Introduction

Here, in the twenty-first century, people who lived a lot of their lives in the twentieth century choose from a variety of ways to keep their minds active. These might be online word puzzles, Sudoku, eating lots of fish, working way past retirement age or electric shock treatment. My method is to write exactly 100 words each day. It keeps my brain in order most of the time but, on occasions when it’s slightly out of order, I have my daily scribble to look back upon to refresh my memory and anything else that may need refreshing.

My May words…

1 May, Wednesday

Five years ago today Priyatelkata and I met and formed our double act, protecting each other from the madness that blights the planet. We celebrated with a bit of dinner at restaurant Sevastokrator in Arbanasi, not inviting any other members of the planet’s population because they are the insanity that threatens our utopianism.  

International Workers’ Day’s a public holiday so no international workers were working. Also the day of St Jeremiah the Snake King when Bulgarians show respect for vermin-eating snakes by clattering about their gardens making a fierce racket with metal implements and pans. Apparently the snakes love it.

2 May, Thursday

We had a day of relaxation to celebrate the fact that today is one of the few days this month that isn’t a public holiday in Bulgaria. However, everybody else in the country appeared to follow our example.  

Membership of our feline pack seems to have swelled to 8.5. A black Tom, often seen lounging in our garden, invited himself inside for the afternoon to lounge in our lounge and avoid inclement weather. We fed him, dealt with potential parasites (though he could be considered one himself) and named him Jacques… because he’s blacque… perhaps we should do it again.

3 May, Friday

Apparently, guitar legend Duane Eddy (the King of Twang) died yesterday in Tennessee. Although saddened by this, my heart was lifted slightly as I thought he had died years ago. I finished reading The Dead School by Patrick McCabe. Funny and depressing in equal measure, it mirrored my feelings about Mr Eddy’s passing.

In Eastern Orthodoxy land it’s Good Friday which we marked (like every day of the year) with a trip to the vet who said he doesn’t have time for Easter because of attending to all our scabby animals. We’re going back on Monday with a chocolate bunny.

4 May, Saturday

This is the sixty-seventh Easter during which I’ve known the weather to be non-stop piss-pouring rain, though I vaguely remember there being a bit of snow one year. Strange that Bing Crosby didn’t sing about that. Our Muslim neighbours were bragging because the end of Ramadan was sunny.

A man at the bus stop said to me, ‘The proletariat is a mule but it cannot work until the thorn of Capitalism has been removed from its hoof by a handy implement.’ I replied, ‘It doesn’t look like the bus is coming’ and stood up to wander home through the thunderstorm.

5 May, Sunday

There was no noise. No chainsaws, strimmers, motorbikes in the forest, Gypsy music, kids playing in the street. Even the dogs that bark perpetually seemed to be resting. In Bulgaria Easter is a much bigger event than Christmas. There’s virtually no chocolate or consumerism. Eggs painted with vegetable dye are smashed against each other. If your egg doesn’t break you’ll enjoy good health and if it does you can eat it.

Hristos Vas-kray-see (Христос Васкресе, meaning ‘Christ is Risen’) they say as they eat kozunak (козунак) the special Easter bread, and lamb roasted over the garden fire. It really is a joyous day.

6 May, Monday

Ederlezi, originally celebrated by Roma people as the day on which the prophets Al-Khidr and Elijah met on Earth and when spring turns to summer, was adopted and adapted by Christians who rebranded it as St George’s Day in Bulgaria and across much of Eastern Europe. Sadly, it’s now a public holiday for honouring armed forces and those wonderful ancient Gypsy traditions are largely forgotten.

The song Ederlezi has many versions. Bosnian Goran Bregović popularised it beautifully. When I hear it sung by Maria Mazzotta the hairs stand up on the back of my neck and my blood becomes Balkan.

7 May, Tuesday

Yesterday was a public holiday because it was St George’s Day but it was also Easter Monday. It’s not possible to have two public holidays on the same day so in Bulgaria Easter Monday was moved to last Thursday which was the day in between International Workers’ Day and Good Friday but I didn’t know that until today. I was expecting today to be a public holiday (but it wasn’t) so I expected car parking in town to be free (but it wasn’t) so, to cut a long story short (but it isn’t), St George cost me a lev (45p).  

8 May, Wednesday

I was kept awake for much of the night by twelve things; they being two terrified dogs, eight damp cats, a mighty thunderstorm that had festered in Hades since the dawn of time and respiratory discomfort resulting from a whole day of inhaling my petrol strimmer’s exhaust fumes. I had actually been strimming a large area of land and not just snorting up the dodgy emissions.

Wet grass and great tiredness put paid to any further garden work today so I read What Becomes of Us by Henrietta McKervey, an excellent read about the fine women of Cumann na mBan.

9 May, Thursday

We collected Desislava Daihatsu and her shiny new brakes from Nikolay the mechanic and left behind Tatiana Toyota and her strange noise (we think it’s an age thing).

No matter what is thrown at us by the meteorologists (and it rarely includes a meteor), I need fresh air and daylight so, wearing February’s clothes, I sat on the terrace with a book, a fully loaded djezve (coffee pan) and an assortment of domesticated animals (some of which were ours).

Ireland’s Bambi Thug has qualified for a European Final whereas Bayern Munich’s Harry Kane has failed. He could sing Cliff’s Congratulations.

10 May, Friday

We met our favourite vets, Doctors Tatchev and Dimitrova, to discuss Snezhinka the dog’s biopsy results. Cancer cells had been detected and the bottom line said ‘prognosis is guarded - risk of recurrence’. With glum faces we resolved to keep eyes out for further symptoms. Little else can be done.

Beside the veterinary clinic sits the chainsaw shop where the proprietor looks like Ed Miliband and so does his brother. In minutes he changed our strimmer’s filters and hopefully removed the risk of recurrence of my petrol driven phlegm.

Mechanically we’re all up and running again, but oh poor Snezhinka!

11 May, Saturday

Hypoallergenic cat food prevents cats from becoming scabby, but only if they eat it. And if they don’t eat it there’ll be less cat for the scabs to grow on. So it’s a win-win situation. We had such super fun making this discovery.

Sunshine returned as the rain abated and there was enough work to do on the land to provide employment for the population of Middlesbrough but they couldn’t get here and, for once, we couldn’t be arsed so we relaxed on the veranda which is a spot from which we can see only tidy bits of our garden.

12 May, Sunday

We almost watched last night’s Eurovision Rigmarole but dibbed out because the Britain to Bulgaria time difference would render us too tired to function normally today.

It also would have meant lying to the BBC when asked if we have a television licence. They never ask for proof. Do their detector vans visit the Balkans?

A YouTube preview confirmed there were no songs that we liked. Bulgaria doesn’t enter because it costs too much so we couldn’t even wave our own flag.

And it’s too political. For me, allowing Australia to enter but not New Zealand is blatant racial discrimination.

13 May, Monday

We were at the vet with both dogs but only for vaccinations. Dr Tatchev laughed as he remarked that we’d managed to hold out until 3:30 on Monday afternoon before making our first visit of the week. The man who owns the adjacent chainsaw shop asked how Snezhinka was as we passed by his door.

I planted our last two baby trees on the new territory. Also a dozen small ricin plants which will look gorgeous by August, and they’re handy to have should we ever need to lace our umbrella tips with poison to take out a western spy.

14 May, Tuesday

Don’t tell President Radev but we’ve annexed some land that’s the property of the Republic of Bulgaria. This sizeable wedge-shaped plot between our garden and the road was a disgusting mess until three years ago when we cleaned it up and planted trees, which are flourishing fabulously.

People say we’re crazy for doing the work of the local council but, if it’s not kept gorgeous, the land’s prone to returning overnight to its former landfill site status.

We refer to it as the public part of our garden. The original garden and our legal new territory are our private parts.

15 May, Wednesday

Slovakian Prime Minister, Robert Fico was shot today. Surgeons are fighting to save him. Last summer in Bratislava we stood within 100 metres of his predecessor. Politics are scarier than arthropods.

Priyatelkata’s website’s technical problems are on the mend now she’s found Techno Rosen (Росен, a Bulgarian name meaning ‘burning bush’). All she has to do is pay him. She recounted to me every word of their discussions. Very impressive but arthropods are more entertaining.

I bought a kilo of cherries for 3 leva (£1.35). A bargain despite some of them being dead wasps. I love our market in summer.

16 May, Thursday

Ever optimistic, I perused the Bulgarian National Television (БНТ) website for coverage of Leeds United’s crucial playoff match. No joy, so I assumed that Bulgarians dislike football pundits as much as I do.

Television owners have many channels to choose from but televisiophobic misers like me have just four available online.

My options were international wrestling live from Istanbul, international wrestling an hour ago from Istanbul on the catch-up channel, a saucy drama about a remote community of Pirin Mountain goat herders or Ready Steady Cook (the Offal Special). The severe but sexy weather woman’s trendy heels were like Kalashnikov bayonets.

17 May, Friday

I saw the playoff highlights on YouTube. Bulgarian Iliya Gruev (Илия Груев) scored Leeds‘ first goal. The big smile on his face was priceless.

Bulgaria has a general election on 9 June. To emphasise our democratic status, we have at least one every year. Anyone can enter. We’ve had has-been popstars, athletes, actors and glamour models on ballot papers. It’s like Celebrity Big Brother. Iliya Gruev would probably enjoy more glory as a parliamentary candidate than as a Leeds United midfielder. Our current prime minister, dithering over whether to play on the left or right wing, is sure to be sent off.

18 May, Saturday

A day of scribbling and honing in preparation for a grand evening of rubbing shoulders (courtesy of Zoom) with esteemed authors from around the globe, all fellow members of our elite writing group. As I read to them about my traumatic childhood they laughed, reminding me of my traumatic childhood.

A bite from a demonic garden beast caused a finger to swell like a salami in the sun. Luckily I only use this finger for typing the letters I and K and commas, but work on my book ‘Mississippi Kayaking with Kiki Kirkpatrick’ stalled.

I lit a candle for Julia.

19 May, Sunday

Before I’d risen from slumber Priyatelkata had made Balkan chicken and prawn spring rolls and her yoghurt and strawberries concoction perfect for eating straight from the fridge when nobody’s looking. Meanwhile, trout tickled by fresh vegetables and herbs contemplated a sizzle in the oven. I skipped breakfast, holding out for our other four mealtimes.

May’s always our wettest month and today typified this. So I’d nothing to do except loiter, holding out my swollen finger and repeating ‘Oh, my swollen finger!’ Priyatelkata said the Bulgarian word for irritating is drazneshto (дразнещо).

Snezhinka’s wound’s healed but still she limps. What to do?

20 May, Monday

Priyatelkata often overcomes the misery of dull weather by doing a big tidy. Feeling obliged to join in, I chose to organise my books, discarding everything I never read (a whimsical tome examining the Gloucestershire dialect and a user’s manual for the lawn mower I left behind in England when I flitted).

So that every book will always be at my fingertips, I arranged them on shelves in order of ISBN. Priyatelkata, a former librarian, rebuked me for not using the Dewey Decimal Classification system to order them. But at least I have something to look forward to doing tomorrow.     

21 May, Tuesday

Aussie yodeller, Frank Ifield died on Saturday. His music typified those innocent times of the early sixties. Along with Russ Conway, The Seekers, Val Doonican and Dusty Springfield he made up the core of the Two Way Family Favourites, BBC Radio request programme linking Britain with its former colonies as we sat down for Sunday roast beef and Yorkshires.

They might revive it but Stormzy and Dua Lipa could never match dear old Frank.

So when my life is through, and the angels ask me to recall the thrill of it all then I will tell them I remember you.

22 May, Wednesday

Ace vet Dr Gunchev said Snezhinka’s leg lump might be scarring from last week’s vaccination. It could also be cancer, as could her now permanent limp. Monitor the entire dog and return in three weeks, was his suggestion.  

Feeling gloomy, we cancelled our holiday in Puglia. Plan B is a Southern Bulgaria and Northern Greece road trip so we can drive home in a few hours if necessary. Snezhinka isn’t one for holidaymaking.

Iranian President Ebrahim Raisi died in a helicopter crash. I’m still not over Frank Ifield.

Muddy garden work beneath a spectacular rain-free electric storm cleared my mind.

23 May, Thursday

Shops are only fun if they sell books or records and today’s retail assault course featured neither. To restore sanity, we finished the slog with a cracking bit of nouveau Bulgarski cuisine at the recently refurbished Asenovtsi restaurant.

A plague of rainwater rendered our garden an unworkable mire so I set about washing the windows which were also quite muddy. 

My evening’s relaxation on the terrace with Johnny Răducanu and a book ended after ten traumatic minutes as a multi-coloured frog arrived and our worst cats tried to dissect it. So we all went inside… except the frog… and Johnny.

24 May, Friday

Our first public holiday for almost a fortnight. We get more time off than Santa. It’s the Day of the Cyrillic Alphabet, Bulgarian Enlightenment and Culture, celebrated largely in honour of our brotherly scholarly Saints Cyril and Methodius. With wall-to-wall traditional dress, there was swinging and swaying and music playing and dancing in the street and school children giving to passers-by sheets of paper on which they’d handwritten classic works of the great Bulgarian poets.

In the sunshine isn’t this a grand place to be? So we scrapped our holiday Plan B for the sake of Hristo Botev and Snezhinka. 

25 May, Saturday

Partying nightingales sang all night to entertain Turlough the insomniac. They sing until they’ve found a mate. The one by the bedroom window must lack social skills.

I ate handfuls of mulberries from the lower branches of our tree as jays ate from the top. How much more bio could a breakfast be?

But then the little golden orioles flew in and bullied the jays as all ornithological hell was let loose. Swallows swooping about our kitchen in search of a slice of toast appeared aloof and above such squabbling. Local storks don’t like toast… the butter puts them off.

26 May, Sunday

The excruciatingly well-spoken waiter at the old Ottoman Bey House Restaurant was disappointed that we knew he was Australian but didn’t recall having told us this during our previous visit. The owner of the restaurant is the woman who would be our Queen if Bulgaria was still a monarchy, but it’s a republic so she must work for a living. Perhaps the waiter is a marsupial royal.

Stuffed to the gunwales with scrumptious victuals, I switched to energy-saving mode for the afternoon.

Leeds United lost at Wembley… words copied from an old diary. I can’t remember which. Take your pick!    

27 May, Monday

Outside Praktiker we met Fiona, the one of the two house-sitters who we still trust enough to allow into our house and the one who we haven’t found it necessary to buy a voodoo doll of. Cancelling our holiday at very short notice made us feel we should still pay her. She, and her husband, seemed more concerned about ailing Snezhinka. Perhaps we should have kept the money and given them the dog.

To lift our spirits, we had luncheon at Arbanashki Han. Their garden’s almost, but not quite, as lovely as our own. I wished I’d taken my secateurs. 

28 May, Tuesday

Day one of our holiday at home. Determined to not let life’s complications beat us, we imagined a customary poolside sangria reception at which a hefty lass called Chantelle from Bromsgrove, who was a big fan of going to the dogs, offered excursions to a variety of gift shops with adjacent Roman ruins, broken pottery museums or calamari plantations.

We know Snezhinka’s been very ill recently because she hasn’t been a pain in the arse. Today normal service resumed. So we could have gone away and we wished we had gone away. I wonder if Judith Chalmers had a dog.

29 May, Wednesday

I ceased buying books online because Brexit introduced customs complications and the need to pay import duty on British goods. But, running out of English language reading material, I ordered one from dastardly Amazon.

Four weeks later I was summoned to our big post office. A lady sent me to the collections counter in another building. Another lady sent me to the parcels collections counter in another building.

I paid tax of 4.00 leva (£1.80) to lady three who, after a rubber stamp frenzy and personal circumstances interrogation, smiled and gave me the book.

Amazon emails ask if I’m satisfied. 

30 May, Thursday

Day three of our pretend holiday was blessed with real Scarborough seaside weather. I remembered a younger me almost perishing in the North Sea, emerging with nipples and genitalia that had grown and shrunk respectively to exactly the same size as each other.

Not recognising cooking and washing up as holiday activities we went to Pizza Napoli for lunch and a warm. Being rarities in this strictly Bulgarian establishment we were asked if the rain was spoiling our holiday. We hadn’t the heart to tell them we were only 5 kms from home or the truth about our make-believe trip.

31 May, Friday

Day four. Leaving base camp shortly after lunch, we trekked cautiously beneath thunderous skies to the bamboo plantation by the garden shed. Fearing encounters with tigers, Priyatelkata held the blunderbuss as I removed invasive bindweed from young shoots. A spiralling abomination that seems indestructible. Strange it hasn’t strangled our entire planet?

Trump, found guilty of everything, was allowed to go home. He is the bipedal equivalent of bindweed.

Planting out seedlings I was overcome by the heat, the flies and those damned drums. Please send serum for the dengue fever. This may be the last time that I’m able to…

Photograph: A fine specimen from our array of demonic garden beasts which sometimes get a bit lonely out there so they come to visit us in the house. This is Stoycho the baby Scolopendra, my all-time favourite arthropod.