Getting let down without getting put down

Life is fortunately not the climbing wall: you're not reliant on someone else to help guide you down, because you can manage it yourself. For the second day I was left waiting around for half an hour, in the cold, wondering where someone I was meeting had gotten too.

In the morning I rushed across to Ikea, intending to buy the three dozen hangers necessary to convey my apparently redundant workshirts to the wardrobe (business casual in Hungary is not like the UK, you have been warned). Once there I realised I had ample time, and began to meander through the aisles, a decidedly dangerous use of time, though I managed to largely contain my desire to spend. Rushing home I put everything I'd purchased in its right place, and headed out again, to meet a friend of one of my English friends, who happened to be a gay South African.

After half a dozen calls without an answer (actually, I lie, there was an answer once, but it seemed to throw back my own voice, so I hung up and tried again), and no response to my text, I decided it was time to go home. Again I found myself at the Saint Stephen's Cathedral, but this time decided there were more important things to do at home. These important things included warming up, and having lunch.

At about 4pm he called, saying he had woken with a fever and that his phone had been in the kitchen. He hung on the phone expecting me to say something. I was not sure what to say, because I was still pretty annoyed, and didn't consider it an adequate response, because I know when I've been ill and had someone to meet I was sure they'd been told I wouldn't make it before I collapsed in a pool of my own sweat/sick/excrement*. What can one do in these situations but mentally call the person a "fucker" and move on. Fact of life: gay men are unreliable regardless of race, creed or religion. (*I have never collapsed in my own excrement)

In the early evening I headed off to join my work colleagues for an evening of indoor climbing, which the nice man I had met last Wednesday had arranged. Unfortunately most of them had dropped out, which he was a little aggrieved by, but we set off anyway in good spirits. A short while later, and after getting a little lost, we arrived. (The benefit of getting lost is that you discover new things, like the large shopping complex at the end of my tramline.)

Nice man, my manager and I prepared ourselves: getting into harnesses, donning very uncomfortable climbing shoes, and attaching carabiners. I was first to go up, and the nice man picked an easy start for us. Still, it was a long time since I'd done anything like this, and my arms are not the strongest. I made my way to the top, though my time was smashed soon after by my manager. He was surprisingly fit, and made light work of all the routes we tried, much to the chagrin of the nice man and me, who by the end were pretty tired. On the last wall, which not only went up, but jutted outwards as well, my arms began to fail, and, try as I might, I fell off twice. My manager let me down gently on the guide rope.

We'd all had a very good time, and pleasantly tiring time. My manager drove us back into the city, where we stopped off for a drink, in a bar called Jaffa. Some hearty banter followed, during which I learnt that in Hungary they too have the mystical cake of the bar's very name. It was also a kind of beer, which I tried, and found entirely satisfactory. When I got home I realised I was a little tipsy, due to a lack of food during the day, and settled on another plate of stodgy pasta, due to exhaustion and lack of coherent coordination...