Miss Gigglesworth is slightly miffed that she has not been featured in this blog at a high frequency. She requests a special post just for her.
So I will write about something that happened to us last year on the night of the FA Cup semi-final.
That Saturday night, we were invited to a friend's house-warming, under the impression that it would be a house full of Swedish men baring their rock hard abs. We rocked up with the rudimentary six-pack, but there was not one fit Scandanavian bloke in sight.
Disappointed and eager to find out the soccer results, we left shortly after talking to some guy who claimed to have been Ewan McGregor's stand-in in one of the Star Wars movies.
We went to this small pizza place in nearby Surry Hills that had a TV set tune to SBS. Arsenal wasn't so doing so hot that night and lost to Manchester United. Gigglesworth and I were hotter in comparison.
A Ukrainian came by and sat at our table. He looked to be in his late 20s. Neither of us cared as Arsenal was losing. He had a really thick accent which was too much effort when one was already distracted.
"Vat's you name?" he asked us.
"Polly." I obviously was not going to go by my real name. Gigglesworth did the same.
"You student around here?"
"Yep."
"Vat you study?"
"Arts," we lied in unison.
"You have pen and paper? Draw me someting," the Ukrainian requested.
"No. Not that kind of Arts." I didn't even know what kind of Arts. I hoped that he wouldn't ask.
When our pizza had arrived, he watched us while we ate.
"I'm a painter," he said out of the blue.
"You mean like Michelangelo?" Gigglesworth asked.
"No. Like walls and ceilings," he said as he knocked on the orange painted walls of the pizza place to get his point across.
"Polly, you from Chinese?" he asked me.
"Yeh, I'm Chinese."
"Ooh. I like Chinese women. You people lovely. Ni hao ma ri nei mei ...?" I did not know what he was trying to say, figured he might've been trying to speak Chinese. It was hard enough to understand him in his slurred English.
He continued the staring for a while. I remember thinking, man, he's got really nice eyes, if only the parts that are supposed to be white weren''t red.
And then, "I live close here. Very close. You vant see?"
And then we ran. Not with the Ukrainian. But back to my car.
So I will write about something that happened to us last year on the night of the FA Cup semi-final.
That Saturday night, we were invited to a friend's house-warming, under the impression that it would be a house full of Swedish men baring their rock hard abs. We rocked up with the rudimentary six-pack, but there was not one fit Scandanavian bloke in sight.
Disappointed and eager to find out the soccer results, we left shortly after talking to some guy who claimed to have been Ewan McGregor's stand-in in one of the Star Wars movies.
We went to this small pizza place in nearby Surry Hills that had a TV set tune to SBS. Arsenal wasn't so doing so hot that night and lost to Manchester United. Gigglesworth and I were hotter in comparison.
A Ukrainian came by and sat at our table. He looked to be in his late 20s. Neither of us cared as Arsenal was losing. He had a really thick accent which was too much effort when one was already distracted.
"Vat's you name?" he asked us.
"Polly." I obviously was not going to go by my real name. Gigglesworth did the same.
"You student around here?"
"Yep."
"Vat you study?"
"Arts," we lied in unison.
"You have pen and paper? Draw me someting," the Ukrainian requested.
"No. Not that kind of Arts." I didn't even know what kind of Arts. I hoped that he wouldn't ask.
When our pizza had arrived, he watched us while we ate.
"I'm a painter," he said out of the blue.
"You mean like Michelangelo?" Gigglesworth asked.
"No. Like walls and ceilings," he said as he knocked on the orange painted walls of the pizza place to get his point across.
"Polly, you from Chinese?" he asked me.
"Yeh, I'm Chinese."
"Ooh. I like Chinese women. You people lovely. Ni hao ma ri nei mei ...?" I did not know what he was trying to say, figured he might've been trying to speak Chinese. It was hard enough to understand him in his slurred English.
He continued the staring for a while. I remember thinking, man, he's got really nice eyes, if only the parts that are supposed to be white weren''t red.
And then, "I live close here. Very close. You vant see?"
And then we ran. Not with the Ukrainian. But back to my car.
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