Coming to a bridge near you
I start today's witter, not with a skip in my step, or a song in my heart, but with a curse on the eyes of Vodafone and their 'internet' keys. I write this because it has taken me quite some considerable time to connect to this blog, and time = money, and despite being relatively rich in the fomer, I'm distinctly poor in the latter. For this, and not for any personal failing of course, I blame Vodafone.
Barring something remarkable happening in the coming week that is both interesting and parent-friendly enough, this will be my last post, pre-summer, so let's make it adequate, eh?
A couple of weeks ago, I went to a sagra with chums Simone and Laura. For those of you unaware of what one of these be, it be a type of fair/festival for food. Many little towns and villages have sagras, and each sagra 'celebrates' a particular kind of food. My only previous experience of a sagra was back in the mists of time and for wild boar, which was one part delicious and one part bewildering. This most recent sagra was for focaccine, which are essentially filled rolls made from fried dough. The food was almost exclusively following this theme, and was very nice indeed. For a Scottish chap, a sagra is a very strange thing to behold though, as despite there being plentiful supplies of beer and wine, there was no trouble. No yoofs looking threatening, no adults squaring up to each other, no old people falling asleep in corners, not even a recently deposited pool of vomit was to be found. These people clearly don't know how to live and truly appreciate life. The queue for the only food counter was gargantuan, while the bar looked as lonely and dejected as someone who is known around the office as a lift-farter. Bloody foreigners. Unfortunately I had to leave to get the train before the smooth music started and the old people started to kindofwaltz, but you can't have it all, I suppose.
A female friend (I don't remember which one: what can I say I'm like catnip to girls provided that we'd be romantically incompatible or they already have boyfriends) said recently that my blog has too much football chat, which I took as a veiled plea for more football chat. I'm not one to purposefully disappoint my audience as I'm sure this happens in a more organic process, so here goes. A couple of Fridays ago I wasn't having a great time, and wasn't particularly happy, so went to play football in the evening. This was the perfect cure for my malaise, as I had quite a lot of irritation to take out on the football. I scored a heroic 4 goals, and was described by one team mate as a Maiuscola. For those of you what don't know, this was quite a nice thing to be told. Next stop Hampden. A not particularly novel motivation when smashing the balls into the back of the net was to imagine someones' head in place of the ball, which I did with aplomb, however, stemming as it was from my not-entirely-full-of-the-joys-of-springness, a couple of times it was my head I was aiming at. Who knew I could be so limber?
In more football spraff, I'm counting down the days to the next season (whenever that may actually be), as a summer with no football taking place is like a corkscrew without a bottle of wine, a reference to the Pope without mentioning his Hitler Youth days, or a pencil without lead: pointless. I'm so excited to get back to the stadium while pleasingly inebbriated, and I just can't hide it.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand finally, as previously mentioned, I'm leaving Genoa for the summer on 30th June, and will be in Scotland til the middle of August. To be honest, I'm fairly indifferent about this as I'll be working almost all of the time while I'm there. When I come back here, I'm currently facing the thrilling prospect of being homeless, as I'm for 100% sure that I'm moving out of my current abode next week. I've been looking for a new place to lay my hat, but as yet, to no avail. I'll continue looking, but worst comes to worst, could any Genovese friends please keep an eye out for any cosy looking bridges I could sleep under? I'd prefer, if possible, to not be sharing them with any junkies, hookers, thieves, rats or trolls. Call me picky, but if you don't ask, you don't get.
Right, I should probably get dressed (it's mighty hot here) and go back to work, so, se sei a genova ci sentiamo questa settimana, or if yur in Sco'lan' maybe see ye next, ken?
Toodle pip
Barring something remarkable happening in the coming week that is both interesting and parent-friendly enough, this will be my last post, pre-summer, so let's make it adequate, eh?
A couple of weeks ago, I went to a sagra with chums Simone and Laura. For those of you unaware of what one of these be, it be a type of fair/festival for food. Many little towns and villages have sagras, and each sagra 'celebrates' a particular kind of food. My only previous experience of a sagra was back in the mists of time and for wild boar, which was one part delicious and one part bewildering. This most recent sagra was for focaccine, which are essentially filled rolls made from fried dough. The food was almost exclusively following this theme, and was very nice indeed. For a Scottish chap, a sagra is a very strange thing to behold though, as despite there being plentiful supplies of beer and wine, there was no trouble. No yoofs looking threatening, no adults squaring up to each other, no old people falling asleep in corners, not even a recently deposited pool of vomit was to be found. These people clearly don't know how to live and truly appreciate life. The queue for the only food counter was gargantuan, while the bar looked as lonely and dejected as someone who is known around the office as a lift-farter. Bloody foreigners. Unfortunately I had to leave to get the train before the smooth music started and the old people started to kindofwaltz, but you can't have it all, I suppose.
A female friend (I don't remember which one: what can I say I'm like catnip to girls provided that we'd be romantically incompatible or they already have boyfriends) said recently that my blog has too much football chat, which I took as a veiled plea for more football chat. I'm not one to purposefully disappoint my audience as I'm sure this happens in a more organic process, so here goes. A couple of Fridays ago I wasn't having a great time, and wasn't particularly happy, so went to play football in the evening. This was the perfect cure for my malaise, as I had quite a lot of irritation to take out on the football. I scored a heroic 4 goals, and was described by one team mate as a Maiuscola. For those of you what don't know, this was quite a nice thing to be told. Next stop Hampden. A not particularly novel motivation when smashing the balls into the back of the net was to imagine someones' head in place of the ball, which I did with aplomb, however, stemming as it was from my not-entirely-full-of-the-joys-of-springness, a couple of times it was my head I was aiming at. Who knew I could be so limber?
In more football spraff, I'm counting down the days to the next season (whenever that may actually be), as a summer with no football taking place is like a corkscrew without a bottle of wine, a reference to the Pope without mentioning his Hitler Youth days, or a pencil without lead: pointless. I'm so excited to get back to the stadium while pleasingly inebbriated, and I just can't hide it.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand finally, as previously mentioned, I'm leaving Genoa for the summer on 30th June, and will be in Scotland til the middle of August. To be honest, I'm fairly indifferent about this as I'll be working almost all of the time while I'm there. When I come back here, I'm currently facing the thrilling prospect of being homeless, as I'm for 100% sure that I'm moving out of my current abode next week. I've been looking for a new place to lay my hat, but as yet, to no avail. I'll continue looking, but worst comes to worst, could any Genovese friends please keep an eye out for any cosy looking bridges I could sleep under? I'd prefer, if possible, to not be sharing them with any junkies, hookers, thieves, rats or trolls. Call me picky, but if you don't ask, you don't get.
Right, I should probably get dressed (it's mighty hot here) and go back to work, so, se sei a genova ci sentiamo questa settimana, or if yur in Sco'lan' maybe see ye next, ken?
Toodle pip
posted by michael | 07:44
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