Difficulties abound.

Try as I might, I could not catch a glimpse of Ekaterina at the closing ceremonies, and now I find myself realizing that keeping in touch with her might not be that easy after all. Or, rather, establishing contact in the first place. I'll be dashed if I can pick up this infernal language of hers; I find the difficulty doubled when a foreign tongue uses an entirely different alphabet. I took a course in Japanese back in college, which proved a particularly thorough flop of a gander of a fiasco.

While looking on-line for a decent local Ethiopian restaurant that delivers, I came across an advertisement for that queer sort of agency that claims they can dig up the goods on just about anyone, so I may pursue a Russian version of said office. All I really require is a reliable mailing address, as my written words will, I am sure, be just the stuff to provoke a tender response. Téodor snapped a rather composed headshot of me this afternoon, which I will enclose.

Goodbye, Olympics. It's a hand-rolled, a suspicion of armagnac and then bed. Oh, and to pine for Ekaterina, perhaps while I brush my teeth.

My shoe risers have arrived!

The captivating Ekaterina.

Ekaterina stands six feet nine inches tall, and with these new risers I am up to one foot eleven. I might try putting a bit more body in the coiffure, that could get me up to a solid two feet...not quite high enough to hold her hand, but still enough to make a bit more of an impression. Vertical stripes also enhance one's appearance of height, so perhaps a bit of suit shopping is in order. I may dawdle down to Hidden Hills during a break in the action and have Bruno fit me for a few new pinstripes. I may also glance into Tiffany & Co. so as to be apprised of their selection, should it come time to present her with a symbol of my endearment.

Ekaterina

Oh my heavens. I awoke this morning to find that, after a long night of imbibing at Ray's, I had publicly declared my love for Russian volleyball player Ekaterina Gamova. Well, dash it all, I shan't back down from the stance, for though the inebriation has ebbed, my fondness for the divine creature has not. Say what you will about the great disparities between us, love will find a way. Already I have begun a Russian language primer, and not two hours ago I ordered a set of shoe risers.

I am off to translate a bit of Turgenev, then to pine for Ekaterina, then a hand-rolled in the garden and then bed. Tomorrow I meet Waterbury for lunch and more language instruction; it turns out the old top is fluent in several Slavic tongues. I do like that fellow.

Oh sweet Aphrodite

Good heaven on earth, I have been struck by the ultimate incarnation of feminine beauty. I admit it in a heartbeat, it is not the most orthodox of unions, yet I shall endeavor to bring it to reality. Softly done in by Ray's steady allowance of potato vodka and Russian phrase books, I find myself with no choice but to pursue the hand of Ekaterina.

Back in the stuff.

Ah, now that's more like it. My original plan to study up on the Olympic results before watching the delayed broadcasts with Ray was unnecessary, as he has proven his curious tell beyond the hypothesis and down on into law. It's the green thing. If there's a flash of green in the country's flag, uniform, or even eye-shadow, he won't put the far end of a cent on them. We were making the board on a Netherlands/Belgium volleyball match when he spied a bit of green in the close-up of the Dutch digger's necklace...he immediately reversed his bet to side with the Belgians, with no overt explanation.

All this reintroduces the aspect of sport into our wagering, which I am all for. It is not a grind of a game where I simply play one-man Bingo; it's still a bit of an event where I must keep tabs on my competitor and read his whimsy. All that, plus the Austin-Healey needs its oxygen sensor relocated after I modernized the carburettor. That's going to run into four digits or so.

Silly me.

What with my dire outlook lately, I had neglected to note that the Olympics are upon us. Never was there a richer buffet of sport over which to wager, and Ray is nothing if not a large cloud of green bills when the games are afoot. I casually knocked on his door Saturday to see if he was following the volleyball and swimming, and he hurriedly entreated me to the little encampment of couches, monitors and phones he had arranged in his living room. Wires snaked about the floor, dry-erase boards rested against walls, and several oversized flags hung in the corners. No sooner had I entered the room than he had settled down into his armchair and sounded a canned-air horn at the en-garde of some Men's fencing. I nipped an éclair from a large pastry tray and found a seat.

Five of my dollars said the Romanian fencer would take the Japanese, and we were off and rolling. He likes to bet large on the U.S. teams, no matter the press or insider commentary, so I cleared a hefty sum hedging against Old Glory. Pleasantly back in the easy bills, I settled in and tried to keep both eyes on the bank of monitors which broadcast the full spectrum of competition. Here a tenner on badminton, there two hundred on handball. A hefty grand on medley swimming. Seventy-five cents on women's air rifle, but it was seventy-five cents I didn't have before. He seems to bet against teams that have green in their flag, which is a good piece of information. I shall resume the wagering tomorrow when the broadcasts begin anew, having fortified myself with the real-time results on-line.

Flustered redux.

I am absolutely dashed if I can devise a new scheme for engaging Ray in betting. Pool lost its luster when he became enamored of golf, he never bit on angling...ah! Oh! I neglected to canvass the full panoply of gentlemen's drinking games! I harbor absolutely no doubt that Ray shall be ultimately smitten by bar-room darts. Perhaps I shall invite him to the Crab and Pickle this evening! Yes, that's just the thing.

Flustered.

Never in my life have I heard anyone, particularly a purported gourmand such as Ray, take a hot bite of breaded, golden-fried fresh perch and describe it as "muddy-tasting." The blighter even had the gall to throw the rest of his fish in the trash and ask if we kept Listerine. Not only were my hopes of selling him on angling dashed (perch are nearly all one can catch in the local waterways), but he had insulted my cookery and hospitality. When I said that we did not, he rummaged in the fridge and pantry and began assembling ingredients for nachos. The nerve some fellows show.

The joys of angling.

I've just returned from a lovely sun-dappled day on the banks of the creek. On a few occasions I was forced to stow my tackle and retreat to the bushes, as the creek is very popular with teenagers, but no incident arose (except for dropping my favorite fishing cap, which one of the little scamps tried on, deemed "gay," and threw into the water). So, soggy and unpopular fishing hat on high—keeping me rather cool, in fact—I did pass the morning in casting and by lunch time my creel held two fat little perch. A chilled pint of Fuller's London Pride, a hefty slice of Mitton of Pork (picked up takeaway just yesterday at the Crab & Pickle), and I was fit and fortified for the afternoon. A few more hours' endeavor brought forth three more from the river, little beauties all, and tonight I imagine quite a gathering-round as I prepare the fish fry. Naturally I shall place a call to Ray, so he can sample the freshwater fruits and perhaps develop a taste for the sport himself. A casual discussion of the various expensive tackle one can purchase should whet his wallet sufficiently, I should think.

Well, I'll be!

I happened to cross paths with Ray this evening, and he declined an offer to wager over pool! My heart sank as he described his total infatuation with the state of his golf game. If I read him rightly, someone has diverted his attention from our sessions into this separate sport. I am left to ponder his curious psychology and devise a tactic for winning back his business. Angling is a fine sport, perhaps when golf has run its course I will pull him back into my corner with rod and reel.

Lunch with Waterbury

Ray agreed to give Waterbury leisure for a few hours this afternoon, and he joined me for a spot of lunch down at the Crab & Pickle. We were pleased to watch highlights of the Boreham v. Arsenal match on the television, and made good conversation over steak and kidney pie (myself) and an egg salad (his). Not surprisingly, he's a bit of an angler, and we made casual plans to visit the local waterways soon. I say, a fat perch fried in butter would be just the thing.

Just as we were wrapping things up Ray phoned him (Ray makes him carry a cell phone, which causes him understandable chagrin) and asked him what the square root of ten was. To my surprise, he plucked the Mont Blanc from his shirt pocket, did the sum on the reverse of the bierdeckel, and reported the answer. It apparently made Ray angry, for as soon as he had said the number I heard a distinct cry from the earpiece and an abrupt click. Perhaps Ray is betting on maths now?