by A miracle occurred about the time I got back from New Zealand. (Coincidence or not?) My left nostril had been running almost constantly for 18 months since about when the Ukraine war started, then magically it stopped. It still runs if I’m outside in cold weather or when I exercise, and I still take paracetamol most days for low-level pain, but otherwise it’s a spectacular improvement and one I didn’t expect.
Last weekend I emailed a friend from Wellington. He’s such a nice bloke, but I hadn’t heard from him since just after the 2020 US election, so I wrote only a couple of lines, not expecting a reply. But to my delight he got back to me. I hope we can keep in touch now.
On Wednesday my brother passed on a short video of his son. His mum was feeding him – Weetabix with blueberries – and he made a decent attempt at saying “blueberry”. He came out with something like “blubby”. I talked to my brother about this, saying that the repeated B is nice and baby-friendly. I also wondered what he’s doing getting blueberries in March, the spoilt little chap. We never got them in any month. My brother said that if it was up to him, his little boy wouldn’t be getting them either. Under six days till I see them all; I’m looking forward to that a lot.
Today I had to make two trips to the mall for all my car insurance and paperwork. And new number plates. I got to pick my three-letter combination from about two dozen options all around the middle of the P series. (I could have got pretty much any combo if I’d been willing to fork out for it.) When I saw POM among a load of all-consonant blends I went straight for it. It’s easy to remember and it’s hilarious honestly when I look back at all my Kiwi cousins and classmates in Temuka calling me a stinky pom or something even less flattering. By the time I started working over there, I felt quite proud of the term – Britain was cool back then. In fact I even mentioned it in a post in late 2022. In Romanian, a pom is a fruit tree. (Wouldn’t it be nice to have a garden with pomi one day?) A non-fruit-bearing tree is a copac, though sometimes I hear non-fruit trees being called pomi too; languages are complicated. By the way, that’s the closest I’ll ever get to having a vanity plate. They were popular and advertised all the damn time on the radio in New Zealand; they always seemed a great waste of money.
That was the fun bit. Letters and words always are to me. The rest of the process was just weird and confusing, like so much of Romanian bureaucracy. People (my students, mainly) told me to use one of the several brokers in the mall because doing it myself would be a massive struggle. The extra cost would be worth it. They were absolutely right; I’d have been stuffed on my own. This morning there were crowds of people carrying files full of paper. Two supermarket trolleys laden with old plates were wheeled into some kind of oblivion. There was a policewoman with five stripes on her epaulettes – how do you get that many? There were counters that the broker lady could go to but I couldn’t, and vice versa. They’re sending me an updated talon – a kind of log book – that you must have on you when you drive. But because changing my address at the immigration office has proven impossible, they’re sending it to my old address. I’ve asked my tennis partner (he still lives in the block) if he can somehow intercept my mail.
I’m now worried I might have picked up a cold from the girl who has come here for two-hour maths lessons two nights running and will be back for round three tomorrow.
