Nine bean rows and a hive...

A few weeks ago, as the summer started to wane, we went up to Coppull, near Chorley, to visit Mike Beazer, the secretary of the Ormskirk and Croston beekeepers branch.

http://www.ormskirkbeekeepers.co.uk/

We did this because I am thinking about keeping bees as a hobby-cum-small business and one of the things I have never done is get close to bees in their natural habit. There doesn’t seem to be much point in starting something if the first time you take the lid off a hive and a few bees buzz round you run for cover. So it seemed sensible to get in touch with a beekeeper and get him to show me what’s what.

Although Coppull isn’t that far from us, it seemed further as, after turning left at the huge Frederick’s ice cream shop, we made our way along the country lanes and back roads. The weather was perfect, a sunny and bright autumnal afternoon, the leaves turning different shades of yellow, orange and russet, but with the air slightly crisp, hinting at the winter that lies not so very far ahead.

After we’d (yes, much to Agnieszka’s surprise there was a suit spare for her to use) donned some protective clothing: green bee-suits with elasticated ankles and wrists, and the all-important veil, plus boots and gloves, we drove to the field where the hives were.

We were advised to zip up before we got out of the car, which we duly did and I was surprised to see the hives were just sitting at the edge of a field. There they were in a little row.

After taking off the roof of the hive I was allowed to inspect the combs of honey and I was really surprised to see how quiet the bees were. A few flew around and I was slightly nervous about one that decided to hover around my mouth but I was told they were just curious. I resisted the impulse to bat them away and instead tried to focus on what I was seeing and was being told. It was amazing to see the bees at work, concentrating on doing their jobs and taking pretty much no notice of us.
As it wasn’t too hot, despite the sun, we weren’t allowed to take the hives completely apart, but it gave me enough of an idea to know that I would like to keep bees in the future. I’d also like an allotment but that seems to be almost impossible in the current climate. Since going to Coppull I’ve been busy reading the definitive book on bees – A guide to bees and honey by Ted Hooper – and have found ever more questions to ask. Talking to other beekeepers has left me with the knowledge that it will be another year before I get to start, having first to go through a practical course, a theory course and a full year of shadowing someone else in order to understand what I should do and when, and how to look after bees properly. I’m keen to start, but understand how important it is to learn things in the right order, and I’m already looking forward to January when a course will start. No doubt there’ll be more on this…

The title of this post is, of course, from the William Butler Yeats poem The Lake Isle of Innisfree, the first verse of which is:

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

Bring your own sheets and bleach...

Having spent some considerable time travelling throughout eastern Europe one of the things I like the most is the presence of people at the bus and train stations offering rooms for the night. This is a great way of experiencing the way people live in different countries and also lets you have a good nosy at the inside of some of the faceless blocks that cover much of the area of a town. In some ways it takes all the pressure of finding a place to stay, almost as if the room comes to you, although on the other hand it does expose you to an element of risk: will this room be affordable / comfortable / secure / full of men smelling of onions? Does the person I am going to stay with have a big knife / criminal record / schizophrenic tendancies / onion fetish? Will I, indeed, live until morning?

In my experience the risk is far outweighed by the benefits and I have stayed with some lovely people: watched over by countless photos of the pope in Poznan; squeezed onto a sofa in Moldova; treated to a display of star jumps in Montenegro. I wouldn't hesitate to stay in this kind of accommodation again, subject to a look at it first and some basic negotiation, despite some of the people I've seen looking decidedly dodgy, even though they (probably) weren't.

Take these two, spotted opposite the railway station in Zakopane. Whether I'd take a room from these two, I'm not sure. They seemed more intent on chatting and watching the traffic than actually touting for business. I imagine there'll be hell to pay when they get home though, without any lodgers. Decide for yourself...

Szczęść Boże, my arse

After all the trials and tribulations of the past few months it was with a feeling of great happiness that I departed these shores for a week and a half’s holiday in Poland. Time to relax and spend with Agnieszka is indeed a precious thing and, although it was over much too soon, I certainly enjoyed it while it lasted.

After four days of almost solid rain, it was not without reservations that we set off from Katowice railway station around 9am on the Sunday. Here's the strange thing about PKP: no matter which train you take from there to Krakow, be it the express or the local, it always takes an hour and a half. Anyway, we were in Krakow half hour before our next train which was enough time to find the right platform before settling in for the three and a half hour trip to Zakopane. As we got nearer to our destination, and all mountains were hidden under low cloud, the train started pulling into stations, then leaving in the direction it had just arrived from. This happened half a dozen times and was a bit odd, but no doubt the driver had some time to kill and, trying hard, almost managed to get the journey time up to four hours.

It wasn’t raining when we arrived, but started not long after. After several attempts were met with shrugs from unhelpful drivers, we found a minibus to take us to Osiedle Krole, where we were staying at number 33a. No street name, just the number and area. Our driver was ok and let us out at the right place and off we stomped to find our accommodation. There were no signs and we were disheartened to find the numbers starting under ten and then, at a T-junction, no clue as to which way we needed to go. We asked at a shop and they helped us out and we walked along a narrow road, lined on both sides by large timber houses (and where, late one night we witnessed the aftermath of slaughter; several men standing round the carcass of a pig which had been strung up on a beam just inside the door) and accompanied by the smells of silage, sheep and resin.

We’d almost given up finding the house before it went dark but eventually we got there, entered the gate and were greeted by a small yappy dog, intent on harassing us. As I turned round, the dog tried to bite my ankle and as I let forth with a stream of expletives, one of the nuns (for it was with the sisterhood that we would lodge) appeared out of nowhere, smiling and trying to translate my flurry of four letter words. After reassuring herself that the dog hadn’t bitten me, and thus avoiding any adverse publicity, we were shown into our ‘B&B’. The line of pump bags on the wall started the bells ringing and this was not helped by the box of toys, miniature toilets and sinks and the news that downstairs is a kindergarten. Private, of course.

We were led upstairs to our room. ‘A very good room,’ I heard the nun say, as she opened the door and showed us in. ‘Good for what?’ I wondered as my gaze took in the room in a millisecond, because that was all you needed, it was so small. She left us to it and we dropped our bags on to the narrowest of single beds (of which the room contained two. We, however, squeezed into one. Partly to keep warm and partly because I was afraid of the crucifix over the other, especially after cursing their dog). The table and remaining armchair were soon covered with stuff and we then left to get into town to see what there was to see. You couldn't see anything from the window anyway as the cloud was too low.
Arriving back we realised that after dark, things could get a bit tricky. It was pitch black and there was the dog to worry about. But once inside things weren’t too bad. The old woman in the next room was very chatty and informed us that all the paths were muddy and that it hadn’t stopped raining for a week. Mountain walking holiday weather it wasn’t. There was, however, absolutely nothing to do so 9pm found us huddled together for warmth and falling asleep.
The next day we found no hot water in the bathroom and the most meagre of breakfasts – no coffee and only fruit tea. Where the hell was my morning caffeine? In addition, as we were sat nursing warm cups of weak tea, there came a thunder of sorts and it was several seconds before I realised it wasn’t a landslide or thunder, but the thump of little kids’ feet on the floor up above. Przedskole was in full swing. By the time we came to leave for a day’s walking I was fuming and calling the ‘hospitality’ all the names I could. Luckily for us, things moved up a gear and when we arrived back that evening, a different nun met us, said they’d been worried that we hadn’t returned, informed us there was plenty of hot water and wished us good night.

Although at first I was unhappy with the lodgings, they did improve gradually throughout our stay. Except for the singing and thunderous stomping. On our last morning we were brought a steaming dish of eggs and mushrooms and no-one said anything when they caught us making sandwiches from the breakfast offerings. We had, after that first night, plenty of hot water, no-one bothered us or tried to convert us to any kind of religion and when we wanted to pay for our stay it took twenty minutes to track someone down to give them the money. It wasn’t the most convenient of places to stay, but it was quiet and relaxing in a way. To get away was the most important thing, as well as to spend time with my wife, for this it was perfect and for this I definitely thanked God myself.

Roll out the barrel. Er... what barrel?

We saw the advert a couple of months ago and decided that Glossop beer festival sounded like a good idea. It ran over three days – Friday to Sunday – and promised a wealth of beer to sample, plus the option of a walk somewhere in the Peak District before, after or both. Due to other commitments we decided that Sunday was the day to visit. Waking to find a veil of mist over everything and a steady stream of drizzle, we realised that a good long walk over the hills may not be in order and as we drove towards Glossop a brisk short walk wasn’t going to happen either.

We found the pub where the beer festival was to take place with minimal fuss and even got a parking place on the road outside. We’d noticed there was some sort of fair in town and thought it would be a good idea to check it out before going to the beer festival and sampling some brews in the warmth. It turned out that Glossop was having a Victorian weekend. The main street was closed with a selection of old lorries at one end and a couple of steam rollers at the other.

Along the rest of the street, at various points, were the kind of fairground stalls I thought had disappeared: knock the cans down with a bean bag, stick a dart in the playing card, hook a duck… All the ones I remember from being a kid. Also included were the swingboats, where you sat in a little wooden boat and each person pulled a rope to make it swing, a bloke doing magic tricks and a woman showing anyone who cared to stand there how to make lace. All the while the drizzle came down, softly but relentlessly.

We took refuge in the museum, a collection of pieces from aircraft that had crashed in the local area, complete with a map showing exactly where the sites were and how many people had died. Outside the brass band started to play the theme from All creatures great and small. We knew then it was time to go to the beer festival and we made our way round the back of the Star Inn on Howard Street to where the marquee was. A glance inside made our hearts sink. Two racks with no barrels on them.

‘Has it all gone?’ I asked a chain-smoking, bobble hat-wearing bloke clutching a plastic beer glass.

‘All what?’ He replied, in complete honesty.

I just tutted and we went back round the front of the pub and into the bar. We were told there that there was something left but not very much. So back outside again and into the marquee. On the tables there were five 20-pint barrels of cider and on the floor, one barrel of Wren’s nest from the Howard Town brewery. That was it. ‘We had a very busy day yesterday,’ the bloke behind the counter said, ‘it was really sunny and we sold almost everything.’

So we sampled what they had left. Here are the results:

Bitter: Wren’s Nest – 6 out of 10. Tasty

Cider: Dunkertons – 9 out of 10. ‘appley’, ‘real’
Hecks – 7-8 out of 10. ‘ginger’, ‘lemony’
Brook Farm – 3 out of 10. ‘mass produced’, ‘smelly’

And so ended our trip to Glossop beer festival, the one with no ale.

Basin, bath, bog and Tommy

I think when we bought the house the one thing I wasn’t fussy on was the bathroom, mainly because it didn’t have a shower already fitted. After the work of damp-proofing the downstairs and replacing the boiler with a model that didn’t need wood shavings and newspaper to get it going, and one that actually supplies hot water on demand, without the pilot light going out, I felt it was time to get going with the bathroom. It was intended to be a job for the autumn and winter months but the plumber, Tommy, who fitted the boiler, seemed keen to get it done, despite his whinging about wanting to retire.

When I first asked him how long it’d be before he could come in and do the boiler he said he had so much work that it would be ‘about this time next year’. Then, when pressed, said, next Tuesday; about six days later. The same happened when I asked when he thought he might be able to come and do the bathroom.

‘I don’t need the work really,’ he admitted. ‘I want to retire,’ he added, before telling me he would be back the following week to rip out the old suite and plumb in the new one. He’d roll up about 9am, work until 12, go for an hour’s break, then return and work until about 4pm before clocking off for the day. Having said that, he did a good job and we’re happy with the kitchen and bathroom stuff he’s done for us. Before he could start work I had to. I had to strip out all the old tiles, wallpaper, lino and floor tiles and dismantle the old cupboard that was in the corner – a home for dust, spiders and dead flies. This sounded easy: a couple of hours with a hammer and screwdriver in one hand, cup of tea in the other. The reality was a four day extravaganza of going to work during the day and then spending five hours chipping, hacking, poking, chiselling, sawing and swearing. I managed to chop half the top of one finger and skin the knuckles on the rest, as well as bruising my stomach and ribs (don’t ask me how, I have no idea).

I went to bed exhausted and woke up not much better after hours of dreams involving splinters in the eyes from cutting tiles, getting soaked removing water pipes, sawing through electric cables and being trapped under plasterboard when the ceiling caved in. A week of this before we were ready for stage two – tiling everything up again. Tommy came in, removed the old suite and drilled the holes for the new shower, plumbed in the new sink and toilet temporarily, then left me to tile as much as I could before he came back and finished the job a few days later. Back to the fifteen hour days…

Once I’d completed the tiling Tommy came in and removed everything to allow me to tile behind sink and toilet and finish the floor and then he finished everything off and it all looked very nice, very clean, very new. Except for the tap. The tap leaked. Tommy said he’d taken it off three times to sort it out and started to get knarky about it when I asked why it was still leaking. He took it off to show me and I couldn’t see what was wrong with it, it all seemed to work ok. Later I heard him talking to his side-kick at one point:

‘I don’t know why they have to change things,’ Tommy said. ‘All this modern thinking.’

‘What was wrong with a washer?’ Les, his aide-de-camp asked.

‘Washers are fine. If something’s not broken, don’t fix it,’ Tommy added.

‘Aye, a washer’s so simple, what could be easier?’

This went on for several minutes, like a plumber’s loop. I got onto the supplier and they arranged to get some more valves. Needless to say, the day before they rang to say the valve had arrived, the tap stopped dripping. I’ve kept the valves, but not changed them. Just in case.

If I’d had more time during the day the job would have gone much easier, but cramming it into the few hours at night after work was a nightmare. I ached all over and slept badly. I didn’t see Agnieszka for weeks it seemed, just at the odd tea break and mealtimes and then it was back to work. I borrowed a tile cutter off my uncle and that saved a fortune in broken tiles although I did manage to cut a further two fingers on the tiles’ sharp edges and almost burnt out the motor on the cutter by not cleaning out the dust from underneath. We over-estimated the number of tiles (six boxes over) and ran out of tile cement with only a dozen left to fix. I knew we’d spent more than enough time in B&Q when I started recognising the staff and I hope that, in the future, the trips there will be few and far between.

So what of the finished result? Now that all the tiles are on the floor and the walls and the shelves, towel rail and shower curtain are all installed and in use? I think I did ok. Yes, it isn’t perfect but for an amateur I don’t think I did too badly. We have a clean, white bathroom with nice furniture and a shower that blows your socks off – not that we wear socks in the shower you understand, it’s just a reflection on how strong the shower is.

Anyway, see for yourself. Tips and comments welcome.

Controversial for a Monday?

Quite a lot of noise has been generated by the rant given by comedian Marcus Brigstocke on Radio 4’s Now Show and, having listened to it again, I decided it was worthy of being included here. No further comment, read and decide for yourself. The views expressed are not necessarily those held by me, I just like to think I can see both sides...

It’s mainly the extremists, obviously, but not exclusively it’s a lot of mainstreamers as well…

Muslims – listen up my bearded and veily friends – calm down. Stop blowing stuff up, not everything that’s said about you is an attack on the prophet Mohammed and Allah that needs to end in the infidel being destroyed. Have a cup of tea, put on a Cat Stevens record, sit down and chill out.

Christians – you and your churches don’t get to be millionaires while other people have nothing at all. They’re your bloody rules, either stick to them or abandon the faith. And stop persecuting and killing people you judge to be immoral. Oh, and stop pretending you’re celibate as a cover-up for being a gay or a nonce.

Right, that’s two ticked off…

Jews – I know you’re God’s chosen people and the rest of us are just, whatever, but when Israel behaves like a violent psychopathic bully and someone mentions it, that doesn’t make them anti Semtiic and, for the record, your troubled history is not a licence to act with impunity.

All of them will be convinced that they’re the ones being picked on. The Abrahamic faiths are like Scousers, they all believe they have it harder than everyone else…

If you want to hear the whole thing, then go to:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UY-ZrwFwLQg

and make up your own mind.

Tomatoes are not the only fruit...

The barrels of blue potato-spray

Stood on a headland in July

Beside an orchard wall where roses

Were young girls hanging from the sky.



The flocks of green potato stalks

Were blossom spread for sudden flight,

The Kerr's Pinks in frivelled blue,

The Arran Banners wearing white.

From Spraying the potatoes by Patrick Kavanagh

I know that the poem should be about tomatoes, but there don't seem to be that many about. You put 'tomato' in Google and all you get are references to The return of the killer tomatoes which isn't quite the same. The link, of course, is that tomatoes are related to potatoes and can sometimes suffer the same fate in terms of disease. With the 'summer' that we've been having here, the back yard where I grow all my tomatoes has never properly dried out and warmed up. The result being plenty of damp air circulating around the plants. It's meant I haven't needed to water as often as normal but also increased the likelihood of tomato blight, the same disease that devastates potatoes and cured by the same copper sulphate mixture.

If you put 'tomato blight' into Google, then you get plenty of references, none of it particularly good news. A typically joyous piece of news came from thegardenhelper.com:

Picture your tomato vines looking robust and full of fruit... Within 3
days, your vines AND fruit turn black and withered, THAT is tomato
blight.

So I cut off as many leaves as possible and have been going out every day checking the plants. Slowly but surely, however, they have been getting worse and worse and now look like this:

I fear we won't be stuffing our faces on tomatoey pasta and eating salad until we look like it. On the other hand, the cucumbers - after one was devastated by a slug eating a hole in the end and then hollowing it out completely - are doing well. We have three or four now that are the right size to eat and, thanks to tesciowa, have the right ingredients to pickle them. Those ones look like this and we have high hopes for a pickling session soon:

Lifting them off the floor should have been done much earlier, but I didn't think. It was only slug damage that made me aware of it. Still, every day is a new learning experience and next year I hope to do better.

Rainford Walking Day 16 June 2007

Living abroad for a while and then bringing a non-Brit back to live in England has really brought home to me the traditions and activities that go on in this part of the country. I find that I’m very fond, and pretty proud too, of the industrial heritage of the area and, despite being a lover of all things green and quiet, find myself defending the north west’s scummy factories and ‘dark satanic mills’. There’s a real joy to be had in looking at canal bridges, viaducts, railway embankments, chimneys and mill buildings, to marvel at the architecture, the achievements, the Victorian gung-ho attitude and, at the same time, to ponder what they would have done without cheap labour and a lax safety at work policy.

One of the traditions that survived in my part of the world is the Walking Day. This is where all the schools, churches and community groups get all dressed up and parade from the church to both ends of the village and back again. This year was the first year in many that I’ve actually attended and it was nice to see it hasn’t changed much. Head of the parade is always the parish church dignitaries, the warden and vicar and assorted church staff. When I was a kid, in the 1970s, we weren’t allowed, as a school, to walk (because we were Catholics – oh yes, sectarianism, albeit mild, was alive and well here) but it’s nice to see the rules have now been relaxed now and anyone can participate. This year there were representatives from all the village schools, plus nursery groups – lots of bewildered kids in their Sunday best wondering why they were being force-marched two miles before getting a goodie bag of sweets – the ladies circle, cubs, scouts and brownies, and three brass bands.

As a child, Walking Day was a high point in the year. The whole village would turn out and line the main street. I don’t know if it’s getting old (me, not the parade) or it’s just less popular now, but there definitely didn’t seem to be as many people there watching everyone go past. Probably they’re all worshipping at the altar of Ikea or in the shrine of M&S, giving thanks for all day opening, but that’s their choice, and loss. When we were kids we would have to wait for what seemed like an eternity. A mass was first, then everyone would emerge into the daylight and the milling chaos that is the organisation of a march would take place. A lot of under-10s as well as several other groups of people led to frayed tempers and barked commands but eventually things got moving and everyone would slowly take their places and head off to the Star Inn, where they’d turn round and march back to the Bridge Inn, turn around again and return to the church. Once this had happened we were allowed to go to the fair, which you could always hear, thudding and thumping away on the field behind the church, but couldn’t get to until the procession had finished. This was always the hardest thing to bear, especially as you’d see classmates armed with candy floss and small goldfish in plastic bags, the life expectancy of any generally under a fortnight.

It’s a tradition that goes back many years, and one that’s nice to revisit and I certainly enjoyed going back to witness it again after a break of many years. Unfortunately, all the people I went to school with like to come and watch too, which makes it a bit of a hide and seek kind of day. Well, let’s face it, I’ve lived the last 27 years without speaking to most of the people I went to school with, so I don’t think I’ve got that much to talk about with them. Misery eh?

Anyway, here’s some photos…

The head of the procession, representatives of the parish church.

The band walks through the village one way…

…and then comes back again.

Bardzo dziękuję za moja słodeczka na zdjęcie.

A stranger in a strange land

After all the problems of the last few months we finally got keys and moved into our little house in Farnworth. It’s a basic two up, two down, with a little back yard. It’s a nice house though, big enough for the two of us and quiet, warm and somewhere we can unpack the boxes that have been in my parent’s garage for almost three months. It’s been like Christmas, opening packages and unwrapping things, putting glasses and cups into cupboards, finding clothes, books and cds that we thought we’d lost or left behind, reading the newspaper stories from Poland four months ago. All the plants are now in the yard and the slug war has begun, so far with the removal – two to the bin, two launched into space towards the opposite houses – of some of the biggest monsters. Having said that they don’t seem to have touched any of the tomatoes, beans or ogórki, so that’s ok. Biggest job now is to clean, strip the rest of the wallpaper and paint the downstairs and landing area. That should be finished this next week or two but has proved to be a more demanding job than either of us thought.

So what of Farnworth? Well, it isn’t the nicest, most picturesque place in the world. It’s a fairly deprived and poor-looking place, with a high street full of takeaways and pubs that look like you’d get knifed in them (as, indeed, someone did recently after an altercation on a dance floor). There are plenty of cheapy shops, pound shops, bargain shops, an Asda and Lidl, a post office and a library so it has everything for our needs right now. On Sunday we took a break from stripping to go for a walk in Moses Gate country park. To get there we go through the cemetery, where there’s an interesting mix of Irish, Italian and Polish graves, hinting at the diversity to be found in this area. From there a small path wound down through a cool green canopy of trees to a series of ponds where swans, coots and geese could be found swimming around lazily. We’d just missed the brass band so we took a stroll around the outside of the biggest pond and back through the park to home. It will be nice in autumn, particularly if there are mushrooms available for picking.

I feel like an emigrant in my own country. I don’t feel like I belong here any more. I miss my life in Poland and would like to return at some point in the future. It’s something to work towards. But for now, it’s back to the grind of the decorating and tidying and cleaning. Tiring, but in a pleasant way.

It all comes out in the wash, usually.

Sometimes life can be likened to the activities of clothes in a washing machine. Firstly you sort all the different things out, delicates, wool, colours, whites and arrange them into piles. Then you load the machine with your chosen laundry. Add some water and a sprinkling of white powder (interpret that as you will) and turn on the switch to start it going. The cycle starts slowly, gently turning from one way to the other, things visible, not too mixed up, moving in an organised way. But then things move on, this continues for half an hour, moving gently all the time but gradually everything gets mixed up, jumbled around and thrown all over the place causing all the items to get intimately tangled together. Then, when you think everything has settled down, it suddenly speeds up and spins so fast you start to lose your way, lose sight of that precious t-shirt, that favourite pair of socks. You stand and look at the goldfish bowl door, hoping that everything will settle down and stop spinning soon so you can begin to unravel the clothes, your life, and find the missing socks of your career and generally get on with hanging all the different bits out to dry.

So maybe I spend too much time in front of the washing machine and not enough time actually living. That’s just how life feels sometimes. At the beginning of the year life was just sloshing around nicely but as time has gone on it has got more and more jumbled and swirling round. The last two or three weeks feels like the spin cycle, but one where you’re actually inside the machine rather than sat on top, if you get my drift. But now the hassle of getting a mortgage seems to be over, the man has been in and done the damp course repairs and we’re all set to move in. I feel more positive than previously and look forward to writing some more entries here, with a reason to do so and things to report. Even if no-one reads this any more, it still feels like some sort of diary, where different aspects of life are noted and recorded and I’m glad that I have the opportunity to get things down.

It will soon be summer, or at least what passes for summer here. We’re hoping to go back to Poland in September but there’s a good few weeks between then and now, and there’s plenty of work to be done too. I’ll try to keep it interesting, so watch this space…

Life rolls on...

It's been some time since I posted anything here. Reasons for this are varied but I think the main excuse is that events have overtaken me. It's been, in many ways, a traumatic few months and looking back, hard to put everything into perspective. So what has been happening? In simple point form, this has been my life since February.

• Secure a job in Manchester, moving to the UK at the beginning of March.
• Agnieszka goes into hospital on 27 March with stomach pains and at 17.42 gives birth to our daughter, Ewa. Too small to survive at only 20 weeks. No words can describe the emptiness and upset this caused.
• In the process of buying a house. Aided, hindered and generally messed about by all walks of people. I can only hope that the purchase goes through.

So that's life as we know it, up to now. I am hoping that, if and when we finally get the keys to the house, I can start more regular writing about life in the UK. There's certainly plenty to write about, but for now it's back to the storyboard...

Man's best friend

The last few weeks have been among the most frustrating, worrying and downright stressful of my adult life and I don't think that here is the place to go into details. To cut a very long and beaureacratic story short, we have had something of a battle with the Polish medical services and their incompetent, intelligence-free staff and institutions.

This story, however, concerns the return leg of a trip one Sunday after we had travelled down to find out exactly where the Institute of Genetic Medicine was in readiness for a visit the following morning, at 8am. A trip we had to get up at 6am to make and which turned out to be the straw that broke the camel's back. This institute / hospital is in a leafy suburb, not far from the palace at Wilanów, but not that easy to get to. We decided to do a reccy a day early so that we knew where we were in our sleepy stumblings the next day. Unchallenged by security, we were allowed to enter and ask directions from the woman on the desk who was dressed as if for a shift cleaning toilets which, should I ever get chance, will be her job for the remainder of her sad and pointless life, along with several doctors who shall be named for incompetence and general unhelpfulness just as soon as I get their names from Agnieszka.

Position of the required office located, we came back outside and crossed over a crumbling and rusty footbridge to sit in the weak winter sun, eating homemade sandwiches and speculating which bus to get. The first to come was no good. The second while we were still eating our sandwiches and couldn't be bothered to get up. So it was that we got the 519 back to the centre of Warsaw. We managed to get a seat fairly near the back and settled down for the ride into town.

On the seat opposite a woman was holding a small dog, a Yorkshire terrier or other such rug rat and on the back seat a middle-aged man had a small white dog on a lead. About five minutes after we got on, the man stood up and started to talk to the woman, his little mongrel watching patiently from the doorway of the bus. The man was obviously comparing dogs as he asked a few questions and stroked the little terrier. His dog continued to stand patiently by the door, waiting. The man said something to it and it wagged its tail.

"Are we getting off?" he said. The dog wagged its tail a little harder.

"Are we getting off?" The man bent down and ruffled the dog's fur.

"Are we going for a walk?" The little white dog's tail was wagging now and then, with a final "Are we getting off?" he let out a short, sharp bark that echoed round the bus and caused a few passengers to look round.

It must have been the bark that did it. Got the poor little dog so excited he couldn't hold it in, and let go with a small but deadly doggy guff. A few seconds after he barked, an invisible cloud enveloped us, causing our eyes to water and the sensitive hairs in our noses to curl up or wilt. The smell was phenomenal. There are military men in the world who would pay a fortune for this kind of biological weapon. If the driver had opened the doors, the bus would have emptied in seconds. But we were sat at lights and had to wait until they turned green - rather like many of the passengers - and the bus crossed the junction and pulled up at the stop. The doors opened, the man and his mobile methane machine got off - and I'm sure I saw, through my tear-filled eyes, the dog smirk. The welcome freshness of Sunday afternoon traffic fumes helped to slowly dispel the reeking poochy pong. You could actually hear sighs of relief as people were able to breathe again. Eyes were dried, noses re-emerged from behind hands, scarves and hoods.

It was the first time we'd laughed in what seems like weeks. All we want to do is check that this baby is healthy and at every step we have met with a wall of paperwork, of petty and officious pricks who think it is their duty to stall, to confuse, to give out false information or hope. I'm fairly sure that this paper trail has contributed to the fact that several major hospitals here in Poland are on the verge of bankruptcy, and it isn't helped by doctors who play God or are arrested for taking bribes to perform surgery, or others sit in offices so full of "presents" (Cognac, watches, pens...) there's hardly any room for themselves and the basic care that should be provided to so many is an after-thought, if it's thought about at all.

Bocian, baking and pips

This year will be one to remember. Just before Christmas Agnieszka told me she was 'late'. A week of waiting followed. She just got later. So we went to the chemist. We bought a testing kit. Another week of waiting. We did the test.

Positive.

We checked dates. Five weeks. I found a website. It said at this point, the embryo is the size of an apple pip. It has a heart the size of a poppy seed. We like the garden associations and wonder what size it will be in a couple of weeks. A cherry pip maybe, a plum stone? For now, and I suspect for the near future, it's known as 'the pip'.

We're going to be parents. I'm happier than I ever thought possible, despite the slight undercurrent of worry about the future, and a concern over how I will provide for 'my family'. So far that hasn't taken first place above the joy and excitement I feel, we feel, about becoming parents. One thing is certain, I'm with the most perfect person and that makes everything so much easier. It may be difficult ahead, but I know we'll cope, get on with it, and be happy.

I'm going to be a dad! What more can I say?


***************************************************
The in-flight Wizz Air magazine said that in Poland, if you look at a stork, bocian, you can get pregnant. So that's how it happened...

Christmas comes but once a year...

Actually, this year it came twice and if any proof is needed, the stretched-to-the-limit trousers are there on the washing line, blocking out the daylight.

I had two Christmasses this year, a Polish one and an English one, both lovely. We left Warsaw on the Friday afternoon before Christmas to go to Katowice and spent four days there. As with last year the Wigilia feast was immense, with course upon course making the eyeballs pop and the table creak. Barszcz, cabbage and mushrooms, pasta and poppy seeds, carp, compote and potatoes. Four completely full people, sitting saying very little, just bloated and content. Watched this year by two dogs, four cats and a guinea pig. A walk the next day took us to the mine, Wieczorek, and a stroll around the purpose-built 'village' of Niszowiec to marvel at the creation of a Victorian-style housing complex, complete with shops and, of course, church, but one that was built in the 1920s. Several foul-mouthed urchins were scooting about a car park playing hockey, while we strolled about the sun-washed streets marvelling at the graffiti and brickwork. The notice board described it as a 'picturesque' area but I think whoever did the translation got the word mixed up with 'bleak'.

The English Christmas was slightly different, in a pet-free, freezing cold house, but with the same huge amounts of food although this time very heavy on the chocolate and cake. Roast potatoes, carrots, turnip, sprouts, Yorkshire pudding, gravy and something I haven't had for ages: a Linda McCartney vegetarian deep country pie (which for some unexplained reason had been turned upside down on my plate by my mum). A trip to Pennington Flash for a walk and a bit of bird-watching and a disastrous trip to the rain-soaked Great Orme and Llandudno prom completed the holiday which was rounded off quite spectacularly by one of the bumpiest flights I've ever been on. Strong winds and storms leaving Liverpool and more windy weather in Warsaw made it a white knuckle ride for me, exacerbated by the decision not to have a drink at the airport (I mean, five pounds for a G&T is a bit steep isn't it?).

So now it's getting back to normal, settling back into work, getting used to the chilly weather. No snow yet, but the temeprature is dropping more now and looks set to be cold for a few weeks. A bit of snow would be nice, but I won't complain if we suddenly get warm spring days and plenty of sunshine. At least the river isn't frozen over. Yet.

Nie mam czasu!

I can't believe how quickly the last three or four months have gone by. It doesn't seem five minutes since the summer and already here we are in January of a new year. One of the things I miss is writing entries here and I hate to use the excuse, seeing as how every Pole I meet uses the same one for not doing whatever they're supposed to, but I literally don't have time to write things.

I got a new job in October and now work for another school doing 'afternoons' which means I finish work as late as 9pm (8pm on a Friday for crying out loud) during the week. They're different levels of ability (the most arrogant and lazy being the advanced) and big classes (of 15 students) and I have found it extremely stressful. Some days it's hard to sleep after 5am and I seem to spend all my waking moments planning, thinking about planning or looking for lesson stuff. After three months I now know that I am not, and never will be, a teacher. I 'lack assertiveness' and give the impression I 'don't know what I'm doing' according to the observation report. It has been a long and difficult way to find this out, but I think it's been a valuable lesson and I've learnt a lot in terms of time management and communication skills, not to mention more patience and a honed sense of piss-taking irony.

The thing I miss more than anything is having any sort of home life. I spend hours during the day at home, working of course, and then evenings at work. The weekend has become so precious now, and seems to be getting shorter every week. No sooner than I've got up on Saturday morning than I'm off to bed on Sunday night. This is no kind of life, although I know for a fact many ex-pats work much more than me (and complain about it endlessly) but then that's their choice.

I'd like to write more on the subject but it bores me now. I have to follow my own advice and when something happens I don't like, I must change it or shut up...

Cheap is the word...

Everyone likes a bargain, me included, and the Poles are no exception. When I go shopping for anything, I like to feel that I've got a good deal, or value for money. When the Poles go shopping they like to feel they bought something cheaper than everyone else, regardless of quality. his is a constant source of conversation and, as the English discuss the weather, so the Poles will discuss the price of goods and consumables at great length.

Shops and supermarkets have, of course, latched on to this and many now feature the words in their bylines. Here's a few examples:

Carrefour - tanio i wygodnie (cheap and comfortable)
Geant - wszystko i tanio (everything and cheap)
Leader Price - zawsze tanio (always cheap)
Leclerc - bliżej i tanio (closer and cheap)
Lidl - jest tani (do I really need to translate this one?)
Praktiker - prakticzne i tanio (practical and cheap)
Tesco - tanio, tanio Tesco (cheap, cheap Tesco; no longer used as they're now one of the most expensive here)
Top Market - bliżej, taniej, lepiej (closer, cheaper, better)

In addition, other places talk about dobry ceny (good prices), niskie ceny (low prices) and zer dla skner (not for skinflints).

This is how businesses compete and it's amazing how narrow these advertising slogans are. Like the disposable income of most of their customers actually...

Do as I say, not as I do...

Recent weeks have seen an upsurge in the ridiculous behaviour by the government here. Finance Minister Zyta Gilowska, forced to leave after (unfounded and unproved) allegations of collaboration with the secret police, has been reinstated into government and her first task has been to announce that becikowe - the payment of 1000zł to new mums brought in earlier this year - will be stopped. The reason? Not enough people have had children and so the incentive will be cut. Maybe the incentive is too small? Or maybe all those of child-bearing age are now romping and frolicking on distant shores, where 1000PLN works out at less than a week's wage.

Further to this, hidden cameras 'caught' Samoobrona MP Renaty Beger attempting to trade support for office. She was offered, by Adam Lipiński (a member of the prime minister's office), a ministry if she defected to the Law and Justice party in order to ensure a continued Kaczyński-controlled run in government. When the film hit the news, the government said it was perfectly normal, that this kind of thing happens all the time. We're in the right, said Kaczyński, this is nothing unusual. So the party that was elected because it promised to get rid of corruption from office has been found guilty and now refuses to admit it is wrong. Instead of sacking Lipiński as an example, he was held up as a model of a good politician and the heat has been turned onto the news station, TVN, which first broadcast the incriminating film. The newspaper Gazeta Polska has now accused TVN of taking the advice of an ex-secret police mamber to secretly film the interview. In turn, Gazeta Polska published the wrong guy's photo. The journalist's association that firstly supported the Law and Justice side is shocked (and so it should be, when it should be on the side of its members and the side of free speech).

The government is now trying to accuse the press of victimisation while, at the same time, continuing to claim that Poland is a free and democratic state. I always thought that democracy involved freedom of the media, or at least the media were allowed to say something about government without politicians taking it as a personal insult. Recently a front page news story highlighted this to a pathetic new height. According to reports, a homeless man said something derogatory about the president. The next day the 'whole of Poland' was out looking for him. When you're a public figure you have to expect this kind of thing and if a German newspaper compares you to a potato then you have to either accept it or leave office, not feign illness and snub the German Chancellor, Angela Merkel, as Lech did. Last week the EU once again warned Poland that its xenophobic, homophobic, anti-Semitic stance was unacceptable and it was treading on dodgy ground. When you joined the EU, it went on, it wasn't solely for your own benefit. You joined for the greater good of Europe, not just yourselves. Here I paraphrase but you get the idea.

So, now we have a situation where the government struggles to stay in power, desperate to make coalitions with anyone equally depserate for power. Kaczyński is, as it said yesterday: 'too weak to govern and too strong to stand down'. Cynics would say this reads too stupid and too stubborn. For fifty years Poland lay under communist rule and when it was overthrown there must have been so many tears and sighs of relief. But what price was that freedom? It seems those on the frontline in 1989 are now taking their lead from pre-89 leaders and trying to recreate that society. And the opposition? Where are they? Perfect opportunities to highlight the government's mistakes are left untaken. Tusk sits in his ivory tower saying nothing. He appears to oppose nothing, to offer no alternative, to suggest no way forward. Political stalemate or just simply stagnation? No wonder people in their millions (estimated at 3 since 2004 and Poland's accession into the EU) are leaving for a life za granica - beyond the border or, depending on your translation, beyond the limit.

Sunday sees a march against the government. We'll be there, adding weight. Maybe one voice can't change anything but without trying, you're as bad as they are.

26 August 2006

This photo was taken on 26 August 2006 at the Urząd Miasto, Plac Bankowy, Warsaw, the day I married Agnieszka. I have never been happier. She is the most wonderful girl and I am very proud.

From left to right: My mum Jean, Agnieszka, Alicja (Agnieszka's mum), Anna (Agnieszka's sister), me, my dad Norman.

Foraging in the forest...

Autumn is my favourite season, the richness of the colours, the chill mornings that give way to sunny, hot afternoons, the twilight and colours of the light as evening approaches, the flocks of starlings to be seen like clouds of smoke above the flats or by the river, the apples and plums on stalls by the side of the road.

It’s also a favourite season because it’s the time when mushrooms appear. I’m a great fan of fungi and a couple of weeks ago we took a train out to Podkowa Leśna, a small town whose hospital was made famous by the soap Na dobre i na złe. We were intent on picking some mushrooms of our very own. The journey takes about 40 minutes, although the hard plastic seats of the rumbling, lurching, thundering WKD train make it feel longer. We passed through Pruszkow, famous for its gangsters and out into the countryside, alighting at our stop in an almost different world, where sounds are more natural instead of the constant roar of Warsaw traffic. An old train was sitting at the platform but we weren’t interested in that and headed off – after a brief glance at a map – towards the forest.

At first I thought it was going to be a let down, the road we followed allowed cars along it and was dusty and noisy but as soon as we reached the forest proper it got infinitely better and we followed a path that wound along the edge of the trees. After a while we struck into the forest itself and all the sounds from the town gradually quietened. A woodpecker was calling, a dog barked in a far-off garden, a plane rumbled over head, but the best sound of all was the gentle breath of the wind in the treetops, the movement of branches and, above all, the silence of the outdoors.

Collecting mushrooms isn’t as easy as it sounds. For a start, all the ones you find immediately, the white ones, the tall ones, the red and white fairytale ones, they’re all deadly poisonous. If you do eat one that's a bit dodgy you can look forward to symptoms that include stomach ache, vomiting, high temperature, heavy diarrhoea and muscle ache. Obviously, the safe ones, the ones you can eat grow low down, in shady places and they’re coloured green and brown, khaki and grey to blend in with the undergrowth and leaf mould on which they grow. In the dappled sunlight of a September afternoon they’re bloody hard to spot. After a while, and after you’ve found the first few, you get used to looking, and it becomes easier. We moved deeper into the forest to find more, I got really excited that, for probably the first time in my life (excluding blackberries and Mrs Orrell’s apples) I was foraging for something I would later eat. Every so often we’d meet other people, some old men pushing bikes, big plastic buckets full of mushrooms, or a family with little wicker baskets, all gathering for the winter like connoisseur squirrels. For me, the delight of the day was being in the forest, searching, in the peace and quiet. Lately we’ve talked of moving to Gdynia, or somewhere else on the coast and I realised that it isn’t just the sea I miss, it’s the silence of the countryside, away from the roar of traffic, the smell of fumes and the crowds of people.

We stopped to eat our sandwiches on a gate, seeing as there were absolutely no benches to be found. An old woman shuffled past, taking an even older-looking dog for a walk. She disappeared into the distance, muttering and shuffling along in her slippers but the dog grew tired and wandered back the way they had come. She never even noticed and the last we saw, she was stood at the edge of the trees, looking for something in the undergrowth. A mushroom maybe, or a long lost jewel, or a memory.

At some point in the afternoon, the foraging stopped being fun. I think it was when we decided that we didn’t know exactly where we were, that the afternoon was wearing on and we had no idea how long it would take to get to Otrębusy for the train back. The last hour or so was a - still enjoyable but slightly less so - brisk walk, along some fairly unpleasant roads full of drivers trying to beat land speed records and it was with some relief that we got to the station to wait for the train. The seats on the return were much comfier, due mainly to the train being a new one, not one of those old bone-shakers we’d travelled out on.

Back home the mushrooms were sliced, threaded onto string, draped over the clothes horse and left to dry. The next day they were put in the oven to dry them further as they still seemed to be damp. It turned out that what we’d picked (a full carrier bag full) were fairly wet and of course when they dried, they shrank. So our carrier bag of forage is now down to a couple of hundred grams in an empty mayonnaise jar. One day I’ll make some soup with them but for now I’ll remember the afternoon I became a hunter gatherer again and went into the forest to pick mushrooms. As the weather is still warm and sunny we may get another chance to forage for provisions, before the cold, dark days of winter leave us snuggled in front of the television.

Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside...

Sometime earlier in the year, June I think, we queued at Central Station until one in the morning in order to buy cheap tickets to go to Gdynia, on the coast. They were ridiculously cheap, 15zł or three quid, each way. We booked a place to stay and then sat back and waited for the weekend to arrive.

So it was on Saturday morning that the alarm went off at 5.30am and we got up, showered, coffeed and out for the 6am bus to town. I assumed it would be quiet, being Saturday and all, but the bus was packed with people obviously, judging by the number of bags and suitcases they had with them, heading for the station. We were crammed in a spot by the door and being rocked by the motion of the bus when I spotted a space and we headed for it. This was our first mistake. We were rewarded by the stink of an unwashed, or possibly never washed, body. No wonder there was room near the man dozing on the seat. He reeked. I mean, really hummed. He was possibly homeless but was not badly dressed so it isn't definite. We had to endure the pong for almost fifteen minutes before the doors opened and we dived off the bus at Centralna, gasping great lungfuls of slightly fresher air.

Inside the station was the usual chaos but our train was at the platform and we were able to board it and found our seats quickly. That's where we stayed for the next four and a half hours as we trundled across the northern Polish landscape towards the coast. The recent rain had turned the withered and yellowing fields into a rich, lush green and now and again we were able to see the tall white figure of a stork, standing watch in a field. When we reached Gdansk the train pretty much emptied, but we remained, only alighting a half hour later in a wind-swept, drizzly Gdynia.

The weather didn't look up to much, cloud and some wind-blown dampness, but we decided to walk to our digs. We took directions off a friendly old woman, and headed up a small lane, wooded on one side. The sound of the sea reached our ears and seagulls were mewling overhead. After a couple of minutes of checking numbers, we found the place we were staying and rang the bell. The guard dog watched us intently, its tail wagging slowly. A big, walrus-moustachioed man in shorts and sandals waddled out and gruffly greeted us. We were taken round the back of the house and, as he unlocked a door in the wall, I had a fleeting vision of being housed in a coal cellar, with no lights or windows and only the mice and spiders for company. As it turned out, it was a large basement room, complete with small bar in one corner and two sofa-beds, made up for guests. There was a small kitchen with a washing machine (which would later rumble and chug its way through a very long washing cycle) and a bathroom. A small portable tv sat in one corner. We would later find out it had only one channel and was showing footage of the Sopot festival, taking place only five miles away. A smell of damp wafted through the rooms but it was clean and, after a small argument about how long we were staying, we were given a key and left to our own devices.

As soon as we ventured out we got wet. The rain started to come down heavily, so we went back inside and waited while the shower eased. After ten minutes it stopped and we took a small path down to the front. That's when the heavens opened. And I mean a deluge. Within a minute or two we were completely soaked and had to make a dash to a nearby restaurant. The girl on the desk was obviously amused at our soggy state, but we dripped all over the nice clean floor and the coffee was good so we didn't mind too much. As we drank we watched the rain lashing down and then, almost as quickly as it had started, it stopped. A line of lighter sky showed under the grey clouds and while the sun didn't come out, it stopped raining. That's how it stayed for the rest of the weekend.

We trudged soggily up the front to the pier at Gdynia and after a walk on the beach, amused ourselves with the sign on one boat, the gunship 'Błyskawica', which had a post office on board. This was, the sign said:

"Open in the hours of ship's accessibility to visitors. Retail of post stamps at the ships booth. Stamping the postal matter with an occasional date marker."

I wanted to get my postal matter stamped with an occasional date, but it cost too much just to do that, so we just sniggered at the sign before moving on. We heard the beat of a drum and saw that some boys were practicing in their Dragon boats. Two boats attempted to race, but half-heartedly, the crews wishing they were with the others on the quay, standing around drinking beer. Taking that as a cue, we decided it was time for food and repaired to a small cafe on the front, sheltered by a plastic screen so we could sit outside. We got fish, chips and stung. The menu said the fish was 6zł per 100g but I think they must have weighed it when it was still in the boat as the bill came to some astronomical sum. It was nice though, despite the bones.

On the Sunday we walked down the beach to Gdynia Orłowo. It felt good to be near the sea, to hear the waves and to listen to the screech of the gulls: no cars, no sirens, no buses... At one point we had to go into the woods that back on to the beach as the tide was too high to get around the headland. Almost immediately on heading into the trees we saw an owl which silently glided off a tree stump and flew deeper into the woods. This was probably my favourite bit of the whole trip, the walk along the beach (marvelling at the strange frutti de mare which had been washed up by the storm: apples, onions, a cauliflower, a leek...) and then through the forest, views from the crumbling cliffs and then emerging once more onto the beach. The only downside being the amount of litter that is strewn along the sand: cigarette butts, bottles, plastic cups and other assorted debris. If the Baltic resorts want to attract more visitors then they need to address this problem quickly and efficiently.

After a quick coffee we jumped on to a train to Gdansk to see the Dominican Fair, held every year in August. What a disappointment. The last time I visited this fair it was amber, amber, wood crafts and amber. Now, it seemed to be a cheap version of a crappy Sunday market: bras and knickers (do Dominicans wear thongs?), jeans and other clothes, plastic crap and odd 'crafts' that are mass produced in some sweat-soaked Chinese factory. On one street there were some nice, homemade glass pieces, some carvings and, of course, amber jewellery, but on the whole it was cheap plastikowy gowno and full of pushing and shoving Warszawiaks, not looking where they're going. All in all it put a bit of a dampener on the day. Gdansk has changed so much in the few years since I first arrived on an overnight train from Berlin (again, to cascades of rain). Then you could get real coffee and toursits were still a bit of a novelty. Now, they're everywhere and Gdansk offers fifty variations on a cappuccino instead of a standard cup of pick-me-up. The one cafe we did find that had regular coffee on the menu had a broken machine. They could offer us tea only. What good is that when you've been tramping round a market for a couple of hours?

Before we left we bought huge doughnuts, covered in icing, dessiccated coconut and filled with white cheese. Sounds weird, but very tasty. The train back to Warsaw seemed to take forever, but there were more storks, a couple of deer and plenty of green fields to stare at, thinking of the sea, the sounds and the smells and wondering when we'd be back there again. Maybe next time for good?

Holidaying Polish-style

Now that we're in the thick of summer, with temperatures reaching the low 30s and clouds a distant winter memory, all thoughts have turned to holidays. Every day on the tv come reports of holidaying Poles (the ones not desperate to leave the country and work abroad, that is) who are packing the Baltic coast beaches and queuing up to buy tickets which will allow them access to the top of mountains. However, you'll find most people on their summer break heading down to Castorama or Leroy Merlin, the do-it-yourself superstores, where the aisles are choked with men in t-shirts and shorts - and, naturally, socks with sandals - trying to explain patiently to their wives or girlfriends why THAT colour is no good for a bathroom and why EVERYTHING should be painted magnolia. Emulsion, and its application to interior surfaces, is big business for Poles in July and August.

I am, of course, no exception and have myself made several trips to the above-mentioned shops to buy DIY accessories. The result is that I have spent the early part of August painting the hall, kitchen and bathroom. I've put in a tiled splashback behind the sink and cooker; I'm in the process of fitting new lights to the bathroom and I'll finish by changing the bare bulb hanging from a wire in the hallway to a proper set of spotlights to illuminate the bookshelves. I've cleaned up any mess I've made and have removed any rogue blobs of paint from floor or walls where they shouldn't be and I'm pretty pleased that the flat looks clean and presentable.

For the first summer, this is a novelty, but I'm a believer in traditional summer holidays spent at the beach or in the mountains, not in the paint aisle and up a ladder. Next year, it's the Baltic!

Shop till you drop

Shopping is an experience in Warsaw. We are lucky to have a new, modern shopping mall within easy reach of the flat but sometimes we don't have time to go there and it's necessary to call in to the Carrefour supermarket in the Wileński mall in Praga. I like this mall because I know it's safe. I know it's safe because there's a little sign on the entrance: a pistol in a red circle that tells people they're not allowed to bring their guns in. Comforting.

Outside, when the Pope came, the supermarket set up a stall selling the most holy of accessories: water and biscuits. Other people sell strawberries, cherries, potatoes from stalls, or hang around waiting for buses, smoking foul-smelling cigarettes and scratching equally rancid armpits. Only 58% of Poles aged between 18 - 24 have a shower on a daily basis. This rises slightly for the 34 - 44 age bracket and then falls sharply to only 16% for the over-65s. Why? Communism. That's the usual excuse. Communism is the reason people don't wash. As logical as anything else here really.

Shoppers too, are worthy of note. Like the guy in the small supermarket near the flat. Dressed in paint-splattered white overalls, completely bald and with a huge walrus moustache he passed through the checkout, before ten in the morning, purchasing a French stick, a litre of tomato juice and a three-quarter pint bottle of vodka. Once through the till, the loaf was snapped in two to fit the carrier bag and off he went. Presumably back to work and several Bloody Marys...

On another occasion, I was behind a woman, at 8.30pm, in a city centre supermarket. She was middle-aged, well dressed. She had a small dog in her shopping bag and in her basket? One Domestos toilet freshener. At Wileński there is a woman who uses a green, plastic clothes peg as a cigarette holder...

The land that music forgot

After almost two months of hot, sunny, dry days, this morning was grey and chilly and rain has been seeping down from a leaden sky for the past couple of hours. I don't know where the time has gone since I wrote the last entry here. June was a blur, culminating in a trip to Katowice, and July was taken up with a teacher training course which, hopefully, will get me a better, more secure job. I'm not holding my breath though.

With the summer months comes the festivals. All the greats of yesteryear are now struggling to make a living, have to drop their fees and so make their way to Poland for gigs. So far we've had Guns n' Roses, The Cult and King Diamond. INXS are due in October. Star of the Sopot festival is Elton John. Who says dinosaurs are extinct?

So why this love of oldies? Is it because Poland can now afford to pay for these acts? Ticket prices aren't cheap, though, with most on a par - or more expensive - than they would be in England or Germany. The radio is partly to blame. Whichever station you tune to you get the same music. Like each station only has one cd - a compilation of 80s hits, plus a compilation of Polish singalong tunes. Favourites, played once an hour, or more, include: Remixes of the Police - Message in a bottle, Roxanne - Vanessa Paradis' abysmal Joe le taxi, the irritating singalong choruses of Finnish scrubbed-faced oiks, The Rasmus, Eurythmics, Jimmy Somerville... In a recent edition of one of the free morning papers, a survey was carried out asking who people would like to see in Poland. The results were frightening:

Lukasz, aged 20: 'Shakira.'

Katarzyna, aged 26: 'Jon Bon Jovi, Celine Dion or Eros Ramazotti.'

and Konrad, aged 21: 'The Rolling Stones.'

Thankfully, after Keith Richards, for reasons of his own, dived out of a coconut palm, the Stones cancelled their trip to Poland. But every day brings a new set of posters, advertising new acts, long forgotten in England, about to appear in Warsaw. It's only a matter of time before dinosaurs live again here...

Pass the parcel, eventually...

In a recent report, Poczta Polska admitted that the number of items they were unable to deliver had increased. The reason for this was due to the increase in the total volume of items they handle. The emphasis here was not on their failure to improve their service, but to redirect blame onto customers who had, inconsiderately, sent even more letters and parcels than previously. It was their fault, the article implied, that Poczta Polska had been able to not deliver, or lose, even more letters and parcels than ever they could previously. In PP's favour, though, it should be remembered that at least the percentage remains constant and that their consistency in achieving this figure - in respect of the heavier workload their workers face - is, indeed, commendable.

In a possibly unrelated incident I received a letter from my mum, posted in England and which was wandering about for two weeks before it arrived in Warsaw. When it finally limped into the flat, there was a clear postmark on the back which said: Lisboa. Unfortunately, it is impossible to lay the blame on anyone in particular. Did it get put on the wrong plane - by accident or on purpose - in England by a dyslexic, or just plain numty, sorting office employee?

Hmm, Poland. Name looks a bit like Portugal. Same difference...

Or was it mischievously redirected once it arrived in Warsaw by a similarly literally-disadvantaged space cadet? Who knows. The main thing is it arrived and now we have enough sudoku to last nearly two weeks.

But I digress. Another letter, this time posted in the city - but on the other side of the river - was returned to the sender. It seems the postcode was wrong. I've never had any trouble before but apparently if you put the wrong postcode on an item, it goes to the wrong post office and hence cannot be delivered. This is despite the fact that the street where we live is the only one of that name in the whole of Warsaw, and that the beginning of the code - 03 - is for this area only. All the post goes to the main post office which is round the corner from the flat. If I was, heaven forbid, a cynical type of person, then I would hazard a guess that the letter was never posted in the first place and the post office got the blame. Because, as everyone knows, they couldn't post a letter up their own backsides in the dark, but it's a convenient excuse and one that most people believe.

If a non-delivered, or re-delivered letter is irritating, it's small potatoes compared to the non-payment of wages and here the number-themed problem gets more absurd and surreal. My wages are now ten days overdue (nothing new there, after six months with this company I still haven't been paid on time) and when I called to find out why I was told I hadn't signed my contract for April. Having to sign a contract every month is, in itself, ridiculous, but it's what the employer insists on. I went to the office to find out more. There was my contract with the first two pages initialed by myself and the third page without a signature.

I signed this. I remember. And you should too because you were sat there watching me.

Ah, yes. I do remember, and I found out what happened.

Please, do tell, I can't wait for this month's excuse.

Well, the accountant was going through the contracts and she noticed that the first two pages were in 12-point font, while the third page was in 14-point. So she reprinted the last page in 12-point to make it the same as the other pages.

And threw away, shredded, whatever, the page with my signature on. Nothing if not original. So I had to re-sign my contract and am still waiting for the money. You may laugh at the absurdity of this, but it's a daily occurence here.

To give one further - wouldn't it be nice to say final? - example of this absurditiy, the farmers in Poland, along with other EU nations, are allowed to make claims for European Union subsidies. To do this they must submit a claim together with a map of the land they own and intend to farm. The deadline approached and the farmers panicked because the company that prints the maps they need wasn't going to be able to finish the job in time for the claims to be submitted, which would result in the loss of millions of Euro in subsidies. Instead of meeting the problem at the source, i.e. getting the maps printed more quickly, which would have involved some common sense and some 'joined-up thinking', the Agriculture Minister, the tanned and silver-haired Andrzej Lepper, had to go to the European Union and ask for a deadline extension. A month's grace was granted, but it is a fairly safe bet that it will be the same scenario next year. Why? Because in Poland it appears that no-one is responsible, no-one takes the blame and no-one looks further than the profit they can screw out of everything.

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Aside: A supporter of Roman Giertych's ultra-Catholic LPR, 'League of the Polish Family', party was quoted as saying that 'anyone who opposes Giertych is gay, and all gays are paedophiles'. I may be wrong, but I thought we were in the 21st Century now and that the Dark Ages were far in the past. Here in Poland, it seems not.

When plus comes to shove...

As with so many things here in Poland it seemed an simple task, to change cable tv providers. How naive we are. When will we ever learn that nothing here is straightforward or easy?

Firstly, the contract is renewed by the company in yearly instalments, which makes it difficult to remember the exact date you started and, before you know it, they've signed you up for another year. So the only option was to give, in writing, three months notice. Three months. On something you pay for monthly. Ok, it's a nuisance, but that's the terms of the contract. The CONtract.

So that's done. A week later a letter arrives, expressing great sadness that we're leaving the company. It looks like they really care, they've even highlighted part of one sentence, of what is otherwise a standard photocopy, in bold. A phone call follows, offering a discount if we decide to reconsider and stay.

What discount?

Well, for the next three months, half of what you're paying now.

And then?

Then it will go up by a quarter, then after three more months up a further quarter.

So inside six months I'll be paying the same as I am now? Fantastic. Can you ring me back tomorrow to discuss the finer details?

Er, no. Can't tomorrow, have to do it the day after...

Some incentive to stay that was. So thanks for trying so hard to keep our business.

Returning the equipment made an even bigger joke of the whole situation. If it wasn't so ridiculous it would be laughable. No wonder people put the decoder, cables and card in an envelope and post it back to them.

We rang the company.

You can take it to Targówek shopping centre and leave it at the customer service point there.

You mean the cardboard cutout 'office' place, where the girl sits on a computer chatline all day? Looking bored and sighing loudly if you ask for any help?

That's the one. Just leave it there.

But they don't accept it. They can't. Because the girl on the desk has cat litter for brains and doesn't know what to do. So we have to bring it back home and try again. Another phone call. Another address. Another part of the city. Another pointless journey. Another feckin' refusal.

We can't accept it.

Why not?

Because it's a day early. We can't accept it before the end of May.

But today is the 31st.

No, has to be tomorrow.

Can't you write a receipt for tomorrow?

No, it's forbidden.

Can I leave it?

No, it's forbidden.

I'll have to take it home and drag it back here at my own convenience and expense again, then?

You'll have to.

So we still have the equipment. As the new company can't connect for a week or two, we're using it to watch the Vicar of Dibley. We get to keep the satellite dish though. I think it'd make a nice bird bath. Or it would if I'd let the pigeons anywhere near the balcony.

Better 'here it is!' than 'where is it?'

It seems to me that if they beat someone for asking questions, it should at least be his most personal question - especially if he is a writer. If a writer asks in the name of Europe or his country or the people, in whose name should the politician ask? But then what should a writer do, when the politicians have long ago stopped asking questions and take care only that they may rule without interruption, regardless of how harmful their rule may be?

The engine driver's story, Ivan Klima, 1992.

Kaczyńsky, Tusk, Lepper, Giertych. Are you listening?

A game of two halves...

Next month sees the 2006 World Cup, which will take place in Germany. The very words immediately bringing forth a yawn of such gigantic proportions I think my head will split and someone will try to park a car in my mouth. As far as ranking the event in order of importance goes, to me it comes somewhere between bungee-jumping and diving in a cage to see sharks. What will make it interesting, both here and abroad, is the entrance onto the international stage of the Polish football hooligan. Tribalism is rife here. Warsaw, far from alone among Polish cities, is plastered with graffitti proclaiming either neanderthal allegiance to a particular club or the dubious parentage or sexual activity of the opposition. You could be forgiven for thinking that children are first taught to write only the letter 'L' and then given aerosols, parental blessing and a blank wall on which to practice. When their manual dexterity improves, they are then allowed to graduate to drawing a circle around the 'L', topped off with a styilised crown, and there you go: Warszawa Legia - Mistrz. It appears everywhere: walls, trees, buses, trams, drunks, anywhere there's a space. There used to be a time when graffitti was interesting, political, funny even. Now it's just dull. (Except, of course, for the underpass in Giszowiec which bears the legend: 'Be realistic - demand the impossible!')

So along comes the World Cup and with it come the hooligans. So far, Polish hooligans have yet to leave their grubby fingerprints on what is, let's face it, simply a game. Germany is, by rail, only several hours away and it's expected that many fans (among them sincere and dedicated followers, intent on seeing a good match that doesn't involve riot shields or water cannon) will travel to support the red and whites. In a seemingly unrelated move, the train companies recently announced that the purchase and / or consumption of alcohol would be banned on domestic services. A good idea, perhaps. Until you read on. Those people with international tickets, for countries like, say, Germany, will be able to purchase and consume alcohol to their hearts content. If they are anything like the two boys on the flight from Liverpool to Warsaw over Easter, then beware. Between them these two drank a full 75cl bottle of vodka on the two-hour flight, refused to wear seat belts or to sit down and constantly played with switched-on mobile phones, despite repeated requests to turn them off. They could hardly stand after the short flight, so imagine what they'd be like after a six hour train journey.

So the German police will be waiting. But for whom? Almost every country in Europe now has a 'hooligan database' that lists known, and potential, trouble-makers. Except Poland. No-one is sure how many will travel, who they are or where they will go, but already there have been reports of a Poland vs Germany 'battle' in a forest near the border as a pre-World Cup warm-up. With Poland's reputation already slightly tarnished by its relationship with the European Union and its continually growing ultra-Catholic public face it remains to be seen what kind of image the fans will leave behind.

Death and the pigeon...

So spring finally arrived. It went from cold to hot almost overnight and I suspect we've gone from winter to summer without passing through spring. The trees have suddenly woken up and started to sprout green shoots. The grass has grown sufficiently to cover the copious mounds of dog turds that had steamed their way down through the snow only to emerge, like a sticky brown phoenix, during the thaw as a trap for the unwary.

But it isn't all joy. Those flying disease bags - the pigeons - are back. Worse still, there are two that are under the misguided impression that they'll be nesting again on our balcony. How naive. It is, however, more difficult than I thought to teach them that, under no circumstances, is this going to happen. I assumed a couple of good shouts of "shoo" - and a vision of me in a t-shirt, sans bills - would tell them they weren't welcome, but they just take no notice. I've started to get obssessive about it, getting up in the middle of the night to check if they're skulking round the plant pots; sneaking around in the morning in the hope of catching them cooing and crapping on the concrete; spying on the balcony from below to see if they have appeared again; tieing ribbons of flapping plastic to the rail as a bird scarer. I've caught one of them a couple of times now with a well-aimed brush up the tail feathers, but it still hasn't deterred them. I've started washing the floor of the balcony almost daily so that I know if they've visited while I've been out; the fresh piles of shit they leave as a calling card an obvious giveaway. Yesterday I raced out on to the balcony, waving my arms and shooing as loud as I could, like an over-excited steam engine. As I watched the pigeons flap away, I noticed someone sat down by the door of the mortuary (our view on one side), looking up to see what the fifth floor madman was up to. They continued staring for several minutes before getting up and going back inside.

Last year, I've been told, the pigeons nested in one corner of the balcony. They made a 'nest' by throwing a few sticks on the floor, keeping it held together with pooh-glue. At the end of the spring, when they left, a new mop had to be purchased to clean up all the gunk and crap that they left behind. This year I'm not prepared to let that happen, especially as the two boxes on the ledge are now full of seeds and my tomato plants will soon be big enough to plant outside. So for now, I continue to sneak around and then run manically outside, hissing and screeching, all because of my intense dislike of these feathered scumbags...

(Apologies to Andrey Kurkov for the title...)

Only time flies here...

A fledgling airline has been advertising in the press recently, offering dicount flights to Sweden and Norway. As these countries are so expensive it makes sense to fly by one of these budget companies to save your money for essentials like bread and cheese without having to leave your arm and leg at the till. We talked about going over to Gothenburg, or to Oslo, and it seems like it could be a good idea for a short break, especially if the days are sunny and long.

So it was with interest that I noticed an advert in the Gazeta Wyborcza jobs section. It said:

Wanted - Pilots. Must have experience flying a plane.

Or something like that, I paraphrase. It made us laugh, the idea that they have a route, a price, we assume they have a plane, but as yet - no driver.

It's been a long, hard winter in Poland.

Punch-up in the post office...

I was in the small post office opposite Sadyba market, buying stamps for my brother’s birthday card. As usual it was full of old women, paying rent or bills, or just professionally queuing, which is what most of them seem to do. To preserve this system of queuing, you have to take a ticket from a machine and then, until it’s your turn, while away the time as best you can. I got my ticket and, seeing there were eleven punters in front of me, took a seat. At the window directly opposite my uncomfortable green plastic chair, a man was leaning, his hood pulled up despite the heat inside. He seemed to be waiting for his turn but I’m not sure now.

The bell sounded and another number clicked up on the display. It said 501 and a large bear-like man of around thirty, but possibly younger, came up to the window next to where the hooded guy was leaning. I heard 502 mentioned, then out of the blue the two – hoody and the bear – started to push each other at the window. Words were exchanged, then more pushing, then fists started to fly. A scuffle broke out in the not-too-large post office, the old women scattered like frightened hens and clucked and scolded but it fell on deaf ears. I moved further away to a better vantage point and because, as the only other person in there under 70, thought I might be expected to try and break it up. It was, however, much too entertaining to do that. Coats were pulled, punches exchanged, muffled swearing and grunting, and then the spinning dance that happens when two people can’t get a clear smack at each other. After a few minutes it calmed down and they both went back to the window. The old women drifted back to their previous positions, chunnering and tutting and adjusting their mohair berets.

Once the two combatants got back to their original positions I thought I’d slipped back in time. It was like watching an action replay as exactly the same thing happened again: the words, the push, then shouting, shoving, and then fists again. There was on duty a skinny, silver-haired, bearded security guard of advancing years and when the second scuffle broke out he took two precautions: he locked the door to the outside and he locked himself behind the counter. After several more minutes of scuffling, order was resumed, with the bear going back to the counter and using his size and apparent victory as a basis for his right to be served next. What did he buy? One ticket, normal tariff, for the bus. Nothing else.

I bought my stamps – as the girls had started serving again now that the fuss had died down – and came to leave but had to wait while the security guard came out from his safe haven and unlocked the door. He tried to keep the bear inside, but he was ineffectual and the last I saw, the security guard was trying to phone someone on his mobile. I don’t blame him for not getting involved, but if it had been any more serious he would have been useless, as he was too frail – and I am too careful, or chicken – to get involved.

Where is the spring?

It's almost the middle of March and there's still no sign of spring. This morning they announced on the radio that it was minus ten outside, so it's still a case of big coat, hat and scarf. During the day the sun melts some of the snow and leaves big puddles across all the paths which, overnight, turn into sheets of ice and lie in wait for those hurrying to work or for buses.

On February 23rd, there was a dzień bez łapówki - a day without bribes. This was advertised all over the place and I thought it was nice that, once a year, you can have a day where no-one takes a bribe. The usual excuse given as to why people take bribes is that those in poorly-paid jobs need the money to supplement their wages. So this makes it right? An 'extra' payment for doing what you're supposed to? For greasing the wheels a little? As an example, I was told that, to book the room for the wedding, I would have to give the woman in charge 'something', a box of chocolates maybe. For doing what? For writing two names in a book? And if I don't? Well, then she makes a few noises and says it isn't possible. So I have no choice now? To bribe and get what I want - and what it is her 'duty' to give me - or to ignore this and be frustrated by the soviet throwback attitude that people will only do their jobs if they get a little bit of something 'extra'. We've both decided she won't get an envelope, a box of chocolates, or even a thank you if she doesn't do what she - however poorly - is paid to do. Without a little 'gift' here and there, where is the job satisfaction? What is even more annoying is that it isn't just those people who grew up under the communist yoke that think bribery is not only an acceptable part of life, but almost a given way of getting things done.

This type of thinking sometimes goes beyond rational thought into the land of nonsense. On one tv programme, it was said that those who live together and aren't married are no better than cave people, who lived the same way, and therefore society is regressing into a prehistoric age. This was uttered without any sense of irony or mirth and reflects how the church not only keeps a tight grip on its followers here, but also strangles any kind of thought that goes against its teaching. Again, it isn't just the old who profess these things, the youth too are blatantly ignorant and intolerant and there is little feeling that change is possible. Apathy would reign if only people could be bothered...