If you are reading this, chances are that by now you are almost definitely in self-isolation. I feel for you, but there is one thing you need to remember. As someone once described how should eat your meal when overloading your plate at a buffet or big family lunch: it’s not a sprint, it’s a marathon. Don’t give it your all too early (neighbour who played music loudly at 6pm every afternoon throughout week one but then burned out, I’m looking at you).
Working on the balcony is my new favourite activity, especially when the sun is out and no one is building things in the garage. I can shamelessly listen to trance and have my iced coffee, without anyone judging my music taste or asking me why I am having an espresso martini at 11am (I wish. Also, why not.) Although I must clarify, when I say I am ‘on’ the balcony, I am slightly embellishing it, because I am still worried it might collapse so I am actually sitting inside with my legs extending out. Since the weather is getting nicer and the days are now longer, there will be more time to be spent half-outdoors-half-indoors. Maybe I’ll brave it today. Maybe it’s some new form of agoraphobia.
The highlight of this week so far has definitely been the excuses people in Cyprus give to the police because they can’t stand being in their house anymore. My favourite, by miles, was the person who was caught driving from one city to another, in order to get his hoover back. ‘What is a hoover’, I hear you ask. In Cyprus, which is the country-sized version of any small village without much contact with the rest of the world, but where all the inhabitants have a great sense of self-importance, we did not use to have much exposure to brands. As an aside, I know you are wondering if we were part of a communist regime, but it was all entirely coincidental, or maybe the result of the war or being part of the Commonwealth. Either way, we have this tendency of calling items by the equivalent most famous brand name, so any kind of sugary, fizzy soft drink is called Coca Cola, any kind of cereal is called Corn Flakes, and any kind of vacuum cleaner is called Hoover.
So, this person was caught driving to a different city to pick up his vacuum cleaner from his friend, because he really wanted to clean his house. The sentiment was perfectly acceptable but, thankfully, he got fined. This story reminded me of our cleaning lady in London, Vera. Let’s say my communication with Vera was not the best, she was extremely flaky, and her cleaning methods were innovative but not the most effective (using kitchen roll and water, without any kind of detergent). But I will forever be grateful to her for this one exchange. It had just so happened that my friend (who lived in the same block of flats, not a different city), had actually borrowed my vacuum cleaner. So one morning, while at work, I receive this text message:
“Where is the huwer.”
This became one of the biggest existential questions of life, on par with “Who am I”, “What is a chair” and “What is the answer to life, the universe and everything else?” So, if you are out there somewhere, trying to borrow a hoover, Vera understands. I understand.
Our very own hoover here in Milan is Sven. A Roomba that was gifted to us by the other half’s parents for Christmas (not sure what messages were being subliminally communicated there). Back when we used to leave the house, we would turn it on and let it do its thing, but after roughly thirty minutes we would get another message, telling us that Sven was stuck near a cliff. I feel you, Sven.
Speaking of cliffs, time to get on that balcony.
Lunch: Lountza and halloumi wrap, with spicy yoghurt dressing and spinach
Song of the day: LCD Soundsystem - Dance Yrself Clean