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Bits and bobs

As I’m sure some of you have read, or seen on the news, Russia was at war with Georgia – or maybe still is, I don’t know – they seem to change their mind pretty easily. My sister’s post, War showed me that people are worried. You need not be worried – I very much doubt that it will spill over to Moscow. If it does, I’m sure we’ll be quite safe and be able to get out.

The weather has been getting hotter again, much to my sweat glands’ disgust. Sorry to paint that lovely picture, but it’s true! Work is the same as usual, trundling around on the metro to different places every day. I was a little disappointed this week – we got paid on Monday and I didn’t get as much as I had expected, but I didn’t realise that July was a long month, so the required hours went up when I thought I had done about 15 hours of overtime. Typical! I have also contacted the American dentist, as I want to get my teeth sorted out. Work is no help at all and I decided I would rather pay instead – but only if they let me pay in instalments, as I don’t want all the money I’ve saved up to be used for my damn teeth.

You may remember the poem I posted a few posts ago – Monday Blues, or Metro Face – a poem which was about the Moscow metro. Well, when I was in Japan, I also wrote about the metro there, and I thought I would share it with you now.

The Train Population

She sits with straggling hair streaming down her face, that she brushes up with a weary hand. Her noisy child, by her side, with cute shoes on the floor neatly arranged for take-off, constantly stares out the window while inadvertantly nudging the sleeping businessman next door. It’s going to be a busy day, so he thought he would sleep, but everytime he drifts off and his head sags, the annoying boy falls into him and wakes him up. He would drop his head to the other side if it wasn’t for the stench of perfume that woman is wearing. Before she boarded, she layered herself with make-up and perfume, but it’s not quite right. The compact comes in handy when she makes the finishing touches, then stares cluelessly into it, re-checking every last detail. She awkwardly moves a strand of hair this way and that, wondering which would look better. The old lady in the next seat can’t help but think that it won’t make any difference. She gave up on make-up years ago, and her life for that matter. Her only pleasure is battering people with knife-like elbows so she can sit down. Her hair has strands of purple, and her thick glasses conceal her real thoughts about me, the foreigner, standing up, watching the train population.


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