Ghost of February Present

Carol (the darling) came to visit from London this past weekend, thereby provind to all skeptics here that I do indeed have friends. Too bad she never met any of mine here, thereby leading her to believe that I really don't have any. Ah well. You can't have everything. What you can have, however, are some stories of our weekend.

First up. The fire alarm -charming, as always, and early in the morning. So there we were, not-quite-awake, a little before 5am on a Saturday morning, huddled in the cold right on the street, outside the flat. The fire fighters took their sweet time coming, knowing that this wasn't an emergency. They arrived and we all cheered a little. They went into the building and stayed there long enough for my legs to go numb. (Note to self: in case of future alarms in the middle of the night, should consider sleeping in sweats and not shorts.) Finally, after an inordinate amount of time, they marched out of the building and into their fire trucks, much to the relief of us all, as we couldn't wait to be in bed again. But oh wait, the fire fighters had left. The fire truck had left. But the fire alarm was still ringing. We had a few more minutes of waiting. Then the fire truck turned around, raising all of our hopes, then dashed it again when it drove past. Confused, tired, and cold, we waited in the cold some more. We were too groggy to actually formulate questions, but had we been alert enough to do so, I'm sure we would have asked, "Why!? Why!?" and "Why!?" It took ten more minutes of waiting for a man, a stranger to us all, to come by with a huge ring of keys, get in the ringing building and disarm the alarm. Who was this little man? Where was he before? What ties did he have with the fire department? Shouldn't the fire folks be better at dealing with fire alarms? These, my friends, are some mysteries to life we will never know.

Speaking of mysteries, chapsticks really perplex convenience store clerks in Eddie Bert. Last night, Carol and I went into one and asked where the chapsticks were. Two Asian girls with American accents. That really threw them off. They didn't think they had any. One guy scanned the shelf with us. As he did, one other clerk and one customer kept asking each other, back and forth, whether they had any chapsticks and whether they knew where the chapsticks were. Then there was some confusion over whether we wanted chopsticks or chapsticks (confusion they had created entirely on their own since both Carol and I had very clearly stated chapsticks, motioned our lips, and also used the term "lip balm." Say what you may about my accent, but Carol does not have one and they should have understood us.) Basically, a clerk would say "Chapstick?" and Carol would say, in the affirmative, "Chapstick." I'd add "lip balm." And someone else would say "Chapstick?" And it'd be my turn to say "Chapstick." Carol would say "For your lips." And still someone would say, "Chapstick?" We went around like that, over and over, and over again, until finally, a clerk showed us some lollipops and tried to pass those off as chapsticks. In the end, they admitted they had no chapsicks and suggested we go to Tesco's (the grocery store with no food). Ah, culture divides. You really don't have to love them.

Speaking of cultures, here's the mosque curry update. I've gone to church 4 times here, and the mosque thrice. Church is still ahead, and no competition can actually stand against Jesus, but man, those curries are good. I took Carol there for the experience, outside dining and all, and apparently, we weren't the only fans. Pigeons also like to frequent the place during the day.

That's Carol, eating the ridiculously good and plentiful curry we shared because we were already so full on tea.
The pigeons leaving their mark, showing us who really owned the mosque. Yeah, that's the same table we were eating off of.
Scary pigeon, just one of many, flapping its wings and scaring the bejeebus out of us.

That's Carol, this time eating indoors, in a sanitary and non-religiously-affiliated environment. Enjoying her very first fried mars bar. Acknowledged, it looks like turd, but it tastes oh so sweet.