Mold hard with a vengeance
On my last week in Belgrade snow fell every day. Big huge fluffy flakes that became crunchy untrodden snow and only minimally dirty slush. It made the city look beautiful. It transformed it, made each garden a secret Kingdom, it made the roofs and streets a new country, briefly uplifted the desolation and the sadness of the wrecked and run-down buildings in the old part of the city and softened the symmetrical harsnesses of New Belgrade.
On my second-to-last day I was running around the streets feeling like a drug dealer on account of having to meet with all the people who had parcels they wanted me to take to England. And my cell was constantly buzzing and it would be like: *Yes, I'm moving towards you now. Stand at the street corner. Do you have the package ready?*
I am pleased to say that I remembered to bring it all except for my house keys.
On my last night I was so knackered that I fell asleep at the table in the fancy restaurant my cousin took us out to (he'd got his first big raise at work), although in my defence they were talking about the economy and assets and so forth.
On my last morning I woke myself with somewhat of a bang. My bed leans against a chest of drawers on top of which I keep a full glass of water in case I get thirsty in the night. My dreams were somewhat intense that night and in some wild flailing I managed to knock over the glass and spill the entire thing on my head.
That woke me up fairly effectively. After I'd got my eyes to focus and mopped up some of the spillage I looked out through the window and through the parting mist saw the most spectacular sunrise. Then the mist shut again like a door and the falling snow blurred the lines of trees and roofs.
Managed to get to the airport on time and check in without due difficlty, realising that I was no longer required to pay certain airport taxes (this filled me with great joy). I felt very unhappy to be leaving. I wanted to stay longer because I'd felt so loved.
Except no one can stay in any oasis forever. At some point you must come back to the world.
And occasionally the world comes back to you too.
Walking down the bridge thing that connects the airport terminal to the plane I slipped and fell with a rather magnificent scream and the amusement of the other passangers.
The plane was delayed for hours due to mishaps and delays at Heathrow, was so tired upon emerging from customs that I walked a la somnobilant straight past my uncle (I didn't realise anyone was coming to pick me up) and he had to run after me.
Got deposited home and realised that something electrical had happened in the whole house because one of the phones had gone mental, half the lighst didn't work and something terrible had happened to one of the wall sockets in the kitchen with the result that the fridge and freezer had not been working for weeks thus welcoming me with the supreme joy of chucking away all the rotting defrosted food and scrubbing the fridge and all its compartments to wash away the impressively colonising mold.
The whole thing still smells like Dettol but at least its an improvement on what it smelled like when I got here.
But hey, at least it meant by the end of it I was so tired I wasn't able to think and when I slept my sleep was like a blissful coma.
A high in its own right. The pleasure of complete oblivion.
On my second-to-last day I was running around the streets feeling like a drug dealer on account of having to meet with all the people who had parcels they wanted me to take to England. And my cell was constantly buzzing and it would be like: *Yes, I'm moving towards you now. Stand at the street corner. Do you have the package ready?*
I am pleased to say that I remembered to bring it all except for my house keys.
On my last night I was so knackered that I fell asleep at the table in the fancy restaurant my cousin took us out to (he'd got his first big raise at work), although in my defence they were talking about the economy and assets and so forth.
On my last morning I woke myself with somewhat of a bang. My bed leans against a chest of drawers on top of which I keep a full glass of water in case I get thirsty in the night. My dreams were somewhat intense that night and in some wild flailing I managed to knock over the glass and spill the entire thing on my head.
That woke me up fairly effectively. After I'd got my eyes to focus and mopped up some of the spillage I looked out through the window and through the parting mist saw the most spectacular sunrise. Then the mist shut again like a door and the falling snow blurred the lines of trees and roofs.
Managed to get to the airport on time and check in without due difficlty, realising that I was no longer required to pay certain airport taxes (this filled me with great joy). I felt very unhappy to be leaving. I wanted to stay longer because I'd felt so loved.
Except no one can stay in any oasis forever. At some point you must come back to the world.
And occasionally the world comes back to you too.
Walking down the bridge thing that connects the airport terminal to the plane I slipped and fell with a rather magnificent scream and the amusement of the other passangers.
The plane was delayed for hours due to mishaps and delays at Heathrow, was so tired upon emerging from customs that I walked a la somnobilant straight past my uncle (I didn't realise anyone was coming to pick me up) and he had to run after me.
Got deposited home and realised that something electrical had happened in the whole house because one of the phones had gone mental, half the lighst didn't work and something terrible had happened to one of the wall sockets in the kitchen with the result that the fridge and freezer had not been working for weeks thus welcoming me with the supreme joy of chucking away all the rotting defrosted food and scrubbing the fridge and all its compartments to wash away the impressively colonising mold.
The whole thing still smells like Dettol but at least its an improvement on what it smelled like when I got here.
But hey, at least it meant by the end of it I was so tired I wasn't able to think and when I slept my sleep was like a blissful coma.
A high in its own right. The pleasure of complete oblivion.