Reflections of a stormy petrel

Ever had to translate and type more than 10,000 words in a few hours?

Well, how about: ever had to translate and type more than 10,000 words in a few hours when your employer is going mad (and letting you know it) because her ultimate employer is an Italian government minister who needs it NOW for something international?

It my own stupid fault I was late, too. Which did not make my nevers and exhaustion any better. I hope to God they don't examine closely what I typed, because I was producing a typo every ten seconds.

I miscalculated the starting amount of chickpeas and ended up with an absolutely COLOSSAL amount of humus. Just as well that I love the stuff and that eating it is never a chore. In fact, what with humus, chestnuts to be roasted, and fresh tomato for salad, this is going to be a very pleasant couple of food days.

There's an awful lot of pleasures to be enjoyed in life, even if you are poor.

Fifteen years ago, when Franco Urru and I were both trying to start a career in comics - something at which he brilliantly succeeded, and I, well... - I was very impressed with the writing of one Dennis Mallonee, author and publisher of a number of comics based on then-popular gaming superhero characters (Flare, the Huntsman, the League of Champions, etc.) He struck me as taking superhero comics in a psychologically credible and well-conceived direction which resembled some of what I was striving for. I became a vocal fan and eventually wrote - and Franco part-drew - a five-part story for him, set in Italy in 1934. Alas, what I had not yet understood was that Mr.Mallonee, while a writer of talent and originality, was, without exception, the worst publisher in the world. His talent for getting decisions wrong and losing his public proved unparalleled; and his publishing company ceased operations - for the second time - before our strip got to the printers (although a few people somewhere may still have the distributor's list that announced it).

Cut to this year. And to give credit where credit is due, Mr.Mallonee does have one virtue as a publisher: persistency. Guess who announced - for the third time that I know of - the publication of a whole string of new and reprinted comics, including this one: http://www.heroicpub.com/previews/hs01.php?sid=090923812J ?

I sincerely wish him the best of luck. I have been paid for the story years ago, I have no complaints about the way he dealt with me down the years (which, where publishers are concerned, is unique!), and I am actually quite happy with the story I wrote for him. If he actually manages to publish it, I shall not be in the least embarrassed. And, as I said, he is a writer of unusual interest and talent, and I certainly do not mean to withdraw the favourable reviews and letters I have written at various times. Even if I did not have an interest, however small and remote, in his success, I would still want him to succeed because his is the kind of writing I want to see more of. And if - per impossibile - he should succeed this time, the story he is publishing includes a character that is my own property, and I should not be unhappy to get back to her.

The translation market is deader than I have ever seen it. I hope it is just a seasonal thing and not that recession that everyone keeps insisting is over. However, I have started serious work on rearranging my flat, which now looks more like a building site and less like a battlefield. I am also hoping this will help with the latest slimming drive - which include distant supervision from my doctor - since I really have come to realize that my overweight problem is interfering with my active life, and I cannot afford to just let it take over. [sings} If I were a rich man, yada dida dida dida dida dida dah, all day long I'd biddy biddy bum, if I were a wealthy man... - but I am not, and with the translation market in a coma I have to rely on the dubious kindness of the British state.

You would think that this would be a damn depressing situation to be in, but as a matter of fact I am less depressed than the average. And I think this is entirely to do with the start of serious work on the flat. I have been brooding about changing things around for years, but now that I have started I not only see possibilities everywhere, but the fact itself of having things to do is encouraging rather than otherwise. The work just multiplies; install a shower in my bathtub; place a waterproof curtain there; put up shelves; turn the skeletons of the old bed I am taking apart into frames for new bookcases (I have very luckily found some wood which will fit in the frames just great); move several bookcases and rethink the distribution of books, comics, CDs, tapes and vinyl; wash the carpet; repair the bicycle and turn the wrecks of previous ones into a whole second one - just because; possibly build some sort of shelter to avoid them being rain-damaged again; sort the clothes that no longer fit me and (unless I see some real prospect of slimming) send them to charity. You would think that this would feel overwhelming, but in fact, now that I have started on it instead of just brooding on it on my own, I feel ever so slightly exhilarated.

A few days ago I bought a mountain of tomatoes at the local market. They were discounted and very cheap, and I just love tomato salad (olive oil, salt and Worcestershire sauce or ground garlic).

I decided that, in order to lessen the risk of their going moldy (it is summer, and my fridge is rather inefficient), I would cut and garnish them immediately and then place them at the back of the fridge, in the coldest possible spot, in a sealed plastic Tupperware-type container.

It worked - in a way. The tomato salad did not get moldy. Every day I had the pleasure of some cool tomato salad, in the midst of summer, fresh from the fridge.

Yes, the tomatoes did not get moldy. But four or so days after I'd made the giant salad, I found that they had started fermenting. I could actually taste the increasing acidity and the alcohol. Soon the tomatoes that were left would be inedible.

At that point, I had a brainwave. Among my most treasured possession is a breadmaker. My mind associated the concepts of fermentation and alcohol (which are what makes bread rise) with the fermenting tomatoes, and I came to the conclusion that I could use the tomatoes and their liquid instead of ordinary water and salt, to mix in bread dough. And as it turned out, the amount of liquid was just about compatible with the amount of water required in the recipe for bread. So I mixed them all in.

At first all seemed to go well. But an hour or so ago, as I was sitting here reading some website, I started smelling burned bread. I went to check - and I found that the dough had risen miles beyond its usual habit. The fermentation in the tomatoes must have added itself to that of yeast. As a result, the dought had overflowed its tin and fallen right on top of the incandescent tube that heats the breadmaker. I had to turn it off in a hurry and clean all the spillage, because dough on the incandescent tube is a fire hazard. And now I suspect I may have kissed the bread goodbye, because the sudden loss of head and process when I had to turn the breadmaker off seems to have stopped it growing and left it damp and over-soft.

Ah, the things that happen in an ordinary kitchen!

It strikes me that this LJ has been nothing but gripes lately. (And will be again, as soon as I finish parts 3, 4 and 5 of A plague on both your houses.) So let us mention something cheerful for a change. Anyone who wants a Christmas card for me, signify by commenting and giving me a snail-mail address in the comments below (will be screened, of course). Thank you and my love to everyone.

I am starting a new community called fpb de fide catholica (http://community.livejournal.com/fpb_de_fide/), dedicated to publishing and, if anyone is interested, discussing occasional pieces about religion. Anyone who interested ought to sign in as a friend.

I really would if I could. The long aftermath of the move, taking stuff out of storage day after day, is over at last. The last of the bookcases, heavy and unwieldy though it was, has endured its journey in the rain and is now home.

The tale is not over. My flat currently resembles a cross between a building site and a battlefield, and I still have a number of small items to pick from various individual persons through the wonder of Freecycle - that is not exactly a part of the house move, but it ends up being one and the same monster job crawling on day after day. I have to set the flat in order and clean it, and I also have some paying work that needs doing rather fast. (That is not so much a concern; as a translator, which is my paying work, my Unique Selling Point is extreme speed; I am the guy you go to when you needed it done yesterday. Still, it adds to the workload.)

On the other hand, this removes an enormous drain on my pocket - £136.80 a month for the storage alone, plus the price of going there twice a day taking stuff out, plus the surprise expenses. In the last month I have destroyed two suitcases and a trolley, taken three expensive taxi journeys across London, and spent I don't know how much on fast food and drinks on the road. But the real nightmare was the time taken: two journeys from flat to storage plant and back took eight hours every day, and pretty much put my life on hold until they were done.

You may ask, why did I not employ a mover and do it all in one go? For a number of reasons. First, I do not trust movers. Those who moved the first lot of my stuff here not only charged a lot, but destroyed two bookcases in the process (they were cheap and fragile, sure, but nonetheless I could hardly spare them just then) and nearly went off with my digital camera - the one object of value in the lot. I have few friends in London itself and nobody who could recommend me a reliable firm or individual. Also, I did not like the idea of taking the whole thing in at one go and then having to spend days if not weeks straightening out the flat. I preferred to get books and furniture in bit by bit and deal with problems piecemeal. And even so, it will be days before the flat is properly straightened out.

I ended up doing everything alone for months, and it is a wonder that I ever managed it all. There is only one person who really deserves my gratitude in all this, from beginning to end: my mother. Nobody in London did anything to help, and that includes people from whom I had a right to expect it, but she, from Rome, was as steady as the Rock of Gibraltar, a tremendous help in a time of storm, and more than once the difference between seeing it through and ending up on the street. However many times I may find her infuriating to screaming point - and she is certainly not unwilling to scream back - I can say in public and without equivocation that anyone who is lucky enough to have a mother like mine may well kneel before God and thank Him. Other than that, I am grateful to all my online friends for kind words and signs of appreciation, and, as I said, if I could order a round for all of you in my local (and a box of Pakistani sweets for kikei, who is not supposed to drink), I would. Thank you all just for existing.

...they keep going well for a while, they say. I have a couple of dozen old vinyl LPs picked up here and there on the prospect, sooner or later, of buying a turntable and being able to enjoy them. So yesterday I found that someone had thrown away a turntable and a cassette deck, apparently a part of an old-fashioned hi-fi apparatus, and apparently in good condition. I haven't tested the cassette deck yet, but I just hooked up the turntable to a little radio-cassette recorder I had, and - after a little struggle with the commands, which were not completely clear - out came the sound of Haydn and Bach, as perfect as you could wish.

I feel even a bit nostalgic. I learned music from vinyl, after all, before anyone had thought of CDs.

For some reason, in spite of the worldwide reach of the Net, I tend to have net-friends in clusters. For instance, when the Red Sox won their already-legendary World Series, I found that I had a surprisingly large number of Massachusetts friends and correspondents.

Australia is another cluster, especially since kikei relocated there. And this causes a problem that one or two of my net-friends do not always seem to remember.

This is hardly the first time when I have woken up at six in the morning or earlier, staggered to my computer to see what mail had come in overnight, and found an IM dialogue announcing a message - that turned out to have been left hours earlier, in the middle of our European night. These messages make me feel unreasonably guilty about not answering them. On one occasion, I think, when I could not sleep, I did answer one; and that may have set a bad precedent. Please, folks, I love you all, but remember that we are antipodeans; that when it is morning over there, it is late in the night over here; and try to go for the overlap. I hate to find out that someone wanted to talk to me and could not.