But, yesterday, the circumstaces conspired to make my post about my new cat impossible. This is quite a shame: the internet is the natural home for pictures of cats and I was buzzing with enthusiasm to share pictures of my moggy with random readers.
It was 11pm. I was sitting alone in an otherwise deserted cafe, clinging hopelessly to the promise of wifi. My internet at home had completely given up and it didn't seem worth trying anymore. As my friends like to say when something just doesn't work without explanation:
"Это Россия, детка. Её умом не понять"
Very roughly translated: 'This is Rasha, gurrrl. You can't understand it with logic'.
When something odd happens, you just accept it and walk on. The random powercuts in Krasnodar. The fact that the tram can sometimes take 20 minutes and sometimes an hour and a half. The fact that public transport stops working when it's raining. The fact that sometimes the trolleybus just comes off the wire or a marshrutka crashes into your tram. The fact that no one wears seatbelts. The fact that when it comes to bureaucracy, everybody will send you to someone else's office to get you out of their hair and then that person in the other office will shout at you for turning up at the wrong place. The fact that my flatmate's response to finding out I had a lesbian friend was 'that's so sexy. Try it on with her', despite the fact that she clearly doesn't like men in that sense (hence the word 'lesbian') and despite the fact that he hates male homosexuals.... and many many other things. There's no real point arguing or protesting, people say, you just laugh at Russia and continue along your way. Which is fine, provided that I feel capable of laughter. Provided no one gets hurt...
In any case, the lack of internet at home may turn out to be a postive thing. I guess my bedroom at home will have to turn into a space of cyber-detox tranqulity where I will sit and drink tea whilst drawing little pictures of Chinese symbols. I will try not to shake too much during my cold turkey days.
There was, however, a minor impedement to typing in a cafe with internet after 11pm: the drunkard. I picked this cafe because it's always deserted. Yesterday it was, in principle, still deserted. It was just me and... HER. 'Her' is a slightly chubby middle-aged woman with a stubby nose and a clingy shirt who was pissed off her face. By 11.20, she had been bothering me for quite a while. I had noticed her singing in the karaoke and smiled. I thought it was funny. Bad mistake. No eye contact with drunkards! No eye contact!
She came up to me and told me that she loved the fact that I was so enthusiastically supporting her music. I tried to be polite and told her that yes, it was very good indeed and I would really appreciate it she just kept singing far away from me on the karaoke floor and left me alone -- 'the internet doesn't work at home, so please just give me this one hour to type to my friends. Thanks so much. I appreciate it'.
But drunkards don't appreciate the polite approach. She kept standing beside me staring at my screen, reading everything I was writing, repeating over and over again that she really wanted to learn to type quickly and in English. I really ought to teach her.
'Teach me please!"
'Sorry, I can't.'
'Teach me'
'No.'
'Teach me'
'No.'
'Are you sick or something?'
'What do you mean?'
'You must be addicted to it. It's a sickness. Stop typing, come drink with us.' (At this point I was thinking that she was 'sick', but decided to continue with the polite approach for a while.)
'I'm not addicted. I just need time. Leave me alone, please'.
'Okay. I'll leave you alone, just tell me what to sing.'
'I don't know. I don't know many Russian songs.. pick what you like most. I'll listen with pleasure'.
'PICK A SONG'
'No. You pick'
'PICK A SONG'
'No. You pick'
At this point, the waitress comes over with my fruity tea. I start pouring.
'Will you give me some tea?'
'Umm...no. Just you go sing now, lovey'.
'Gimme tea.'
'Nope.'
'Tea, please'
'No.'
'A little bitty tea for me, please.'
'NO.'
'Well, then at least tell me what to sing!" (at this point she starts kissing me on the cheek and stroking weird parts of my upper body).
The waitress laughs and says 'Just tell her what she should sing and she might leave.'
I shout 'Alla Pugacheva. Show me some Alla Pugacheva'.
She continues to stare at me for a while, deep into my screen. Eventually she decides to sing 'million alyx roz' (Perhaps, Alla Pugacheva's most famous song.). I have 3 minutes of peace until at the end of the song she comes over, brings the mike and tries to get me to fill in the lyrics. I know the lyrics off by heart (I'm not sure why), but I refuse to contribute. At this point, I just really want to write a blogpost about my kitty and get out of there as soon as possible. I knew it was a cafe that did karaoke after 10pm, but any other night I'd been there it had been empty. The music had just been turned up a little louder. Turns out Sunday night was the party night for oul Sheila (I'm going to call her Sheila, even though it's clearly not a Russian name. She looked like a Sheila.)
'You're a foreigner, aren't you?'
'Yes.'
'You see I noticed you have a little accent and type in English. You must be an English man.'
'Yes. Yes.' (Even though I'm not English, but whatever. It's easier to just agree.)
I then decided to shout at her. Often Russians take British politeness as a sign of weakness i.e. that you're a push-over. So I told her she was annoying me, that she was bothering a poor foreigner and that her behaviour was unacceptable. She promised to leave. She kept trying to hug me goodbye. I told her I didn't want her to touch me.
She then kept begging me to teach her how to type, or to come sit with her friends.
'Lady, pretend I'm not here. I'm not interested.'
She moved off, finally. Peace with my tea. Yes. Beautiful. I wrote 2 paragraphs about my new cat. About how he was really fluffy and followed me home in the cold. Fluffy cats. Yay. We all love fluff.
But then she came back.
'Come talk to us for five minutes!'
'No.'
'Are you sick? Computer addicted?'
'No.'
She leaves and starts to sing again. I take a picture of her when her back is turned. She hears the noise. She becomes an inflated and angry rhinocerous. DANGER AHEAD.
'DELETE IT!"
'Okay. Okay.'
'DELETE IT, YOU PERVERT'.
'Look, it's deleted.'
'DELETE IT.'
'Look it's deleted. To be honest, I don't need a photo of you. I'm quite fine without it.'
'DELETE IT.'
 |
| Sheila in all her glory. No, I didn't delete it. |
At this point she steals my glasses. Real classy. She obviously hadn't graduated from primary school. Yes, lady, it's completely normal to laugh at someone for being visually impaired. It's real high-brow humour. It's almost as funny as throwing Jimmy out off his wheelchair. Really kind and considerate.
I walk up to the woman and beg her for my bloody glasses. She is sitting with her friends. Her friends completely ignore that the woman has made me blind and instead completely bombard me with questions about Ireland, which I ignore as 1) I've heard them all before 2) I have no interest in getting to know someone. I just want to write about my fucking cuddly kitty 3) I'M BLIND, YOU COMPLETE DOOFITY-DOOFUS.
I try to grab the glasses.
'ARE YOU TRYING TO START A FIGHT WITH ME, YOUNG MAN?'
'No, honey, I just want my glasses.'
'DON'T FIGHT WITH ME'.
'I just want my glasses.'
'THE ENGLISHMAN WANTS TO PUNCH ME'
At this point I hea off into the blurry distance to where I sort of half-remember the bar to be. I almost walk into the waitress's breasts. Then I look up and say, pathetically: 'I'm sorry, but it seems that woman has stolen my glasses. Please help.'
The waitress walks up and returns my glasses.
I go back to my chair and type for 2 seconds, drink some tea. Then I see Sheila approaching slowly from across the dance floor.
'SCREW THIS. I'm going home', I think. I pick up my things and make to leave. I haven't paid, but they can charge the £1.50 pot of fruit tea to old Sheila's account. She's so far gone, she'll probably think it's vodka.
'NO. NO. DON'T LEAVE. I BEG YOU GENTLEMAN, PLEASE DON'T LEAVE. I IMPLORE YOU. PLEASE STAY'.
'This is unacceptable. I'm leaving.'
'STAY. STAY. STAY. I BEG YOU. I WILL LEAVE YOU ALONE.'
I open the door and walk into the night. It's bitter cold and it will be a 20 minute walk until I get home. Tonight there is no cat to follow me home: just the memory of Sheila. She's probably reeling in her own vomit by now, I think.
