The adventures of Miss Despina

…It turned out to be something so unpronouncable that it made my head hurt even more. I know the Czech for Must. Drink. Coffee. Now. And that will do.

Czechs really know how to stare. I mean stare. Thankfully it was finally sunny enough this morning for me to wear my sunglasses, which as you may have guessed, I feel incomplete without. Add to that my fringe that covers half my face, and my ever-present earphones, and I was well on my way to being cocooned. But I just can’t work out why they stare so much. Is it just at me because I look so English? Or do they all stare at each other too, only I haven’t noticed it? It’s not a sneaky peek here and there, they’re not ashamed of staring at you, oh no, if they want to gawp at you, then gawp they will!

(I love Czechs by the way, I don’t want this to sound like a Xenophobic rant because it really isn’t. Czechs are great. One of my best friends in Manchester is Czech. They are typically very obliging and tolerant of my language skills and are very kind and smiley. I also enjoy the Czech sense of the absurd, more on this in later posts.)

Ended up in the pub across the road from the hotel last night. There are three pubs there and we went for the nice but slightly more expensive one. (I’ve realised that the only distinguishing feature of dieting Despina is that now she drinks white wine rather than beer when she goes out. In fact, two glasses of white wine for every beer she would have had, and then gets back to her flat and eats whatever rubbish she can find.*)

God, drinking makes me grumpy though! I should really stop, I was getting really ranty. ("Why are you all judging me! Sleeping in the same bed as my boyfriend doesn’t make me a slag! I like my hair! Leonard Cohen would beat Shakespeare in a fight any day! You’re all freaks. Uhhh.") Then I got back to the flat at midnight-ish, Andrea and Kyne were playing cards, I sorted out my laundry, I think, then tried to pack for my two weeks in a plush apartment with Jez on the other side of town. Then I seem to remember calling Jez on my mobile for 20 minutes. It probably went something like this:

"allo mon cher!" (hic)

"hello… (sigh)… how are you?"

"Oui oui, ca va tres bien merci! Ale Jé-je, tu me manques! Mais ca ne fera pas longtemps que tu seras ici, dans mes…"

…and so on. As usually happens when I’ve been drinking, I spoke Despina French thoughout the entire converation. I also do it in taxis, based on the sound theory that taxi drivers hate French people less than English people, and in restaurants, based on the sound theory that a) the place is probably bugged and b) I can speak utter filth - only with such crap grammar that he just laughs. That poor man. I think he’s resigned himself to it now. The worst was when I started speaking "Frzech" to him, saying "tak" rather than "donc", "ale" rather than "mais", and negating all my verbs just by shoving "ne" on the front of them, which is correct in Czech but not so good in French! ("Qu-est-ce que t’as bu, cherie?")

So here I am at work, blogging whilst doing this proof-reading they’ve given me. Well, it’s not like they’re paying me. 

The lovely one will arrive at 10 tonight, and we will go off to our apartment in a nice part of town, where we will live for nearly two weeks. I’ve missed him so much, I’ve missed the part of myself that only he brings out. And the beauty of having a long time together means that we will actually be living together, not just trying to cram a load of touristy stuff into a 5-day visit. We can sit in bed watching DVDs. We can cook together, fill the place with flowers and candles if we wish, play our favourite music. We can be normal for a while.

But for now, some 19th century stomach-clamping forceps are calling me.

Ciao, D x

*Not actual rubbish. I wasn’t that drunk. I mean crisps, cheese, and whatever else I was eating. Grrrr.

***UPDATE Apparently I was giggling on and on about "calins adultes", a term I managed to coin, which roughly equates to what my friend Jen calls "a special hug for grown-ups". Oh dear. Jez, just don’t tell me any more***