Back to work

I'm back at work now - coming to the end of my first working week, in fact. The main surprise is how unsurprising it all is. Same desk, same colleagues, same routine (different tube station though!). Still, I am "working" from home two days a week for the moment, which means no travel, hurrah. This means that I wander around in my pyjamas with mad hair, thinking about what I need to do for work but not doing very much.

I'm sure I'll get used to it. In the meantime, I love the flat more and more: I can spend days at a time just pottering about in it. There was a frost today on the roof of MY SHED, which made me feel very grown up. And most of my stuff is now where it is going to live, though I am still annoyed with some things for not having an obvious home.

Part of my obsession with STUFF is having the right amount - enough that I can do the stuff I want to, without having so much that it gets in the way. It's difficult to tell if you have the right amount when you have different storage. I sound unhinged, don't I?

Feels like home

The aforementioned new flat is finally coming together. The Polish bookshelf-builders have left, taking their Protean gloom with them, and leaving behind a large amount of shelving. Today's task is to put the books on the shelves: I am already starting to play Kim's Game with them, remembering where various clumps of the different sorts (history, fiction etc) are temporarily living. This one could run and run.

But learning how to live in a new space takes time. The old flat was long and thin, rooms opening off a corridor. This one has them clustered around a central large landing. Eventually I suppose I will stop walking into the second bedroom when I want a wee in the middle of the night, but bathrooms are on the left, not the right, as any fule kno.

Guilt Post

Argh. Nearly a year gone by. Where? What did I do with it?

Reading back, Bucharest seems an awful long time ago, but since then I have been in London: and since the end of July I have been off work after having approximately 2kg of fibroids and ovarian cysts removed from me. Lovely. Actually, I have been amazed by how much better I feel, and, apparently, look, despite no makeup for most of the last 2 months.

Oh, and I've also bought a flat. An impulse buy, you know. Actually, it's the first one I'd seen that I thought "I WANT to live here", rather than "I COULD live here". Atticky, light, quiet... and if it wasn't so far out in the boonies, absolutely perfect. But after 13 years of living in the middle of town, anywhere less central was always going to be a bit of a problem, so I'm not getting too aerated about the boonie issue.

This post is the equivalent of those "oh god I've been so rubbish, will stay in touch better I swear" emails that you send. I do mean it, for now, but the flesh is weak and the spirit has just got cable telly. We shall see.

Oh, and another thing

I drink a lot, and I used to smoke a lot too. But I still think the EU ruling on whether you have to transport your own tobacco and alcohol across borders is likely to be wrong (i.e. it is likely to be that you don't have to).

The reason? Well, obviously the tax regimes in different countries are different, and for good reason - it's generally a national consensus that has been arrived at and is accepted by that country. If it's possible to chip away at the national revenue of a country like the UK, which has lower income taxes and higher purchase taxes on things like tobacco and alcohol, then eventually that regime will be unsustainable and we'll be forced to have a higher basic tax regime.

I don't necessarily think that's a bad thing. I just don't like being forced into things. And I know that the tabloid gloating and jubilation about it will drive me beserk.

A funny thing happened on the way to the forum

Taxis in Romania, as well as being driven by some of the most – ahem! adventurous drivers in the world, are price-regulated only in the sense that they have to display their costs on their door. These vary from 0.9 to 3 lei/km for the various firms, and then there are enterprising individuals who charge up to 10 lei/km. I presume they don’t get much repeat business.

This morning, the (enterprising individual) driver who has picked me up a couple of times was there again. He is a bit more expensive than the standard ones, but he speaks English and doesn’t drive the wrong way up the tram tracks, which counts for a lot in my book. We had the following exchange:

Me: The notice on your door says 1.5 lei per km, but the meter says 2.5 lei…
Him: It’s the cost of fuel. I must come back here after every trip.
Me: But the notice should say the correct price!
Him: But then if I am not in city centre and someone wants a taxi, I can take them for 1.5 lei.
Me: But the notice on the door should say what you charge everyone. It’s a lot more expensive than the companies.
Him: Look, the guys at the companies they don’t pay no tax. Everything is added up to zero! I go to the tax office every three months and I pay my taxes. Anyway we join the EU in one month. Then everything will be change.

I think I’m just amused at his indignation that I should imply there’s anything remotely dishonest about quoting one price and charging another. The difference to me is approximately £1, paid by expenses.

I was thinking that it was a sign of a newish economy where the free market is still not an embedded concept. But then I thought that probably the only reason I have never had this conversation in Greek (for instance) is because I don’t speak it.

In other news, I had breakfast sitting at the next table to an Italian general in full dress uniform. He was covered in medals. I was longing to ask what they were for, just as I always want to know what the Royal Family have won medals for.

Pee po belly bum drawers

For the puerile of mind, Bucharest is a good place to be. I have just walked from the Hilton to my beloved employer's offices: the route included Bulvardul Schitu and Calea Plopi. What's more, it's a beautiful morning, the sun is shining, a friend is arriving this afternoon and I managed to get here without getting lost. Zippety doo dah!

Now, oh yes, I have to do all the work I didn't get round to this week. Bugger. Oh well. I suppose I ought to be grateful that the Guardian talkboards appear to be down at the moment (I'm not, though).

Harrumph Like Humph

I'm in a bad mood. No, make that a filthy mood. My back hurts, I'm 1300 miles from home, I'm 40, with what feels like no secure place in the world. I spend my days telling people stuff they don't want to know.

And I know perfectly well that so very much of this is down to the basics. I haven't slept properly: if I had, I know things would look different. I am annoyed with myself for lolling around on my bed drinking gin rather than going to the gym. Acknowledging these things without beating myself up for them is difficult but I'm working on it.

I had a great weekend and part of the bad mood is because I am just so tired. I don't want to face the fact that at the moment, working abroad, a weekend that includes a drunken party on Saturday and a more sedate trip to a recording of I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue on Sunday night is going to leave me feeling shattered.

ISIHAC is my favourite radio programme - the only one I will rearrange things in order to hear. Sample: Humph was talking about the day he was born: "Ireland declared independence, and Mongolia declared war on China. We appreciated the gesture, but really, a card would have done...."

There. I think I may have just cheered myself up enough to look at a spreadsheet.

A Rum Do

I hope everyone raised a glass to the departure of Mr Rumsfeld. I don't understand America. I don't understand the gun laws, the insularity, the complacency. And I don't understand how some of the nicest people I know are American but somehow my idea of the place is so different.

Anyway, for the moment, the less bad guys won. Hurrah.