Monday, August 14, 2006

Interesting Knockers



There is an obvious joke here, which I am not making.

Trading on a Name



The important thing is the certification, of course.

How kind! How generous!



"Por causas razonables, excluidos siempre las de vana ostentación o índole económica, podrá celebrarse el matrimonio en otro templo, contando siempre con la debida autorización."

Much better in England where, if your fancy takes you, you can get married in a kebab van.

Rana



See http://nohems.blogspot.com/2006/08/abki.html for an instructive comparison.

Local Flora


Industry



It is good to look at manmade things. Container ports are a special favourite. Also good are sewage works, but they're more difficult to get close to. And you can't suggest them for a trip in the same way you can ports. Although, 'Let's go and hang around at the docks' isn't an entirely non-suspect suggestion either.

Harry: 13.7.93 - 10.8.6

Birch Juice

There is - I hadn't realised this before - a Polish delicatessen near where I live. I went in for the first time a few days ago. The proprietor was being given the hard sell by an Italian, who wanted him to buy a coffee machine, and turn this rather dodgy corner of the town into a continental-style pavement cafe, which I thought was a step too far. But I was so delighted to find somewhere selling all my favourite Eastern European things that I didn't really register any of their altercation. Instead, I was stocking up on Borzhomi mineral water (so what if the Russian government claims it's contaminated with benzene? They only say one bottle in three - I like those odds). Also, there's a lot of joy to be had in looking at the shelves full of meat-in-jars, cucumbers-in-jars, mushrooms-in-jars. But on the way to the counter I noticed the shelves of fruit juice - rowanberry juice, blackcurrant juice... And the Byelorussian carton I didn't understand at all: 'сок березовый'. Or, in English, Birch Juice. Into the trolley with it. I put it in the fridge when I got home and then went to Spain to see Marian. I got back yesterday and realised this morning that it was a challenge I could no longer avoid.

Birch juice is a colourless liquid: I thought for a moment that it might be some elaborate Byelorussian joke, along the lines of 'sky nails' or 'elbow grease'. Run along to the shops and buy us a pint - ha ha ha - of birch juice. And get us a parting wrench while you're at it. But it is slightly more viscous than water, and leaves a faint oily sheen on the sides of the glass. It has a fresh, faintly intriguing smell, like an empty paint tin which someone has rubbed - about four years ago - with a lemon. I was going to take a glass into my room to taste it in private, but Ben said 'Drink it here. I want to see your face.' So.

Birch juice tastes of syrup - sugar water - with a mildly unpleasant aftertaste: like rotten apples. Or rather, like licking the cask that rotten apples have been packed in. Either way, one to avoid. And I have about three-quarters of a litre left. I wonder if it's good for the plants?

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Our Mutual Friend IV

"Mrs Wilfer spake no word, but, having glared at her offspring for a minute or two in an awful silence, retired into her corner of state backward, and sat down: like a frozen article on sale in a Russian market."

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

Trunt, Trunt, og Tröllin í Fjöllunum

Einu sinni voru tveir menn á grasafjalli. Eina nótt lágu þeir báðir í tjaldi saman. Svaf annar, en hinn vakti. Sá þá hinn er vakti, að sá, sem svaf, skreið út. Hann fór á eftir og fylgdi honum, en gat naumast hlaupið svo, að ekki drægi sundur með þeim. Maðurinn stefndi upp til jökla. Hinn sá þá, hvar skessa mikil sat uppi á jökulgnípu einni. Hafði hún það atferli, að hún rétti hendurnar fram á víxl og dró þær svo upp að brjóstinu, og var hún með þessu að heilla manninn til sín. Maðurinn hljóp beint í fang henni, og hljóp hún þá burt með hann.
Ári síðar var fólk úr sveit hans á grasafjalli á sama stað. Kom hann þá til þess og var fálátur en ábúðarmikill, svo varla fékkst orð af honum. Fólkið spurði hann, á hvern hann tryði, og sagðist hann þá trúa á guð.

Á öðru ári kom hann aftur til sama grasafólks. Var hann þá svo tröllslegur, að því stóð ótti af honum. Þó var hann spurður, á hvern hann tryði, en hann svaraði því engu. Í þetta sinn dvaldi hann skemur hjá fólkinu en fyrr.

Á þriðja ári kom hann enn til fólksins, var hann þá orðinn hið mesta tröll og illilegur mjög. Einhver áræddi þó að spyrja hann að, á hvern hann tryði, en hann sagðist trúa á "trunt, trunt og tröllin í fjöllunum" og hvarf síðan. Eftir þetta sást hann aldrei, enda þorðu menn ekki að vera til grasa á þessum stað nokkur ár eftir.