Food glorious food...

Bolton has recently been commended for its ethnic inclusion strategy, which is nice to hear. It still has to address gang culture, drugs, homelessness and several other areas but at least different minorities are getting on quite well. As one celebration, the council runs a World Food Fair at Bishop Bridgeman school a couple of times a year. For the last one we were approached and asked if we’d like to contribute anything.

‘Sure,’ we said, ‘We can do something traditionally Polish, no problem.’

But then we were told it must be something cold, as health and safety won’t let us use any kind of heater on the stall, and it must be vegetarian. During the day, one young Asian lad asked Agnieszka if the salad we’d made was halal, without realising how much angst went in to actually making something without meat.

Because Polish food is heavy on the meat. Who cares what kind as long as it’s dead: kiełbasa, parówki, schab, szynka, indyk or kurczak. Practically every meal contains some sort of meat. Although that made it difficult, what made it almost impossible was the ‘cold’ criterion. Salad was all we could think of. In November. Finally Agnieszka hit on her vegetable salad and we made that, along with one of celeriac, pineapple and sweetcorn. Both went down really well, except in the case of one little girl who tasted and then, very slowly, let it re-emerge from her mouth. The offending mouthful of salad was deftly caught and hidden by her dad, who looked sheepishly at us but grinned when he saw us smiling.

People seemed to like the salad, were confused about where Poland was, but on the whole everything went well. It was a shame the weather was crap, lots of rain and wind, as this affected the turnout. It would’ve also been nice to see more variety as, after the last one, we got the feeling it would be all the same faces at every one of these gatherings. We’ll miss the next one unfortunately, being in Poland when it’s on, but I am sure we’ll get another chance to show the world some ‘Polish kitchen’.

A star shone in the east, right over Ikea...

O gwiazdo Betlejemska,
zaswiec na niebie mym.

What with one thing and another going to a continental Christmas market this year hasn’t happened. To try to make up for it, we decided to go to Manchester’s ‘famous’ Christmas market, to soak up the atmosphere and to sample a bit of glühwein whilst wandering around brightly-lit stalls selling all manner of marzipan-coated goodies, where red-faced jolly Dutch people sold Christmas clogs and stout German frauleinen proffered sausages long enough to knoblauch your knackwurst.

Actually, it wasn’t that bad. By mid-afternoon the crowds were reminiscent of Köln’s horrendously overcrowded Weihnachtsmarkt as frustrated mothers pushed irritated toddlers through throngs of shopping-mad punters and light Manchester drizzle. Shopping isn’t my favourite thing, granted, but I do like to wander around a market, especially one full of interesting sounds (‘This garlic plate will save you time and energy!’), sights (man in Russian-style chapka pushing a pram straight towards the beer tent) and smells (sausages, burgers and generator diesel).

Manchester has a real snobbery, though, that masks a dark underbelly. I think this is best seen in the council’s choice of decoration for the town hall. For several years they had an inflatable Santa but, having patched and mended him, they decided this year they’d get something new. What they got is, without doubt, the most repulsive Christmas decoration I’ve seen in a long while – even worse than the gaudy red and black Christmas tree in the hairdressers on Market Street. It’s a big, fat, light-covered ‘Santa’ that looks vaguely like someone with a beard if you squint. It is foul. It is light polluting. It is as far from the true spirit of Christmas as it is possible to get. As a contrast, there is also a German decoration made of wood. Personal choice, I know, but to me the wooden decoration is so much more appealing than the light polluting Father Christmas plonked on top of the entrance to the town hall.

Watching all the shoppers pursuing the bargains made me sad. Yesterday on BBC 6 Music, one of the presenter’s sidekicks said something, hopefully tongue-in-cheek, about ‘Father Christmas’ birthday’ and, whether joking or not, made me realise how few people seem to know why we celebrate this feast. For me, the Polish way of family and meal with an exchange of token gifts is so much more appealing than the lavish shows of wealth here. As the one million Poles go back this year – some paying the extortionate prices, charged by easyJet, Wizz and the like, of up to five times the normal price – they will take a little of our commercialism back with them and slowly it will creep into what is still a simple, holy celebration of the birth of a life. I feel lucky and privileged I can celebrate the feast in this way and enjoy the experience whole-heartedly.

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?


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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...