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Lack of promotion

November 5, 2021 by 0 Comments

That 21-year-old has managed to get Covid, or so he said, so neither of this week’s scheduled lessons have happened. Covid does certainly provide people with an excuse, if they really just don’t fancy it for whatever reason. For now, though, I’ll trust him.

My cold didn’t last long, by my standards. Last weekend I was still suffering, so I didn’t play tennis. Instead I played a few poker tournaments from the micro buy-in series. The last of them was a marathon: I went 5¾ hours in the single draw, hanging on and hanging on and for a fleeting few minutes I thought, heck I could win this thing, get my name on the trophy (wouldn’t that be nice?) before ultimately finishing 17th out of 1300-odd entrants. I didn’t make much money – so much of the money is handed out to the top three or four, even in a big-field tournament. My bankroll is $1015. This weekend there’s another series taking place – it’s the brainchild of Mason Pye, a Twitch streamer, and includes anything but no-limit hold ’em. My kind of series. We’ve got a wet weekend in store – perfect for poker.

Last night I had a Zoom call with my friend from university. He’d just been to Manchester and Blackpool for his birthday. We talked about the contrast between visitor-friendly Manchester (a city I’ve never ever been to) and his home city of Birmingham, which does little if anything to promote itself. We’re talking Romanian levels of promotion here. Even Liverpool, which I visited in 1998, does a much better job there. He talked about Lord of the Rings, so much of which is Birmingham-based, and how the city completely failed – refused – to take advantage of the film series that came out in the early 2000s. (When I moved to New Zealand at that time, you couldn’t move for Lord of the Rings stuff. I flew out on a 747 which had been totally Middle-Earthed up.) My friend told me the alarming news that his 40-year-old sister had been diagnosed with breast cancer, but should be OK. What a shock though.

It’s been an unusually warm and windy Thursday in Timișoara. A whopping 23 degrees, with a strong breeze – a southerly, and I’m guessing force 6 on the Beaufort scale. Seeing the autumn leaves swirl in a whirlwind is quite beautiful.

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A dark place

October 19, 2021 by 0 Comments

On Friday I got a call from the police. What happened to my your bike? I told him, and he said I had to come in to give a statement so he could close the case. I went in first thing this morning. When I arrived, the receptionist was smoking. He asked me who I’d spoken to. No idea, I said. Eventually the officer met me and showed me to an upstairs corridor with several rooms on both sides. He led me into room 8 where we sat down. There were mugshots pinned to the wall as well as two stopped clocks, one advertising Camel cigarettes. I tried not to get too close to the officer; he wasn’t wearing a mask. Just imagine getting Covid because of a $90 bike. That would be so typically Romanian. He typed up a statement and I had to write some bits and bobs on the end. He told me my written Romanian was better than some Romanians’. Then I was free to go.

Yesterday I met the guy who teaches at British School. We had a drink in Piața Unirii. It was sunny, 17 degrees, and pretty lively when you consider that it came at the end of Romania’s deadliest week since the Second World War. (This week will surely be deadlier still.) Nobody checked our green passes or anything of that sort. We talked about teaching and Margaret Thatcher, then I gave him a short impromptu Romanian lesson.

My near-neighbour, whose husband plays tennis, recently gave me five pancakes. In return I baked them a quince crumble. I’ve had no feedback whatsoever on that, despite meeting him twice at tennis since then, so I’m guessing it wasn’t exactly a hit. At the weekend a new guy in (I guess) his late fifties showed up. Shortly after my arrival in the country, I learnt that one in three adult Romanians no longer have any of their original teeth. This guy had about four teeth in total. The spoof travel guide Molvanîa, written by Australians and a minor hit in New Zealand at about the time I moved there, is surely based on Romania and its neighbour Moldova.

Molvania400px.jpg

Another British politician has been murdered. Conservative MP David Amess was stabbed to death on Friday at his constituency office in Essex. I didn’t know much about him, except that Mum once joked about his surname (“a mess”), and he once spoke out in parliament against a drug, Cake, which was entirely fictitious. British politics, and Britain in general, is in a dark place right now.

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A strange festive season

December 26, 2020 by 0 Comments

On Wednesday night, I met one of my students. She paid me for my lessons, then showered me with gifts. It was dark, but there was clearly a book (in Romanian, inevitably), some sarmale, and a cozonac. Damn. You’ve wrecked my Christmas Eve cooking plans. (I’m serious. I’m not great at planning, and when I do make a plan, it throws me for a loop when someone makes me suddenly abandon it.) I can still make some salată de boeuf, I suppose. But when I got home, I opened the glass container to find some salată de boeuf. She must have read my mind. Or this blog. I’ll have a go at all that Romanian cuisine some other time.

On Christmas Eve, not a lot happened. I had a lesson with the woman in Brașov. She’d forgotten that we’d scheduled a meeting for Christmas Eve, and when I called her at 8am she was still in bed. We eventually had the lesson at ten. No grammar or anything taxing. Just chat about Christmas and Covid-related stuff. She said she was glad Romania is always behind other European countries, because it means the vaccine will be safer when it gets here. Then I got the business about allergic reactions. Then the stuff about the MMR vaccine causing autism, which is utterly, dangerously, false. In the evening I heard that the Brexit deal had gone through. With days until the deadline, there were only two real options. This was the second worst option. I was sad to learn that Britain will no longer be part of the Erasmus programme, which I took advantage of in 2000-01. None of the students left out in the cold were old enough to vote in the referendum. (Die-hard Brexiteers will applaud this, of course. Erasmus is for the elite, or some such shit. It even sounds Latin, doesn’t it? Mr Erasmus was in fact a philosopher and monk from Rotterdam. Since the programme began in the late eighties, over three million students have taken the opportunity to study abroad in Rotterdam. Or anywhere.)

Not that much happened on Christmas Day either, really. It was a wet day. (One of my ex-students sent me a video clip of her Christmas morning in Austria. It was snowing there.) Mum and Dad called me from Hampden – they’d had their Christmas dinner in Moeraki. I ate some of all that Romanian food I’d been given (I felt far more grateful than I did on Wednesday night), drank some Romanian drink (the red wine was called Sânge de Taur, “Bull’s Blood”), and read my book. I’ve almost finished Kate Atkinson’s extremely clever Life After Life, which didn’t do much for me at the start (this is too clever) but quickly grew on me. Once I’ve finished that, I’ll start on my present, Inocenții by Ioana Pârvulescu. That will keep me going. My brother called me; he and his wife had done a normal Christmas dinner for the two of them, with all the turkey and pigs in blankets. He’d have been quite happy not to bother, I think, but she takes Christmas pretty seriously. My brother told me that St Ives had been flooded. Not the south side where we lived that often got flooded before the embankment was built in 2006, but north of the river where most people live. It’s been a very crappy Christmas for them. I dread to think what Christmas will do to the Covid situation in the UK. I don’t think 25th December dominates anywhere in world like it does there. Then I spoke to my aunt, who immediately asked me if I was bored. She’s obsessed with boredom. No, and so what if I am. There are far worse things in life than being bored. Thanks to Brexit, from the middle of next year my pre-pay phone plan will no longer include calls to the UK.

Dad’s cousin, whom I called my uncle when I was growing up, died on Tuesday (the 22nd). I don’t know if there will even be a funeral, let alone where or when or how. He’s one of a number of male family members to have died of cancer a few months either side of their 70th birthday. Dad, now six months past his 70th, has been through the wars but keeps hanging in there.

I was going to meet my student couple later today at their rather nice-looking house Sânandrei, but she’s just texted me to say she’s ill. It would have been my first real time spent with other humans for ages, and last night I was contemplating what to wear. My blue shoes? Hopefully we can still catch up.

Family - The UK

Proper Christmas! Part 4 of 4

January 5, 2019 by 0 Comments

Sunday 30th December

Over breakfast Mum read out an email she’d received from my aunt who stayed two nights in Timișoara after my brother’s wedding. Wow, some people have stressful Christmases. We went for coffee along by the river and met an old friend of my parents on the way; I think he thought I was weird for living in Romania. After coffee we had a very enjoyable walk down the thicket to Houghton and back. The track was busier than I ever remember it; people were making the most of the weather which was extraordinarily mild for the time of year. After a late lunch we messed around with my beard trimmer and I got packed for my evening flight. I was happy to be heading back, but it had been a real pleasure to spend some time with my family. I still marvel at how my brother found such a wonderful partner, and how they’re able to do all that housey stuff together that I could never imagine. Mum and Dad have their moments, but it helps a lot that I get on much better with Mum these days. I realise that she’s always wanted the best for me. She hasn’t always known what the best is, but that’s not really her fault.

I arrived at the airport with time to spare and got some “reduced to clear” sandwiches from Marks & Spencer. It was very busy at the check-in desk with several hundred Poles and Romanians jockeying for position in the queues. One bloke directed a barrage of F-bombs and other insults at the poor woman behind the desk, and after insulting her sister (!), he got chucked off the flight. By the time I reached the gate, I felt I was already in Romania. There weren’t a lot of Brits on the flight. I sat on the very back row, next to a younger chap from Petroșani, which is a three-hour drive from Timișoara. What an ordeal. We landed at 1:40 am, to a customary round of applause, and I was home in no time, although I didn’t get to sleep until nearly four.


Monday 31st

I got up at ten to ten. At lunchtime I met S at a café on Strada Mărășești. She asked me about New Year’s resolutions and I said I wanted to improve my Romanian. Could we speak Romanian from the start of 2019? She let out a huge groan. She doesn’t understand why communicating in the local language is so important to me. When I was in England she texted me to ask if I wanted to go a New Year’s Eve party. I said yes, hoping that she might forget. She hadn’t forgotten. She told me where it was, but I didn’t take it in, due to the anxiety that the mere mention of a party provokes in me. “Under something” and “on the corner of something and something” was all I remembered. Everything is closed here on 1st January, so I did a load of grocery shopping in the afternoon, making good use of my new backpack. Close to party time, I wandered around Libertății and Unirii, thinking I might figure it out, but to no avail. I had to call her. It was definitely under something. It was a small dungeon-like room, beneath one of the city’s many pharmacies, where you could see the brickwork and smell the mould. The music would have been fine if it had been at half the volume. I’m sure S (whom I hadn’t seen in party mode before) and her two friends could tell I wasn’t exactly having the time of my life there. Just before midnight we went out to see the fireworks, be couldn’t see much from our vantage point. S told me that her two goals for 2019 were to travel around the world and, um, to have a baby. Both?! I thought that might be it for the night, but no such luck. We bundled back into the vault, and by the time we left (phew!) it was 2019 in the UK too. It would be nice if parties or social events could one day be as much fun as, say, being stuck in Airportworld.


Tuesday 1st January

After breakfast I had a bout of excruciating sinus pain, lasting an hour and a half. With the New Year bells going full-bore from the cathedral, I thought, hell must be something close to this. It was that painful, like a screwdriver being rammed up my nostril. The lack of sleep probably didn’t help, and neither did the alcohol, not that I drank that much. Lying in bed was no good; I paced up and down, up and down, until it gradually subsided. What a start to the new year.

Family - The UK

Proper Christmas! Part 3 of 4

January 5, 2019 by 0 Comments

Tuesday 25th December

This was my first Christmas Day in the UK for 16 years, and what an incredible day it was. My brother and sister-in-law had it all planned with military precision. It was the first time they’d done Christmas dinner, but they could have fooled me. We had Eggs Benedict (their own eggs, of course) with salmon for breakfast, an unexpected treat. My brother followed our late uncle’s method for cooking the turkey: two hours in the oven and as long again on the barbecue. It was melt-in-the-mouth stuff. Before long the Christmas pudding (which is always a highlight) was eaten and the dishes were washed, and it was back to TV watching. Michael McIntyre’s show was really funny (especially this cooking prank), as was Dad’s Army, which is now almost half a century old. As for presents, I got some kids’ books and the Bananagrams game (for my lessons), a backpack, some cash from Mum and Dad (it’s a bit ridiculous to be getting cash from my parents at my stage in the game, but there you go) and all kinds of stuff to help tame my beard. Christmas Day 2018 will live long in my memory.


Wednesday 26th

We walked off our Christmas dinner by doing a tour of Poole, which I quite liked. I discovered that gin bars had become a thing. Another trip to Primark, then it was TV time. We watched programmes about Ken Dodd and Torvill & Dean, although the highlight was the BFG which was beautifully done. We played a few games of Bananagrams.


Thursday 27th

A third trip to Primark to get a suitable suitcase for my flight back to Romania, and then it was time to say goodbye to Poole, and my very house-proud brother and sister-in-law. It was great to see them, but being in someone else’s territory for any length of time always makes me anxious. The journey to my parents’ flat in St Ives was a long one. Many people were driving home after Christmas, but many others were simply shopping. Consuming. Sometimes we barely moved. A journey of 180 miles took over six hours, including the two short stops we made. At least the road signs in the UK are good. It’s one of those things I took for granted when I lived there, but I now see that they’re brilliantly designed to be read at 70 mph. The little details like the hook on the lower-case ‘l’ that helps make for a friendly, readable font, the yellow route numbers on a green background for A-roads, the calming blue motorway signs, the airport icon that also functions as an arrow: these things all add up. They save lives.


Friday 28th

In the morning I called on some family friends, the couple who came to Romania in 2017 for the road trip we did, and we had a very enjoyable chat. They then came to my parents’ flat in the evening for so-called nibbles (in reality a proper meal). In the middle I went for a walk with Dad around the meadow and back through Hemingford.


Saturday 29th

At 10am we went to my aunt’s place in Earith. It’s been sad to see her world get progressively smaller over the years. She doesn’t have meaningful relationships with either of her children, who are now both in their late forties. She does, however, have a soft spot for both me and my brother, perhaps because we’re harmless. On this occasion she wasn’t too bad, and even in her worst periods she’s always had the knack of making people laugh. We didn’t stay too long. In the afternoon we called into Homebase where my parents spent ages not choosing some wallpaper, and then drove through some villages I hadn’t seen in a couple of decades, such as Abbots Ripton and Woodhurst. We stopped at Broughton and went for a walk there. My brother sent Mum links to properties in St Ives. He’s always felt bitter about my parents moving to New Zealand in 2003, and now that they make regular trips to back to the UK, he senses that they might want to move back permanently. I think that would be very unlikely and a bad move: the UK isn’t a great country to get old in.

Family - The UK

Proper Christmas! Part 2 of 4

January 5, 2019 by 0 Comments

Saturday 22nd December

My last two lessons of 2018 were thankfully at home, and with students at vastly different levels. When they were over with, I took the bus to the airport. My plane was delayed by an hour, and it was quite pleasant to hang around in the terminal with the machines selling inexpensive coffee, snacks and even books. The click-clack of the big split-flap display board is pleasing, although the some of the letters get stuck and they’ll probably replace the board with some insipid screen in the not too distant future, if not the entire terminal. The trick with Timișoara airport, as elsewhere, is not to go through security until you have to. On the other side you’re no longer in Romania but in Airportworld, with all those bottles of scented water going for dozens of euros. In Airportworld, they don’t even use Romanian money. The flight to Luton was uneventful, and my parents met me at 10pm. It was lovely to see them, as it always is. The three of us stayed in a relatively cheap hotel near the airport. I heard on the news that Paddy Ashdown, leader of the Lib Dems throughout the nineties, had died. I reckon he would have made a good prime minister.


Sunday 23rd

Dad and I both had colds. For me it was my fourth in a couple of months, but Dad’s was worse. How would he cope with the drive down to Poole? Breakfast at the hotel was excellent, though the dining room was jam-packed with people. My parents had planned to drop in on some friends on the way to Poole, but they were suffering from colds too, so we gave them a miss. As we drove through Buckinghamshire, Berkshire and Hampshire, I thought, shit, I couldn’t come back here to live. Get off the M something at junction whatever for yet another soulless dormitory town. Milton Keynes with its endless roundabouts, coded H for horizontal and V for vertical. Too many bloody people. I could see why 17.4 million of them voted to escape this crap (even if their votes will probably just serve to make things even crappier). We wanted a hot drink so pulled into one of the services. At any service station in the UK, you either get Costa or (in this case) Starbucks. We went for the cheaper option, filter coffee, and it was pure poison. It didn’t help that they only had two young staff, who were rushed off their feet. Starbucks: never again. We reached my brother’s place in late afternoon. Their two-storey terraced house is modest, I suppose, but still beyond my wildest dreams. A lot of time and effort had gone into the interior, and it was all looking very Christmassy. They have a cat, named Major Tom but usually just Tom, and four hens that give them more eggs than they know what to do with.


Monday 24th

On Christmas Eve we visited Wimborne, a picturesque town nearby. It was bigger than I imagined, and full of lovely old buildings. We went to Primark after that, so my parents could buy me some clothes. I wish they wouldn’t. We watched the Snowman on TV – it never stops being a wonderful animation – and then it was time for church. Midnight mass was an option, but we attended the 5:30 pm service instead. It lasted 80 minutes, which would be very brisk by Romanian Orthodox standards, but Catholic services are usually shorter, even at Christmas, and people were getting decidedly antsy. We had an unusual reading where 42 generations – who begat whom, ending up at Jesus – were itemised. After church (I wonder when I’ll do that again next) it was time for more TV. Gogglebox. A TV programme about people’s reactions to watching TV. I’d forgotten the cultural importance of TV in Britain, especially around Christmas. And I’d totally forgotten how celeb-obsessed Britain is. One celebrity game show after another, where many of the categories used in the quizzes are celebrity-based themselves. Later that evening we chatted about the sister of an old friend of mine, who has become a semi-famous live artist, comedian, call her what you will. She defies categorisation. We watched her “Fanny Song” on YouTube and my sister-in-law in particular was in stitches.

Family - The UK

Proper Christmas! Part 1 of 4

January 5, 2019 by 0 Comments

My site got hacked (again!), and I’ve just this minute got it unhacked. This is the first part of what happened after that.


Wednesday 19th December

Timișoara was beautiful following the weekend’s snowfall, but the snow had frozen and the roads and pavements were treacherous. I only had a pair of two-hour lessons but getting to both of them was a mission. In the morning I slipped and fell on the ice during the 40-minute trudge to my appointment in the Soarelui area. The lesson wasn’t the easiest either, as my devoutly religious student tried to sniff out my beliefs. “But what does Christmas really mean to you?” In the early afternoon the plumber came over and fixed my hot water – snow had somehow got into the boiler from a duct. He fixed it impressively quickly but I still had no chance of catching the bus to Dumbrăvița for my 92nd lesson with Matei. Or so I thought. Traffic was gridlocked to the point where I managed to catch the bus up just by walking, and I clambered on two stops later. I called Matei’s grandmother to say I’d be pretty late, and that seemed to be fine. I gave him the full two hours. After the lesson I walked 2 km over the border into Timișoara, to the nearest bus stop where buses were still going to and from. I caught up with S in the café where we first met in September, and she wasn’t too bothered that I was seriously late. I gave her a box of biscuits as a Christmas present; she’d earlier given me the Romanian translation of The Little Prince.


Thursday 20th

A much easier day. My only lesson was at the university, a stone’s throw from my flat. My student teaches Romanian and linguistics there. Her surname is Pop, and we went on a whistle-stop tour of English phrasal verbs that feature her name. I’m just popping out to get some milk. A message just popped up on my screen. Pop round whenever you like. My grandmother even used to say, “when I pop off”. Pop is just such a fun word. It probably helped Kellogg’s sell many thousands of extra boxes of Rice Krispies. Just snapping and crackling would never have been enough. (When I think about it, there’s a lot going on there. A trio as in “snap, crackle and pop” is often deadly effective. Spelling “krispies” with a K, which of course is emblematic of Kellogg’s itself, also plays a pretty big role.) In future we’ll hopefully have two-hour sessions, half in English and half in Romanian. A Romanian teacher would be enormously helpful for me.


Friday 21st

After the monthly tram trip to pay my rent in non-Romanian cash, I had two lessons. One was with David, my 11-year-old student. He’s a nice kid, extremely polite, but he has a habit of responding to my questions with “I don’t know”, killing the conversation stone dead. In his room he has a collection of Harry Potter books, and even a photo of him holding one. “So, do you like Harry Potter?” I don’t know. David is an only child (one of many) and there is certainly pressure on him to achieve at school. He’s in the A-stream. Extra maths. Extra Romanian grammar. Lots of questions that have a definite, right and wrong answer. In our previous lesson I asked him what he’d be doing afterwards. “Santa,” I thought he said. What will Santa be doing? No, not Santa. Centre. Centre of excellence. In the Romanian language. All this means that when faced with open-ended questions, he seems afraid to give the wrong answer. He likes games though, and I ensure that those take up almost half of each session. I was getting a bit stressed at the prospect of flying out the next day, and trying to find last-minute Christmas presents in a god-awful shopping mall. That evening I went to the cafeteria in Auchan but when the woman behind the counter insisted on speaking to me in English even after I told her not to, I stormed off.

Life :) - The UK - Travel: Romania

The Big Day and trip report — Part 4

June 3, 2018 by 0 Comments

Sunday. The morning after the night (and day) before. No full English breakfast this time. A bunch of us, including my brother, his wife, and most of the New Zealand contingent, met up at a café in the Barbican. Then it was back to the Sergeant’s Mess, where about ten of us, blokes mostly, spent two hours dismantling and re-mantling everything. My uncle B felt honoured to be selected as a tidier-upper; he likes to boast of his “special relationship” with my brother. (As a kid, my brother liked to spend time on their West Coast farm whenever he came to New Zealand. They moved back to South Canterbury in 1996.) My brother kindly gave B and me a bottle of whisky each for our readings the day before. When all the white frothiness had been cleared away, the mess looked much like a century-old tennis club room. The usual inhabitants of the mess, many of whom were at the wedding, form a very close-knit community.

I had a lazy Sunday afternoon watching the opening day of the French Open in my parents’ room. In the evening we went to Wetherspoons, where I had a curry and an apple crumble, and then walked to the newlyweds’ hotel room on the seventh floor of the Crowne Plaza. We didn’t stay long there.

Plymouth is an interesting city, particularly along the beautiful coastline, but the city centre was bombed to pieces in World War Two, and the collosal hideous-looking blocks that sprung up in the next two decades wouldn’t have seemed out of place in Communist-era Romania. Plymouth also appears to have a serious obesity problem. On that note, I’ve lost about three kilos (or half a stone) since my trip to the UK in April.

On Monday morning I had a full English once more, and then it was time to say goodbye to all the Kiwis, with the exception of B and my aunt J, who were coming to Romania with me. This was the end of their marathon trip that took in the US (where their son lives), Canada, and Holland (for the flowers). We took a taxi to the train station (they had far too much luggage to make walking an option) and boarded the 12:05 train to Paddington. We sat at opposite ends of Coach C. The journey to Paddington seemed to whizz by. We hung around Paddington station for some time; our flight wasn’t scheduled to leave until 9:50. We snapped up six reduced-to-clear sandwiches for £1 each from Boots, but then paid through the nose for coffees and muffins: three each of those cost more than I receive for a lesson. I got a call from a frustrated Mum, who had been stuck at Kings Cross for an hour and a half on a driverless train with no air conditioning. Mum and Dad were very tired and were extremely glad to eventually get back to St Ives.

Having loads of time up our sleeve helped to reduce stress. B and J were a little out of their comfort zone on the underground. My offers to help B with his suitcase mostly fell on deaf ears. We negotiated the underground, took the train to Luton, and then hopped on the shuttle bus to the airport where we ate our sandwiches and whiled away two more hours before boarding the plane. I realised that travelling with other people can be less stressful than travelling alone. Boarding was slow, as always with Wizz Air, but we were up and down in under three hours. It was after 3am by the time we exited the terminal building, and taxis were thin on the ground at that time of night, so I had to call one. B and J were staying in an apartment in the building next to mine. We followed the owner’s instructions involving keys and lifts and PIN codes, which my aunt had meticulously copied down, and (in what felt like a miracle after such a long day of travel) they gained access to their spacious apartment. Welcome to Romania!

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The Big Day and trip report — Part 3 (the main event)

June 1, 2018 by 0 Comments

On Friday night I practised my poem. I’m not a natural public speaker. I was nervous that I might make a mess of it in front of a hundred people on my brother’s special day: speak too fast, get tongue-tied, miss out an entire line, or even panic and start babbling in incomprehensible Romanian.

I woke up very early the next morning. It was freezing in my room, and I resorted to using towels and clothes to complement my thin duvet. Breakfast wasn’t till 8:30, so I read To Kill a Mockingbird. When the clock finally rolled around, we all had a full English. Some of the others eschewed the baked beans, presumably to avoid potential embarrassment in church.

We then went for a walk along a waterfront steeped in history. At 10am the Lido opened for the summer; it seemed quite popular. We walked back to the B&B and changed in time to meet at noon at the Sergeant’s Mess. My brother wore his army uniform, displaying his medals from Northern Ireland, Iraq and Afghanistan. He was understandably a little antsy, and he called us all into the church very early before declaring a false alarm.

The service started at 1pm. To my surprise, the padre continued his comedy routine from the night before, but he never overstepped the mark. It’s a fine line. It was soon my turn to read the poem. I thought I negotiated it OK, and on my way back from the podium my brother gave me a friendly tap to say I’d done a good job. Phew. Straight after me, my uncle B gave his bible reading, as he’d done at least a thousand times before in church. Towards the end of the service, after the vows had been exchanged, my brother’s wife’s sister sang quite beautifully. I’d always been cynical about weddings, perhaps because I’d never been to a wedding of anybody particularly close to me, but this was really a wonderful occasion.

After the service it was photo time. My brother later said this was the most exhausting part of the day for him. Photos with X, Y and Z, photos with X and Y but not Z, and so on. Every possible combination. My brother had planned to give everyone a tour of the citadel but had to can it because of how long all the photography took. Both my brother and his wife go rowing, and the girls from my sister-in-law’s rowing club created an archway of oars for the newlyweds to walk through. More photos. I can’t remember what the car was – it was purely ornamental anyway – but in a nice touch it was decorated with both British and New Zealand flags. Many people complemented me on my delivery of the poem; I replied by saying I did my best. It was a very touching poem without being overly sentimental, and I think the kind words I received reflected that as much as anything.

At 3:30 it was back to the mess. By this stage I had quite severe sinus pain and was struggling. The food was good. A pear-based starter followed by mountains of serrano-ham-wrapped pork for our main course, finishing up with chocolate brownie for dessert. In between, my brother, the best man (his friend since childhood) and my sister-in-law’s father all gave speeches. My brother really put the wind up Dad by asking if he’d prepared his speech. My brother said he was nervous for his speech, but he didn’t show it. He spent some time thanking our parents, admitting that he wasn’t the easiest kid to bring up. My mum drew quite a bit of laughter when she interrupted the best man’s speech to say that Dad fainted at my brother’s birth.

By five my sinus pain had largely subsided, but soon the evening started to drag. I drank beer mainly because it gave me something to do. My brother drank far more than I did. Later, enormous piles of food appeared in the adjoining conservatory, only a quarter of which actually got eaten. The rest went to the homeless. My two UK cousins both complained about their absent mother and I could hardly blame them. I was glad when we finally wended our way back to the B&B at 11:45 or so, having survived what had admittedly been a fantastic day.

Life :) - The UK

The Big Day and trip report — Part 2

June 1, 2018 by 0 Comments

The railway station was on the way back to the airport from my accommodation. Just before 9am I put my ticket in the machine at the station and got a nasty surprise. I’d been sold a ticket that was only valid for the night before, even though there were no trains the night before. An impossible ticket. What a bugger. I traipsed back to the airport, thinking that would be my best chance of some kind of refund, but honestly expecting to have to fork out an extra 60-odd quid. The Polish lady I spoke to was very helpful, however, and back at the station I eventually got a reprinted ticket at no expense, once I’d figured out where the ticket office was. The guy at the office wanted to know who sold me that useless ticket at quarter to ten at night, but I didn’t want to incriminate him.

I took the train to St Pancras, then the underground to Paddington, a huge station that I’d somehow never been to before. All the trains from Paddington seemed to be going to cool places, like the one I was about to board, whose final destination was Penzance. My journey to Plymouth was painless, except at the beginning when the only way I could get a seat was to use the loo. A lady from Sweden said that in her home country you’re guaranteed a seat if you buy a full-price ticket, as you should be. My train stopped at Reading, Exeter and Newton Abbot, and passed the coastal towns of Exmouth and Teignmouth. The sea! I hadn’t seen it for almost two years. I arrived in Plymouth at 3:30pm. At this point I’ll give you a run-down of my mum’s siblings; this trip report will become too clumsy if I don’t. Mum had three older brothers, D, B and M. Sadly D died of cancer in 2010, as did M in 2014. B is still going strong at 76; he and his wife J would be joining me in Romania after my brother’s wedding. After the three boys came Mum’s sister K, then Mum, closely followed by her brother G. Finally, seven years after G, came her baby brother P, who (it’s hard to believe) has just turned sixty. All five surviving brothers and sisters were attending the wedding.

K and G met me at the train station. It was a novelty to see G on that side of the world. He’d never previously been further than Australia. There was no question of his wife ever making the trip; they’ve lived separate lives for decades. We were all amazed and delighted that he took the opportunity of my brother’s wedding to say “sod it”. I went back to the train station with Mum and B, to book my seat on the train back to London. It would be a bank holiday; on that day a seat is imperative. B had been in Plymouth four days and, much to Mum’s annoyance, thought he knew the place like the back of his hand.

After trekking across town, we were a few minutes late for the 6pm wedding rehearsal at the 17th-century Citadel Church. The padre, as he was called, was hilarious. His humour put everybody at ease, and personally made me feel privileged to be part of such a happy occasion. He’d previously had a long career as a dancer, and clearly enjoyed being on stage. At one point he told my brother that he didn’t have to make his wedding vows as if they were military orders: “Forbetterforworse! Forricherforpoorer!”

We didn’t attend the drinks session at the mess, and besides we were all hungry. We shared some so-called giganti pizzas that weren’t that big; I could have eaten twice as much, but of course I’d get plenty of opportunities for that the next day. G really amused Dad and me when he proudly proclaimed to a bemused waitress: “I’m from Palmerston North!” That doesn’t exactly cut much ice even in his own country.