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Watch some Gaelic football, my friend from Wales says. Not gonna happen, I say. I thought women like to watch how men kick each other, he says. There are three periods in the history of evolution that I don’t really get, I repeat: 1) when a dog was domesticated; 2) when fireworks were invented; 3) when football was started to be played. Dogs were good for hunting; fireworks were a Chinese invention for scaring Mongol horses; football has always been a reason for a husband not to talk to his wife, he explains.

I’d like to marry one day, I suddenly remember a thought I had tentatively formulated in the past. The first thing I knew back then was my husband wouldn’t be one of those who break windows for basketball. He’d break them for football instead cause he’d be English, I thought. Or Scottish if that doesn’t work. OK you got it - Irish if worse comes to worse. I’d always make him dinner. He’d hate cepelinai cause apart from a few Lithuanians and other Balts (like there are so many left), nobody does. One or two Americans maybe. I don’t like cepelinai either, so I’d make them to express my anger. When I’d want to remind my husband that he’s got to learn Lithuanian. He’s got to respect my heritage and for chrissakes,  it’s high time we moved to Lithuanian, cause that’s where all of my relatives live. And a few friends who haven’t betrayed the motherland yet. Calm down, darling, he’d say. I would immediately become famous in a poor country, but fame’s not gonna bring me happiness. Do I not bring you happinness?, I’d furiously ask. Oh come off it, he’d say and we’d stay in London.  Greetings from East Ham, a Lithuanian ghetto, I’d be writing to you. Visit me and we’ll go for a cup of coffee in Soho. Kisses, Jenny.

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