saturday was White Night (which contrary to Dougie's idea, is not a racist party), and I met up with one of my students and his chums. Good times were had, until his girlfriend and her pal looked a bit drunk, so I asked if they were, which he said they weren't, to which I jokingly replied that he must need patience with someone with such a deplorable amount of joie de vivre. He then told her this and she looked a bit cross. I eventually got home at 6 for a few hours of sleep, before a pre-match beer or several. Refreshed and raring to go in (I'm mis-speaking here, I felt like death) I then stood and watched Genoa successfully implode for 70 minutes following a promising start. This was rubbish. The next day I didn't feel great, although my mood was cheered by the trousers of the previously mentioned student. They deserve a paragraph of their own, so here goes:
They are the gayest trousers in the world. They're lilac coloured, and frankly could only have been gayer if they were assless. The lesson seemed like a very short lesson, but maybe because I was laughing for about half of it. Otherwise he's normally quite a sharp dresser, even though he's Sampdoriano.
I've been here for about 5 weeks now, and the considerable war chest that I'd amassed in Scotland has all disappeared. Sadly, I'm skinter than someone's arms whose just come off a scooter. And it's still a while til pay day. This, combined with thinking that I'd maybe lived a touch too hard last weekend led to me deciding to try to abstain from the devil's brew for a week. Needless to say, I failed, but only by two bottles of beers at my mate Francesco's flat warming party. I'd love to say that I feel better for it, but as Winston Churchill said: "I pity those who do not drink, as when they wake up in the morning it's the best they'll feel all day."
In my last post I talked about the sense of uuuufff-ness towards living with new people again, which has been growing in me like the alien baby/egg in Alien*. I'm hoping to keep it enclosed in my chest for as long as possible, but in anticipation of it rupturing out in a haze of cheap but scary special effects, I've been seriously considering getting a single flat, or as the locals call them, a 'monolocale'. Indeed, I've even looked for them on t'internet, and there are a couple that look ok, but here they measure space in square-meters, which I'm lost with. I fully expect it to be tiny, but I'll see, it might be better than living with new people, I just dunno.
Until next time compadres, keep the faith
*I'm far too scared to ever watch all of this film, but have seen John Hurt's demise.
Your gallant hero joins you continuing to clamber from the cusp of a coronary catastrophe. "Holy mackerel", I hear you not-imagine, let alone not-say! You see, I thought I'd lost my wallet the other day, which would have been quite massively disappointing. The fact that it's as empty as a prostitute's heart is neither here nor there, but it does have all of my cards and ID, and what with this being a country which is only in the developed world by geographical coincidence, I would not be confident of getting replacements quickly. Also, I couldn't be sure that I'd lost it and some scrote hadn't lifted it out of my pocket on the bus or something, which would really have been extracting the urine. But no, thankfully my work-trouser pockets gape as widely as the holes in Good Ol' Pope Benny's ideas that atheism equates to Nazism. But I don't particularly want to talk about that former Hitler Youth member as I've been reading a lot about his wee jaunt round Britain and it's getting a bit dull now.
In other news, last weekend was massively taxing. On Friday night I went to the pub for a wee while to try and retrace some forgotten steps from the previous weekend, which although didn't become a particularly heavy night was a late one. Then on Saturday I got up early (who knew that 10am exists at the weekend!?) to go and have a coffee with Clare, Patrick and their tiny baby girl Aoife. After a couple of hours of chatting with them and trying to say her name correctly, I wandered home for a wee sleep. Then, Saturday was White Night (which contrary to Dougie's idea, is not a racist party), and I met up with one of my students and his chums. Good times were had, until his girlfriend and her pal looked a bit drunk, so I asked if they were, which he said they weren't, to which I jokingly replied that he must need patience with someone with such a deplorable amount of joie de vivre. He then told her this and she looked a bit cross. I eventually got home at 6 for a few hours of sleep, before a pre-match beer or several. Refreshed and raring to go in (I'm mis-speaking here, I felt like death) I then stood and watched Genoa successfully implode for 70 minutes following a promising start. This was rubbish. The next day I didn't feel great, although my mood was cheered by the trousers of the previously mentioned student. They deserve a paragraph of their own, so here goes:
They are the gayest trousers in the world. They're lilac coloured, and frankly could only have been gayer if they were assless. The lesson seemed like a very short lesson, but maybe because I was laughing for about half of it. Otherwise he's normally quite a sharp dresser, even though he's Sampdoriano.
I've been here for about 5 weeks now, and the considerable war chest that I'd amassed in Scotland has all disappeared. Sadly, I'm skinter than someone's arms whose just come off a scooter. And it's still a while til pay day. This, combined with thinking that I'd maybe lived a touch too hard last weekend led to me deciding to try to abstain from the devil's brew for a week. Needless to say, I failed, but only by two bottles of beers at my mate Francesco's flat warming party. I'd love to say that I feel better for it, but as Winston Churchill said: "I pity those who do not drink, as when they wake up in the morning it's the best they'll feel all day."
In my last post I talked about the sense of uuuufff-ness towards living with new people again, which has been growing in me like the alien baby/egg in Alien*. I'm hoping to keep it enclosed in my chest for as long as possible, but in anticipation of it rupturing out in a haze of cheap but scary special effects, I've been seriously considering getting a single flat, or as the locals call them, a 'monolocale'. Indeed, I've even looked for them on t'internet, and there are a couple that look ok, but here they measure space in square-meters, which I'm lost with. I fully expect it to be tiny, but I'll see, it might be better than living with new people, I just dunno.
Until next time compadres, keep the faith
*I'm far too scared to ever watch all of this film, but have seen John Hurt's demise.
posted by michael | 07:54
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