2012, 1st of May. Labour Day. Budapest. I feel awful. The love of my life—whom I had been secretly seeing—has decided to marry his girlfriend of ten years. What a waste.

I have just inherited an incredibly huge historic flat from my dad’s aunt in the city centre. Every wall seems to ooze the twentieth century. Once, while doing my make‑up in the bathroom, I saw a black‑haired woman in a dark long dress behind me in the mirror. I kid you not. Later I mesmerised all my Middle‑Eastern students with the haunted‑aristocratic‑flat story of a bubbly girl named Fru.

Fru. Oh Lord, how many times I’ve heard my name from different lips in various versions and with different titles: Professor Fru, Ms Fruit, Teacher Fur, Miss Frog—and once even “Miss…ter Fru.”

So it’s the 1st of May. I’m devastated, heartbroken, in a haunted flat. The previous night an elderly neighbour woke me at 2 a.m. with her relentless bell‑ringing.

I open the door and there she stands: an eighty‑something‑year‑old from across the corridor—someone I’ve hardly seen before. She looks stunning in a silk evening gown, a soft pink lace shawl loosely covering one shoulder, matching pearl earrings and a choker. Opposite her is the confused‑looking me, in an oversized one‑piece baggy pyjamas with unjustifiably huge red dots.

Out of respect for her appearance and age, once the awkward silence passes, I try to start a conversation—as you do in the middle of the night. She looks like Vivien Leigh at eighty, while I resemble the embodiment of latent syphilis.

I say, very nicely enunciated, “Good evening,” but there is no answer. After some silent moments I decide to switch on the blue blood in me and proceed as a well‑trained Eliza Doolittle would:

“What a… marvellous… beautiful… balmy night we have tonight!”

Long pause. I’m about to carry on when—

“There are burglars in my apartment,” says Lady Vivien, objectively. I certainly did not see that coming.

The next moment we’re in my “library,” an antique living room. As my great‑aunt Klara’s old landline is closer than my mobile, I dial the police and wait nervously for the dispatcher to answer. It’s a terribly long ringing process. I’m quite happy I don’t have to do the same thing with a butcher’s knife sticking out of my back.

In those long uneasy stretches I keep an eye on Lady Vivien while forcing a smile. She looks around and murmurs some words I don’t quite catch, so she repeats:

“Dear Klara—bless her—always had such exquisite taste. Look at these wallpapers and the miniature shepherd porcelain boys! Exquisite.”

“Yes, Aunt Klara was especially known for her delicate choices,” I say, my voice shaking with terror, which I try to conceal.

“So, you inherited this apartment, sweetheart?” she asks, turning to inspect every valuable thing in the room.

I nod.

At this point Lady Vivien’s gaze finally reaches me and my gigantic, hideous nightgown. She runs her eyes over me and continues with a rather unauthentic smile:

“It seems some things stay in the family… and others just don’t.”

On any other night I could have taken offence. Instead, I feel ashamed—thirty percent polyester, seventy percent viscose, and one hundred percent blob.

The police finally take my call, so I summarise the situation, highlighting useful words such as senior lady, burglars, my pj, and, you know, sheer terror.

“OK,” comes the bored response.

Aiming to impress, I go on: “She was scared, and had sneaked out of the apartment in her evening gown… barefoot… wearing all her jewellery… she might have some blood on her… I haven’t checked, but… You never know.”

Fine. That’s a tad exaggerated, but I just want a little reaction here.

“What’s the address?” the dispatcher asks—flat, without a trace of care.

I’m giving the address when my mobile rings. I grab it without checking the number.

“Fru?”

The voice shocks me. It’s him. Oh God—it’s him! Calling me. Two weeks before his wedding to another woman. Me? Has he changed his mind? Is he standing in front of my building with a suitcase? Does he know there’s a murder squad in the building?

“Yes?” I ask, with all the hope in the world, expecting a Gone with the Wind moment.

Well, I already have Vivien Leigh in the house…

“Listen, it’s my stag‑do, I’m wasted… and the guys almost took my phone away. But I just wanted to say… need to tell you that—”

“Have you got that anti‑bloating herbal tea, darling? You know, the tummy‑teaser one. One does get tense in certain circumstances, if you take my point.”

I do.

“What is it?” I ask softly, trying to smuggle some romance back into the call. He goes on.

“I… I…”

What follows later deserves a hashtag: #PLC—puke‑love credo. A fascinating, memorable ensemble of throwing up and declaring your everlasting love to the woman you chose not to choose. Well, isn’t that something.

Next, there I am—heartbroken—steeping tea to help a total stranger who has fled from burglars, releasing gas in my kitchen in the middle of the night. We are undoubtedly damsels in distress.

Lady Vivien, however, looks surprisingly calm. I suppose that’s what the past hundred years do to you. After fleeing from the Nazis and hiding from the Soviets, a few burglars are just a boring Oh, come on—not again factor.

“How old are you, darling?”

“Twenty‑eight.”

“Oh,” she says. That is clearly not a good oh.

I hand her the tea. She stirs.

“And you?”

She gazes into the cup. “Hmm, not so sure. Seventy‑eight or eighty‑seven? Who knows…” Fair enough.

Suddenly, a loud bang and a baritone voice:

“POLICE! OPEN THE DOOR!”

What? They’re here? Already?

I peek through the peephole. Five guys in full gear. And a German shepherd. A. German. Shepherd.

And I haven’t even changed! Jeez, I can’t open like this!

“OPEN THE DOOR!”

Oh… fuck me…

Back in the library—this time among a team of special‑forces officers and Thor, the canine. How sad that a police dog could never be a Cupcake or a Fifi. And they say names don’t confine us. I brief them anxiously, while Thor starts sniffing dust off the shepherd boys. Snort of made sense. (Pause for reaction.) Anyway, they soon turn to Lady Vivien, who—slurping her belly‑bliss tea—is more attractive and chic than I will ever be at eighty, or even at twenty‑eight.

“So, ma’am, what time did you first hear something strange?”

“It was around two in the afternoon,” comes her measured response.

I tilt my head a little. Out of curiosity and—let’s face it—an unsettling feeling growing in me.

“Why did you wait until after midnight to get help then?” the officer asks, logically enough.

I feel more worried. Lady Vivien, however, is on fire.

“How dare you use this tone with me, young man? You know, when you had to flee from the Nazis and hide from the Soviets, you might just freeze for a few hours!”

Yes, Vivien. You go, girl.

The officer adjusts his tone, but can’t avoid the next question: “Did you actually see them, ma’am?”

The suspense is killing me. It’s killing everyone. Thor and the shepherd boy stop their foreplay. Even the in‑house ghost pops some corn. It’s like the final question on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?

“Of course I did!”

Phew. Praise the Lord.

“They were in my bathtub, using all my bubble bath.”

Boom.

Shaka.

Laka.

Lady Vivien takes another sip of her digestive delight and wraps up the night: “Unheard of. I’m telling you—unheard of.”

It really is.

The next morning I wake and hope it was all a nightmare. But there it is: the teacup on my great‑aunt’s Biedermeier cherry‑wood console.

It has left a mark. Firm proof that at 2 a.m. I summoned a commando team of five—and an ex‑wolf—all because of a story I hadn’t bothered to question.

Hosted like an outcast Grimm character in my dotted disgrace.

And then another feeling hits me. His call hits me.

Why? Why was it necessary? Why did I have to handle all of this on my own? In a haunted flat. With a delusional octogenarian neighbour and the state’s elite tactical unit, surrounded by bizarre, spooky heirloom shepherd‑porcelain boys.

So yes—2012, 1st of May. Labour Day. I feel awful.

I gaze out through my open bedroom window after the late‑night turmoil and false alarm. A beautiful, graceful tree—its branches almost growing into my room—keeps me company. It’s green and noble while a gentle storm washes the dust off its leaves.

Thank God, she picks up.

Mimi has always been the most loyal partner in mischief. If, as young teenagers, you offered her an urgent shoplifting spree focusing on scented, overpriced and probably over‑hyped rubbers, she would be in.

If you wanted to watch Nancy Meyers movies on loop, then scroll Pinterest for hours, pinning delicately furnished Hamptons summer houses—because we could easily land in one from north‑east Hungary—she would be in.

And if you asked her to move to a different country or even a different continent… yeah, she would definitely be in.

“The UK?” asks Mimi.

“Oh no, too obvious,” I say.

“So what—Minsk then?” she giggles.

I need to be far away, with rain to support my grief and inner drama, but with greenery to hold space for hope—ideally a place with a quirky name. I need something fun in the equation.

My brain searches for that city from my elementary‑school geography class. I see myself in the classroom in 1995, playing the capital‑city game. Lil’ Pete—everyone’s Harry Potter (way before Harry Potter)—says Ulaanbaatar. Next is Sabina, with an R, as the previous city ended in R. It’s almost impossible, since almost all the R‑capitals have been used. Then she pulls a damn Reykjavík. Sabina—such an eager beaver!

I have five seconds to say a capital starting with K, or I lose the game. Oh Lord, do I want to win.

“So what is it?” asks Mimi on the phone.

Five. Four. Three.

Two. One—light bulb. It’s here, it’s coming.

Eagle eyes on me.

“Kuala Lumpur!”

And I win.

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