matrioszka 1

Hi,

Matryoshka (rus. матрёшка) is a hollow, wooden figurine, with smaller, smaller, smaller, smaller, smaller and smaller figurines inside. 

The shelf above my desk hosts a Matryoshka from an antique shop. It is beautiful, colorful, with all the right imperfections characteristic of hand-made gadgetry. It comes with two missing figurines and this is yet another reason why it is rendered infallibly legendary:)

And one more thing: just like oil-painting, puff pastry, tiramisu and this blog, it’s got layers.

Magda

From animal owner’s diary

From animal owner’s diary

Three navels (by night)

Three navels (by night)

I left for a week, exactly seven days.

I left the zoo under the care of M., which for them meant paradise on earth, 24/7 assistance, petting, cuddling and general lying about on couches and beds, delicacies, frequent and long walks and basically being the furry navel of the world. Three navels.

A week.


I'm back. The zoo greeted me kindly and then remembered to throw a hissy fit, to be gravelly offended and to let me know what I represent for them at the moment. And I don’t really represent much, having delegated the overindulgent fellowship to an external source of love and comfort, even if provided by the Best-Nanny-In-The-World. No mitigating circumstances. Sulk it will be then.

I virtually became thin air for Klucha. Bah! If only! Air with an unpleasant smell to it, cos when dragged onto the sofa the pompous lady ostentatiously scampered to the far edge, plunked herself statue-like and stared unbendingly at the space in front of her. No reaction to calling, beckoning, and a tentative pat on her wounded self resulted in the pug hovering on the edge - just as far away from me as it is caninely possible.

mops_kluska_pug.jpg

The wild boar turned into a guerrilla and for the first time in her life popped a monster poo in the middle of the living room at night. Huge. Yuck! (notwithstanding the fact that the last walk had traditionally been celebrated at 10 p.m. Serves me right!?)

(for obvious reasons, the photo is not included)

Having met the cat, I look as if I had exchanged vigorous handshakes with Edward Scissorhands. Several times. Not only that, the cat grazed me all night (the dogs slept, properly tucked away as far as the bed would allow) - and Nene was slouched all over me like a cuddly garrotte and patted my face with her paw, suggesting the presence of claws lurking in the fur and an indication that pulling them out is just a matter of time; she jumped running on my stomach or back and quickly sneaked away (let me point out that at that time, a more than 4-kilo projectile of a claw-tipped cat is not the most pleasant experience, especially in the middle of the night); she also arranged foot / knee hunting, so in the morning I looked as if I had been brushing through gooseberry thickets.

And my question is: where is my bad?

The only consolation was that in the morning the cat fell asleep, I lived blissfully unaware of the heap on the upper floor, and Klucha crawled in her sleep and put her floats on my face.

THE floats.

THE floats.





P.S. I will never go on holiday again.



Ladies and gentlemen, it's embroidery today

Ladies and gentlemen, it's embroidery today

2011: Morocco, part 1

2011: Morocco, part 1