by This morning I got my temperature checked on the way in to the supermarket. Two young guys were refused entry because they were maskless. In the fruit and vege area I battled those damn plastic bags with gloves and no saliva. At the checkout I got a nasty surprise as my bank card didn’t work. I tapped the PIN in twice but wasn’t going to risk it a third time (three strikes and you’re out, of course). The lady let me leave my trolley-basket there while I visited a cash machine and raided my New Zealand account. Everything then had to be re-scanned. What a pain. Then I faced what has become the usual routine: packing everything into my two backpacks to the intermittent sounds made by the nearby grab-a-furry-toy game called Happy Zoo, while trying not let the yoghurts or bags of rice split. Then I had to lug it all home. I’ll pop to the bank tomorrow morning. When I got back home, I had my now-weekly chat with my aunt. She was bored, and assumed I would be too. I don’t think I’ve felt ever bored during this pandemic, barring perhaps the first few days.
This afternoon I had that awkward FaceTime lesson with the ten-year-old. I was happy for him to spend the final 20 minutes describing Brawl Stars to me (in very good English, it must be said). Apart from the fact that it’s a game that uses cartoon-like characters and they fight each other (hence the name), I’m none the wiser. “I’ve won 9700 trophies.” Wow, that’s a lot. Where do you keep them all? This morning I had my first face-to-face lesson since March. We met in the park and sat at opposite ends of the bench. I was on the verge of a heated argument with her when she expressed her views that the virus was semi-fake (“but people die all the time”); I reined myself in, thankfully. It was good to see her again for the first time in February. I feel sorry for her because she has to bring up her six-year-old son on her own, and he’s very underweight and understrength for his age.
Yesterday I had a lesson that included an article on the 1988 FA Cup final. Other highlights have been the UK-based guy’s comments that nursing homes “sound like a bit of fun” and my 25-year-old student’s fascinating description of preparing, singeing, cutting and smoking a pig for Christmas. It’s pleasing to me that young Romanians are still interested in those traditions.
Tomorrow I’ve got no lessons at all, and once I’ve sorted out my bank card, I absolutely must crack on with the English book.
