What I missed, every day, yearned for, actually, was a British-style pork sausage. I dreamt of them. At least I think it was sausages I saw in my dreams.
Tag: the French in Tel Aviv
She said she’d visited my father’s grave and told him my news. He was, I understand, thrilled by it.
I have measured out my life in expensive hotels, it seems, and I gauge my tan in types of honey. I am now millefiori, and aspire to castagna.
Last day at the ulpan
She danced with Alberto, I don’t know why, the joy and sadness of the occasion, I suppose.
A self-saucing pudding
Nathan, whose greatest fear is that he’ll develop a resistance to Botox, returned from Frankfurt with the face of an inexpressive eight year old.
I discover that doing nothing is more fun than having nothing to do
She looked disgusted, as if I’d admitted to a taste for rat, or beetroot, or something.
The man said, ‘I hate Jews.’ Alvin said ‘Ok’, and continued showing the property…
Fat fatty fat fat
Elli leaned closer, his face serious, and told me something surprising. At least, I was taken by surprise.