I am waiting for heating oil once again. Yesterday morning I called the company in Novigrad that has a cistern small enough to reach my house, and they promised to deliver this morning. I felt relieved at once. They could not tell me exactly when the delivery would take place, though. The cistern driver would call me when he was within a quarter of an hour from Motovun, so that I could open the ramp on the way to my house. The ramp key is in my pocket since early this morning. And so is a thick wad of money. Although it is early afternoon already, the driver has not called me yet. I have his mobile phone number, but he is not responding. His phone is turned off, I have been told a dozen times this morning. And so I am waiting and waiting for heating oil, of all things. Which costs a small fortune, as well. But the company that delivers it is behaving as though they are doing me a great favor by taking my order at all. Lucky bastard. Not too many can afford heating oil nowadays. Perhaps the cistern will come tomorrow morning, I comfort myself as I am waiting. Assuming there is no rain, for the cistern cannot come down my steep street when the cobblestones are wet. Alas, this is far from the first time I have been waiting for heating oil. And it is far from the last, I would sincerely hope.

In memory of Samuel Beckett