by I’m feeling almost normal now. That feels like a miracle after the last three months. I haven’t been sleeping all that well, but that’s because I’ve had a lot of stuff circling around my head, like my parents’ stay in Romania and the books. Oh yes, those books that I’ve been trying to get published. They’ve come back. The publishers in town said they wanted to have another go at getting funding under the educational and cultural programme or whatever it is. Last year they didn’t get past the start line because of some technicality or other – the judges or assessors never looked at a single word of either book. So on Wednesday I had a meeting in town with the older woman and her daughter. The old woman never shuts up. After a long yap, she asked me how much I wanted to contribute, assuming the books get accepted. What sort of question is this? What would I even be getting for my money? You’ll get the books. Five hundred copies of each book. Do you want the books published or not? Well, that depends. I started getting pretty stressed, and I suppose combative, because I felt pressure being put on me. It reminded me of the time I was asked to sign the contract to buy my apartment. But but but, what am I even signing? On Wednesday night I spoke to Dad. For heaven’s sake, don’t go through with it, he said. I was up half the night thinking about what to do. Then yesterday common sense prevailed. I messaged the older woman about distribution channels, and it became clear that they simply didn’t exist. I’d be saddled with something like two-thirds of a ton of books that I’d never get rid of. I decided to pull the plug on the whole thing. There is another woman in the publishing world whom I’ve been in touch with, but she seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. Her profile picture on WhatsApp is a mountain overlain by the phrase “Every day in every way I am becoming more and more prosperous”. Next to “About” she has written: “The ones who know it’s not possible are kindly asked to get out of the way of those who are ALREADY DOING IT!” That sort of self-aggrandising shit is an immediate red flag. Do not trust this person.
It’s been hot. Really hot. In Romania and all over Europe. Records have been tumbling all over the place. We got to 33 on Wednesday, and I think in London they got a degree or two on top of that – an all-time high for May, or at least a high going back three centuries or so. I saw Bordeaux hit 37 on Tuesday. That’s just nuts. For a while I’ve been thinking that on 1st August 2056, when it’s 45 degrees in Glasgow and people are dropping like flies, people will be wondering how we had our eye off the ball so egregiously, preoccupied by gender-neutral toilets and such like.
Last Sunday I met up with Mark at the beer factory, though with the hot weather, the place was heaving. We had no chance of getting a table without a booking. So we cycled into the centre of town and sat outside at Berăria 700. It was quite lovely there. We had a great chat. We talked a lot about our childhoods, which were remarkably similar despite him being nearly ten years older than me. We even strayed for a while into politics and the possibility of Andy Burnham becoming UK prime minister. I realised how much I’ll miss him once he’s gone. In four weeks he’ll set off with his wife on a mission, to scale Mount Kilimanjaro. It’s almost 6000 metres; I hope you know what you’re doing. They’re doing it properly (as you should), with a real sherpa or whatever it is they call it in Africa, so it won’t be cheap. Mark and his two older brothers were actually born in Tanzania, so I think that’s part of it. After their big adventure they’ll come back to Romania for a few days before returning to the UK to live. His wife has got herself a job at a private school in Preston. I’m sure I’ll see him over there at some point. I suggested we could even meet up in Manchester, which I’ve never even been to. He went to uni there in the late eighties and early nineties. What a time to be there, I said, at the height of the Madchester scene. You’re twistin’ my melon, man. But he said it largely passed him by.
It’s only ten days until Mum and Dad come over. (They were confused about the dates and thought they were flying out this coming Monday.) They’re enjoying their time in the UK, although they’re hardly loving the heat. They’ve been on their bikes a lot, going out early in the morning when it’s cooler. I’ve been very impressed. (Waking up early was a symptom of their jet lag, and they’ve kept to that schedule.) I’ve still got a lot of cleaning and tidying to do before they arrive, and I haven’t even thought about what we’ll do in Cluj.
Scrabble. I’ve finished the latest round with four wins and ten losses, and will almost certainly finish dead last of the second division when the remaining games are done and dusted. I played fine, with the exception of one moment where I completely missed an out play and lost the game by eight points, 529-521. I’d never played a game before with a four-figure aggregate score – that was totally crazy. I played four bingos and still lost. I still would have been relegated even if I’d won. My opponents have just been too good. I’m not disappointed at all because: (a) the outcome was in line with my expectations, (b) I’m amazed I ever got into division two in the first place, and (c) all the stats point to a decent performance on my part that I can take a lot from. Oh, and I shouldn’t be too disappointed if I suffer another relegation in the next round.
