There’s nothing like…

… Seeing a chartered bus full of middle-aged British males pressing on toward Kyiv from the border. Especially when said middle-aged British males start leering at you at a gas station. Leering and muttering, none too quietly either, because anyone who has stepped out of a car with Kyiv plates will obviously not speak any English.

“Maybe they’re just going for the cheap beer and the sightseeing,” I told my livid mother.

Right, mate.

I still want to live in Britain. I love Britain. Which makes the entire situation even sadder.

In a bar the other night

Someone asked me about jet-lag, and I was stupid enough to say that I’m “totally fine.” Now I’m up at three a.m., listening to the sound of footsteps on the pavement outside my window. Say what you want about this neighbourhood (and I’ve said a lot, over the years), the footsteps here always sound exceptionally romantic (coupled as they are with wind from the cemetary).

Tired and… tired

“Играй, Адель
Не знай печали,
Хариты, Лель
Тебя венчали
И колыбель
Твою качали.”

– A. Pushkin

One of the problems with not living anywhere near one’s parents is the fact that when you do actually get home, parents have emotional leverage. And emotional leverage allows them to drag you off on long road-trips. Like the one that I’m starting tomorrow. You know, it would be really nice to see Eastern Europe – without feeling as if I’m back to being five years old again.

It doesn’t help that things in the City are… awkward. I’m not sure why they got this way, and whether or not I’m to blame, but the weirdness is ever-present, so it’s not as if there is a good alternative to piling into the family car in an imitation of a bad Chevy Chase film. I never thought I’d say this – but I can’t wait to be back in the workplace!!!

I fear that barricading myself with Atwood and Geraldine Brooks may not be enough…God help me.