6 interesting foreign phrases to describe your lockdown life

Last month, nobody could stop talking about the Finnish concept of Kalsarikännit, “the feeling when you are going to get drunk home alone in your underwear – with no intention of going out.”

It summed up lockdown perfectly, all the while showcasing the beauty of the Finnish language and making Friday evenings getting peacefully sozzled all the more appealing and accepted.

But the Finns aren’t the only ones with quirky, quarantine-appropriate concepts. The Italians, for example, refer to rekindling an old flame as ‘reheating cabbage’ – not exactly the image you had in mind when contemplating sliding into your ex’s DMs, eh?

And in Hungary, a nagging spouse is, somewhat colourfully, an ‘indoor dragon’. How many of you have your own ‘indoor dragon’ to contend with at the moment?

I can’t guarantee these will come in handy on future backpacking adventures or city breaks, but here are six foreign terms that aptly describe the #lockdownlife.

For when you’re feeling lazy

It’s totally fine to not be doing a lot at the moment. Remember, there is a pandemic going on – so even if you feel like you should be baking enough banana bread to feed the whole of Yorkshire or running a half marathon every day, it’s also fine to be a couch potato – or ‘pantofolaio.’

  1. Pantofolaio

You can use the Italian term ‘pantofolaio’ to describe a couch potato or homebody. A noun first used in the 19th century, it comes from the word ‘pantofola’ meaning ‘slipper’.

An example in action:

“Ho provato a farlo uscire, ma è diventato un tale pantofolaio.”

“I tried to make him come out, but he’s become such a homebody!”

It’s difficult to be anything but a couch potato at the moment – so why not look the part? If you do fancy upping your slipper game in true ‘pantofolaio’ style, apparently >slider slippers are all the rage right now.

pantofolaio

  1. Fiaca

‘Fiaca’ comes from Lunfardo, a slang that originated in the late 19th and early 20th centuries in Buenos Aires, Argentina. It’s used to talk about “the feeling or state of being bored, idle, slothful of unmotivated” and when we use it to describe a person, we’d translate it as lazybones, layabout or bum.

An example in action:

“Qué fiaca que tengo!”

“Man, I feel like a slug today!”

This is something we’re all experiencing: trudging from bed to desk to fridge and back to desk, flicking through Netflix to find something binge-worthy, all the while ignoring the towering inferno of work, emails and deadlines piling up. ‘Fiaca’ is the ultimate killer of productivity.

For describing relationships

It’s a weird time for relationships – both romantic and non-romantic alike. Some haven’t seen their parents or partners or friends in months; others might find themselves house-sharing with an ‘indoor dragon.’

  1. Házisárkány

This is a Hungarian word literally meaning ‘indoor dragon’ and used to refer to a nagging, restless spouse. If you’re not used to sharing a house with your significant other, tensions might be high during this period. It may be you find yourself (or your partner) morphing into a mythical beast, breathing fire upon seeing plates piling up in the sink or socks strewn across the floor.

An example in action:

“A házisárkány soha nincs megelégedve.”

“A domestic dragon is never satisfied.”

Catch Budapest describes it as “a harmless joke” and strongly recommend that we keep treating it as such.

  1. Cavoli Riscaldati

The Italians use ‘cavoli riscaldati’ (literally meaning reheated cabbage) to talk about “a pointless attempt to revive a former love affair”. According to Christopher Moore, author of In Other Words, it comes from a proverb:

“Cavoli riscaldati né amore ritornato non fu mai buono.”

“Neither reheated cabbage nor revived love is ever any good.”

Interestingly, some parts of Italy use ‘minestra riscaldata’ or ‘zuppa riscaldata’ (reheated soup) instead of ‘cavoli riscaldati’.

Essentially, the idea is that nothing will ever taste as good when reheated. How many of you have thought about reaching out to your exes during lockdown? Snap. But now all I can think about is how I deserve much more than just reheated cabbage. Maybe some Waitrose kale or pretty pink lettuce from Harrods instead.

cabbage

For those early mornings and late nights

Arguably, we’re probably saving a lot more money by not buying as much coffee during lockdown – but that doesn’t mean to say we’re drinking any less.

  1. Tretår

‘Tretår’ comes from Swedish, literally meaning a ‘threefill’ – a second refill of a cup of coffee. Hardly surprising the Swedes have a word for this – according to the Telegraph, they were the sixth biggest coffee drinkers in the world in 2017.

Language Insight says ‘tretår’ is likely to be used on a Monday morning to help kick off the working week.

Despite no longer needing to get up at 6am and commute for two hours, my caffeine intake has sky-rocketed during lockdown. I’ve upped my daily dosage from one to two and sometimes three cups to get me through the day.

This is down to a mixture of boredom, comfort (everything just feels cosier when you’re clutching a hot brew, doesn’t it?) and also because it’s from my own stash and therefore free. Knowing how much I must have saved by not forking out on overpriced lattes on Tottenham Court Road makes my Nescafe taste just that little bit better.

tretar

  1. Nedoperepil (недоперепил)

‘Nedoperepil’ is a past tense verb used by the Russians “to say that someone has drunk more than they should have, but still less than they could have (or wanted to)”, according to Lingua Lift.

Searching for further clarity, I also consulted Wiktionary: “to have too much to drink, but to be unsatisfied and want to drink more; to be drunk, but not blacked out (literally, ‘to underoverdrink’)”.

If you’re out in a bar and the barista refuses to serve you, you can say:

“Но я же недоперепил!”

“But I haven’t yet drunk as much as I can!”

Seems like the perfect balance, right? Merrily sozzled but not sozzled enough to pass out and not remember anything – plus, it doesn’t always result in a hangover. ‘Underoverdrinking’ could very well become the nation’s new pastime.

The fact Russia has a word for this is mind-blowing – and to be honest, not totally surprising.

Sort of a love letter but not really

To myself,

I do not give you permission to message him.

No matter how twinkly Thursday night’s sky is or how uplifting Friday’s morning is, you’re not to reach out. You’re not to slide into his DMs with a flirty quip about how your peach is the same size and does he still live in Notting Hill or has he gone home home.

Are his family fine? You don’t care. Is he working? You don’t care. Has he cut his hair recently? YOU DON’T CARE. (Except if he has cut his hair, that makes him a tenth less attractive so let’s just imagine he has cut his hair and it went horribly wrong and he now looks like Phil Mitchell.)

When loneliness curses your name, yanks your hair, spits in your face, you still don’t have permission to reach for your phone. Oh but we had something special – oh but you didn’t. You had rough and tumble, frothy, hazy delights last summer where you travelled two hours to see him. 

The current situation – you know, the one where you’re sat at home, wondering about boyfriends and getaways and how much you’d need to earn to afford one of those studio flats with the spiral staircase leading up to the bed – does not permit you to punch yourself in the face romantically. It doesn’t mean you need to start treading water after starting to swim again. It doesn’t mean you need to mow the lawn of introspection, not when things are just starting to grow.

Starve yourself of flirtation, make do without a flurry of grade A bullshit “if this is still a thing in March we should go on a bike ride in the countryside” messages and learn to live and love yourself and not the dreamboat, duvet-lipped figure of irrelevance.

Texting games

Sitting opposite a delicious meal

Spaghetti lips, wet and enticing

The fragrant fumes of a day’s speech ricocheting off your gums and then into the air

Catching at my nostrils

A bottle off the bat

A full one to kickstart the evening

An alien concept, a boy buying a bottle

And not quibbling over price or harping on about halfsies

We sucked it up like thirsty daisies

Mowing the lawn of first date etiquette and conversation

After our tongues played we said goodbye

Then comes the part that leaves me scrambled

A banquet of texts that just doesn’t arrive

The what ifs and waiting

Checking my phone, fully in the throes of dating

Perky alcohol sodden lips visit my dreams

But the phone doesn’t beep or buzz or chime or whine

I’ll text him today if he hasn’t texted first.

Your eyes flickered

Shooting bullets into mine

Every time I looked over

Fast paced, dashing daggers.

A murmur muffled by booze-soaked blossom

Falling into cups

And words laced with promise

Spilling into ears

You asked me about her

I said she wasn’t shy

And that if you felt so inclined

You ought to ask her for a dance.

But you didn’t

You stayed by my side

Staring wistfully at the tide

Of luscious tufts of hair

Talking through your mouth

And not your heart

Didn’t seem fair

To me, to be lured into your lair

And then learn you were promised to another

Whispers of her her her

And ponderings of another girl

Yet the staring still continued

And I became subdued

Rushing to the loo like I did when I was 16

And feeling like the gooseberry.

Times haven’t changed all that much

Though older, wiser

I still feel crushed

And feel my self esteem take a tumble

When I learn he’d rather rumble

With her and not me.

Over and out

I guess we grew like weathered flowers

And I guess I grew a little bit taller

A little bit faster

A little bit more soaked in your potion

Than you were in mine.

And it sometimes hurts to know you’re not that bothered

And other times it angers to know this was only for a season

Little did I know the season would sizzle

But be short lived

And little did I know it wasn’t quite going to work

Past the months of bronzing and barbecuing.

And I gave a piece of myself to you

Opened my doors wide and beckoned you in

And I’m glad I did

Despite the attachment I formed

Like an octopus clinging to your legs

Suckling on your teet

Stuck to your words which you threw so spaghetti like at my walls

They stayed there stuck

(They still are now)

A reminder of what’s possible

And what may be better than you.

BHB

I nearly bit my tongue off

When you asked me questions

Of no meaning, no substance

Forced like unwanted suggestions

About where to eat, what to do

How to travel, when to move

Staring over the barrel of a deceased coca cola

Eyes ploughing into me like needles

My responses grew weary and feeble

Conversation like too much hard work

From the very start

And tiptoing into the twilight hours

A train ride that should have been hushed

A meal that made me blush

A sentence too many that was more than enough

How can I stand to be me

When a day out is just pain

And I’m the only one to blame

My ineptitudes, my shortcomings

My overactive brain

With its excruciating bubblings.

When you realise he’s maybe just not that into you and everything slows to a snail’s pace and you start tearing your hair out and balling your eyes out.

The journey has come to a screeching halt

From pedal to floor

I heard its thunderous roar

As it stopped dead in its tracks.

Panic ensued

Anxiety came

Asking myself “what is this game?”

Because we’ve started shuffling cards, dealing hands

And I’m no longer chugging along sands

Of limp, moth-eaten metal

No carriage to rest or settle

Just an abrupt shove into a passerby

Flung from my seat with emotions awry

Buckle up babe it’s going to be a bumpy ride

From here on out

With this particular duvet-lipped guy.

When I realised I’d fallen

As we rolled past the river

The monuments

The gold-clad beasts

Shaking, bathing in the glow

Of the water’s edge by Waterloo

Your duvet lips spring to mind

Permeate the creases of my brain

Invade my thoughts with a pick axe

Cutting down the others

I’d been growing

Like sweet nectar.

I melt beneath them

Chew on their plumpness

Get high on their juices

Those rolls that seal me

Like an envelope

Your loveliness cuts through

And bubbles beneath the surface

As the train tracks roll by.

I think of you when the night curses

And the day yawns open

And when my phone buzzes

And my body yearns to be touched.

Stubborn

You’re bright and flexible

like a glow stick

how strange it is

to be enjoying the journey

the part most people want to skip

the part people lose their heads about

panicking

screaming thoughts into pillows

spilling questions into Reddit’s holes

– not me

and yet today marks the first day

we haven’t texted

in more than a month

we’ve been on this cycle

like a haunted washing machine

since the day you added my number

– this spin cycle didn’t feel like

it was going to end

but it has

and now i’ve only to hang out

the clothes to dry

let the moisture evaporate

like piss on a hot tin roof

strip back the fabrics

until they’re mere fibres.

Assessing the damage

– could i be doing it

for the chase?

might i have refrained from messaging

because i have nothing to say

– could it be a test?

or maybe you’re on a date

and maybe i’m on a date

and we’re both rocking

on somebody else’s genitals

(i’m not. i’m in my pyjamas

banned from the living room

hiding from stranger things spoilers)

you: probably reading or running

or wondering about me

– not feeling like chasing?

that’s fine.

i remind myself i’ve given away

a part of me to you

provided you with a swipe card

chipped off a chunk of my soul

and my body and handed it

to you like a piece of late homework

the lucky recipient of a quivering

maladjusted morsel of a girl

who doesn’t receive many guests

who is open for business once a year

whose tectonic plates rumble daily

(but rumbled by themselves

never shaken by another)

you have a small part of me

which i hardly ever give out

like those rarest of pokemon

those rare droplets of rain on Gran Canaria

those times my great uncle

digs a hand in his pocket

and buys us a meal

those moments on the tube

when i feel sweat-free

those days when i can actually

look at myself in the mirror

without wincing

and so it’s not to be sneezed at

this gifting malarkey

but i’m happy with my recipient

this tadpole i plucked

from the dating pool lucky dip

– i’m happy with my choice

even if it ends poorly

and leaves my heart sore

(or soar?)

because semantics make quite a difference.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Someone

Like someone reading your diary

Touching your thoughts with a scalpel

Splitting them open and letting the innards glow freely

Beneath the blade.

Like someone knowing your darkest secrets

Most troubling defects

And personality problems, character flaws.

Like someone scraping out the inside of your head like a coconut

Amassing all these troubles, all these woes

And picking at your skull like a vulture.

Like someone who read your poetry.