Drunk

I'm pretty drunk as I write this. We went over to an Indian restaurant and ate well (even though the waiters were as bas as always in Finland; this is something I already miss from German: happy, friendly, service-ready waiters) and then went to a bar nearby to have one cider. Now, I've decided that I won't drink anymore of that bulk cider that is most often available in Finland, those goddam Upciders and Golden Caps. I've even grown tired of Golden Cap Classic, which has been to me the best of the Finnish ciders (with the possible exception of Dark Cider that is made no more, unfortunately: it had a good, almost mystery taste of cola in it). I've grown tired of such phrases as "Apple or pear?" or "we have Upcider in the tap". Stuff it up your arse, I tell you! Have something good for a change!

Now, the best cider I've ever tasted was from South Africa. It was called Savuti and they no longer import it. Screw you! But I'll manage as long as there's some French cider available. If not that, I'll settle with the British and Irish. Today after we'd had our dinner we went to Mallaskukko, a bar nearby, that I knew had a good stock of ciders. It had diminished to my chagrin (you bastards!), but they still stocked Henry Weston's cider that is 6,5%. We had one pint both and came to be very very drunk. Elina had even drunk a bottle of Indian beer with her food; I had declined the offer to drink Finnish cider ("Apple or pear?") with my delicious meal.

Earlier today I read a good description of a Canadian cider. Me want! Ugh!

***

Enough of this crazy alcohol talk. The best part today (apart from the headache pill incident Elina knows) was that I heard that "White Heat" is going to the printers. Yippee! It will appear in August. Of course it comes out sooner, but no one pays any attention to books published in mid-Summer. I asked the publisher if there's gonna be booze and gals, but I hear no.

I've been having the luxury of spending the holiday this week. I've done nothing. Well, except blogging and writing a travel journal of our flea market trip I mentioned earlier. That's not much. I was going to go to a park to read, but the weather wasn't nice enough. Instead I ended up buying clothes at Uff and books at the flea market. I'm so predictable. I started reading "Cinderella Spy" by Philip Daniels, but can't still say much about it. I got to the end of one Hank Jason, but the less I say about it, the better. I am still in the middle of Pete Garroway's "High Stepping Jezebel" (1953).

Why am I reading these obscure works? Because I'm doing a new book! On British paperback crime fiction! It will be called "Pulpografia Britannica". It doesn't have a publisher yet, but there will be.

Berlin, by the way: I still have pictures to come. And stuff to write. I knew I had forgotten something.