There’s no word for frustration in Russian – In the name of Thiago – Day 237

 

When I lived in Moscow in the early 2000s, someone told me that there was no accurate translation for the word frustration in Russian. But that’s absolutely fucking ridiculous I said to this chap, whose name I cannot recall. I think he was a septic. At about 4-5 months into my time there, that was without question my overriding emotion. On a daily basis. Well that and falling for yet another phenomenally good-looking woman. Also on a daily basis.

 

Now it might have been a wind up, but it’s a nice line to kick things off with tonight and has plenty enough relevance. I’m in pretty bad shape at the moment, though I am somewhat happier for speaking to Birmingham Children’s Hospital at lunch time. There are some things, which even I, yes even I(!) will keep private but it was a bit of a weight off my mind to have a chat. And it made me happy to know that with any luck I might see a few familiar faces in October when I arrive at the front gates. That gladdened my soul, for a time.

 


 

Gladdening Angélica’s soul was the prospect of smashing up a glass panel, though I did test her patience somewhat by asking her to pose for this picture for rather too long, in her opinion. I reassured the good lady by saying that a picture of a psychotic looking South American is the difference between a readable blog and something that people come back to day after day. Shit, I better think of something really good to write now.

 

While I do that, or buy myself some time at least, I’ll plough on. Jack, the lad – and he really is a Jack the lad – who is fitting the kitchen and the flooring was having a bit of a day today. Let’s just say that he is not embarrassed by launching the occasional outburst. Now I know how some of my opponents on a tennis court feel! Over the last couple of days, the occasions have become more frequent and I’m now finding it difficult to know where to look at times. Tomorrow there will also be Super Steve the plumber and the sparkies Snapper and Laughing Boy around as well as Jack. I just don’t want sparks flying. We’ll see.




 

And this is my next port of call – the Williams abode. In fact, I am being given some encouragement to get my arse into gear. Angéica and I have been invited over for some ‘speciality Chinese chicken’. It certainly sounds intriguing and my walking training partner Steve is a pretty mean cook. It was his profession before he realised that there were other jobs that didn’t involve preposterously long hours and split shifts.

 

These three have had, shall we say, a head start on me. I did consider cracking open the giant bottle of Leffe in the fridge but I’m not in the mood to be drinking on my own. In fact, part of me feels that they’d be slightly better off doing their own thing, but that just looks lame as shit.




 

So, I’d better sort myself out and get cracking. I am going to try to avoid getting completely twatted, as I have a tennis match at 8.30, which suddenly looks like an absolutely terrible idea. If you lovely people could keep cracking on with the donations that would be a very beautiful thing. Thank you and have a lovely start to your bank holiday weekend.

 

 



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