BKV

I was on my way home from the theatre with mum tonight. We were at Moszkva ter, and mum was about to validate her ticket. The ticket got stuck in the validating machine. The ticket collector looked as blankly, not moving a muscle. I waved him over to help, he ripped the ticket out of the validating machine, and informed us, with a look I can only describe as smug, that another ticket would have to be validated.
Understand, it's not the 200 odd forints that bothers me, it's his unhelpful and rude manner. Mum and I decided to tram it instead, but half way to the tram I thought hang on a bloody minute: so I went back (except by this time I was already shaking like a girl) and asked for his name. He blithely informed me that all the information he could give out was the number on his badge on his lapel. I wrote it down with trembling hands, while he continued to tell me with an obstinate smile that we would not be going down to the metro. And I thought to myself what is the service these c***s are providing? What is it that they are here for? To help, to serve? And I did something I've never done in Hungary before. I said "A kurva anyad"- and god help me if mum hadn't been standing there I would have said more.
Is this the picture we are to have of our beloved Hungary? Come to Budapest and get your ears chopped off in a kebab shop? Come to Budapest and be fucked over by our public transport system?
I think I'll sooner regain my Romanian citizenship than citizenship of this country.

And now to top it all off, B tells me there are no wookiees in the next Star Wars film we're about to watch. . .