Life :)

Environment - Life :) - New Zealand - Photos - Poker - Travel: Romania

Earthquake weather

February 14, 2023 plutomanby 0 Comments

At around 5pm yesterday, a 5.2-magnitude earthquake struck about 170 km east of here, at a depth of 15 km. I didn’t feel it, but many in Timișoara did, and I think the recent scenes from Turkey and Syria spooked some Romanians more than normal. Yes, earthquakes are common in Romania, mostly in Vrancea in the south-east. About 1600 people were killed in the 1977 Vrancea quake, which Ceaușescu took advantage of by clearing out swaths of Bucharest to build even more brutalist concrete blocks. There’s often talk of building codes and yellow stickers which is all hauntingly familiar to me.

It’s an absolute mess – once again – in New Zealand’s North Island. The floods caused by Cyclone Gabrielle have displaced thousands, destroyed homes, and cut off whole towns. I worked for a water consultancy company twenty years ago; we produced maps that were fascinating in their way, delineating the extend of flooding at various levels of likelihood: once every 5 years, then 10, 25, 50, 100 and 200. Then there was a “climate change” line that blew everything else out of the water, so to speak. A 1-in-200-year event would be more like a 1-in-2, if the doom scenario came to pass. It already has. I was pleased to see James Shaw, the minister for climate, give such an impassioned speech in parliament.

I’ve been watching a lot of YouTube videos on cities (mostly American and Canadian ones) and public transport. One word that keeps coming up is stroad – a hybrid of a street, which has shops and bars and other stuff that people actually want to visit, and a road, whose purpose is to transport people from one place to another. A stroad tries to be a street and a road, and fails at both. Stroads, with their mega-center malls and drive-thru everything, are all over America and Canada. They’re depressing places if you’re in a car – you’re constantly stopping – and even more depressing if you’re not in a car. When I watched the videos I thought how I often found myself on one of sprawling Auckland’s soul-crushing stroads – Wairau Drive or whatever it was called. Wellington seemed almost free of them. Romania is pretty stroad-free I thought, until I suddenly realised something when I was cycling to my maths lesson on Saturday morning with the temperature hovering around minus 6. I cycled past Iulius Mall, which now has what the videos call a lifestyle centre (ugh), then went down the two-kilometre-long Calea Lipovei until I hit the roundabout at the edge of Dumbrăvița. Hey, now I’m on a stroad. There you’ll find a big supermarket that existed six years ago, and the Galaxy shopping centre that certainly didn’t. It’s already a big choke point, but now they’re also building a drive-thru McDonald’s. Just what we all need.

On Saturday I went back along the stroad again – all of it this time, because I was meeting the English guy Mark who lives at the end of the four-kilometre stroad and down a long, muddy, unpaved road where nothing is more than five years old. I think that would mess me up mentally. We, and the two dogs he and his girlfriend now have, went in his car to a village called Bogda, 45 minutes away. In the village was a camp that was used by schools and had clearly flourished in communist times, but was now abandoned like so much else around here. There was a good walkway and we trekked along and back with the dogs. It was a bit higher up and there was snow on the ground. I struggled with sinus pain, especially as we got back to the car, but subsided and when I got back home I felt much better after all that exercise. In fact I’m a bit better all round now.

I played poker yesterday for the first time in a while, and made $41 thanks to my first ever outright win in five-card draw. Here are some pictures.

The abandoned camp buildings and bandstand

This well is still functional

Some street art

The stroad
Life :) - New Zealand

New Zealand flights booked!

February 11, 2023 plutomanby 0 Comments

I found the early part of the week a struggle, but have bounced back since. I think the trick is recognising that life admin is a bit of a challenge for me, and if my less urgent tasks spill over into the following day or even week, that’s nothing to beat myself up over.

I’ve been trying to book flights to New Zealand today, all the time longing for the days (and places) of travel agents who could actually help you. I did visit two agents today, but the antipodes were alien to both them and whatever screens they were looking at. It wasn’t their fault, but their computers really did say no, at least for even a semi-reasonable price. I did eventually find a Turkish Airlines ticket online for just under £1400, but it wouldn’t let me book because it was over my online limit. I’ll try and get through to my New Zealand bank this evening and see if I can get that limit lifted.

Yesterday lunchtime I had pizza in the centre of town with the dictionary woman and another lady who speaks English at a high level and used to have lessons with me. That gave me a welcome, stress-free break in the middle of a busy day of lessons. They want to restart the English conversation club which was a success before it broke up ten years or so ago.

I’ve found two interesting YouTube channels of late. One is called CityNerd, and is all about urban planning and the depressing dominance of the car in North America. The other is called Lord Spoda, and features a guy who visits ghost towns – or close to it – far from any interstate. I enjoyed this video – if enjoy is exactly the word – of half a dozen once-thriving towns in Texas. Now it’s tumbleweed stuff. What names these places have. Motley County is delightful, as the narrator says. Paducah, named after the much larger place in Kentucky that I actually visited in 2015. Rhymes with Temuka. Quitaque, pronounced “kitty-kway”. Turkey. Yes, Turkey. And then there’s the pretty ghastly Floydada.

There have been hellish scenes in Turkey and Syria all week following Monday morning’s earthquake. Tens of thousands dead, and now great anger.

Update: I’ve just successfully booked my flights. I’m leaving Budapest on 5th August, arriving in Christchurch on 7th August and staying until 8th September. There are three stops, in Istanbul, Singapore and Melbourne, and there’s also the business of getting to Budapest. I didn’t expect to feel so excited at making an online booking, but I was practically jumping up and down for a couple of minutes after I got the confirmation.

Language teaching - Life :) - Other sports

I can gather all the news I need on the weather report

February 6, 2023 plutomanby 0 Comments

Edit: I see I’ve used that Simon and Garfunkel song lyric as a post title before. It is one of my favourite songs, so it can’t be helped.

On Friday my UK-based student asked me what “gusts of three degrees” meant on the weather forecast. He said he’d heard it several times. A frost and three degrees, maybe? He insisted that it was gusts. Sorry mate, I’m struggling with that one. But it did make me wonder about weather forecasts. Sometimes they just kind of wash over you, don’t they? If Catriona MacLeod came on Radio NZ and said there’d be “gusts of three degrees, south-westerly fog patches, and moderate to heavy drizzle later in the ranges, rising to 30 knots”, half the listeners wouldn’t bat an eyelid.

Here in Timișoara, the actual weather has been pretty nippy. When I went out today in mid-afternoon, the temperature was zero. Yesterday was one of the windier days I can remember here, with the exception of this day. It was also wet. Getting to my pair of two-hour lessons in Dumbrăvița on my bike, worried that my left handlebar grip might fly off at any moment with all the moisture, wasn’t much fun. After my maths lesson I had my 252nd session with Octavian. I feel bad because, although he’s now got a pretty handy command of English, he still has a very non-native pronunciation – he hasn’t got a proper handle on the English r or th sounds, nor can he properly distinguish the vowel sounds in bit and beat, or bet and bat – so I spent almost the whole session on pronunciation drills.

What a horror day last Tuesday was. This blog tells me that 10/8/16 was pretty bad; perhaps 31/1/23 was even worse. I felt so hopeless and overwhelmed by everything, and had lost control of my emotions. When I think about it I’d been feeling anxious for some time, and my memory and concentration had shrunk to comatose goldfish level. It reminded me of the last time I worked in life insurance, when I couldn’t remember what I’d done five minutes earlier, let alone on the previous day. I really need to act on those first warning signs – take a day or two off, whatever – before things spin drastically out of control. Since Tuesday I’ve bounced back reasonably well, I feel. I’m trying to get back to what I did during the initial stages of Covid which, bizarrely enough, were quite a positive time for me because my life became quieter and simpler. I planned each day the night before, went to bed early, got up early, and executed the plan as best I could. Grocery shopping was always first thing on Monday at the exact same place. I’m going back to that routine now. It’ll be harder because of my increased workload and the books – things are bound to get in the way – but if I have to put something off until the next day because of something out of my control, that’s OK. Tomorrow, apart from my four lessons, my list consists of shopping (I’ve made a list), tidying this flat which has become a mess, cooking, booking flights to NZ (I’ve got to bite the bullet on that one, and bugger the cost), calling the plumber, spending an hour on the dictionary, and reading.

Yesterday Birmingham City – Blues – scored twice in the last few minutes to win 4-3 at Swansea, snapping a run of five straight losses in the league. Mayhem ensued when the winner went in.

Life :)

It’s back, as bad as ever

February 2, 2023 plutomanby 0 Comments

The depression, I mean. I had two terrible days a fornight ago, including the day of my MRI scan, but yesterday was on a whole different level. I was dangerously depressed. I had no lessons until the afternoon, but I had various “life admin” tasks to keep me occupied. It’s the life admin that’s been wrecking me of late. It’s got totally, utterly beyond me. How people cope with all this stuff and bring up a family I have no idea. Yesterday morning I watched the news, which showed a heartbreaking piece about an 85-year-old woman living on her own in Constanța who called 112 because she thought she would die of cold in her hopelessly substandard home. After a bout of screaming in the living room, I forced myself to email my health insurer (could I make a claim?), then again forced myself to call Barclays. I still have a five-figure sum tied up in the UK after Barclays closed the accounts of everybody living in the EU, and nothing has happened since I contacted them in the autumn. I rang the number, needing to use Skype because I couldn’t call it from my phone, and swam through about eight layers of telephonic treacle. “For all other queries, it’s three.” It’s three? That doesn’t make any sense. I eventually got through to a lady who was very helpful. Look, I’m not at my best today, I said. Please go through what I have to do slowly otherwise I won’t remember. She said that if I don’t follow the instructions to the letter and get everything properly notarised, which by the way doesn’t appear to be possible in Romania, they won’t release my funds. I shouted, “But you’ve stolen my money!” She was just the messenger, of course.

I was in an increasingly bad way when I made myself go back to the notary in Piața Unirii, where they certified a copy of my passport last November to no benefit whatsoever. Do you need a translation? Translate my passport, what? They left me alone in the waiting room where I banged my head against the wall, four times I think. Oh jeez. How has it come back to this? I did get the certified copy of my passport and I sent it off with a slightly angry covering letter and other bits and pieces, but when I got home I was a complete wreck. I can’t go screaming and banging my head against a wall, that’s ridiculous and dangerous. I calmed myself down enough to get through my lessons, then later in the evening I saw my doctor. As luck would have it, it was Tuesday. This time he was joined by a younger assistant (a man). I told my doctor that I was struggling and I desperately need to come off my new antidepressant ASAP. He said once again that shipments of citalopram – the old stuff that I first took in 2001 – still aren’t getting here, as a result of the war in Ukraine. Este periculos (that’s dangerous), I said. Then I shouted the word: Periculos! Not to the doctor, not to the assistant, just randomly and very loudly into thin air. The assistant took my blood pressure and pulse – they were both above my normal level – then the doctor wrote me two prescriptions, one for citalopram and one for yet another supposedly similar antidepressant. The assistant said he only knew a few words of English. I thought about asking him if he wanted lessons, but I figured he wouldn’t want a teacher so obviously incapable of controlling himself. God, I felt like a horrible ugly monster.

When I got home I remembered that the FA Cup replay between Birmingham and Blackburn was about to start. Maybe watching that would make me feel better. But none of the channels carried it. Perhaps just as well, because it was a terrible atmosphere (only 7000 people showed up) and a terrible match which Blackburn won 1-0 after extra time. I might watch the Sheffield United – Wrexham replay next week, and that’ll probably be the end of my interest in football for a few more years.

I got up this morning at about six, in a state of absolute anguish. I sat on my office chair and crashed repeatedly into the bookcase and chest of drawers, then lay on the sofa, head in hands, then crawled back to bed. I dragged myself out of bed for good eventually.

Today I’ve steadied the ship somewhat. Most importantly, I’ve managed to get my old antidepressants back. It’s quite likely the new drugs aren’t to blame at all, but at least I can eliminate that. I called up the biggest pharmacy in town, and they said the old stuff was available. I’d never been there before; I went on the way back from the lesson with the four twins. The place had eight counters and people were queuing way out the door. It was all chaotic and a woman accused me of jumping the queue, but I got the pills, that’s what matters.

Last night and today, as the self-inflicted physical pain has gradually subsided, I’ve been wondering where I went wrong and what to do now. Should I have stayed in my previous place? It was sunnier, with that wonderful view, and in such a convenient location. The smaller size made it more manageable, and meant that I spent more time outside – that was surely a good thing. I’ve even been missing the simplicity of the single room in that guest house where I spent two months initially. I could cook simple meals in the kitchen down below; at the time I had everything I needed. Of course I couldn’t stay there. Does living alone mean I’m just doomed whatever I do? Should I take a week off lessons soon? A whole month? It’s not like anyone can sack me.

I’ve got a big day of lessons tomorrow, from 8:30 am to 9:30 pm. I hope I can manage.

Books - Life :) - Tennis

Ploughing through

January 29, 2023 plutomanby 0 Comments

At last we’re getting some real winter with some proper chunky flakes of snow.

I’ve had a busy week: 30-odd hours of lessons plus preparation time and ploughing through the city on my bike to see kids without getting my wheels stuck in the tram tracks, writing and editing more of my “tips and tricks” dictionary, and all the ongoing medical stuff. I saw the ENT specialist on Thursday; after seeing the results of my MRI scan, she thinks I might have a fistula up there. I’ve made an appointment with the neurologist for 20th February. In the meantime she’s given me half a shelf full of drugs: an antibiotic, a probiotic, a nasal spray (another one), two variations of a plant extract to deal with both acute and chronic sinusitis, and prednisone (a steroid) to take on days seven to ten. It isn’t easy to manage the whens and hows of taking this many medicines when “life admin” is already a struggle.

The Australian Open has almost passed me by this year. I saw that big-hitting Sabalenka won the women’s title this morning, and Djokovic will probably win the men’s tomorrow. Andy Murray came through two gladiatorial matches in the first week, one of which lasted 5¾ hours. But I haven’t watched a single ball being hit. I’ve had neither the time nor the interest.

The ex-owner of this flat left a load of books behind (and that’s not all – more about that some other time). One of them was The Girl on the Train, which I got through pretty quickly. A real page-turner, but at the end I wondered what I’d just read. All three of the female characters were incredibly shallow, with such normal problems, that I found it hard to care what happened to them. The men were no better, except the ginger-haired bloke whom Rachel met on the train, or was it near the train, but he only made a cameo appearance. When I read the first few pages, the book was full of potential: a slightly mad woman gawking at people’s gardens twice a day from the window of her train and making up lives for those who reside there, and wondering what her fellow passengers must have thought of her. Then it veered uninterestingly (for me) off the rails.

I might have had my last session with the tearful boy. If that’s the case I won’t be disappointed.

Family - Life :)

Devastated

January 22, 2023 plutomanby 0 Comments

I called my parents on Thursday night. Mum quickly left to play tennis – her first foray onto the court for ages – leaving just Dad and me. What a conversation it was. Skype still tells me it lasted 55 minutes. He said he was devastated by the business with their house. He isn’t someone to use words like that lightly. He said the decision to move from their large but practical two-acre section into their current place – Mum’s decision, ultimately – was a big mistake, and he was deeply moved by Mum’s sincere apology. They now both feel that, in their seventies, they’ve taken on a nightmare that will run and run. We feel so stupid. I was upset and couldn’t think of anything helpful to say even if I know all about property nightmares. They shouldn’t be facing all this unnecessary stress. Mum can’t let anybody know that they’ve had these problems – the shame would be too great – and now won’t invite anybody over. This is all a sign of the times – older people with money, still wanting something bigger and better, never happy with what they have. Plus, until now they’ve always won with property; they’ve never seen it for what it is – a high-stakes poker game that can reap rich rewards but can wreck you for years if the cards turn against you. Dad said they’ll get another quote for their current project, but will probably end up with a more modest plan and once that’s done – how long will it take? – they’ll put the house on the market.

I had a strange dream last night. Well, early this morning. In the dream I was about 25, and for some reason about to return to university where I’d be sharing a room in a hall of residence just like I had a few years prior. I was dreading it. I saw the room I’d soon be moving into – room 205. Just like an old Peugeot, I thought. There was a message on the door of the room, clearly penned by a female hand, that bizarrely included the word “fuckability”. I was worried that I’d get into watching football again. That thought surely came about after watching that football match in real life last Tuesday, and because watching football was part of my real-life university experience. I’d watch the Sunday afternoon games in the TV room, mainly to get respite from all the interactions with people that were impossible for me; as the clock ticked past the 70-minute mark I’d always get that horrible feeling that my escape was nearly over.

Family - Language teaching - Life :)

Grand designs

January 17, 2023 plutomanby 0 Comments

I’ve just spoken to my parents who were cheesed off, as Mum put it. Just as the builders were about to get stuck in, they got an in-passing estimate of $800,000 for the job. One zero too many, I suggested. But no, they were expecting it to be $500,000. Sweet jeebus. Now they’ll have to start all over again, taking care not to besmirch these builders’ good reputation throughout Geraldine, and coming up with excuses for the many occasions when nosy (and, let’s face it, competitive) “friends” ask them what’s happening with their house. I was sympathetic to the extent that it was affecting their mood, but (and this might sound rude) their ambitious project itself is neither here nor there to me. Tomorrow they have to make a trip to Wanaka to pick up a painting.

Outside my lessons, and thank heavens for them, life has been a struggle. Yesterday I had my cerebral MRI scan. First I had to go to another clinic for a test to confirm that the contrasting dye wouldn’t wreck me. An allergy test, right? No, we don’t do allergy tests for that. We do something else. Ugh, this is getting complicated. Beyond me. Outside the Nokia office block next to the clinic, I tried calling the MRI place but momentarily forgot that my credit had expired because I’d had problems with the BT Pay app the night before and wasn’t able to top it up. I visited the nearest branch of Orange in the centre of town and got my credit restored, then went back home, took photos of the six water meters and sent them to the administrator of this block who requests them once a month, and called the MRI people who confirmed that the something else was what I needed. I returned to the clinic and got the something else which was just a blood test. The nurse asked if I’d ever had a blood test before because of the way I must have been acting. I felt a mess. I went home for a second time, planned and printed out some material for my lessons, then left for my scan.

The MRI place was just over the border into Giroc. I rode to the stadium and another 2.5 km down Calea Martirilor 1989 which turns into Calea Timișoarei at the boundary. When I arrived I told them my weight, ensured them I had nothing metal inside me, and filled in a bunch of forms. I had to tick “Da” about two dozen times in what looked like a kind of waiver. They chuckled at my distinctly non-Romanian name and email address, but were good-natured. They hadn’t had the confirmation of my blood test, but proceeded with the scan anyway. I stripped almost naked and lay on the bed, my head clamped. I wore headphones and the woman placed a squeeze ball in my left hand; she said she’d stop the scan if I squeezed it. Was it a good thing that I had that option or a bad thing that I might need it? She said it would take twenty minutes so I counted the seconds. The initial screeching noises were like dial-up internet, then they changed to a “duvduvduv”, then a “baapbaapbaap”. The sounds were off-putting at first, but I got used to them. I was still going when I reached 1200; the time was only an estimate, and the noises had a rhythm which made it hard to count seconds with much accuracy. I was in the 1350s when I saw the light of day again. The lady told me that my test results had come through OK so I went back “under” for the contrasting agent to be applied – an injection to my hand, then a few more minutes of “duvduvduv”. It was all over. I got dressed, parted with 930 lei (NZ$320 or £170), then left. I should get the results by the end of the week.

The next hour or so was the best part of the day. I had plenty of time before my lesson with the single pair of twins, but not long enough that I could go home. I bought a cheese pie (8 lei) from a bakery, then a coffee (2 lei) from a vending machine inside a shop. While my coffee was being poured, an animated advert for cigarettes flickered above me. Let’s Camel! Only 19 lei. I liked all the greens and yellows and the seventies-style font. I also liked that while my parents live in the world of smoking permabans and half-million-dollar home renovations, I live in the world of fuck-it-let’s-Camel. I love the rawness of these little shopping hubs located all over the city. I bought some celeriac, leeks and mandarins from the market, then I was off to my lesson.

I had three more lessons when I got back from the twins. The best one was with the 16-year-old girl. We did role plays set in bars and restaurants. One of them was set in a pub, and had three parts, a barmaid, a customer Tina and her husband Paul. I asked her to play the parts of both Paul and Tina. She did Paul in a deep baritone, then rose about five octaves for Tina. This was hilarious.

Language teaching - Life :) - Maths teaching - Poker - Writing a book

A major upset

January 13, 2023 plutomanby 0 Comments

Yesterday was a ridiculous day really. For the first time I ever, I made someone cry. I told the 12-year-old boy at the end of our online lesson that he was being a pain in the butt (do you understand that?), and look, I really don’t care about what you’re saying because it’s irrevelant and disruptive, then he burst into tears. His mother then came on the line and she was fine with me, but I might never see him again and if I do, the next few sessions are bound to be frosty. After that I had to dash off to see the ENT specialist. She was very nice and had a look a the results of my CT scan in 2019, then recommended me for an MRI scan (known as RMN in Romanian) which I’ll have on Monday in Giroc, a place that used to be a village to the south of Timișoara but has now been subsumed by it, just like Dumbrăvița to the north. The scan will use a contrasting dye, so I’ll first have to get an allergy test.

Later yesterday evening I had my first maths lesson with the 16-year-old girl who started English lessons with me in November. She’s been getting low maths grades, so wanted help there too. That was a tough session for me because I don’t know to talk about maths in Romanian. I was unsure how to say even simple stuff like “root two” or “a over b” or “x to the y“. I had great trouble articulating the “hundredth triangular number”. Even the alphabet posed a problem, because when spelling a word (say vatră), Romanians say the letters differently to how they pronounce them in an abbreviation (say TVR). The T, V, and R are pronounced differently in each case. So what do they do in maths? Buggered if I knew. I resorted to writing expressions and pointing to them. What does this mean? What does that equal? She showed me her intimidating textbook which was older than her. I only skimmed it, but found no shape or space or anything else to give relief from the unremitting algebra, and certainly nothing handy for everyday life such as compound interest. She showed me a test she’d had to do, all handwritten by the teacher. It all seemed very backward.

I’ve been working on my book. Forget about the 28th February deadline I gave for myself; this project will take a while. The important thing is to work on it daily, or almost, so I don’t lose momentum. I remember when my grandmother wrote her memoirs. In 2001 she began with great gusto, but then her enthusiasm drained away and then she started losing her mental sharpness. In 2008, when she was really losing it mentally – probably as a result of a stroke she’d had – she verbally attacked the publisher when he visited her house. In the end it only just got published at all, although it did, which was certainly something. I feel a bit more optimistic about my first book now – “the handy English hints for Romanians” book – after the elderly English lady showed interest. I asked her if she’d like to collaborate more fully.

There’s another book that seems to have captured Britain’s – and the world’s – imagination this week. My brother somehow managed to get hold of a free PDF version of it. If I read any of it, it will be to look at Harry’s (or whoever’s) writing style and see if I should incorporate or avoid it in my own writing. Apparently it’s staccato. Short sentences. Like this. The content itself doesn’t interest me at all.

Now that it’s 2023, Timișoara is officially the European Capital of Culture. Or one of them – three cities got the honour. My home town, as it now is, was supposed to be the capital in 2021, but Covid put that back two years. In the centre of town on New Year’s Eve there was a celebration of Timișoara’s status, with live bands. I wish I’d gone and seen that instead of what I ended up doing.

Last Saturday I made $96 in my online poker session. A surprising second place in triple draw, followed by a win in single draw. It’s a shame double draw isn’t also a thing. I won’t be playing much for the foreseeable future – I’m getting more than enough screen time as it is.

Family - Language teaching - Life :) - Music - Other sports - Writing a book

The boon of the book (so far)

January 8, 2023 plutomanby 0 Comments

The book based on my time with the guy in Auckland has been uppermost in my mind this week. Many hours spent on it. For my mental health it’s been a real boon. Let’s hope I can keep the momentum going.

Fifty years ago my mother was on the ship from New Zealand to England; it left port on 1st January 1973: a six-week voyage (probably not an inaccurate term) via the Panama Canal. She paid $666 for a return ticket – a fraction of the cost of an airfare back then. When the return leg didn’t happen, she was able to recover half of what she’d paid.

My bathroom is done, or just about. I just need to get the bath painted. The work and materials cost about 12,000 lei (a bit over £2000, or around NZ$4000). My parents said you can just about pay that for a set of taps in New Zealand. As for them, they’re about to get the builders in for an altogether more ambitious renovation. They’ll probably need to vacate their house for a period. They’d been stressed because of delays in getting the builders to come. Soon they’ll take delivery of a new electric car. I often wish Mum and Dad could be content with cooking, eating, watching the flowers grow, and playing euchre with their friends, like my mother’s own parents did.

On Thursday my brother had keyhole surgery to repair his knee ligament which had been shot to pieces from overuse in the army. He said he was under general anaesthetic for an hour, and described the experience as like something out of Red Dwarf – that hour was mysteriously deleted. He talked about the artificial intelligence revolution, embracing the concept much more than me. He said, “It’s all fast-evolving mathematics.” Fast-evolving mathematics, you say? (He got an F grade in his GCSE maths.) Are you just making shit up, I asked him. I said that fast-evolving mathematics has been responsible for a lot of misery, like the 2008 crash. To demonstrate I turned my camera around and scrawled a random formula on my whiteboard (making shit up), then added a fudge factor to it. He then said I looked like one of those Open University professors in the eighties, complete with beard. This was, I suppose, what you call banter.

This morning I gave my first maths lesson of 2023. Matei, who started at British School when it opened in 2019, said he now thinks in English, even when he’s alone in his thoughts. For me, a foreign language becoming dominant in my life like that is hard to imagine. He said he uses Romanian at home with his parents and his dog, but that’s about it. His Romanian lessons at school are relegated to minor importance. That verged on sad for me. On the way to our lesson I cycled on the cobblestones of Piața Traian, then had to negotiate a wobbly old yellow tricycle; the man sitting on it reminded me of Omar Sharif, though it must have been watching Doctor Zhivago recently that made me think that. That all lasted seconds and seemed perfectly normal, but before coming to Romania it would have been bizarre.

The darts. What a match the final was between the two Michaels, van Gerwen and Smith. In the second set, van Gerwen left 144 after six darts, but missed double 12 for a nine-darter. Nothing too crazy there, but Smith himself was on 141 after six darts and proceeded to check out on double 12 for a perfect leg. That had never happened before and the commentators couldn’t cope. Van Gerwen, the clear favourite, was just a notch below his best; Smith took advantage. I had a lesson in the morning and I couldn’t watch the end of it. When I went to bed, Smith was 5-3 up. Either there would be a big shock or a big comeback, and it was the former, Smith winning 7-4 after a tense finish.

Song of the last few days: Aimee Mann’s Save Me. It’s a masterpiece. It’s part of the soundtrack to Magnolia, a three-hour film that I saw once but can’t remember anything about except the boy who peed his pants on a quiz show.

The weather. It’s like April, with sunshine and temperatures rising into the teens. The mild conditions mean I can get to my lessons easily, but it does all feel weird. This time six years ago I was waking up to temperatures in the negative teens.

Life :) - Other sports

New Year’s party — match report

January 2, 2023 plutomanby 0 Comments

Right, that New Year’s party. It’s over.

After being told that bow-ties weren’t required, I tried to wear stuff that was smart enough but me at the same time, in a vain effort to reduce my anxiety. As luck would have it, I only had a short walk to the party. On the way someone was cooking a pig on a spit. The venue was a substantial building that a year ago didn’t exist. There were forty or fifty of us there; I joined a table of nine – the tennis people and their friends. At the head of the table was Radu, a real matahală – a giant. There was a smorgasbord, a word which Joe Bennett said sounds like a pig in a trough, so we got our snouts in. The music wasn’t up to much – there were two rather pedestrian singers of around sixty and someone else on a keyboard. They did waltzes and other Romanian songs from two generations ago. Later they moved on to hits of the eighties, both Romanian and what you might call Europop. More to my liking, but when they sang in English (baybee! baybee!) it sounded faintly ridiculous to my ears. The musical experience would have been far better with just a CD or record player and some speakers.

There was a raffle in which everyone was guaranteed a prize. The top prize was a weekend for two in Brașov, the second prize was a weekend for two somewhere else, and although I’d have loved to visit these places (I still haven’t been to Brașov yet) I dearly hoped I wouldn’t win either of the two main prizes – the last tickets to be drawn – because I wouldn’t have had anyone to go with. It was a great relief to see my number drawn among the first ten and to win a kind of wicker basket. At 10pm we had ciorbă de perișoare – meatball soup, and then my brother rang me. I was able to get outside and take the call; I was grateful for the break. The evening progressed glacially – there was nothing to do except eat, drink, and talk. The clock ticked painfully slowly towards midnight. We went outside just before twelve to see the fireworks, and as 2022 became 2023 it was like a war zone out there. Unlike past years when I’ve been in the centre of town, this time I was in the backblocks and people were setting off bangers randomly in the streets.

At 12:30 the steak came out. Good steak, but I wasn’t in the mood for eating, and certainly not drinking, by this point. I often liken social events to air travel, and this was like crossing time zones on Garuda, no longer knowing what was day or night or up or down. Another hour passed. Then the big prizes were drawn, then we had dessert (a kind of chocolate layer cake), then at 2:10 I made the move, 6½ hours after I arrived. They were all nice people at the table, but I couldn’t keep it up any longer. There was some relief at getting away, but I was worried I’d have a splitting headache like I did four years ago after attending a New Year’s party in a kind of bunker. I have had a headache today, but nothing on that scale.

As hard as I try, that sort of event is too much for me, though there were many ways it could have been much worse. I’ve already decided I’m going to see in 2024 with a very small band of people, or even on my own.

I’ve been watching some of the darts from London. It’s a nice distraction. My highlight so far has been Mensur Suljovic, the 50-year-old whose facial expressions are a picture, hitting 161 to prolong his match with red-hot favourite Michael van Gerwen. The level of play in the match had been bordering on stratospheric, but in the deciding leg of the fifth set the Dutchman passed up a shot at the bull’s eye to win the match 4-1, expecting quite reasonably that he’d be back to clear up with 18 and double 16. But then in went treble 20, treble 17 and the bull from Mensur, and the commentators were speechless. Van Gerwen did win 4-2 in the end, and now he must be the favourite for the title. I’ve just seen quite a shock as Gabriel Clemens, the big German, took out Gerwyn Price 5-1 in the quarter-finals. Clemens was all over that treble 20 like you wouldn’t believe, and often he could afford to miss doubles at the end of a leg because he’d built up such a hefty lead. The big highlight in this match was Price, after a break at 3-1 down, re-entering the stage wearing building-site-style ear defenders to block out the crowd noise, and maybe distract his opponent. It didn’t work. Darts is a well-designed game that is great for drama, but it has nothing on snooker which has immense tactical depth. I’m already looking forward to the snooker World Championships in April.