1 January, Monday
An old Bulgarian blessing goes... May the winter potholes in your road all be shallow and filled in by the Council or a local benefactor before the Day of Lazarus dawns.
Secured in our bunker, Priyatelkata and I, together with nine of the Ten Domesticated Animals of the Apocalypse, survived the rakia-fuelled pyrotechnic onslaught at midnight. It had been simmering the whole day. The end of the year or the end of the world? I often wish I lived in Auckland so it would be over sooner.
According to George Harrison, the smile's returning to the faces. Ours, at least.
2 January, Tuesday
Rejoice Bulgarians! It’s Karamanovden (the Ox Festival, or St Sylvester’s Day).
Last night the young men crept out and secretly cleared manure that has lingered in cowsheds since Christmas. The hosts left out soup, bread and wine for them. Today they may be invited as guests by a host they have fallen in love with but, to keep the animals healthy, meat will not be served. Tomorrow, when hangovers are more abundant than pure thoughts, there will be bacon butties.
Priyatelkata reminded me I am already in love and have overeaten to the extent that my preferred pronoun is ‘them’.
3 January, Wednesday
Upholsterer friends Dеlyan and Steli performed grand leather patchwork jobs on our easy chairs. Although very comfortable, they had lacked character since day one of ownership, then further reduced to the trendy modern furniture of a warzone by our menagerie’s acts of mindless vandalism.
A surprise CD that Delyan had compiled was a mix of laidback jazz and blues that transformed our living room into the lobby of a 1950s posh hotel, relaxing us as much as the newfound cosiness of the chairs did.
The antidote for such relaxation, we discovered, is five-minute barrages of shouted profanities towards claw-wielding beasts.
4 January, Thursday
Sputnik 1, the first artificial Earth satellite, launched by the Soviet Union in October 1957, fell to Earth from orbit 66 years ago today. Sputnik (Спътник), a word stolen from the Bulgarian language, means ‘travelling companion’. Priyatelkata and I are sputniks; a fitting term of endearment that sends radio pulses to my cosmodrome.
Scottish friends at lunch in the Shtastliveca (Щастливеца) restaurant are our oldest friends, reminding us of how long we’ve been here and why we came. They’ve been here longer. Sometimes, but not often, mingling with the other immigrants is pleasing.
Sputniks with Glaswegian accents and perfect reasons to celebrate.
5 January, Friday
A list of tiresome procedures caused early morning frowns. However, my mastery of the Bulgarski tongue raised smiles, even laughter, from friendly staff in the bank, cat food shop, car insurance shop, internet shop and V-kooso-terr-yah (Вкусотерия) café, so grimaces evaporated.
Our water supply was noticeably absent. We’re clean-living people so never in desperate need of showers, and a dozen rose petals suffice for dealing with our toilet habits. The redundant kettle displayed melancholy but the waterworks workmen, being fully aware of bedtime cocoa rituals (we’ve sent threatening letters in the past), ensured all was well by this lovely day’s end.
6 January, Saturday
Some of us still don’t realise Bulgaria's Orthodox Church switched to the Revised Julian calendar in 1968 enabling Christmas Day to fall the same day as in America, where Christmas was invented. So today we’re running round shouting ‘It’s Christmas!’ in true Noddy Holder style.
Today’s actually Yordanovden (Йордановден), the celebration of the baptism of Jesus. A priest blesses a holy cross to hurl into the nearest river. Young men from his congregation break the ice and jump in to retrieve it. The finder will enjoy good health for the year. Fine festive fare, singing, dancing and ambulances complete the tradition.
7 January, Sunday
Only ten more sleeps to Christmas... is that an advantage or a disadvantage of being an insomniac?
In the world of football, in an FA Cup game against Peterborough, Patrick Bamford scored for Leeds United what will probably be voted Goal of the Century. In the world of Bulgarian football, we’re two weeks into a winter break to accommodate climatic conditions that make sporting events impossible. Today Veliko Tarnovo, kissed by the sun, was tee-shirt warm.
In the world of gardening jobs, I made little impression but in the world of sitting about reading a book, I displayed remarkable talent.
8 January, Monday
Two days ago I was saddened to hear of the death of Mario Zagallo. Having won two World Cups as a player with Brazil, he went on to coach their finest ever national side. Today Franz Beckenbauer died. He, another legendary name from the 1970 Mexico World Cup, the most dazzling football tournament of my lifetime. Sports stars and rock stars drop like flies. Soon there’ll be none surviving to nurture my nostalgic daydreams.
This is my 100th day of writing 100 words per day so to mark the occasion I have decided that my 10,000th word will be GooooaaaAAAALLLL.
9 January, Tuesday
Tuesday is language lesson day. My two teachers (via Zoom), are among my favourite people in the world.
Darena in Sofia chats to me in English and I reply in Bulgarian. We discussed fussy eaters, her sister’s new old house, her crazy cat woman neighbour who has fewer cats than me, and the pleasure of sharing an irreverent sense of humour.
Miroslav in Veliko Tarnovo is qualified so lessons are structured. My many hours of preparation (late last night) were ignored as we conversed about local cafés and cake. My homework for next week is a slice of walnut torte.
10 January, Wednesday
A proper Bulgarian winter’s day. Powdery snow on the ground, ice like glass on the roads, zero degrees or fewer on the thermometer, woolly Leeds United hat on my head and beautiful sunshine.
Needing victuals, I walked to the shop. The usual lady assistants, who look like the Rolling Stones, were absent but there was a new check-out lady who was singing. Nyah-mah oo-dob-let-vor-ennie-eh (няма удовлетворение) are the Bulgarian words for ‘No Satisfaction’ being sung by another woman at the customer service desk.
In the square I had my annual chat with Ivan the mayor. Happy New Year. He liked my hat.
11 January, Thursday
Priyatelkata was in Sofia today. She had an appointment at the French Embassy to get her passport renewed. There was too much ice and snow around to travel through the mountains by car so she went on her bicycle, onions swaying on handle bars in the Arctic wind.
Snowbound with the menagerie, I felt intimidated and no longer a member of the dominant species. I retired to my bedroom with coffee, book and self-defensive baseball bat. Their incarceration makes them want to fight.
Strange that these bullies lack the intelligence to recognise that I don’t know the rules of baseball.
12 January, Friday
Bitterly Baltic weather rendered it too icy to go out. I spent most of the day writing. Priyatelkata created her masterpiece, An August day on the road to Polski Trambesh in aquarelle. All other living creatures in the house slept, ate and squabbled.
It was Mississippi Fred McDowell’s birthday. Had he still been alive he’d have 120 candles on his cake and every right to have the blues as America and Britain’s air strikes on the Houthis in Yemen came as an escalation of the genocidal war in Gaza.
It was far from being cold in the Middle East today.
13 January, Saturday
There’s an old Bulgarian proverb that goes: It is said that he who labours all of the day to till the land is worth his weight in salt. But what of he who works in the chip shop where salt and vinegar are free?
It’s strange that Bulgarians don’t put vinegar on their chips, preferring instead rustic yoghurt-based dressings or wobbly substances their mothers preserved in jars during Communist times. In fact, they don’t even have chip shops, and this proverb isn’t old.
I know exactly how old it is because, with nothing much happening today, I wrote it myself.
14 January, Sunday
A writing group friend set my mind alight with the suggestion of the possible existence of security budgerigars. I envisaged tough young street chicks rounded up by thuggish recruiting officers and promised the earth as they’re transported to remote mountain boot camps to be pushed to their limits physically and mentally.
On graduation they’d pursue careers guarding bullion vans. The less successful becoming city centre pub bouncers and the failures spending a life behind bars with a cuttlefish.
My Auntie Mary’s budgie’s name was Beauty. Alison Moyet’s 1987 hit, Weak in The Presence of Beauty makes much more sense now.
15 January, Monday
I read recently that a cat’s speed of reaction is three times that of a snake so there is no need to worry about the feline vs serpentine confrontations that take place in our garden.
Whenever I open our back door to let a furry beast in or out on an arctic day such as this I have to remind myself of the words ‘three times the speed of a snake’ as they leisurely saunter over the threshold.
If we had snakes as pets, we would surely freeze to death.
A sloth came calling but we pretended to be out.
16 January, Tuesday
I’ve learned that in Manchester my grandson, Toby, is still opening his Christmas presents. Expressing a dislike for the festive season, he’s been heard shouting ‘No Christmas tree!’, ‘No Father Christmas!’ and ‘No sprouts!’ He unwraps gifts one at a time, hugs them, loves them and plays with them for days until he’s forced into opening another one.
It thrills me to know he has my genes and is totally opposed to crass consumerism. Additionally, he’s shown no interest in fine wines and Belgian chocolates.
He’s still only two years old but at his age I was demonstrating outside Woolworth’s.
17 January, Wednesday
Anita the dog groomer cleaned the teeth of Gaia the Shih Tzu, made her bleed and suggested we go to the vet. The vet said the dog has gum disease, explaining why her front end smells worse than her rear. She has such long hair we rely on the whiff to enable us to know which end to feed.
We killed grooming waiting time with butties and coffees at the OMV petrol station café. After a gap of 18 days they were pleased to see us and offered us free croissants. If ever we marry, we’ll hold the reception there.
18 January, Thursday
I paid a lev to park our car for an hour by sending a text message to 13621. For years I’ve done this. Then I noticed on lovely Rita's car parking sign that the number to use is 1362.
Was I in breach of the law? If I sent a Lev to the new number would my first lev be refunded? Was this a special number for Catholics? Why do they have to keep changing things?
This new technological age is all too much for me to handle with ease. I'm sinking fast; I'll soon be down on my knees.
19 January, Friday
We broke the rules at the Third Age ceramics group by failing to drink their cups of watery English tea and call each other darling every 47 seconds. Priyatelkata’s clay tile was impressively artistic but mine not so much. I’m a writer not a person who fiddles around with messy sticky stuff and a rolling pin. Bulgarian Ellen, the teacher, was very sympathetic saying that she too preferred strong coffee.
Balkan style sandwiches and treacle-esque coffee at the number one petrol station compensated for a miserable morning, as did the need to remove outer garments whilst sitting in warm sunshine.
20 January, Saturday
A man at the bus stop said to me, ‘The young boy entering puberty will regard his spots with trepidation but the ladybird will not.’ I replied, ‘It doesn’t look like the bus is coming’ and stood up to wander home through the snow.
I spent much of the afternoon squeezing spots and clearing paths which I found rewarding in similar ways, except a shovel isn’t usually required for the former.
Treacle-esque coffee, cursing the Siberian weather, dreaming of my days in the desert and snoozing on a settee with a menagerie member completed my day.
But where’s the bus?
21 January, Sunday
Sunny but cold. Snowy but wet. Overslept but sleepy. A mind busy but lazy. A head young but old. Noh but a lad. Have I always been so lacking in energy?
A fellow admirer of Pablo Fanque once said ‘Time you enjoy wasting, was not wasted.’
Everybody's talking ‘bout
air pollution, my ablutions, long lost relations, cat castration, Piroe’s goal celebration
next door’s Alsatian, pile preparations, deep fried crustaceans, tins of Carnation
You may say I'm a procrastinator but I'm not the only one. I know who the others are. I’ll tell you tomorrow if this tactile settee releases me.
22 January, Monday
At 5:45 pm there was still a hint of light in the western sky. This excites me. Only weeks from now I’ll be wearing a sun hat and little else as I scream at mosquitos to leave me alone. I’m bigger than them so they should be scared of me. They’re only doing their job so I don’t like to kill them. The bats enjoy them at suppertime.
I love January as much as I detest December. My new year’s resolution this year is to not be miserable in December and the preceding unmentionable dark month. So far, so good.
23 January, Tuesday
Priyatelkata signed up to go on Saturday to another Women’s Institute ceramics group session, but once every 66 years is enough for me. She also cooked trout with vegetables, herbs and garlic in between bouts of painting flowers and boats in aquarelle. I told her there’s a broken roof tile that needed replacing but she just couldn’t be arsed.
We couldn’t go anywhere because the car doors were frozen shut. To combat cabin fever I shaved my head. I do this once a month to disguise the fact that I’m going bald.
The Bulgarian word for hoar frost is skrezh (скреж).
24 January, Wednesday
An itchy insect bite on my finger drove me mad all day and restricted my movements. The pinkie position whilst drinking tea from an ornate china teacup was almost impossible.
I went to see Alexander, my Balkan barber boy who attends to straggly beards. Discussions revealed that I know Veliko Tarnovo better than he does. His excuse being he’s originally from distant Pavlikeni, 40 kilometres yonder. He’d never heard of Middlesbrough. The cherry on the small town mentality cake was his suggestion that the best local place for coffee was McDonald’s.
He had no suggestions for my spider teacup irritation.
25 January, Thursday
Dear Marje.
I have an unusually small and quite miserable male cat of two years adopted from Romania with one testicle trapped inside his abdomen rendering castration extremely difficult but without such surgery his testosterone levels leave him sexually frustrated and all the female cats in the street mock him for his physical inadequacy causing him to become aggressive and making the lives of my other cats, dogs, partner and myself quite intolerable.
I have tried inserting garlic up his arse as a remedy, as suggested by our gypsy neighbours, but to no avail.
Yours, Mister Angry of Malki Chiflik.
26 January, Friday
Please don’t think we’re rich if I admit to owning two cars. They’ve a combined age of 32 years. Tatiana Toyota has a CD player and a tomato crate containing the best CDs in the car… ever! Desislava Daihatsu is good in snow. Going out, it’s a head versus heart versus weather based decision as to which motor we take.
It was Desislava’s technical inspection (aka MOT) day today. She also needed a service and minor bodywork repairs. I gave Nikolai the mechanic 10 shiny kopeks and a kofa of rakia and in a couple of hours she was grand.
27 January, Saturday
Priyatelkata went to her ceramic art class this morning. She’s becoming quite Etruscan these days.
I stayed at home to keep baying menagerie members apart as the torment of household incarceration brought on by bad weather struck again. I was incarcerated too but I didn’t shit on the kitchen floor.
Armed with my dog-eared hand-written travel journal, an old Lonely Planet Guide to Iran and inspiration from Khaled Hosseini’s A Thousand Splendid Suns, I’ve spent January writing about my 2011 journey across Persian deserts. Rain lashing against my window makes me hungry for a return to Shiraz, Yaz’d and Isfahan.
28 January, Sunday
With a need to get out, I visited Kaufland this morning but found it more brain-numbing than staying in. They’re still selling advent calendars. Or maybe they’ve just stocked up early for next advent.
Perhaps people would show more interest at this time of year if they sold Pancake Day calendars instead. But I forgot that Pancake Day isn’t a thing in Bulgaria. If it was, they’d call it Den na Pa-la-cheen-kee-tay (Ден на Палачинките).
But we do have two Lents. One before Easter and one before Christmas. And I suppose Ramadan’s a sort of Lent so we could say we have three.
29 January, Monday
It’s Anton Chekov’s birthday today. He’s 164. I think it was him who came up with the idea of giving cherries to notable writers. He had an orchard full of them.
He lived all his life in Russia. He was born in a place near to the border of what is now Ukraine-ish and spent many summers and periods of recovery from illness on Ukraine’s Black Sea coast. He died in 1904.
Imagine if he came back today and said, ‘Have I missed anything?’
He was married to an actress called Olga Knipper but ironically they didn’t have any nippers.
30 January, Tuesday
Our unusually small Romanian cat visited the vet today for an intimate modification which the surgeon carried out quickly and efficiently with his nippers. So now the little feline weighs a few grams less and goes by the very Bulgarian sounding name of Vladimir Boloksov. Apparently his pride would have been more hurt than the region of his epididymides.
I heard the news today that in Gaza over 50% of buildings have been destroyed. So there’s either a massive housing shortage or over 50% of the population have been murdered. I hope it’s the housing shortage but I fear both.
31 January, Wednesday
I had to search Google to see what day it was today. It said it was my Auntie Maggie’s birthday. She’s been gone a fair while so this made me think I should stop saying no to invitations to install Windows updates.
In the North of Ireland, the Stormont Power-Sharing Executive politicians, decided they’re going back to work. They’ve had more time off than Santa. Michelle O'Neill’s a grand woman but now she’s no longer caught between the Devil and he DUP, the smile on her face makes her grander.
And the weather forecasters suggest I’ve survived another winter. Hurroo!
Photograph: An icy January day on the hill leading up to the shop and the Church of Sveti Atanas in Malki Chiflik.