Anime-tiger girls 1

I’m sitting on a bench waiting for the Bank of Transilvania to open. I notice a waitress leave the Cafe Dodo – slots, darts, pool and flipper – carrying a tray of coffees to the punters in Republicii. I watch her intently as she goes back and forth. She has olive skin, long black hair in a ponytail. Her face is feline, like an anime-tiger girl. She wears bright red tights that accentuate muscular but not excessive calf muscles. In fact, a gymnast about to walk onto the mat to do her routine. She is purposeful with her head held high, back straight and feet pointing slightly outwards.

She is a waitress. 

Wash machine boogie

This is ridiculous. My second day in Brasov and I’m up to my neck in dirty water.  The washing machine in Sex Shop has broken down again and Monika has me asked to fix it. Why me? Isn’t there anyone else in Romania she can ask, for goodness sake? Somebody tell her: I’ve won the Wooden Spoon for Least Practical Male on the Planet for the last ten years.

Inevitably, I end up breaking the connecting pipe thing or whatever it is and there is an enormous puddle heading down the steps towards the strap-ons.

There’s only one way to deal with this. I get Monika to use her Samsung Galaxy and call Diogenes in Pest. As usual, he’s taking an extended lunch and available to take calls. Eventually – when the waves of uncharitable laughter have subsided on the other end – the wretched dwarf tells me how to fix it. With a great deal of effort I get the pipe back on. Bloody thing. God, I need to chill.

Ten minutes later I’m in a nearby side street where there is a creperie that sells Ursus Brun (dark beer for bears). I sit down. Relax. Then I notice an old dear wearing a loose fitting t-shirt and, apparently, no bra. She has Edna Popup breats.  She comes over to me and starts gesticulating wildly. I look around. Yes, it is definitely me she wants. Money? Signed photograph? What then? I don’t understand, dear. Oh, excellent. She’s locked herself out of her apartment and wants me to fix the ruddy door.

I try and hide behind my beer.

Romanian deflation

Mrs P is going to clean my apartment. Monika is doing the translating. But instead of agreeing the cleaning schedule and wedge we are talking about Mrs P’s late father who died in the war fighting the fascist Arrow Cross. Monika’s English isn’t too good either and it becomes rather hard work. There was a head? No, bread – in the tree where your father hid? Ah, I see. 

Suddenly a gust of wind hits the alley and the cream-painted front door of Sex Shop opens out to reveal a hole-in-the-wall place. Monika and Mrs P have their back to me so can’t see what I can: that hanging from the inside of the door is an inflatable doll. Only it is deflated. Result: the doll looks a sort of Belsen concentration camp prostitute – horribly emaciated, wrinkled dull flesh with scraggy pubes and yard-dog breasts, accentuated by outrageously rouged nipples. The doll’s mouth is, I think, designed to form an “O” but because all the air has gone out of her she has developed a warped, wry smile.

I christen her Edna Popup.