Isolation (again)

It’s year four in Romania for me. Some things change. Most don’t. One thing that hasn’t is my success in meeting new people. (Well, actually, I had more luck when I arrived than I do now.) There are three reasons why it’s a struggle. First, it’s really tough to break into a society where everyone has their obligations and close-knit groups, even in a city where people are as open-minded as perhaps anywhere else in the country. Second, my schedule is hopeless for meeting people. So much of my work is in evenings and weekends. Third, and perhaps the biggest problem of all, as that I’m quite happy being on my own most of the time I’m not working (and I never have the urge to interact with dozens of people all at once). I simply don’t need much human contact (but I need a bit!). I don’t know what the answer is. If I found any of this stuff easy, I doubt I’d be in Romania in the first place.

As I’ve said before, this job (or the way I choose to do it, at least) involves printing, cutting and sticking, sometimes on a near-industrial scale, as well as thinking about exactly what to print, cut and stick. One example of this is Taboo, a game you can buy, where you have to describe a word to somebody without mentioning any of the other words on the card. My handmade version of Taboo has been a success, and it works especially well with my pairs of students. I’d made ten sets of 36 cards, at various levels of difficulty, but I’m in the process of making another four sets. In total, that’ll be 504 cards.

Last Thursday I had another difficult lesson with the pair of young women, one of whom cried in the previous session. The other woman (not the one who cried) was so vacant throughout most of the lesson that I wondered why I was even bothering. She’s 27, but she was like a 14-year-old sitting in the back of a maths class, waiting for it to be over. She’d checked out. Are you bored? Tired? Would you rather we did something else? I did tell her that if she doesn’t participate, there’s really no point. Other than that (and the cancellations), I had some quite productive lessons.

A week ago a pair of 50-foot masts appeared in front of the cathedral, and last night two huge flags were hoisted on them: a flag of Romania and another showing Timișoara’s coat of arms. I wish they could have spent the money on a ramp for the poor man with no legs who has to crawl up the steps (and the numerous others with mobility problems) instead of pointless frippery.

I spoke to Dad yesterday. Mum was in Alexandra, on her annual golf trip. Unfortunately we only spoke for ten minutes because I had a lesson to get to. Somehow we got onto the subject of sanitation and wooden water pipes. After that, he sent me an email saying he’d been quoted several thousand dollars to get the engine on his MG repaired, and he wasn’t looking forward to telling Mum.

I pay virtually no attention to memes. I almost never use social media. But in the last ten days I’ve been hearing a lot about “OK, boomer”, a phrase used by young people who are fed up with the attitudes of baby boomers. Last week a New Zealand Green MP in her mid-twenties used the phrase in parliament. This inter-generational conflict is all a bit silly, really. We’re all products of the world we’re born into, which we have no say in. It does annoy me, therefore, when wealthy older people deny the role that luck has played in getting them to where they have, and instead (ridiculously) talk of overcoming adversity. We had 15% mortgage interest rates! Well, big deal. You also had annual salary increases of almost that. Sure, it was a struggle to pay off the mortgage in 1980, but by 1995 you were laughing. Of course, I’m not that young myself anymore, and things have got even harder since I went to university and entered the workforce. Degrees have become vastly more expensive, and less valuable, in the last two decades. Would I have even gone to university in today’s environment?

These generational differences crop up in conversation in lessons. Many of my students are surprised to learn that in the Anglosphere it’s often older people who have the money.

Mum, I think you’re addicted

In the last week I’ve used Duolingo a fair bit. Italian in the morning, and brushing up my Romanian in the evening. It’s important to keep the two languages separate as much as possible, because they’re fairly similar. It would be very easy to start mixing them up. This week I happen to have earned around 1500 so-called experience points (XP), which to me are meaningless apart from in one aspect: to gauge how long I’ve spent on Duolingo, in the absence of any clock. (The creators wouldn’t want a clock. They want everyone on there as long as possible, collecting gems or chasing promotion to the next gemstone-named league. It’s a great site, but the way it hooks you in is extremely Candy Crush-esque. Or even pokie-machine-esque.) I seem to pick up about 150 points an hour, so I’ve spent ten hours or so on the site this week. That feels like a reasonable amount if you’re splitting the time between two languages. But then I saw this:

MUM?!?!?!?!

I’ve connected with my mother, who is learning French exclusively. I’ll be generous here, and assume she’s doing tasks that yield points faster than the ones I do (because the points motivate her more than me). I’ll give her 200 points an hour instead of my 150, in which case she’s spent 25 hours on the site. Sheesh. I wonder how much she’s really learning, and how much she’s just mining fool’s gold. If her goal is genuinely to learn French, there isn’t much point in putting in so much volume. Little and often works well. Plenty and often (Mum’s strategy) doesn’t get you very much further. But it sure does get you a whole heap more digital diamonds.

I’ve had some interesting lessons, as I always do. In this morning’s productive session, we discussed the words analyse and analysis, two words that my student uses in her job but finds hard to pronounce, because of the changing stress pattern. After the lesson I sent her a video clip of me saying the pair of words repeatedly. On Thursday evening I had a particularly awkward situation in my lesson with two women in their twenties. They’re both at around a 4 on my 0-to-10 scale. One of them started to get angry with the other woman when they discussed learning styles (What works for you doesn’t work for me!) and out of the blue she burst into tears. I think she’d had a stressful time at work, and I realised that (unusually) we hadn’t discussed their work day at the start of the session. Perhaps, ultimately, it was my fault. The one who cried has always seemed a really nice person, and my biggest worry is that she’ll be embarrassed about her outburst and they won’t come again. I hope that doesn’t happen.

The week before last I had one of my (sadly rare) half-English, half-Romanian sessions. I asked the teacher how I would say “My living-room window faces west” (which it does) in Romanian. She simply said that Romanians don’t say that, and instead I should just say that my room gets the sun in the afternoon. But it doesn’t always, and certainly not today it doesn’t! She told me that compass directions are used fairly infrequently, apart from sometimes to talk about parts of the country. One thing I really noticed when I moved to New Zealand was that compass directions are used all the time there, much more than in the UK (and, as I now know, considerably more than in Romania). Especially where my parents live, there’s always a nor’wester springing up, or perhaps a cold southerly about to hit. The mountains tell you precisely where west is. There’s Northland, Southland, Westland (but no Eastland). Even the two main islands are simply called North and South. I remember when I lived in Wellington and I’d sometimes go on day tramps, the trip leader might say “if you just look to the east…” and I’d be thinking, where’s east?! It’s as if all Kiwis are born with an internal compass. Quite a lot of New Zealanders sail, some of them still build their own homes, and there’s still some of that pioneering spirit.

This morning I went to the chemist to pick up two medications (an antidepressant and something for my hair) but they were out of the hair lotion. That meant I had to go to their other branch at Piața Unirii. It’s in Casa Brück, one of the most wonderful buildings I ever have the pleasure to enter. After that, and just before my lesson, I had a Skype chat with my cousin in Wellington. I also caught up with her husband and all three of their boys. The eldest is now 17. All of a sudden, he’s a man. Time is shooting by.

Hell-oween

Yesterday I saw those two boys again. The big one made noises about wishing I could stick around beyond our allotted hour, while the little one wasn’t showing much sign of life at all by the end of the session. The “highlight” was when I mentioned Halloween. The older boy looked at me as if I’d just said the C-word (which in Romanian is the P-word). It was soon apparent that the family are devout Orthodox Christians. It’s OK mate, I’ve never done Halloween either. When I got home I had my first lesson with the wife of my very first student, veteran of 127 lessons. She was very good – I’d put her at an 8½ on my 0-to-10 scale. When I started out I didn’t know how to help people at that level, but now I realise there are so many subtleties and nuances and quirks that even advanced students don’t know about. Inevitably, perhaps, she asked me about her husband’s lessons. Why hasn’t he improved more? Is he lazy? Hmmm, I’m going to get into trouble here if I’m not careful. No, he’s not lazy, I said, but he’s quite happy just chatting, reading, listening to songs, playing games, and doing a few grammar exercises here and there. The truth (as I’ve gathered from our many conversations) is that he has a fairly stressful work and home life, and comes to my place mainly to relax. That’s his goal.

This morning I had a lesson on the seventh floor of one of the tower blocks in my next picture. I felt more like a psychiatrist than an English teacher. Here are some pictures I took from Piața Dacia just after that lesson:

I bought plums, apples and sweetcorn from this stall
Imported from the US. Some Romanian kids certainly do do Halloween.

Memories of prehistory

Last week my dad got an email from daughter of my old kindergarten teacher at Hemingford Abbots, not that we used the word “kindergarten”. We didn’t say “preschool” either. It was playschool, or sometimes playgroup. It sounds so much more fun, doesn’t it? My old teacher is still alive; she’s now 87. My grandmother taught her daughter history of art (she became a teacher late in the day – in her early fifties – and the change of scenery rid her of crippling depression almost instantly). My dad forwarded the email on to me, and I replied, trying to remember what I could from her mother’s playschool sessions. The little black dog she used to bring in. My fourth birthday. I also remember a time I was stuck on the toilet, unable to go, and she told me to “make an effort”. I didn’t mention that episode in my email.

Nine cancellations in the last two weeks, not to mention the people who have given up. On the plus side, I’ve had some new people, including another pair of brothers, aged seven and nearly ten. Their mother (who could speak reasonable English) told me at the start of the lesson that she’d need to stick around and interpret everything I said, and I tried to put her off doing that. (My Romanian is good enough, I like to think, that I can get by without an interpreter.) They also have a little brother, aged just one. If I’m still here in a few years… Yesterday I had another duo – two women in their twenties. Trying to get the present simple and present continuous across to them was no simple feat. One of them seemed particularly vacant during that part of the session, glued to her phone while her so-called smart watch buzzed. I couldn’t entirely disguise my annoyance.

My mother has – surprisingly – developed what I’d almost term an addiction to Duolingo. She’s been learning French on it for several months. As addictions go, that’s a pretty good one to have, but I wonder how much she’s really learning. She seems pretty motivated by trying to gain promotion to the ruby league, or emerald league, or whatever it is. In the last two weeks I’ve been using Duolingo to learn (or re-learn) Italian, and yeah, I can see how it can draw you in.

I haven’t managed to play tennis since that time a month ago. I’ve made three court bookings with the same guy, but each time he’s pulled out because of the weather or (the last time) because he was “unexpectedly” out of the city. I think he’s simply got better things to do than spend time with me. (I’m used to that feeling.) When he pulled out last week, I hit against the wall for an hour, at one stage keeping a rally going for ten minutes.

My apartment in Wellington. They just want to sell. Now. To me, this is a total capitulation, a surrender (to go all Boris Johnson), and I can’t see how selling will benefit me while I get $24,000 in rent every year I keep hold of the place. But doing anything else feels almost politically impossible. I’m being pressured to consult a lawyer, which will cost me thousands, and I’m on the other side of the world, dammit. The thing that really rankles is that I’m being asked to urgently care about something – the sales process – that I don’t care about in the slightest. “Please progress this,” I was asked. Oh god. You’re using “progress” as a transitive verb. I wish I could disappear the whole thing.

It’s deosebit de cald – unusually warm – for this time of year. The centre of town has been packed all weekend as a result. In the forecast there’s a row of suns and temperatures in the mid-twenties, stretching out as far as it will go.

No subtitles

I’ve just watched a Romanian film, Principii de Viață, and I watched it without subtitles. This wasn’t easy due to the sheer speed they talked at. It seemed they were only saying every third word. I’ll do this again – I think it’s an extremely valuable exercise for improving my listening. As for the film, the ending wasn’t quite what I expected.

Matei’s parents invited me to have dinner at their place in Dumbrăvița on Friday night. It was a good evening. We had plenty of traditional Romanian food – pork, slănină (smoked bacon fat), smântână with mămăligă, and pickled cucumbers. I also had a few shots of Romanian liquor – quite what, I wasn’t totally sure. (I’m not really a spirit drinker, and when I’m eating, I’d much rather have more liquid to wash it down.) We talked about Matei’s (expensive) new “British” school, where he has every lesson in English, except Romanian. So, after 118 sessions, he doesn’t need me anymore. After dinner we sat outside; Matei’s dad had lit a fire. I spoke English and Romanian, roughly equally. I left at about 11:40. According to the version of the timetable I had, the last bus to Timișoara left at three minutes to midnight. Matei’s parents’ friends told me there wouldn’t be any buses at that sort of time. I trusted them more than the timetable, but I thought I’d stand outside the bus stop anyway (expecting to be calling a taxi), and sure enough, on the dot of 11:57 the bus came.

At 10am on Saturday I had my back-to-back lessons with the sister and brother. As usual, the big sister just wanted to talk. I do bring actual material with me, just in case, but I know I probably won’t need it.

It’s cooling down. Autumn here is quite lovely with all the yellows and browns, the colours that remind me of when I arrived in this city three years ago tomorrow. It’s been that long.

Freak-outs

My work volume has dropped off a little in the last week or two, so I’ve started advertising again. I put up an online ad, mostly in Romanian but with the last line in English: “I look forward to teaching you English.” Someone replied to my ad, questioning my command of my mother tongue. He didn’t think the -ing on the end of “teaching” should have been there. I swiftly corrected him; he was making a very common mistake.

Last night I bumped into Bogdan, the guy in his early forties who lives on the second floor of my block, in apartment 10. (I live at number 13, on the third of eight floors.) For months and months I saw him hanging around outside the apartment building, and until I got talking to him I never imagined he actually lived there. We decided to go for a beer in the square, just opposite our block, and he seemed reasonably switched on. He even knew a reasonable amount of English; he said he’d done eight years of it at school. He doesn’t work, and doesn’t currently have a functioning cell phone.

Among all the big news stories that flashed by in the first half of last week, I completely neglected to mention Thomas Cook, a big travel company that went to the wall. The number of people stranded overseas was in six figures. The modern company didn’t bear much resemblance to the outfit whose memorable slogan I remember as a kid: “Don’t just book it, Thomas Cook it.” However, it was still headquartered in Peterborough and it will be a huge blow to the city.

When I spoke to my dad yesterday, he reminded me of the time (or one of the times) I completely freaked out when I was small. I would have been three or four, and we’d gone to the airport to pick up my grandmother who had flown all the way from New Zealand. I guess this must have been Terminal 3 of Heathrow. Even in the eighties it was vast and chaotic, and none of that helped, but I think it was the loudspeaker announcements that did it for me. I screamed and bawled, and broke out in a hot sweat. Dad said he wasn’t angry with me, but instead he felt powerless and sad. Another episode came in a shop called Habitat in the newly-opened Grafton Centre in Cambridge. On this occasion it was the thick ceiling pipes that I couldn’t handle. They totally spooked me. There were all manner of shops I just wouldn’t go into back then. Shops with freezers were a particular problem. I really didn’t like freezers. Except the dozens that must have been in John’s Freezer Centre in Godmanchester, where I often went with Mum; somehow those ones were OK. Tesco’s in Bar Hill was never an easy one for me. It was huge for a start, there were frequent tannoy announcements, and of course lots and lots of freezers. I was about seven when I got over all of this.

Dad and I also talked about the political situation in the UK, following the incendiary session in the Commons on Wednesday. We agreed that the risks associated with Brexit have now become secondary to the risks that Britain’s democracy will be irreparably damaged. Dad said that he voted to leave in 2016 because he wanted to “shake the tree” a bit. We had a good laugh at that. He now says he’d vote to remain in a future referendum.

I recently watched the five-part Chernobyl series. Very good. Chilling, but brilliant. I imagine the cover-ups and chicanery were even worse than depicted on screen. I certainly won’t be watching the Russian-made version.

Moving too fast

I’ve been here a while now, and these “new” things keep coming back. As I write this, there is a large crowd outside the cathedral to celebrate the Feast of the Cross.

Feast of the Cross

Today I played tennis, for only the second time this year, in Parcul Rozelor. I was better than I thought I’d be, so I’m keen to play again soon. My opponent (not that we played a game) was of a similar standard to me, but about 30 kilos heavier, so I have a fairly good idea of what my strategy will be if we ever do start counting games and sets. For his part, he generated plenty of pace, but also had a penchant for slice and drop shots. After the game, he invited me to go for a beer in a bar by the Bega. He asked me about Brexit, among other things. That’s a hard enough subject to talk about even in my native language.

No, I didn’t see the men’s US Open final. On Monday, my fifth and final student that day asked me, how come you didn’t watch it? Well it started at midnight my time and didn’t finish until five, and that was reason enough. When you’ve got a packed day (as I had on Monday) or even a loosely packed day, you just can’t. Not when you’ve got a job that actually matters. Shame, I know. It was a real barnburner of a match.

Last week it became clear that I need to change tack when it comes to the way I teach. I was going to say I’m pushing my students too hard, but that’s not the right word at all: I rarely exert any pressure on them. More accurately, I’m getting them to move onto the next level too soon, and need to focus more on consolidation. I’m still learning myself.

It’s still pretty warm for mid-September, but according to the forecast the last embers of summer will be extinguished in the next three or four days. The lovely fruit and vegetables from the markets will soon be gone too. A summer of eating Romanian tomatoes from markets makes me wonder how I ever eat the tasteless, polished, uniformly round crap you get in the supermarket.

A few old Dacias in Piața Unirii this morning

Balkans trip report — Part 3

No shortage of work on my return to Timișoara, and it feels good to have some money in my pocket again. My worst lesson was my first of two with the six-year-old boy. I couldn’t connect to their wi-fi, and I was hopelessly unprepared for that scenario. The second time I was armed with colouring-in sheets (colour the roof red, the chimney orange, the door green…) which he really enjoyed. We practised numbers a bit; he knows 1 to 12, and 20, so I’m trying to get him up to speed on the teens. Other than that, I had eight hours with the Cîrciumaru family, nearly a third of my total for the week (26).

I’ll now give a run-down of the second half of my trip, starting in Mostar. At 5:10 on Sunday morning (the 18th) I was woken by a call to prayer at one of the nearby mosques. A bit later I got up and negotiated the rabbit warren of side streets to end up in the middle of town, where I had breakfast. I met a woman of about 30 from the Basque part of Spain; she told me that a tip-based tour of the city would be starting from where we happened to be, in a few minutes. I’m very glad I did join the tour, because it taught me so much about the war and its aftermath. Before our guide went on to the serious stuff, we first saw somebody jump 22 metres from the Old Bridge into the river. The beautiful bridge isn’t old anymore, sadly: it stood for more than four centuries before being destroyed in the war. Reconstruction was completed in 2004.

Stari Most (The Old Bridge)

We then watched some coppersmithing (a dying art), and then things did get fairly heavy. Our guide was 43; he and his family survived the war, which is still so recent and so raw. (Saying that, most of the people on the tour were under 30 and had no recollection of the war, or of a country called Yugoslavia.) He described the gruesome events of the early 1990s in vivid detail, and explained that although the fighting stopped a quarter-century ago, the hatred most definitely hasn’t. This I found hard to get my head around. I’m just me. I could be in Romania or New Zealand or anywhere. The idea of despising a whole group, race, nationality, ethnicity, call it what you will, is totally alien to me. But as far as I can see, unlike in Tito’s time, the three main groups in Bosnia – Serbs, Croats and Bosniaks (Muslims) – hardly mix at all these days. There are three prime ministers (who must all agree in order to pass legislation, but never can), three school systems with their three separate truths about their recent history, separate hospitals, and so on. I soon found out why a city as small as Mostar had two bus stations: one was for the Bosniaks, the other for the Croats.

Coppersmithing
Coppersmithing
Sniper Tower

After our three-hour tour, I had an enjoyable lunch (a big platter of traditional Bosnian fare and some Bosnian beer) with three of the others. Paying for our meal was interesting. In Mostar, although the Bosnian convertible mark (abbreviated KM) is the official currency, they also accept euros (which I had) and Croatian kuna. We paid using a mixture of all three. Next stop was a Bosnian coffee demonstration, and after that we went our separate ways.

Bosnian coffee

In the afternoon I didn’t do a whole lot. It was 37 degrees, although if I’d been there the week before it would have been even hotter. In the evening I had another big mish-mash of Bosnian food, and later I met the Spanish woman again, with a friend she was staying with at a hostel, and we tried some craft beer. Her friend was an English teacher from somewhere near Swindon. She’s a nomad: she travels from place to place, giving Skype lessons. I think I’d tire of that – not having my own bed – pretty quickly. Meeting her gave me a rare opportunity to talk about linguistics and teaching methods. She said speaking the student’s first language, which I sometimes do here in Romania, is a no-no. (For children and beginners I’m not convinced. For kids in particular, being able to speak their language a bit seems to help gain their trust. She doesn’t teach kids.)

Mostar at night

The next morning I bought my ticket at the train station. I wouldn’t be leaving until around 8pm, not 5 as I’d thought. I visited two museums, including one showing a young New Zealander’s quite moving photographs of the war. There I also chatted to some English people, partly about Brexit, which never goes away. After bumping into the Basque woman once more (she was catching a bus), I arrived at the stark-looking train station very early, and somewhat eerily, nobody else was there. Then people suddenly showed up, seemingly out of nowhere. I spoke to a young Bosnian chap who was travelling to play football, then I had a really strange conversation with a woman from Hong Kong. After some confusion (is this the right train?) I was on a surprisingly smart Spanish Talgo train, on my way to Sarajevo. Mostar is a very picturesque city, and I enjoyed my time there, despite the spectre of war that looms large.

Waiting for the train in Mostar (or Мостар)

Pushing off…

I’ve got a couple of hours until I push off. It’s going to be a stinking hot day, both here and in Belgrade. They’re forecasting 37s and 38s. Tomorrow will be the same. I can see myself being holed up in my hotel room for the best part of the day.

After the Belgrade bit, the temperatures should plummet (yay!) and everything will be pretty damn awesome. I hope.

I do need a break. I haven’t had a proper one since Christmas. Last week (23 hours of lessons) things felt ever so slightly stale on the work front. Hours of Peppa Pig. Hours of Romgleză with that woman. Four hours with Matei in that café, where you either sit outside (hopefully in the shade) and be lost among layers of cigarette smoke, or inside where you’re confronted with the Solid Shit music channel on their TV and you can’t hear yourself think.

Timișoara’s centenary (as part of Romania) took place on 3rd August, and to mark the occasion they finally reopened Central Park, a lovely park that had been closed since May 2017, not long after I got here. God knows why it was closed for so long.

Timișoara celebrates its centenary
A new statue erected close to where I live. What’s it going to be?
The big reveal. It’s Maria, who was the Queen of Romania. This might be the city’s first statue of a woman.
Central Park
Central Park, with my apartment block in the background. The park is lined with sculptures of famous Timișoara men, but no women.
Let the games begin!

Back from hell

It hasn’t been a bad day at all. After a good night’s sleep I had breakfast consisting of porridge, slices of watermelon, and a cup of tea, then I printed off what I needed for my three lessons. My first lesson from 9 till 10:30 was with a bloke of about 25; at one stage we discussed all kinds of names for all kinds of body parts. That gave me just enough time to pack and set off for my two hours with the woman who is afraid to speak English, and two more hours with Matei. I think the woman likes to have lessons with me because she’s a bit lonely. Predictably, about two-thirds of everything she said (and she says a lot) was in Romanian, although if anything that proportion has dropped a bit.

After the session, I FaceTimed my parents from the small park next to my student’s apartment block. Whenever I call them from outside, Mum is amazed; she says she wouldn’t dream of making a video call without WiFi because of all the data it chews up. In Romania, for a few quid a month (and without any contract) I have more data than I could possibly need. It’s a great pleasure to contact my parents. Perhaps Dad’s ordeal has brought us all together, but mostly it’s just that I get on so much better with Mum these days. Starting up a new life in Romania has helped a lot. I think she respects me for having the oomph to do my own thing, for being independent. It doesn’t feel that long since she saw an online job ad, and I felt I had to apply to keep her happy even though I knew it would damn near kill me. I got the job. I took it (to keep her happy?). It damn near killed me. I was 30, nearly 31. How bloody ridiculous. Those were the dark days. I’m so glad they’re over.

I had sandwiches and fruit in the park (the bread I buy is excellent but very sandwich-unfriendly), then I was off to Dumbrăvița to see Matei. The “lesson” was really just a chat in an outside café. He’d been to Tunisia and on a basketball camp in Serbia. After a quick stop at Piața Lipovei (the market) on the way back, I was home at 5:40. Unusually, I was done for the day. My first instinct was to pour myself a beer, as I often do whenever I get a free evening, but I didn’t because I’d read what alcohol can do to your sinuses.

Before today, you see, I’d gone through hell with my sinuses. Absolute agony. And all I could do was take painkillers. As well as the pain to contend with, I had virtually no energy, I was irritable, clumsy, hopelessly slow. For two nights I hardly slept. Yesterday I somehow survived my session with the six-year-old. I had the presence of mind to at least bring my laptop, and he just watched Peppa Pig non-stop. Are you bored with this yet? No. Fantastic! His mother wanted a chat with me afterwards. Please, just let me go! Today, after a proper night’s sleep, was a blessed relief.