Some days you regret waking up. It is the day of the Holy Hangover. We are late for breakfast with Babcia, two hours late at the very least. We stand on the balcony, to catch our breath in the hot morning air, drinking water. It will be a stifling 32 degrees today. We look down at the foot of the tree where her Aunt’s favourite cat is buried. It died in the middle of winter and the ground was too hard to dig, so she had to hide the body in the basement of the flats until the thaw, when she finally snuck out into the middle of the night to bury the body. Red flowers grow on the grave.
We arrive suitably apologetic. Her Grandmother greeting: You stink of vodka! Why must you drink so much? Who is this strange man with you? Is he responsible? I am reminded of what Mike Summerbee, a player on the wing for Manchester City, once said when recalling his late nights drinking with George Best, of rival team Manchester United: We flitted from club to club. They tended to become more downmarket as the night wore on. George didn’t drink pints, he drank vodka and lemonade. It doesn’t smell and there’s no real taste, but it’s a dangerous drink.
I doubt he ever met a formidable Polish Grandmother and therefore had his vodka habit outed. George - one of the most exquisite football players ever, a handsome Irish rover – was often quoted as saying: I spent 90% of my money on women and drink. The rest I wasted.
We sit down to eat porridge. I ask for a small portion. Small is large in Babcia land. I hate porridge since an incident with nuns in primary school. Nevertheless, I eat most of it, with an awful lot of sugar. This is followed by a selection of home cured meat and bread. Grandmother says, See, I told you porridge is not enough for a man!
Eat it all, she says, or Babcia will be offended. I say nothing and thoroughly stuff my face. The meat is delicious and I remove none of the fat. There are also fresh gooseberries and a raspberry compote. I wonder when I will faint. I quietly eat, while she is interrogated. We are given a package of food to take with us. We walk out into the heat. You know, after all last nights drinking I really want to puke but I will not, she says, Instead of this I will show you my old school and where I used to live. This is on the other side of the dual carriageway and an impressively large concrete Catholic church. The heat is oppressive and I feel unusually faint.
