I wouldn’t exactly describe August as having been fun. Considering the amount of entertainment that was laid on, I suppose I ought to be more cheerful about the whole thing, when in fact I spent most of it just wanting to escape.
That doesn’t mean that I didn’t want Fraz or dad to stay. I loved having them. It feels great that dad wants to spend time with me, and having Fraz with us fulfils all the parenting needs we could ever have. I like her more and more as she gets older. She reminds me of myself at her age, but in a nice way, because I realise that maybe I wasn’t as horrible as I thought I was, as a teenager. She does have certain advantages, like stable schooling and happy parents, but I don’t suppose for a moment that she appreciates them. Her hair is much, much better than mine was at thirteen, too.
August was just so long, tiring, difficult and expensive. I thought it was a good thing that Pepsi Sziget started so soon after Fraz arrived, but in the end I really didn’t like Sziget. There’s a difference between enjoying spending time with my little sister, and being expected to be the responsible adult the whole time, without much support. Ken was busy doing his thing, which involved a lot of beer and some very late nights. I have discovered two new neuroses. Well, I knew about my phobia of mobs already, but I now know that I also obsessively hate mobile phones.
Before I had a mobile, I was one of those people who thought them nasty, intrusive, and slightly silly. Then I ran out of petrol halfway home one night, and had to call in at a gloomy farmhouse and ask to use the phone. So I admit that they have their uses. You would think that I liked text messages, too, being a chat addict and generally favouring the written word over the spoken one. Text messages are stupid. The linguistic style they have engendered is the verbal equivalent of sporting a baseball cap backwards. I am unable to see the point of a conversation carried out via SMS, when the communication could take place more efficiently and effectively by the two people actually speaking to each other. After all, they both have mobile phones, don’t they?
I also resent the fact that, once you have foolishly given someone your mobile number, they feel free to call you at any time of the day or night, in a way they never would with a landline. It doesn’t matter where you are, what you’re doing, the phone will ring. The mobile owner rarely uses the option of ignoring the call, but answers it, with a cheery greeting, and immediately provides information about where he/she is and what he/she is doing. It’s like an electronic tag. When people call Ken, I feel like our privacy is being invaded. Yeah… we’re walking along the river/we’re in Badacsony/we’re having a cup of tea/… MIND YOUR OWN DAMN BUSINESS AND STOP CALLING ME!!
One good thing about August was getting ADSL. I don’t know yet how we are going to pay for it, but if, as Ken reckons, it will work out cheaper than our monthly phone bill, then that seems okay. For me, there’s something very comforting about an always-on internet connection. I can always switch on that box and relate to people the way that I want to: in writing, and at a safe distance. I dislike talking to people on the phone, and some days (or possibly in some circumstances), I dislike talking to people in person. I’m not very good at chit-chat. I don’t remember faces well, so I am not confident in large groups of people I’m supposed to know. I would usually prefer to stay in with Ken, than go out on the town; and my ideal dinner party would be just two more people, preferably ones I know really, really well. Preferably family. In fact, preferably Nick and his gf. Other people require far too much social effort. I want to be surrounded by people with whom it all comes easily. I can’t be like Ken, for whom it comes easily with anyone.
So, Sziget was bad, ADSL was good. Then for the next few days the weather was shitty, which interfered with our plans for about a week. Dad arrived, and the weather continued to be poor. We queued in the rain for Manchester United tickets, and that ensured that the cold I developed after Sziget took up permanent residence. I still have it. We did a handful of touristy things, but there is still plenty left for next time; and we patronised a good many Budapest restaurants. Dad has rated them all, and I’ll write up his chart another day, with my own restaurant reviews. It cost us a fortune, though. I must have cooked at home twice during the fortnight he was with us; and otherwise we ate out. We ate some great food, and only had one really bad restaurant experience. It’s a nice lifestyle, but not one we can easily sustain.
Over the long weekend, we were invited to Nick’s gf’s parents’ house, to eat Hungarian food and have multi-lingual conversations. This is where dad and Ken got the nickname they had been earning all week. There was some general discussion of Ken’s fondness for beer, and dad asked, with irony, where do they get the idea that you’re such a wide-boy? The family pondered for a moment, how to translate wide-boy into Hungarian, and came up with csirkefögö. Apparently it’s some kind of tool for killing chickens, colloquially used as an equivalent for wide-boy. Since then, they have been calling themselves csirkefögök on tour. Everyone else has been calling them it, too.
A lot of pool was played. Much unicum was consumed. Chicken nuggets and other items of junkfood were brought home to appease me in the early hours of the morning (unsuccessfully: this was only funny the first time).
As a grand finale, the Budapest Parade took place yesterday. There was much hype, especially as the Szt Istvan day fireworks had been cancelled owing to the floods. It turned out to be nothing more than a vast crowd of pissed up kids, following float after float featuring blaring music and half-dressed jiggling people. The atmosphere was unthreatening in the sense that you weren’t expecting baton charges to take place at any point, but for someone who is already tired and stressed, with the aforementioned phobia of crowds, it was all too much. Inching through a mass of people with their sweaty arms pressed against you, only to arrive at a place where there are more packed-in people, unable to hear a thing for the same music blasting from each of about 45 lorries, continually losing members of your party in the throng. Too much. If hell exists, I know what it looks and sounds like, now. It will be one long hot day at the Budapest Parade. Herewith, I officially retire from crowded events.
Thanks to the combined efforts of Lufthansa and whoever it is that runs the british railways these days, it took me twelve hours to get from home to my hotel today. So I am chronically tired because of August, and I am acutely tired because of August 25th. In two weeks’ time I get back to Budapest, and finally get to spend a bit of time with my husband. It will have been two months since we had any amount of private time together, and I think we need to press our reset button. Meanwhile, I plan to sleep muchly.