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My Footballer’s Life

Last year I was given a brief, to write a short story. There was a possibility of me working on a larger project, but recession struck, so the project apparently didn’t move forward. There are a few things I’d leave unchanged about the story when I rewrite it, but I decided to share it in the form it was first written.

My Footballer’s Life

Frankly, I don’t like summer holidays. Being a female writer, I compare myself to the Premier League. Different teams compete in me all year round: a “Woman”, a “Wife”, a “Lover”, a “Friend”, a “Mother”, and a “Writer”. And I feel particularly vulnerable in August when the “Mother” team soars at the top of the League table, while the “Writer” is on the verge of a total relegation, and the “Lover” is having serious problems with management!

The truth is that I feel less confident having kids at home all day. It’s like my entire League is taken for a World Cup where it has to compete against the teams “Tommy”, “Jenny”, “Neighbour’s Kids”, and a few more, who know no rules of the game. I lack the order, the planning because, once August has come, we all suddenly realise just how tired we are after a school year, and the Lord of Misrule appears out of the blue. Or, in case with the team “Tommy”, the Lord of Misrule appears every morning in the doorway, half-asleep – even if this is well after 10 o’clock. And even then he’s too tired to eat the full breakfast.

We always try to take children to the events, but we do it throughout the year, so August is no different. “Friend” and “Mother” teams usually clash on these occasions, and usually draw.

The only thing that I truly enjoy about this month is family cooking. I think it’s when my “Woman” team shines modestly. During the school year cooking tends to be seasonal (like, we cook all together for Easter and Christmas, as well as birthdays and anniversaries). Then there are Sunday roasts. But during the week it’s either me or Richard who cook. The kids do the table, they help to dry the dishes, but we spare them from cooking.

Not in August. One of the biggest problems for me was that my parents allowed me to study more than to learn the “female” stuff, like cooking. I taught myself to cook when I went to the uni, but now this late blossoming probably affects my Premier League competition. Anyway, I’m adamant the kids learn this earlier than I did.

Today for tea we had salmon with pasta, and this awesome dish: broccoli with chilli peppers and garlic. You can serve broccoli on bread, but it can be a side dish, too. For this, you need one broccoli, 2 chillies, 3 garlic teeth, some olive oil, a herring fillet, and black ground pepper. You first dissect broccoli into florets, and put them in the salted boiling water. Once the water is boiling again, you turn the fire off. In the meantime, you heat 4 tablespoons of olive oil in the big frying pan (or wok, which is even better), and throw the thinly cut garlic in it.

I remember frying garlic for the first time many years ago, and I let it burn. At the time I was renting a room in an old couple’s house, and the husband had an extremely sensitive nose. He claimed he suffered from a severe migraine following my garlic escapade. I must admit the smell of the burning garlic is enough to fight off the Dracula. In my case, it was enough to make the old man become extremely irritating. Luckily for everyone, this happened in October when I was already dating Richard, and in early December I moved out from the old couple’s house and moved in with him. I made sure I never burned garlic in our house.

So, after the garlic turned gold, you add thinly cut chillies and the herring fillet. Keep the fire under the pan very low. The recipe suggested adding anchovies OR herring, so through experimenting I chose herring. Once herring dissolves in oil, add broccoli florets, some black pepper, and half a ladle of the water in which broccoli was boiled. You don’t need to get rid of this water – you can still cook pasta in it. Broccoli then needs to be cooked in the frying pan for about 5-10 min: just enough to get your pasta ready.

The first time we made this dish, Tommy cut one chilli and then scratched his nose before he washed his hands. Good job you didn’t touch your eyes, I said to him. For the rest of the evening he’d do short voyages to the kitchen, to apply some cold water to his burning nose tip.

Jenny was cutting peppers today, so Tommy told her to wash her hands before touching her face. “Well, I’m not that stupid”, she replied, and I could feel Tommy shutting up.

– Jenny, don’t call your brother stupid, it’s not nice.

– But mum, he touched his face last week…

– Well, yes, and that’s why he tells you now. He doesn’t want you to suffer. I’d thank him if I were you.

Jenny doesn’t like being told off (who does?!) but I heard her whispering “thank you” to Tommy. He shrugged his shoulders and didn’t reply.

After tea “Mother” vs. “Wife” match begins. We sit outside, if the weather is good, or inside if it’s raining, but invariably I am torn between Richard and kids. I don’t count “Richard” as a competing team: the poor guy is the crowd, and he’s got to please too many players with his cheers. So, as the “Mother”, I have to learn new manoeuvres all the time, while the “Wife” is anxious to win and to get her crowd’s attention. It usually happens anyway, when the World Cup teams retreat to bed, and Richard and I stay downstairs. I know he understands that I am doing more job than any of the footballers out there, although no-one will ever pay me as much money. Thankfully, we both realise there are things money can’t buy – like the butterflies in your stomach when your man gently buries his nose in your neck…

Copyright © Julia Shuvalova 2008.

The image is courtesy of Nicky Reynolds.

The Boxing Club, Mayakovsky, and Manchester

When coincidences like this occur, you’ve got make a point of them. So here goes…

I was reading Mayakovski’s My Discovery of America, and in the very beginning he narrates his journey to Cuba on an ocean liner. He is a Soviet citizen, travels first class, but makes insightful observations of the three classes of travellers.

So, this is the quote from the book:

On the day before our arrival in Havana the ship came to life. A tombola was held – a nautical charitable event in aid of maritime orphans. […]

The highlight was the boxing. Obviously, this was for the fans of this sport, the English and the Americans. None of them knew how to box. It’s repulsive – belting each other in the mug in the heat. In the first pairing was the ship’s cook – a disrobed, puny, hairy Frenchman with black sock full of holes over his bare legs.

The cook was battered for some while. For about five minutes he held his own through skill and for another twenty minutes through pride, but then gave in, lowered his hands and went off, spitting out blood and teeth.

In the second bout, some fool of a Bulgarian, who arrogantly left his chest wide open, was scrapping with an American detective. This detective, a boxer of professional standard, was seized with fits of laughter. He flailed around but, through hilarity and surprise, was wide of the mark and broke his own hand, which had mended badly after a war-wound.

And just as I was reading this, the doorbell rang. I answered it; a man in glasses wanted to leave some leaflets. He left them in the doorway, so I collected and brought them in the building. But try and imagine my face when I saw what the leaflet read:

So, on top of all sorts of things to be found in Manchester, there is now a Mancunian Boxing Club. Maybe it’ll see Rocky
or The Wrestler ; or maybe it spurs the underground Fight Club. Whatever happens, this was an occasion to remember.

P.S. – As it happens, I remembered everything I knew about Mickey Rourke and his latest film, except the film’s name. So I had to google “Mickey Rourke”, and found out that Rourke has a very official website. Also, The Wrestler can be viewed on Amazon as the video on demand. Unfortunately, it is available for U.S. viewers only.

Skiing in Moscow


Skiing in Moscow, originally uploaded by loscuadernosdejulia.

This picture tells many stories. It was taken by my mother in Moscow sometime between 1998 and 2001. I got the Salomon skies set for my birthday, if I am not mistaken.

I’ve always loved winter sports, much more so than the summer ones. The story goes that in 1982 during the Winter Olympics I was mesmerised by the figure skaters. My mother was walking with me in her hands to and fro in the room. The TV set stood at the window. When she walked to it, I’d cry. Once she turned and walked towards the wall, I’d calm down. It finally downed on her that I was watching the TV.

My own attempt at figure skating was rather ill-fated. Shortly after my 7th birthday in December, Father Frost (this is how Santa Claus is called in Russia) visited me and brought me a lovely pair of white skates. Alas, I couldn’t even stand on them or make a step, let alone skate. I used to be really passionate about figure skating, but, having come to England, I somehow lost the interest. I still feel, though, a bit of envy when I see those at ice rinks who effortlessly glide over the ice

I had skies when I was a kid, but it wasn’t until I went to the Uni that I really got into skiing. Admittedly, I never went to ski on the slopes, and chances are, I’d be screaming like on the roller-coaster, if I did. However, I really love ski walking and a bit of ski running, although I never thought of competing in a skiing marathon. My stamina does have limitations.

On the picture you see me in my native disctrict; my house stood just across the road from this vast terrain of soil. The district was quite industial: to my left is a thermo-electric station; behind me, stretching to the right, would be a number of industrial sites; and farther to the right would be a market and a garbage-burning plant. The winters, however, were amazing, with plenty of snow, and it wasn’t unusual to see people coming from farther corners of the district, carrying their skiing equipment.

Personally, I’d always overlook the industrial “exterior”. As far as I was concerned, this vast terrain of snow was a great place. It was magical, atmospheric, and as I lived on the 5th floor, you’ve got to believe me that the sunsets I used to watch on those winter evenings in my district were really splendid.

In all of my time in England, these were the two things that I really missed: snow and sunsets. You might find this amusing: yes, there really isn’t much snow in England, but surely, there are sunsets! Alas, I haven’t lived above the 1st floor to see them. But who knows? The end of 2008 is only the beginning of 2009…

 

The Art of a Desktop, or Some Things to Buy (Maybe) for Christmas

When you visit Sir Paul McCartney’s official website, you begin to feel at certain point that good planning may, after all, be a key to success. Of course, exclusions apply, as Sir Paul’s latest album was apparently conceived over a cup of English tea in the backyard, where there was only a fine line between chaos and creation. [You see, I’ve listened to the album ;-)) ]. But as far as his fans are concerned, their free time is very appreciated. When you log on to the site as a member, this lovely desktop pops up right in front of you, containing everything you might need, from various photos and notes to a video of Jenny Wren. This is what it looks like:

I am sure Sir Paul’s website is a huge success among his fans, as are his songs.

Furthermore, I’ve got an email offering to buy Elvis McCartney print. The description reads:

Fantastic 20″x16″ professionally mounted print by Revolver sleeve designer Klaus Voorman. Entitled ‘Elvis McCartney’ this print was done for the ‘Run Devil Run’ album in 1998 and is said to be from the Hamburg Days when Paul dressed in leathers and resembled a young Elvis.
This print also comes with a certificate of authenticity and is perfect for framing.

And this is the print:


And this is the best thing about it – it only costs £79.99, which, to use consumerist slang, is ‘less than £80’!!! And – £80 is less that £100 (My math skills must be strong…).

I guess I am still under the impression of watching North West Tonight, where they were offering to buy the Manchester United Opus for £3.000. I mean, they were contemplating on who may buy the book, which is so thick and heavy that you can barely turn pages. Not to mention the price you have to pay, before you can embrace this page-turner.

Then again, they should’ve looked at some volumes that were produced in the past centuries, The Statutes of the Realm, a collection of the Acts of Parliament that all English scholars have to see at least once in their career. I had to read one of the volumes in the Central Library in Manchester, and by mistake gave it back, instead of keeping it on my number. Next day I had to order it again, and the librarian said to me (rather kindly, I should note):

‘If you’re still not finished with it today, don’t give it back. We have to bring it from downstairs, and it’s too heavy to carry’.

Gosh, I could write a collection of essays on visiting and working in the library. If you’re an editor reading this and would like a regular column, drop me a line.

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