My Landlady in Moscow

My landlady tries very hard to force feed me.
Her headquarters are a big bedroom I suppose. I know she retreats to it in tiny little scaffolding steps to diligently go to the computer to translate in a broken English what she thinks I did not understand. (My Russian is coming back to the days of Valentina Tereshkova’s and Sviatoslav Richter’s whose interpreter I was a few years back!!!)
She is a medium sized lady with a big smile and one eye slightly crooked. Her hair is auburn with a Joan of Arc kind of style. She always wears a yellow shirt. She makes me think of those Parisian concierges who pull the lacy curtain of their cage like apartment to see who went by.

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