I can’t walk past a florist’s at the moment without my Muse jabbing me in the ribs, pestering me to buy her a single stem rose (colour immaterial). I can’t sit in a cafe in peace and quiet either: no matter how incongruous a couple we make, she with shining tresses tumbling wildly over her shoulders, fancy-dress get-up, never a goosebump no matter how chill the not-quite-spring breeze and I the short one, camouflaging years of overindulgence with black outfits a size or two too generous – not that the casual observer tends to notice me in her company – the sellers with their wilted blooms smell blood. I sigh and fumble for my purse (a delaying tactic that fails miserably, although I never quite abandon hope) all so that she can sit and pull the petals off surreptitiously when I excuse myself, one by one, muttering the words she thinks I cannot guess. I should let her loose on the lawn, her obsession would certainly prove more environmentally friendly than weed killer, although I feel a certain sympathy with the daisies, forever turning their heads to follow the object of their longing. She still scowls at me behind my back, I caught a glimpse of her hostility in the mirror. I left her staring out the window contemplating the car parked beneath the cherry tree, blossom clinging to its windscreen wipers, decorating the bonnet like a mad scatter of confetti. In the attic, I opened the wardrobe to survey my old gowns, sequins and purple, a hint of stale perfume, preserved on their hangers, the ghosts of past selves. His seat empty, his spectacles folded.

My Muse sits gagged and bound in the corner, her eyes flashing contempt at my insolence, her divine tresses in an unaccustomed state of dishevelment. I couldn’t help it, I had to restrain her, stern measures were called for. I caught her standing in front of the mirror (always a bad sign, the frown as she caught sight of me a dead giveaway), a chaos of lipstick and mascara, superfluous powders and creams to smear over her unwrinkled brow. No creases or folds of extraneous flesh, her unchanging figure always displayed to perfection. Her fingertips trailing blossom, she would have wrapped herself around him like a sudden tendril of convolvulus. I suspect it had something to do with her raking through my photographs, ransacking my hidden images of his irreverence. Her tastes too often coincide with mine for comfort, she cannot resist his charms. She whirled wildly in abandon, casting her sandals into the undergrowth, distracting the swifts from their boisterous gathering of insects. Her sides heaved like the flanks of a hunting dog after the pursuit. She danced until her feet blistered, my entreaties finally coaxing her homeward. As she flopped, exhausted, on the bed, I knew her fatigue would not last. I drew the curtains to encourage her to sleep, biding my time until I spotted the dribble on the pillow case that had trickled from her imperishable mouth. Those devouring lips kindled my envy; it was all I could do not to suffocate her. I loosened her waistband, slipping the cords around her wrists, pausing as she let out a sigh of bliss. Her consuming flame would have singed his beard, her hungry caresses held him back. Now she too can discover what it is to suffer the sublime torture of his absence.

“Consciousness is a pitiful hostage of its flesh-envelope, whose surges, circuits and secret murmurings it cannot stay or speed”
Camille Paglia, Sexual Personae, Penguin, Harmondsworth, 1991, p7

My body entombs me.

The body is the source of the drive for gratification. Its appetites never cease. It is insatiable and cannot sustain itself. It requires maintenance through sport and exercise. It requires fuel. Under consumerism the old hostility towards its appetites has been modified. Still the object of discipline, we impose the aesthetic sensibilities of culture upon it, extracting compliance with the aid of cosmetics and depilatories, personal hygiene products stock the shelves with their anxiety-suppressing fragrances, from mouthwash to panty liners, unsightly hair removers, shaving the armpits.

The price we were forced to pay for participation in the male-dominated “higher” pursuits of contemplation, spirituality or artistic creation was celibacy, exclusion from the reproductive function (the lingering traces of the choice reflected in the single state of the professional, university-educated women who surround me), renunciation, cloistered withdrawal, the shaven head the symbolic rejection of feminine attributes, the shape-disguising uniform, the stifling of individuality, the severing of all human ties of friendship and mutual affection, the immersion in the divine achieved by means of total self-abnegation. Having denied the self the pleasure and pain of involvement, their remains moulder in the soil without even the residue of individuality implicit in the parentally-selected name (effaced by the generic appellation bestowed upon entry). It is better to experience than to shun experience.

I have never defined myself by looks (although my confidence has been severely undermined by being fat, although it is to an extent a conscious choice, the perfect alibi for failure in the atmosphere of increasing intolerance, I supply myself with a pretext for rejection to avoid confronting the possibility of a deeper underlying cause, my shortcomings situated on a purely physical level), normality a state of neglect. I remain inattentive to my body, quelling its longings, gorging myself to still my libido. A woman presents her body to herself as in a mirror: she is not permitted to inhabit it straightforwardly, but is trained to assess it, as it is constantly assessed by others. It does not exist for her own benefit alone, but is under scrutiny, a determinant of her life chances, her desirability. Restlessness is not a male monopoly, we are all mortal, encouraged never to be truly content in an economy driven by the imperative to succumb to impulse. It is the illusion of groundedness, of completeness I find so seductive. Freedom from the urge to extinguish the self in the other’s embrace. Fulfilment rendered contingent, reliant upon an outside agent, on acquiescence. This is where the fading and the sagging become sadly relevant. If we are prisoners of the fleshy casing, how much more are we prisoners of the meanings attached to it by our culture. So I am defined by a standard of beauty nevertheless, against my will, without my consent, in spite of my resistance. I cannot compete with those dark-haired girls with their melting eyes, willow figures, short skirts and lustrous tights. A moment of searing clarity, how perfect my conditioning! The response to my appearance I have ever brushed aside: at best an irrelevance, at worst a form of oppression. The casual indifference of youth. My defiance, once a matter of principle, becomes grotesque, comical as my market value diminishes beyond my control. My body encases me, I am walled in without water or sustenance. Dry mortar and darkness, the ferocious pangs of starvation eat away at my marrow as I slowly crumble.

A riot of blossoms on the branches and couples stroll in the park despite the chill. Spared my customary twelve hour stint, time stretches ahead. I recall my wallflower days, the most hated girl in school, a pariah abducted by the seniors at knifepoint to account for my principles in front of their impromptu inquisition in the common room with its open windows to coax the illicit smoke into the playing fields. I learned the lesson that intelligence is not valued in a woman the hard way. I recall the lobbed bricks, the spitting and the sneering, the defect I would not recant. MK escaped to medical school at seventeen whilst I stayed on, outwardly invulnerable to the taunts. The mixed P.E. lessons where the boys were lined up against the climbing bars on one side and the girls along the other with the aim of drilling traditional dance steps into our awkward frames were the most traumatic. Bravado and embarrassment amongst the trouser-wearers, demure downward glances and half-concealed nudges amongst those swathed in skirts and skin-coloured tights (I did not approve of any deviation from the strict uniform regulation, my foolish insistence on respecting them in every detail – absence of ear-rings, length of lower garment and white socks – understandably attracting ridicule). I knew I would never be picked, ascribing my unwanted state to ugliness, waltzing with whichever girl found herself in a similar predicament (we outnumbered the boys), extracting my revenge during Strip the Willow by spinning manically and releasing my armlock without warning. I was vehement that I would never marry and refused my rubella vaccination on the grounds that I had no intention of ever becoming pregnant. The pain I felt was the pain of not conforming, the stigma of remaining unattached, of failure.

They lean close over restaurant tables, fingertips touching, eyes glinting, thousands of anonymous hotel rooms in which to seek refuge undetected. He thinks very deeply and would not commit lightly. Perhaps he is merely intrigued by my desire. Stand back, the touch-paper has been lit and I surge skywards, uncontrolled, a burst of coloured sparks, fading. He does not haunt the bars (nor do I as a rule), where the available gather. I could engineer a chance meeting in the corridor, yet we would both recognise the artificiality. I could invite him for coffee, or dinner without arousing suspicion from the outside, yet he is aware of the subtext and I fear being gutted, sliced down the middle, my carcass suspended on a hook for all to view, an absurd anatomical specimen. Two idle dreams have haunted me. One that he would drive me back from our dinner that I would press my lips to his, breathing him in before steadying myself and walking through the front door. The other that his rejection would be plain that I would devise a pretext to go into the kitchen, grab the sharpest knife and sever my carotid artery, bleeding to death on the tiles with him supporting my head. If he did indeed reject me, it was too subtle for me to notice. I had dulled my senses with an entire bottle before departing and allowed him to pour during the meal. The naked bulb upstairs shone into the night, I could not bear even to look at him, fumbling with the handle, thanking him for the lift. I could not sleep and insisted on opening another Hungarian white, its crisp dryness biting into my tongue. Inaction torments me, yet I feel paralysed. Inhibitions reinforce the stereotypes of propriety, my ideals unable to overwrite the absorbed messages, the longing for him to take the initiative.

[Diary entries, 1986]
Jaulgrimm [my only other foray into the world of Fenway]

Bolts of lightning danced, intertwining, above the granite peaks and he ran, rejoicing among the stony foothills, sword blade flashing, roaring with the thunder, mocking its voice and power. He swung the sharpened steel in wide arcs above his head, howling like a wolf on ecstasy of strength, of vigour. The moon kept its pale, silent watch, casting light on all below and on to his browned body, hardened by the wind as he swooped down to the plains like a silent owl, a monstrous bird of prey. The silence of the forest did not disturb him, nor did the sudden flight of a herd of deer. He flushed them out of their cover, racing with the stag. The beast turned to face him, aware it could not escape, willing to sacrifice its own life, but he swerved its antlers and disappeared over the wizened clumps of heather, laughing as he went.
In the strengthening light of morning, he plunged into an icy pool, diving deep, deep in the clouded waters to touch the invisible stones. He rolled in the grass until he was dry, then continued on his journey.

Perhaps I lack the depths of his [THAK’s] imagination as expressed in his attention to detail, but in every word of what I write is a message and purpose – the whole is subjugated to its didactic purpose to the point of slavery. There is therefore no need for the depth of detail he indulges in: it merely distracts and confuses. Jaulgrimm is no attempt to compete, merely something for myself, his berserker translated into a sexual fantasy.

I stumbled through the rain, driven forward, given energy and vitality by pure memories in undiluted form. The strange thing was, it had not changed – the board-covered way was still there, the only noticeable difference being the height of the building on the site. That which had consisted merely of a few metal rods and indefinable piles staring from the pit was now a definite plan of glass and mustard-concrete. The 171 emblazoned in the circle, the youth hostel or YMCA sign, the half-hidden stairway, dimly lit. Would I see him? As I did a week ago, by chance, our first conversation since that night. The only man to seduce me, to be honest and straightforward, those brown eyes, the cynical understanding. How I have hardened through bitter experience of frustration, the greed and selfishness, jealousy – how I have changed. He and I differ so fundamentally any desire for permanence would be wishful thinking, sweet delusion, but he was simply perfection that which I sought.
Whenever my shadow passes laughter dies and lights are extinguished. I suck out the vital juices and cast away the empty shells, for I cannot exist otherwise.
I would pay GH vast sums to satisfy me, a “kept man” to provide the illusion of desire, of seduction. His eyes are so beautiful.

Jaulgrimm and Dalshur’s Wheel

This rare forest, shimmering pale blue in the twilight, the secret of generations hidden among silent boughs. The leaves shivered, lamented, thrilling him as he wavered. Awe of reaching the end. The trembling leaves, beckoning, whispering his name, the blood racing through him, shared life, shared being, shared strength, wood against stone. The hard gaze softened, the resolution calming to a wish, a hope.
The bridges stretched on and on over the marsh, deadly traps of deceit, as the sun painted the pools bright gold. A tawny owl skimmed out, searching, gliding. Listening with reverence, he knelt to kiss the ground of this sacred place, the heart, soul and desire of the warrior, the blessing of the just, the destroyer of the selfish.
The branches caressed his skin as he entered the forest, wiping the sweat from his forehead. The leaves were soft as velvet, soothing his weary limbs. Fruit hung heavy on the branches, out of reach. He gazed at it with longing, for hunger gnawed at his bones. Sighing, he made to move on, but was halted in wonder for, as if in response to his craving, one branch bent down to him, offering him the peach. He heard the rumble of approaching thunder and warm rain pattered down. He lifted his bronze shield to fasten the thongs beneath his chin, as was his wont, but the branches had already woven themselves to form a shelter above his head. He sat down upon the soft grass, lifting the peach to his parched lips. As he bit into the soft flesh, he fancied he saw a serpent of imperial blue slide away through the roots into the gathering darkness, but he dismissed it as a trick of the light. The juice of the peach strengthened him, like strong wine, leaving him drowsy.

GH
My perception of him is clouded by my idealization of his sexuality, his sexual attractiveness to me. Cynical, worldly wise, hedonistic (drugs – awareness of the damage they could do, but takes them for the sheer pleasure). He tried to fathom me, but couldn’t so he attempted to prove me cheap instead, cheap, insincere, backbiting and bitchy by seducing me. Yet he appears to like me and told me the truth about his intentions, the source of his sexual power over me. His belief is that life is meaningless and cheap. Love would ennoble him. He conceals what he really thinks and feels unless you press him and then he reveals a dislike of almost everyone he knows (CC). He despises conventions, controls (such as religion) and hypocrisy (very positive), embraces all forms of individual expression (probably why he takes drugs), of “eccentricity” and “abnormality”. A rebel with himself with his life as the cause. He will work, has wishes, hopes and ambitions. A free spirit, he respects no one and nothing. His sense of humour is wicked, irreverent with a boyish taste for the obscene and the offensive, taking delight in shocking. Yes, I was being selfish, clutching at a straw, wishing for escape from both CC and THAK, a fleeting, but for a moment tangible hope. He is very relaxed, worrying about nothing, able to procure all he desires: food, shelter, records, sex, friends, drugs, alcohol, income. Intelligent and devious, he uses nothing remotely approaching his potential.

THAK
Is like a dark pool or reflective mirror to me. Brilliantly creative, appreciative of fine and refined things, he despises lesser beings. Megalomaniac. Highly intelligent, yet without qualifications. Vain, even if only in jest. Aggressive, fit, violent, like a viper ready to turn and strike. He cannot tolerate anyone who doesn’t like him and poisons me against them. Subtly manipulative. Jealous. Will concede nothing to me. The product of a broken relationship with his parents (to a greater degree than he would ever care to acknowledge). Aesthetic and ascetic. He bottles things up to exploding point and does not give vent to his discontents. Stable in aim and desire. A lone wolf, I am his weak spot.

[2005]
In GH’s sparse lodgings in Causewayside by what became the extension to the National Library we recorded my short novel The Epic of Sharmadrask. The bare walls of his room, the chaos of vinyl over the floor, the mixing board, amplifiers and microphone, his narrow bed by the window, all indelibly etched in memory. A music teacher and percussionist, his Father had taught my best friend to play the snare drum. GH was as slender, pale and insubstantial as his Father with the drooping moustache was squat and bloated (at regular intervals he suffered slipped discs, an agony we could not conceive of in those supple-limbed days). Plummeting from grace, I cherished a hopelessly naïve and romantic ideal of relationships. THAK had won out in the struggle with CC over possession of me. I let them slug it out, any involvement would have tainted me. I had to remain blameless. GH was CC’s other sidekick and former classmate. Although they were drawn from the same catchment area, CC lived in cramped council accommodation whilst GH’s parents owned their detached red sandstone dwelling with its tangle of rosebushes to the rear. They shared an easy camaraderie, GH taciturn yet watchful.

CC suggested that GH help me commit my scribblings to tape. Evening after evening I sat with the manuscript whilst he added sound effects and musical tracks (the choice betrays both his creative flair and sly wit). He sat hunched over his equipment with his back to me, all cables and headphones instructing me to repeat the section if he was not entirely happy with the results. The greatest challenge was presented by the Gostrandtian chapter, in particular the passage where Albert participates in the evolution of the city and its inhabitants to the celestial plane, their rapturous absorption into the divinity (to this day, my nickname for the sublime accompaniment he selected the “cosmic orgasm”). In order to ensure perfect timing, both text and music reaching their emotional crescendo simultaneously, he made me sit with a stopwatch. I must have read it twenty-five times before he was satisfied. Sadly the deterioration of the cassette over the last two decades means that it is barely audible, but it has not faded in my mind, the marriage of words and instruments pristine and perfect.

At the end of the final recording session he played me some of his favourites (he earned a pound or two DJ’ing at the Herriot-Watt Student Union), including I Fuck Like A Beast by WASP, a none too subtle hint. The colourful sleeve with its vivid yellow and black insect stripes and a spinning buzz saw blade replacing the tender shaft amused me. Having pursued CD in vain throughout my entire career at secondary I was oblivious to my allure. My previous encounters had been marred by embarrassment and complete inexperience. CC, THAK and myself were equally ignorant, our fumblings hasty, furtive and inept ruined by the fear of being (literally) caught in the act. Always half-dressed, always brutal and brief. We were starved of privacy. I was lodged in a genteel bay-windowed Marchmont flat with a wonderful woman in her seventies who would not permit visitors after 9 p.m. I would never have dreamed of sneaking either CC or THAK in. GH’s pragmatic landlord never interfered in his private affairs, no knock on the door ever came, their respective rooms off-limits. That night represented my true initiation. He taught me what my body was for, how to move my hips, to clasp with hands and mouth, his gaze fixing mine to banish my awkwardness in the insipid light of dawn as he guided my every movement astride him with his warm palms. Sick with arousal I lay beside him not caring about the lack of contraception, impaled by disappointment. Until then I had attributed my frustration to not having come across Mr. Right. The epiphany with GH the conviction that beyond the similarity in crude mechanics sex would always be the same, no matter who the partner. My overloaded senses yearned for release and nausea filled me. I walked through the empty streets to Mrs. K’s elated and yet filled with despair, turning the key quietly and opening the door a fraction of an inch at a time to avoid giving my absence away by the creak of the hinges.

Gostrandtian 1985

[The background track is The Loved Ones by Robert John Godfrey and The Enid from the album In the Region of the Summer Stars, copyright 1979 Enidsongs, re-released on CD by Mantella, MNTLCD7. It is my express wish that these sound files should not be copied or distributed - buy the album instead!]

Gostrandtian 2005

One touch separates, his moist lips; shrink-wrapped in cellophane, ribbon-tied, a padded cell, flung against the wall, release me. Whisper to me, an agony of breath, lacerate, camel coat and mobile, cradled in his palm, let me be weak.

On the flight from Munich, the sudden increase in the proportion of handlebar moustaches amongst the passengers served as a reminder that we were travelling eastwards. Although the tarmac was not crowded with jets passport control was teeming. Having politely declined the offer of taxis (I was accosted three times by the same would-be driver) we proceeded to the shuttle. Hurtling into Sofia from the mandatory ring of crumbling high rises it quickly became apparent that the blight of Communist urban planning, which had encircled the remains of historic centres across Central and Eastern Europe with cramped accommodation, peeling paint, and decaying balconies had succeeded in doing more damage here. The snow-capped peaks surveyed the shabbiest capital I have yet come across. Cocooned in the granite-clad luxury of our hotel (itself reminiscent of a bygone era of generosity with the dressing gown and slippers bearing the chain’s logo hanging behind the bathroom door) standing in splendid isolation beyond the motorway I flicked through the Insider’s Guide. It’s A to Z section was not particularly encouraging. Under H for Hazards on the incidence of crime against tourists: “This can range from simple cheating on restaurant bills to armed robbery”. The casual visitor was advised not to imbibe any non-bottled liquid: “Tap water is safe to drink but not always pleasant in taste or appearance”. For those privileged enough to enjoy Bulgarian hospitality a word of warning concerning the etiquette of presenting a bouquet: “With flowers remember they should be an odd number of stems (even numbers are only for funerals)”. The most alarming paragraph concerned packs of stray dogs inflicting serious injury on a young jogger (flea-bitten canines with no visible tokens of ownership indeed wandered freely through the streets congregating on the squares).

LR was not due to arrive until late evening so I joined two other colleagues to investigate the sights. A steaming cup of Nescafé squatted atop a block of flats amidst a proliferation of neon. Skateboarding teenagers wove between the casual strollers as we gazed up at a neglected monument ringed with hoardings to prevent the curious from approaching. The main shopping street was lined with kiosks selling nuts and seeds, although negotiating the pavement with flagstones liable to tip and trip every second step required both skill and constant vigilance, deflecting attention from the wares displayed.

Meeting her in the bar as arranged, LR commented on the depressingly slender figures she had observed amongst Bulgarian women (along with their predilection for dyeing their hair bright chemical red). KC would have been in his element (and the Nikon binoculars he has recently begun bringing into work on the pretext of their facilitating the task of deciphering of distant nameplates redundant) as they were not shy about exposing their giddyingly long legs, miniskirt a misnomer for the average length of hip-hugging fabric worn. Sipping her Singapore Sling, she recalled her trip to the Gambia occasioned by an administrative oversight during her stint as a freelance when she had been left without work for the fortnight after Easter. Alone on the hotel terrace, she had been puzzled by the persistent eagerness of the male staff to cater for her every whim: “Is there anything we can do for you, Madame?” “Are you quite sure you have everything you need?” It was only when the questions strayed into the realm of “Would you like to meet my beautiful sister, Madame?” that it dawned on her that the ministrations on offer might go beyond fetching a few extra ice cubes for the cocktail. In the end she had spied a fellow guest sitting at “a pathetic single person table” reading a similarly lotion-stained paperback, which eventually led to passion beneath the palms. Whilst she considered his slightly skewed usage of English idiom rather amusing (“Let’s do sex, shall we?”) the Dutchman’s defining feature was his profession: an importer of frozen chickens (she swears, however, that this was merely a front for his intelligence-gathering activities).

The meeting itself in a room with no natural light and unventilated portable booths represented a trial to be endured with endless speeches analysing the domestic political situation in the country prior to the crucial vote on accession next week. With endemic corruption and a lack of proper separation of the powers the appointed date seems far too early. We escaped into town for an uninspiring lunch (LR’s Caesar salad consisted of a mound of lettuce and precious little else. Having carefully removed the raw tomato to which she is allergic and retrieved a few forkfuls of uncontaminated green she gave up remarking that she had no intention of moving into the rabbit-breeding business). Our expectations of dinner were buoyed by a recommendation from FH and the Hungarian’s fond reminiscences of summer holidays. Two in particular stick in his mind. On the first occasion his family and their neighbours had driven to the coastal resort (in a Wartburg 353W and a Škoda respectively) via Romania. The vehicles were packed with tins of stuffed cabbage and liver pâté (the survival essentials for any self-respecting Magyar) as well as the camping equipment including a small gas stove and mosquito repellent. The export of salami being strictly prohibited, they smuggled their hefty one and a half kilo rod of Pick under the bonnet along with the contraceptive pills one of their friends had prescribed in the quantity they desired for bartering in order to fund the petrol (Ceauşescu having banned the use of birth control). The Romanians inevitably stopped them at the border to search the car for books and magazines in Hungarian, but the illegal items had been cunningly concealed and they crossed the frontier without incident. The Hungarian was persuaded to sell his ancient tatty pair of jeans to the locals in the days before the worn and torn look had become the height of fashion. On reaching their destination they befriended a group of Polish tourists who helped them overcome the problem of how to obtain beer in sufficient quantities when the shop ran out. Restrictions prevented the restaurant from selling beer to be consumed off premises so the ever resourceful Poles came up with the bright idea of filling a large bag with empties from the day before, which they kept on the floor between their feet. Having ordered twenty bottles they did a quick swap when left to their own devices. The waiter’s eyes nearly popped out of his head at the speed with which the four of them had polished off their order and the absence of the telltale swaying gait. The second involved the Hungarian travelling by train (a 28-hour journey) with some friends. Eager to find excitement off the beaten track they abandoned the large city for an idyllic fishing village, which they reached by jetfoil. Having pitched their tents in a reasonably priced campsite, the Hungarian and his pal (the rest being couples) soon sampled the delights of the carefree atmosphere, purchasing a litre of Becherovka for next to nothing (halving the bottle). The following day they ate their fill of chips and whole fried fish dipped in paprika-spiced flour before taking up a strategic ogling position along the promenade where sun glasses and cut jeans were de rigueur. Confident about expressing any opinion loudly so far away from home in a language renowned for its impenetrability, the Hungarian’s companion gave uncharacteristically free rein to his sun-stoked ardour at the sight of two stunning young ladies sitting a few metres away by the fountain: “Hű! De megbasznám őket! [Loosely translated: “Foarr! I’d happily fuck the life out of the pair of them!”].
To which the reply came amidst a gale of laughter: “Ha nem így kezdted volna, talán lehetett volna róla szó!” [“If you hadn’t put it quite like that you might have been in with a shout!”].
Needless to say the Hungarian and his somewhat deflated friend beat a swift retreat.

Memories of the dairy products send the Hungarian into raptures even today, so I was determined to subject them to a thorough taste bud test. We took a taxi to the selected venue where we had booked in the smoking section (out of deference to LR), which did not turn out to be as disastrous as it might have done as the room was small (“a bit flocked” was LR’s first impression of the homely decor, whilst MZ pointed out the presence of the television, volume turned down to zero, a peculiarity we had already noticed in the restaurant of the night before). The menu boasted a choice, which was overwhelming (over thirty-six pages of dishes listed), perhaps tactical as it encourages the guests to place themselves in the hands of the willing staff (the Cabernet Sauvignon – No Man’s Land – which the others indulged in – I am on a course of antibiotics and, to be honest, as a connoisseur of Hungarian wines I have never bothered to venture further east – cost exactly twice as much as was being charged for it at the airport, never the place for seeking bargains). An effort had evidently been made to inject a note of humour and local colour with (not always particularly informative) designations such as “For the son-in-law from the mother-in-law”; “Snails, nettle, rice, vegetables. Ah, woman, bring the wine!”; “Meat jumped on a man’s knee. We butchered the pig, it’s fun!”; “The tender scallops of the long-eared” and the classic “We went into the forest to pick mushrooms, Oha, Oha!”

Describing the roast meat on wooden plates the translator had waxed lyrical: “They appear in the Bulgarian lands two hours after the lightening [sic]. It stroked the tree, the tree turned into a coal and the cooks of Kubrat strung on their arrows: some meat, pepper, onion and started roasting them. Roasting on coals is great for the fat meat. If you roast dry meat on coals it becomes a Spartan sandal, which has been worn by two generations fighters”. At this juncture I was subjected to censorship, being instructed by the owner to set aside pen and paper, a reminder that although the atmosphere is more relaxed, the authoritarian mentality continues to flourish. “Bulgarians don’t do easy-going,” as LR judiciously surmised.

Our starter comprised a selection of five salads, two of which were impeccable (baked peppers drenched in oil with finely chopped red and spring onions and a blend of buffalo cheese and yoghurt served in scoops like vanilla ice cream). We also enjoyed the unsalted freshly baked loaf presented on a two-tier dish with spices for flavouring the pieces broken off. My main course of peppers stuffed with fillet (overly chewy for my liking) and garlic was fairly insubstantial in spite of the dollop of sour cream on the side (for mixing into the rich paprika-based sauce), which the Hungarian would have wept for. Dessert lived up to the praise lavished on it by FH: thick, creamy buffalo yoghurt with acacia honey and walnut pieces (MZ’s unusual baked pumpkin with a navy blue lollipop on the side met with her approval). Halfway through the meal LR hissed “accordion alert” (she would outlaw the instrument under the Geneva Convention and had immediately warmed to her surroundings upon noting that the buskers preferred flutes and a shrill version of the bagpipe) as a woman in national costume trilled a mercifully brief ditty between the tables.