A run in with the law

My day started as usual - various men on the agenda to meet, with almost certainty that one if not all would cancel. I could probably be a Greek goddess, who endlessly sat around waiting for mortal men to appear, only to be disappointed, and eventually drowning herself in a lake. See it sounds poetic if you put it like that. Anyway, this is a photo of the police car that stopped outside my building later that afternoon.

After my first disappointment, complete with the requisite excuse, I headed off for lunch with a friend. He took me to a nearby Chinese restaurant, which served good food, at a very reasonable price. It's interesting to consider how odd it is to eat a dish which is not native to your own or current country, and yet feel that it is more out of place there because at home it is normal. A quick trip to the supermarket, and he kindly bought me a Hungarian delicacy: cottage cheese mixed with sugar, and coated in chocolate. It wasn't as grotesque as it sounds, but was, nonetheless, unappetising. I'm sure the French feel the same way about Bakewell Tart.

At home I waited for my second disappointment of the day, which allowed me to reschedule another meeting for later that afternoon. I had a shave, because the date I'd organised had said he preferred that, and tried as best I could not to cut open the two lumps that have formed either side of my mouth. I think once they were spots, but now I fear they are attempting to become second and third noses. Dabbing off the small amount of blood I'd produced, I settled back to an episode of Six Feet Under (one of my staples while I eek out the days before work). Snow was falling outside, making it all the bit more cosy. The buzzer went. I waited for the second ring, hoping not to have to answer, since I don't speak the language. There was no second ring. Phew. I settled back into the programme. 5 minutes later there was a knock at the door. I went to answer it, and found two policemen at the door. After explaining I was English ("Um, Angoloo..."), one showed me a picture, which was apparently of a neighbour of mine. I told him I didn't know her, and they left.

The afternoon coffee was very pleasant, and we fell into a discussion about various twentieth-century playwrights. When we left we headed for the Metro, and boarded one of the older trains. It was a pleasant experience, with real leather straps for the grips from the ceiling (a fetishist's dream). I was running late for my date, and as soon as I got out of the metro station tried to call him. I couldn't find the place we'd agreed to meet, and wandered around trying to find it, still trying to call him. There was no answer. The snow was falling still, and it was very cold. I found the place, but couldn't see him. I waited for half an hour, all the time trying to call. Eventually I left.

A short way off I saw the cathedral, and decided to make the best of things and go over to take a look. It looked beautiful in the crisp wintry night air. Checking my map I saw that it was just a short walk to the Parliament, via Liberty Square, and the nearby metro station. I headed off, and realised yet more of what I'd been missing. Great noble buildings surrounded the square, clear cut and impressive. A few people were out walking their dogs. While I was there my date texted, apologising for not responding sooner. He said he had a fever, and had sent a message earlier, which I had obviously not got. The cynic in me wondered for a moment, but I decided to appreciate what was around, and sent him a text back wishing him a speedy recovery.

I walked on to the Parliament, which was oddly reminiscent of our own in Westminster, set back on green lawns. My boots slid over the plastic floor at the entrance to the metro, like skates, and down I went on a very long escalator. When I got home I saw two messages from my date, saying he was ill. "Why had he not texted, though?," I thought. The idiocy of men. Still I had seen a little more of the city that I was to call home, and learn to love.