On hating Blok D

ON HATING BLOK D

I resent and I hate:

the fact that if I want to wash my dirty clothes,

I have to go downstairs,

and face some woman,

sitting behind a glass booth,

and I must ask her permission,

and I must pay her,

before she will give me the key,

which will open the door,

on the fourth floor,

in the middle of a god-awful stinky corridor,

which has a room,

within which sits a nothing-special washing machine,

where I will be allowed,

finally,

to wash my clothes,

which will then take many days to dry.

And I hate the fact

that when I enter this building

I meet the face of some woman

who I don't know

staring at me from behind a glass partition

as if she were guarding the entrance

to Fort Knox,

wherein is stored the nation's gold,

or as if she were protecting the Vestal Virgins

from violation by barbarian intruders!

---and I want to say:

This isn't so very different from those dark days

that you like to call “communism”.