Curfew for Mr Fidget

After a slightly surreal evening in the company of the Quebecois speed junkie we set out to peruse the city of Skopje. Free running socialists, Romanian pickpockets, 7 o'clock curfew and a very wobbly Mr Francis (AKA Mr Fidget, Mr De Diddle Di De or Mr Fidle-Di-De).

[Please forgive any spelling or grammatical errors, I am on a tight timeslot at the hostel, am typing at record speed and the spell checker doesnt work on Firefox]

Walking into central Skopje you notice immediately the concrete bruralism and socialist architecture of the former socialist yugoslavia. Long wide promonades, repeated architecual patterns and a river walk that maybe once rivaled paris.

There was much building work going on, one large project was the Mother Theresa building (the lady herself having been born in Skopje), only the width of your average office block but dominated by Roman columns as wide as a family car and 10 stories tall around its circumference.

We took some time to seek out the Turkish area, view an underground orthodox church where the Macedonian nationalist hero is interned and spend some time with teenage free runners who threw tricks while we attempted to get some crazy shots of their near death experiences... finishing up with a group portrait of them by their rather amateaurish graffiti.

After a refreshment break and a bottle of wine we remembered the 7 o'clock cerfew on alcohol sales and made a dash for the local supermarket making our over indulgent wine purchases with one minute to spare (although we had to persuade the checkout girl of this and she didnt look too happy). To celebrate our purchases we headed to a bar where I had a cola and Mr Francis had a couple of JD's - the walk to the bar wasnt without its challenges, firstly it was getting more than a little colder in the evenings and we met our first rabble of Romanian pick pockets... after ordering Mr Francis to put his hands in his pockets, battening down the hatches to protect our money it was time to confront these mucky little tikes with everything from a casual and polite 'No' to a firm 'No!', onto a 'Go Away!' and a hundered yards, being swarmed like bees, tugged and jossled and finally finding a tiny little hand pulling on 2000 Dinars I was gripping between my fingers I decided every other method open to me had failed so the only remaining option was a 'FU*K OFF!' and a controlled but firm kick to the shins of the oldest member of the gang as my last and final warning. Luckily this was enough to convince them I wasnt the average balding grey haired traveller and they left rather sharpish. A quick inspection of our pockets at the bar confirmed we had come out unscathed.

The night closing in we headed back to the hostel expecting to find and not being disapointed on encountering the Quebecois on Speed. Out came the wine purchases and after a very gallant attempt by Mr Francis to drink every last drop I escorted him to the room and into exhile; to protect his pride and of those around him :) The fan heater didnt escape unscathed though since an unsuccessfull attempt to hang it on a hat stand (why?) saw it crashing to the ground and Kaput! After convincing the newly exhiled Mr Fancis to undertake a less social and physical activity he proceeded to read his book of conspiracy theories... it was at this time and with heightened awareness I decided if they named a mister man after Mr Francis it would be Mr Fidget.

Now, Mr Fidget is a very busy man, he is never still, he is always busying himself with one thing or another. He likes nothing better than twitching or skipping, bolting down stairs, tripping up stairs, leaving a room to re-enter the room just moment later, playing with his ipod (as he is a very modern and contemporary mister man), updating his Facebook profile, breathing in rythums and singing little ditties in De-Diddle-Di-De's. On such an occasion that Mr Fidget decides by whim he will do most of the above all together.

On the occasion of his imposed exhile in his Art Hostel bedroom he did read, de-diddle-di-de and wiggle his feet all at once - in his silk sleeping bag liner he did remind me of a bookish, alcoholic, mermaid who had been given some jolly good news.

Needless to say the next morning things didn't jump start as quickly as they could have and Mr Fidget although holding it together remarkably, he did look as if his jolly good news had turned into bad overnight.

Bag packing over and done with, as on the road the bag must be packed and unpacked daily, and after a quick hike to the bus station we are on our way to Kosovo, the youngest country in the world!

Still to come on the adventures of Mr Fidget...
BLUE! sofa
Very fine Chinese food
91 Bar expat chavs
Hotel Balani
Sofia Bound
Hostel Mostel - lets compare cows!