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My shirt smells like coffee.

My hair smell like coffee.

My hands smell like coffee.

I think I’m gonna throw up… and it will smell like f*ing coffee.


I used to love coffee.

I’ll just call it new world…

b’coz “bury” refers to something rather sad. Which it is, no doubt.

To sum up my first days, let me just say that on my way home from work, on a Saturday evening @ 7.30pm I managed to see 5 (Five!!!) people on the streets.


live in Brighton again

Before I die I want to…

I just don’t know what to say. Or think. Really.

* * *

After nearly a year long gap on my blog, this has to be the thing I’m posting about… fucking brilliant.

"She moved into green and orange colours"

and again, I forgot to celebrate my 4th UK-anniversary.

best thing ever, speaking two languages. I can hide my thoughts from the other party. oh yes, I can. the only one thing is, that I can’t hide my thoughts from both party in the same time, when needed. I’d need a third language. so here come the things I want nobody to know about: xxxxxxx xx xxxxxx x xxxx xx xxx xxxxxxxxx, xxx xxxxxxxx xxx. xxxxxx x xx x xxxx – xx xxxxxx, xxx x xxxxxxxx xxxx xxx -, xx xxxxxxxxxxx xxxxx xxx xxx. xxxx, xxxxx, xxx xx xxxxxx xxxx, xxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxx.

time to time I’m still thinking; I mean, just thinking in general, I should get rid of this silly, bad habit. the main reason why I should stop thinking is xxxxxxx xxxxxx x xx xxxxxxxx, x xx xxxxxx xx xxxx xxxxxxx xxxxx xxx xxxxxxxxxxx xx xxxx xx.

* * *

ps. if I was my own shrink, I’d question myself why I used capitals in this post only in the words “I” and “UK”.

ps. ps. if I was my own shrink and I was my own patient, I’d say xx xx xxxxxxx xxxxx xxx xxxxx x xx xxxxxx xx xxxxx xxxxx xx xxxx, xxxxxx xxxxx x xxxxxx xxxxxx xx xx xxxxxxxxxxxxxx.

Y U no tip?!

Dear restaurant-going people of this town,

let me introduce you to the institution of Tips, a great invention, which – it seems like – most of you have not heard of before. This is the cash you meant to leave for waiting staff when the service, that was provided by him/her is good (or above).

How do you know if service was good? Here’s some clues:

– You are not waiting for long at the door, to be seated.
– Your table, your seat, your cutlery, your glasses etc. are all clean, shiny and neat. As you may guess, they are not like that by themselves.
– Staff can answer all your questions in a professional – and patient! – manner.
– Staff is knowledgeable regarding different diets, allergies and intolerances and help you with the menu.
– Staff can make recommendations, both food- and drinkwise.
– Staff will carry your silly requirements through the army of mean chefs: whenever you wish to consume your fish filleted, with new potatoes, green beans, carrots and god knows, bechamel! instead of having it whole, with onion pure, sautéed fennel, courgette ribbons and a parsley white wine sauce as it’s said on the menu, the waiting staff have to spend extra time and effort to make sure you’ll get exactly what you want. So do the mean chefs, by the way.
– You have got everything what you need to enjoy your meal, and that includes the right cutlery. Again, they are not climbing onto the table by themselves.
– Also, you get exactly what you ordered – and not something else.
– Your glasses are topped up.
– Your plates are cleared soon after everybody’s finished. There are no unnecessary items left on the table, like the unused starter knife and company.
– Your complains are being listened to and staff makes attempt to make it up for you.
– There are candles on your dessert when it’s your birthday, without asking.
– Your bill is correct.
– Staff is smiling at you, at your completly stranger face. Remember, they are human beings, too, and they can have bad days / family issues / broken heart / stomach cramps etc.

You might think that all the above mentioned are basic.

     Well, no.

     Let me tell you, what is basic. Waiting staff’s wages, that’s what basic.

If your waiter/waitress would put only as much effort in their work (=in your dining experience) as much they get paid, well… let’s see:

– You couldn’t see through the wineglasses and your cutlery would be dirty and greasy. If you had any at all.
– For absolutely everything you’d have to wait long.
– Whatever question you had, the answer would be “Idunno”.
– You might end up having something completely unexpected on your plate.
– Should you attempt complaining about food, you’d need to face the “it’s not my fault!”-attitude.
And so on.

So when you are enjoying a romantic dinner with your love, an express lunch with colleagues, a family gathering brunch or whatever, and everything goes smoothly, the waiter/waitress is doing a good job. Feel free to say it – to the managers and supervisors!

Oh, so service charge is included in the bill…?! Just try to think about the way that the money will make, all the way through the financial department, before it finally gets split up between who knows whom…

Tip the waiting staff with cash, not only kind words!!! This is the shortest cut – and the most efficient way – to say thank you.

They won’t pay their rent with your grateful smiles.

Very rarely my mum tells me stories about my childhood. When she does, she picks the ones when I behaved histerical, behaved in a way that could not be tolerated or when I was disrespectful. Well, fair enough.

But she often mentions how much I loved wearing skirt.

It makes me think that I wanted to simply copy her, just like every girl wants to be like their mum. My mum used to wear skirts, whether it was summer or winter and to accompany them, she always had an endless pairs of thights in the wardrobe. Also, she had a few pairs of  high heels. I wore them more ofter than she did. My mum used to be a decent looking single lady, I guess. Never really had many boys around. She was not the type who put herself in the shopwindow.

She left her parents’ house after she finished her studies and moved to town. She rented a room. One after the other. She worked in a textile factory. Not much money she made, it was just enough to pay the rent, but in those days of the socialist era no-one really made more.

And one day she met my father, a good looking, caring man, who was much older than her, already had a wife and family, but who was not treated in the way he was worth. They were together whenever they could, they were always there for each other, although my dad never left his family. And another day there I came.

* * *

I’m almost thirty. I wear skirt all the time, I have an endless amount of thights and stockings along with high heels. I’m working as a waitress, I do not make much money, just enough to pay the bills. And I might seem to be the sociable kind of singles, but I don’t like to put myself in the shopwindow.

I only recently realized, how much I am like my mum was when she was in my age and it fucking threatens me. I have to fight myself, every single time, not to use pegs when hanging on clothes to dry.

* * *

And the most horrifying thing is that I know how my mum’s life has been since then.

I guess I just need new sensations, there is not much challange to face recently. If I could work more, maybe my mind had less time to get screwed up. Never mind, at least I have plenty of time to keep my home clean and tidy, which is good, who wants to live with dirt, filth and mess around, because I don’t, that’s for sure.

I like it when shiny things really shine; this is the purpose of them being made shiny, isn’t it? Like the water tap. Or the mirror. I like mirrors, a lot. A good while ago I randomly walked into a fleamarket-shop on St James’s Street and I saw this huge mirror with this wide, golden, antique frame you would usually find on old paintings and stuff. Omg, that mirror made my heart skip a beat or two. It was much bigger than me, about 1.8m high and like 1.5m wide, might have been even bigger in measures, I don’t know. Square meters of beauty, sparkling and shiny surface to show you the world from a whole different point of view, making you see how the world looks like with you in.

When I’m spending long minutes standing in front of a mirror, watching myself, it’s not because I am so truly amazed with my own look or whatever. Mirrors make me feel sure that I am there, for real, part of the physical world, just like everything else, other people, the bus Nr7, a half dried yucca or seagulls spying on rooftops. That’s like, you’re not different, you’re taking up some place on this planet in exactly the same way like all the other stuff, and unless you are looking at yourself in a mirror you can’t see it because you are right behind your eyeballs and not in front of them. This is like an additional, extra way of sensing yourself,  kind of doubling up the input information.

If I had a needless three hundred quid, I’d buy that mirror and fixed it on the ceiling right above my bed.

You could be rendered almost speechless. In fact, it could take a few days before you find the right words to express your feelings. Unusual as this may be, this situation could be balanced by increased awareness of the unseen bonds that tie people together.”

Stress is on unseen, because I cannot see, feel, taste or smell any sort of bonds recently, something’s happened without my knowing, which is fair enough, I don’t need to know about everything, yet I have this “hey people, what have you done here in my absence?!”-feeling.

Things are getting clear and cristallised, and in my own terms it means that duties and fun are not walking hand in hand anymore. I am not saying that work is not fun at all, I’m just saying that it’s not as superfunny as it used to be. One eye smiling and one eye crying, and my inner self’s got the crying one. I know I’ve been selfish and prodigal, this is me, I get addicted to goods far too easily and when they’re cut short, I’m just blinking like that frog in the aspic.

Long story short, the number of smiles around has dropped radically and it gives me the urge to force it back, but it just leads to nowhere. I know I shouldn’t do this, I shouldn’t start whining, honestly, I tried to hold it back but I couldn’t. I miss A, it’s just not OK that I cannot see her at work anymore. Seems like I got linked to new faces, who I have no idea what to do with, but not even the will to find it out. Stephanie was half right when she said I was too old for this job. I may be old, but not for the job but for the people surrounding me.

When I was a little girl, around the age of three and I went to kindergarten, one afternoon my mum and dad they held me up high in their arms, under the old pear tree in the backyard and they asked me if there was anyone in the kindergarten who I liked, a boy. That was the very first serious, meaningful question from my parents. With all my pure three years old heart I answered yes, there was this boy, called Zsolti, who I was in love with. I can’t remember what my dad’s reaction was but I very clearly remember what my mum answered, or rather not what she answered but the way she made me feel with her response: oh my baby girl, there must me a mistake in the way you feel, you should never be in love with a boy, with any boy, it is not good for you, this feeling will lead to misfortune.

That was one of the first memories in my life. It was a beautiful, lukewarm indian summer day, by the way.

* * *

When I grow up I want to be like Ms Riddle, she is a fine lady. I wish I could see her more often. Table two-eleven.

Leszedált ország?

Néha az az érzésem támad, hogy az egész ország testületileg le van szedálva. A britek új értelmet adnak a birkatürelemnek: társadalmi jellemvonás ez errefelé.

A buszsofőr megvárja, amíg mindenki leül, és csak azután indul el, nehogy a hatalmas G-erő ledöntse a lábukról az utasokat.

A teszkós (é. akármilyenes) pénztáros addig nem kezdi el vonalkódozni a következő vásárló cuccait a szalagról, amíg az előző szépen el nem pakolt mindent az utolsó darabig.

A dolgok rendes folyásában előforduló bárminemű fennakadás esetén a birkatürelmű társadalom egyedei várakozó álláspontba helyezkednek, esetleg csevegésbe kezdenek egymással (főleg az idősebbek) és halálnyugalommal várják ki, amíg jön valaki (illetékes szerv?) és helyrebillenti a valóságot.

Az őshonos egyedeknek eszükbe se jut kikerülni a gyök kettővel masírozó nyugdíjasokat ill. hegynyi méretű babakocsival közlekedő fiatalasszonyokat. Topognak mögöttük rendületlenül.

A bolti eladó / postás / recepciós / egyéb ügyintéző telefonon avagy élőszóban folytatott, egyértelműen magánjellegű beszélgetését a legnagyobb modortalanság lenne önös érdekből félbeszakítani azzal a bújtatott felszólítással, hogy haladjon már dolgára az ügyünket intézni. A szupernyugodt angol illedelmesen kivárja a sorát, elvégre a dolgoknak megvan a maguk inherens prioritása, és hát a mi ügyünk a kiszolgáló hölgy mondandójához képest a sor végén kullog (persze türelmesen).

A sorbanállás éppúgy része az életnek, mint mondjuk az emésztés. A sorbanállás jó, a sorbanállás szép. Sorbanállás közben fel lehet hívni a már majdnem elfeledett ismerősöket, lehet újságot / könyvet / akármit olvasni, fészbúkolni okostelefonon, tisztába tenni a gyereket, sminket igazítani, borotválkozni, megebédelni, pulóvert kötni.

És eddig csak a várakozásról esett szó, de!:

Ha valaki elkésik/hibázik/rossz fát tesz a tűzre, kap egy ejnye-bejnyét. Ha valaki másodszor elkésik/hibázik/stb., kap egy második ejnye-bejnyét. Ha valaki kétszázadjára is eljátsza ugyanazt, kap egy kétszázadik ejnye-bejnyét.

Ha az új alkalmazottról kiderül (ha egyáltalán feltűnik valakinek…), hogy született gyengeelméjű, fogyatékos, idióta, agyilag zokni és a munka elvégzésére a legcsekélyebb mértékben sem alkalmas, eszünkbe nem jut kirúgni és valaki alkalmasat a helyére állítani. Helyette újabb, felzárkóztató tréninget eszközölünk számára, támogatjuk mindenben és együttesen szorítunk érte.

Ha egy szolgáltató nem nyújtja az elvárt színvonalat, nem kezdik ütni lapáttal, és nem rugdossák, amíg csak mozog. A békés fogyasztó max. keres egy másikat, a gyenge szolgáltató pedig éli tovább világát.

Ebben a karavánban a leglasabb teve diktálja a tempót, nem pedig a legerősebb.

Próbálok idomulni az angolokhoz: lassulás, elhülyülés. Néha sikerül a kitörni készülő idegrohamot egy szerény kis bazmeggé redukálni, de be kell látnom, a kelet-európai mentalitás nehezen tolerálja a türelemnek ezt a fajta magasfokát. A mi kultúránkban a józan ész azt mondja, hogy ez baromság, ez a termelékenység és a hatékonyság útjában álló gát, ami elviselhetetlen; részt venni a türelemjátékban pedig bűn, és vesszen, aki cinkos benne.  Türelmesnek lenni – az én szememmel – egyet jelent azzal, hogy rábólintunk: nem kell a lehető legjobbnak lenni, nem kell a lehető legtöbbet megtenni, a lehető legeffektívebb megoldás nem élvez feltétlen elsőbbséget.

Abban a kultúrkörben, amelyben én nevelkedtem, nem csupán a rendelkezésre álló erőforrások vannak maximálisan kihasználva, de az erőforrásokat is alakítják: ha a  karaván tempóján javít, akkor sorsára hagyják a leglassabb tevét. Vagy egyenesen le is lövik. Látjuk hogy van ebben egy kis laza csavar, ez a gondolkodós megoldás, ez a feltételezés, hogy ha x, akkor y, de ha x +/-, akkor y< . Így aztán folyamatosan versenyhelyzet van. Ez mozgatja nálunk az életet: nem akarunk mi lenni a leglassabb teve, ezért folyton a fejlődésre törekszünk. Okosabbnak, szebbnek, jobbnak, gyorsabbnak és pontosabbnak kell lennünk a többieknél. Ha nem így van, keresztet vethetünk magunkra, mert a társadalom nem tolerálja a lassú tevéket.

A brit karaván igen. Ez a társadalom is maximálisan kihasználja ugyan az erőforrásokat, de nem szelektál. A hatékonyabb tevék mennek elöl, ők jelölik ki az utat, de a hátul kullogók diktálják a tempót. Visszafordítva ezt a mindennapokra: itt is szépségideál Heidi Klum és vágyálom tárgya Garry Kasparov agya, de ha csúnya és ostoba vagy, sem lesz kevesebb lehetőséged a nagyszínpadon, mint nekik. Márpedig ha a kevésbé jók/gyorsak/hatékonyak nincsenek diszkvalifikálva – vagyis amíg a társadalom türelemmel viseltetik irántuk, addig burjánzik a hülyeség, a lassúság és a vajmi kevéssé hatékonyság.

Itt a szépséget nem lehet pénzre váltani, de az időt sem. Ráérősnek, tutyimutyinak, időpocsékolónak lenni nem gáz. A ráérős és a többi ehhez hasonló, számunkra negatív jelentést hordozó jelző itt nem játszik. Itt amúgy sem gáz semmi sem, mert nincs olyan legitim nézőpont, ahonnan nézve gáz lenne.

A tevekaravánban sok az idegen teve (külföldiek), olyanok, akik számára nem elegendő az erőforrások kiaknázása, de a lehető legjobb erőforrások elérésére is törekednek. Ezért ezek a szegény tevék értelemszerűen azt tartják a britekről, hogy fogyatékos banda, míg a helyiek úgy vélik, hogy az import tevék érthetetlen módon ideálokat kergetnek, pénz- és sikerhajhászok, türelmetlenek, kegyetlenek és felsőbbrendűnek tekintik magukat.

Azért mégiscsak működik a metódus, ha már majdnem négyszáz forintba fáj egy font.


leszedált ország tapsolgat a szarnak
boldogan élnek, amíg csak meg nem halnak