Several years ago, when I still believed that the student organisation I joined had more authority than which biscuits to serve during academic seminars we had a training session with a guest lecturer. He did a great job, with his quizzically raised brow and wild gesticulation and, somewhere between it all, I heard about four basic personality types Continue reading
So, let’s pick up where we finished: Denise is totally stoked about applying for a job at “The Paradise”. So stoked, in fact, that she arrives too early and just weirds everyone out, except a young, shy man who is also applying for a job Continue reading
Who & When: The Ladies’ Paradise, or more widely known as Au Bonheur des Dames, was written by the French writer Émile Zola and published in 1883 as the eleventh novel in his twenty (braw, you serious?) novel series Les Rougon-Macquart. I used have zero clue about the prequels/sequels but this could just as well have been a stand-alone work for all it felt like.
Why this book is awesome: Nowadays the majority of us are used to being showered by clever ads and beautifully decorated clothes stores, but just imagine: what if you were a late-19th century woman? Continue reading
Today I had one of those terrible moments, when you realise, in retrospect, how trivial the things you get upset over really are. Y’know, like when you feel like that kid in the supermarket, the one that’s writhing and screaming on the ground over brussels sprouts? Only I am bawling over a cold apartment, creative crisis and my non-existent career.
I was visiting my grandma and she lapsed, yet again, into biographical stories about our long-dead relatives and I just let her. Why? Because I love whacky stories about the Soviet Union and how it was to live there. Seriously, most of that stuff is almost unimaginable now when we don’t have to queue for hours to get bananas or work for collective farms. But this is not my story, instead, it’s the one of Alma, my great-grandmother. Continue reading
The restaurant stood on a narrow street, squeezed between two similarly lavish-looking buildings. On each side of the wide double doors, stilted arch windows topped with corniced keystones were lined like soldiers in decorated uniforms. Vertical rope-shaped moldings ran up the facade and a burgundy-and-white sign between the central two read “********”.
The interior was yet another variation of red, this time maroon, dominating the premises and creating an impression of being inside a warm, palpitating organ. This feeling was further enhanced by a handful of waiters maneuvering around the tables similar to erythrocytes flowing along capillaries. Continue reading
Oh, trust me, I wanted something different. A lot of people want something different before they are confronted, head-on, with the option of paying for what they want and the opportunity of choosing something else and doing it for free.
I tried, alright. After typing “scribbles on life” with hope written all over my face, I was offered either “screwyou101” or “payup2017”, both of which sound like pyramid schemes to me.
A leer of glee appeared on my face: why not use plural? Scribbles on lives, why not? Continue reading