by It’s about time I wrote again, but what’s actually happened? I’ve booked some accommodation in Bergamo, so that’s something to look forward to. Vespas and Bambinas, or should I say Vespe e Bambine. I need to brush up my Italian. I still haven’t planned my stay in the UK. Where and when will I see my brother? And what about my friend in Birmingham?
I’ve got two new students. One of them is at a low level – not a problem, but as far as I can tell, he’s never learned how to learn. He reminds me of the Burmese refugee I taught in Wellington before coming over here. That guy left school at twelve to work on fishing boats; my current student probably stayed in the education system a bit longer, but he doesn’t have a handle on what to learn in what order. Sometimes he comes out with stuff like “Him tomorrow say me,” and he’ll keep repeating the same garbled phrase over and over, seemingly thinking that if he says it enough times it’ll magically become correct. Then he’ll ask me how to say something complex that requires a range of tenses. He’s a roofer and wants to work in Scandinavia. I’m pleased that he has the motivation and enthusiasm to have lessons with me, and I hope I can get him to learn more systematically. The other new student is a very pleasant woman in her mid-thirties who lives in Bucharest. She’s about to start a new job which requires a lot more English.
There’s a lot of talk and WhatsApping in this apartment block about gas installation and central heating. We should soon get a gas pipe fitted that will heat the whole block from top to bottom, like I had in the other place. I rarely needed central heating there. Somebody from the gas company came in and took some measurements, and he’s come back with a quote for NZ$5000 (£2500) to put gas central heating in my flat. My worry is that when we get to winter, the price of gas will be so high that I won’t dare use it.
When I moved in, I only got one set of keys. At least one more set is out there, somewhere, but I’ve never seen them. (The vendor has been massively unhelpful here.) On Friday, the old lady who lives on the first floor took me to the key shop on Piața Traian, a very Romanian outfit which you got to via a courtyard. The key lady had two dogs, including a female Rottweiler – I think – who was happily sleeping on the floor. She cut both my front door keys and made a replacement intercom swipe thingy, but when I got home one of the front door keys didn’t fit and the swipe thing didn’t work either. Two trips later and I got the other front door key to fit but still no luck with the intercom doohickey, so next week I’ll go somewhere else and see if I can get that sorted.
The men’s final at Wimbledon is almost upon us. I’m playing singles tennis later, so if the match goes beyond three sets I won’t see the end of it. What a line-up. An anti-vax super-spreader against an egomaniac. A bully. There were kids like Kyrgios when I was at school. Both finalists are extraordinary talents, however, and you can’t take your eyes off Kyrgios when he plays. You never know what’s coming next. Djokovic is the clear favourite, but it wouldn’t be massive shock if Kyrgios was to win. He’ll be insufferable if he does. There was quite a turnaround in yesterday’s women’s final where Rybakina grabbed the match by the scruff of the neck in set two; her hold from 0-40 in 3-2 in the third was the key to her victory over Ons Jabeur, who I hoped would win. Yesterday’s men’s doubles final was a belter of a match. A slow burner you might say, not because of the tennis but because the players were largely unknown and the crowd didn’t fully get into it until the later stages. I was hoping the super tie-break could be avoided, but no such luck. The Australian pairing, who had saved five match points in their semi-final, won the shoot-out 10-2 – a procession in the end, after an encounter that had been on a knife-edge throughout.
Poker. I haven’t mentioned that for ages because it’s way down my priority list. I had one win at the end of May, and since then I’ve had a torrid time, playing 35 tournaments without making the top three once. It should be easier to snag a podium position now that the fields are smaller because the Russians are gone – they were rightly kicked out shortly after the war started – but things just haven’t happened for me. I just need to be patient.
The temperature has dropped from the high 30s to something bearable. I might write again tomorrow and talk about the crazy business with Boris.
