“The time for joviality –
is lost,” he said with much hilarity
“I don’t believe a single word!
I’m much too used to your being absurd.”
He frowned and left me with a glance.
Such looks as born of bitter chance.
“I knew you couldn’t tolerate
The very things I had to say.”
But these last words they sadly fell
On his deaf ears – this I could tell;
Because he turned once more
And smiled
And left the distance separate –
The time
The relative stillness,
Almost deathly,
The waiting.
The big hand-
played tricks
Gave more minutes;
Just a shadow
Or a battery low.
Yet time, itself,
Seemed weighted –
Even if it finally passed;
Those last few moments
Then seemed rushed,
As broken from the
Reverie.
Torn from the
Tender embrace.
Time and taxi whisked
Me away.
As the tram light races along the track towards me,
The morning wraps its autumn chill around me:
I draw comfort from the little things –
My breath; a couple’s kiss;
A child’s questioning of a weary granddad,
enlivened, reawakened in his life by this, such youth.
As the tram passes on into the city,
Its bobbing on the tracks, my lullaby,
I feel the weighty eye-lids that I fight,
the chance to float away again consigned to night,
I persevere, with beauty all around…
Off the street, out of the pubs –
I traced the stained glass story of your deity.
Perched in a pew, any one will do
Therein lie the memories –
Of my youth.
No solace except in sentiment;
No solution, but I tried.
I mixed the colours, pastel, in my mind.
The angels promised heaven,
The “szents”, they sang a song
While Jesus, God, the Holy One,
Sent blessings from Anon.
I sat below, redundant,
Seeming new but still familiar
The light of day it shuffled in
And spoke in the vernacular.
“Like a Morgue” my cynic muttered
“To keep the soul preserved”
Still I’d rather the scent of churches
To any hospital ward.
I left my mind adrift
But nothing tangled,
Nothing bit –
The bait remained unused.
And so with geneflective ritual
I upped and crossed the threshold out…
Yet Solomon’s wife,
A seasoned statue –
Like this I turned that one last time,
The past in ruins, my faith collapsing,
I dared look back
And so am doomed.
It has a certain ‘je ne sais quoi’. It’s small with a rather cramped appeal but this somehow allows it to always feel full. The counter on entering whets the appetite with its impressive display and if one is interested in take away or sitting in there is the choice. The traditionally French twist, the baguettes, the croissants, the éclairs, the croque monsieur et madame all fit. I remember when it first opened I had the fear it might fail on this Franco-feel, Trianon still burning in many a Hungarian heart. However, not enough of them, it would seem, care to, at least this, associate the food and culture with the travesty of war – and that’s a good thing. Thriving, I would say, A Table is as much a testament to Hungarian open-mindedness as it is to any good business plan. Being Buda side is obviously a plus with the up and coming all vying for real estate this side of town, and, with the traditionally wealthier classes hereabouts, any business plan with such culinary aspirations was bound to have a greater chance of success. Still it is nice to see its progress in slotting into the life of Retek utca and long may it continue. That I hold some of my classes here nowadays does in no way compromise me in regard of this critique…unless it gives me a discount. Oh how principles are thwarted by the promise of power!!!
A note to the negative: It can get cramped in here as mentioned but on a cold winter’s day this may turn out to be a little biased to the side of endearing. However, on a scorching summer’s day, with air-conditioning coming in the way of an open window this place may become stifling for many. That said give me the smell of croissants and other butter pastries at the death of my light over the stale stench of a butt-filled ashtray, or rancid spilt beer, any day.
www.atable.hu
Go there, visit it, and see for yourself. For me it is a somewhere in the middle of a nowhere. Kolossy tér, you see, I’m not a fan of, and though there are things which will always tempt me when in the environs, I will never, and could never, recommend this area as an outright party place. Kolossy tér, I mean. It’s all very fabricated…check out Symbol up the street, that raw, mafia-esque, bling bling appeal, type of place, indicative of the decadence as resides within the remnants of this post-communist state (Forget the Puskas Pub appeal. Go Pest side and to the heart of the footballer’s club grounds if you want a sense of the authenticity on that front). The farther East you go in Europe the greater the obvious gap between rich and poor. Note, before you react, how I used the word “obvious”. Just because us in, what people here call, the West have found cynical means of concealing it doesn’t pass us off as saints. Being Irish I’m often left dumbfounded by what all continental Europeans deem as the greatness of England, Britain, the United Kingdom. As far as the bloody colonialist history that is a pan-european involvement (Irish included) goes, Britain remains one of the stalwarts at least in its representation, Queens etc, and this is probably what got the hackles up in the Irish press concerning the opening ceremony of the London 2012 Olympics. Why other Europeans didn’t seem to take offence…could it be the hankering for the old order?
Jesus, talk about straying from the point! Cafe 5 around Kolossy tér on the Buda side of the city has plenty to offer. It’s a full day cafe, with an alternating lunch menu, a selection of drinks, cocktails, and all, and if I was stuck for a place to sit down in for a while there could be a lot worse. However, in the way of things, if I was looking for atmosphere in the mid-afternoon I would choose any of the Kocsmas nearby, and only then if I had no means of escaping into Pest, or at least away from here. Why? Go and see!
Just reading an article on blogging, BloggingTips, and the tips it gives, and I’ve been inspired to write this down. I’m not a blogger! I’m a writer…and by that I mean only that my medium is the pen and paper, first, always. This is what makes having a blog page a pain in the posterior for me. I have the idea, scribble it down and am later compelled to put it once more in typed form onto my blog page. This sounds an awful lot like hard work, and whereas there was a time when I even tried to improve the voice recognition software* on my laptop (speaking practice is always good as a teacher, even better when a Best Man’s Speech is coming up) I gave up on that too. Now where do I go next. Let you tell me!!!
I’d like to be remembered for my life, not my death.
Not just another victim that you will all soon forget.
Commerate me on a “Canal Bank Walk”,
Remember me by verse about which we can talk.
And let death in the shadow that lurks at Ground Zero
Create hope – and not just another tragic hero.
All you need for this game is a baby, preferably at a younger age (more on that later), a set of eight balls (note plastic or sponge are more advisable: more on that later too), 2-4 players, and weather permitting, a garden
Played much like the normal game of petanque, boules, petanca, or whatever name you go by, baby petanque has one minor difference. Instead of using the cochonnet, or jack, a baby is used.
Another discreet difference is that baby petanque is not confined to the outdoors, unlike the original, although I’m sure there are venues outside of the sunny Mediterranean region where lovers of the sport have adapted this too.
Overall the goal is very much the same with the player who lands their ball closest to the baby being the winner. This is why a younger baby is more suitable unless you feel like upping the stakes and playing a more challenging game of baby petanque, clueing in the factors of baby movement, and ball disturbance. For further information on baby movement and stakes purchase visit our official (non-existent) website Just Kiddin’ .
Now concerning the material of the ball: apart from damaging a tile floor if played indoors metal balls also hold the risk of harming the baby!
One last factor. A line is drawn at a minimum distance of ten feet from the stationary baby and it remains the constant starting point to which players have to return to after each round as, in contrast to normal petanque where the cochonnet is thrown back from whence the players have come, it is not advisable to go throwing baby around – however much you may be tempted sometimes!
As with all sports for active and imaginative parents the primary goal is to have some fun.
Everything else will be just a matter of happenstance and babychance.
