Zuzanka

Stumpy John (it’s a long story involving a Donkey) took Che and me to dinner in the old town. More specifically, he took us to a dead posh place on the most expensive street in Prague. I ate melt-in-the-mouth carpaccio with fresh rocket and parmesan, which I know might not be that exciting for you sophisticates, but it was heaven for me. We drank champagne, then wine with a very long name, then a strange nut drink the waiter foisted upon us, and then port. But the highlight of the night had to be the harum scarum taxi ride home.

The driver was in chatty mode and talked ten to the dozen about Zuzanka, his new women, all the while waving his arms around and turning around to face us whilst fleeing along the highway. Zuzanka was very helpful. She gave him directions, warned him about road works and generally bossed him around. She spoke in dulcet, encouraging tones apparently when all was going well with his driving, but got a bit irate whenever he was speeding or went the wrong way. They’d been together 14 months. It was only at the end of the journey that Che realized that Zuzanka was his GPS system.

Four delays and a cancellation

Bleary eyed and exhausted after 12 hours on the plane from Tokyo, I staggered to terminal two. Such was the thronging mass of humanity and suitcases gathered around the Lufthansa check-in counter that I had to ask someone where the queue actually began and ended. He directed me to the far end of the terminal building. I realised that I would not reach the check in desks in my lifetime. From time to time, a harassed individual would run up and down the line yelling “anyone on the 5.15 to Munich/5.25 to Dusseldorf?” etc. But my departure time came and went and I was still not even in sight of the counter. Someone announced that my flight was closed.

Me and the 50 or so other passengers who’d been standing in the queue for almost 3 hours, shuffled over to the ticket desk, upon reaching the front of which an hour and a half later, were given tickets for the next day and told to find our own accommodation.

I turned up the next day 4 hours early and armed with a boarding pass that I’d obtained by checking myself in online. But my tactics were no match for Lufthansa. 8 hours later, I was still in the departure lounge and the chances of catching my connecting flight from Germany were becoming increasingly slim. I had 2 pounds in my pocket, hadn’t eaten since that morning, and all the ATMs were out of order. I had finished my book and the battery in my laptop had run out.

I finally arrived in Prague 40 hours after I was supposed get there, to find that Che had gone out to find out where the hell I was.

But all’s well that ends well. Now she’s playing Bowie on piano and I’m sharing my woes with you. The ceilings are high, the parquet is warm underfoot, and all is well with the world. Still a tad bleary, but well.

Three thousand miles

Christmas is coming and the Beast has left me. His holidays started earlier than mine, so he's buggered off to Yorkshire and left me to fly to Prague myself. I shall be staying with the lovely Che, and having too much sleep/fun/lard to blog often. I shall try, however, to keep you appraised of the progress of my double mission: to avoid stepping in dog shit, and to watch every episode of Have I Got News for You that Che's mum has recorded and sent to her since July 2004. May all your jingles be merry.

Something not quite right

I get out of the lift in our apartment building and as I’m walking along the long, rubbery corridor towards our flat, something catches my eye. Through the window at the end, I see the lights of another house. Buildings do tend to sprout up like mushrooms around here, but I’m sure that wasn’t there before. Maybe it’s because I’m coming home at an unusual time and the people who live in that house are not normally home, so I’ve never noticed the lights before. No, that can’t be right. There was never a building that close to ours. They’ve built a bloody house overnight! But how come I didn’t hear any noise? And how come someone’s already moved in?

The weirdness is just beginning – I’m so busy staring suspiciously at the new house that I don’t notice the light outside our flat. WTF? Did I leave that on? I never even use that light! Something terrible’s happened. The police are in our flat because Beast has been found dead or some such. As I reach out to the door handle, something stops me. A red umbrella propped against the wall. And a strange sticker on the door. I blink uncomprehendingly for a moment before I see it. Flat 201. Wrong floor. I trudge off down the rubbery corridor again, shaking my head.

Cheap arsey faggots

I recently found out that a second colleague/friend now teaching in Tokyo used to work for the BBC. I was deeply in awe of them, 'cos I love the BBC, but then I read about this. My love for Auntie Beeb, however, can remain intact, because it was Radio 1 wot did it, and they have always been deeply uncool. The song in question is not only a top seasonal tune, but also says something poignant and beautiful about the Irish capacity for affection and abuse all rolled into one.

My kingdom for a day off

Sorry about the lack of blogging round these parts. I'm realizing, after 3 months of working from dawn till dusk seven days a week, that 8 jobs is too many. My eyes look like the proverbial pissholes, my back is aching and my mouth feels furry from lack of sleep. My tongue hurts and my hips creak. I got home last night, weary and grumpy, to find that Timorous Beast had poured me a hot bath and made me an avocado and mozzarella salad. Bless him.

Secret admirer

My excitement at getting a parcel in the mail knows no bounds. A little slip of paper appears telling me there’s something in the mailbox downstairs, and then I have to go and release it using an electronic key card. Imagine my joy then, upon finding not one, but two parcels waiting for me! One was something I had been expecting from Amazon, and the other was a mysterious, flowery-looking package from Takashimaya, a posh department store in Ginza. From whom, though? I had no idea - the name was written in Kanji. I waited for Beast to come home. He didn’t know either. After a few minutes of staring at it and saying “But what if it’s a mistake?” we opened it to find a box of choccies inside! They were delicious, but I’m still worrying about a.) the prospect of a love-struck student sending me gifts or, worse, b.) a lonely old lady sitting somewhere with no gifts on her birthday.

And the winner is....

I was sure I’d won the weekly competition for the funniest essay title when one of my students submitted an essay on GM food entitled, “Although it is Still Sceptical of the Toward Human Health.” But I was pipped at the post by Sean, whose student had named her essay, “Genetically Modified Crops Eat Mice and Deer.”