Actually, I have a lot of them (or so I’ve been told) but there’s one that weighing particularly heavily on my mind at the moment. You see, I have a friend visiting from Ireland this weekend.
But that’s not the problem. I haven’t seen her in ages so we’ll have loads to catch up on and I’m really looking forward to that.
Sure, the weather’s a bit chilly, but the heating has come on in the flat (for now) and there’s plenty of fun to be had indoors in Riga – bars, restaurants, bars, cafés, shops, bars, museums, galleries, bars, shooting ranges, strip clubs, bars… So that’s not the problem.
After a busy day at work, I’ve spent most of the evening cleaning the flat so everything is spick and span. The fridge is stocked i.e. I bought wine, and the guest towels are good to go. No problems there.
The problem is… I’m embarrassed to even write this down because it makes it feel all the more real… I’ve started seeing my friends not just as friends, but as ‘pork mules’. There, I’ve said it.
This is what happens when you live away from Ireland for 4 years and are never sure where your next fix of bacon and sausages is going to come from.
On arrival day, I usually send a few ‘concerned’ texts:
What I write: Did you make it to the airport on time?
What I mean: Did you get my bacon and did you remember to pack it?
What I write: Hope you had no problems at security!
What I mean: Did my bacon make it through? Did it? Did it? Did it???
What I write: Woo hoo! You’ve landed! Did the Latvians clap? I’m waiting in Arrivals…
What I mean: Good god woman, hurry up. I can almost smell the bacon.
When my friend walks through the arrivals gate, I’m concerned that instead of seeing her smiling face, open arms and visible joy at our reunion, my pork-lust will take over and I’ll see something like this:
Like I said, I think I have a problem. But dealing with it will have to wait. Right now, I’ve got to get to the airport to meet my