Wining Down

Strange as it might seem, I never though that trams could be delayed by traffic.  In London we had just the one little tram route - almost a fairground ride really. It starts off like a train and then goes up a bit, down a bit, then onto the road at (recently charred) Reeves' Corner.  At the other end of the tram line there are fields.  I know because I bought a hoover off Ebay once from someone who lived out there.  Anyway, here in Brux they run on the road, so you can ignore the schedules stuck to the tram stop.  They become the meat in a particularly tasty traffic sandwich.  So next time I leave a damn sight earlier.  In fact it might be quicker to walk. 

I'm working on language at the moment.  No, not swearing.  I'm already very advanced in swearing.  When I come home the TV goes on, so I can hear French all evening in the background.  It's a very slow process but I'm gradually understanding more - and not going into a staring panic if someone talks to me.  There was even a minute conversation in Carrefour tonight.  If you can imagine the sort of amateur volley you see on local authority tennis courts, that was about it.  But I hit the damn ball back.  Mastering a language at my advanced age is going to take a while.  But hell, I'm not going anywhere so take all the time you want.

My life often resembles one of those old Hamlet ads, for those of you old enough to remember.  Tonight for example:

I'm not working tomorrow morning so I treated myself to a bottle of Montepulciano.  On getting home it became evident that the corkscrew is among the still-to-be transported items in my room at Saint Josse.  And there isn't one here.   I suppose I could have gone to my neighbours for one, but that would be far too sensible.  In my head the "Hamlet" music played.  And then I thought of scissors.  And it worked.  I poured my glass through a tea-strainer with the scissors fully engaged, holding the cork inside.

And on that resourceful note, I will wish you between mildly clenched teeth a happy Valentine's Day.  Or "Fuck Off Day" as I tenderly call it.