Not a happy camper.

I am really not happy at the moment. My kitchen is sopping wet, not because of anything that I did, but because the water heater that my neighbour Osama and I share burst. It happens to be directly above my flat. For the past 24 hours, despite all efforts, it has continued to leak. The concept of calling the contractor seems like a simple one, right? Well, you’d be mistaken. The landlady is on holiday in Taiwan at the moment and her son, Osama, cannot communicate with the contractor as he doesn’t speak Cantonese. Despite his having lived in the USA for 30 years, the contractor never bothered learning English which puts us at a distinct disadvantage when she is not around. Osama has promised to call the assurance company and have them send someone, but the amount of water damage to my kitchen is fairly bad. About a fourth of the paint had boiled and I’ve spent much of the night moving things around to mitigate any potential damages to property.

Now if you excuse me, I need to begin heating water for my sponge bath.

Some mountains for Christina

I did say to Christina some time ago that I would think of her when in the Tatras mountains this summer.  The High Tatras are a relatively small part of the Carpathian Mountains and form the border between Slovakia and Poland.  There are several small resorts along the slopes, some of which used to be very fashionable in the days of the Austro-Hungarian empire with wide pavements and shops with elegant verandas.  Now it is a ski region in winter and a walkers’ paradise when the snow disappears.  Her Majesty visited this area a few years ago on her state visit to Slovakia and Slovenia.

Our first outing started with the funicular, inaugurated by HM,  from Stary Smokovec to Hriebinoc at about 1300 metres.  Lots of trails cross there and it is pleasant walking country, though mist and cloud can descend very quickly and you have to be vigilant.


Continue reading “Some mountains for Christina”

Poetry

A WOMAN’S POEM:

Before I lay me down to sleep,
I pray for a man who’s not a creep,
One who’s handsome, smart and strong.
One who loves to listen long,
One who thinks before he speaks,
One who’ll call, not wait for weeks.
I pray he’s rich and self-employed,
And when I spend, won’t be annoyed.
Pull out my chair and hold my hand..
Massage my feet and help me stand.
Oh send a king to make me queen.
A man who loves to cook and clean.
I pray this man will love no other.
And relish visits with my mother.

A MAN’S POEM:

I pray for a deaf-mute gymnast nymphomaniac with
big tits who owns a bar on a golf course,
and loves to send me fishing and drinking.. This
doesn’t rhyme and I don’t give a shit.