On the Diamond Jubilee

Last weekend Her Majesty the Queen was celebrating her 60 years of reign (sounds somewhat like 60 years of rain, sic!) and the grateful subjects have been granted bank holidays in order to join in the festivities. They eagerly obliged and street parties, village parties, house parties were organised all over Britain to the highest joy of whoever produces Union Jack cups, plates, napkins, pennons, you name it. I was quite looking forward to partaking in such merry making – what an opportunity for observation of humans and all! - but our village unfortunately did not throw a party as the main street happens to also be a major transit road and disturbances caused by it being taken over by festivities would be excessive. Moreover, it was pissing it down the whole day on Sunday, so I'm not sure how much merriment I could muster. I decided to console myself by watching the pageant on the Thames – it had been announced way in advance and the expectations were high, personally I expected nothing short of the whole British fleet parading down the river to the sound of cannons and fireworks. Cannons and fireworks there were, I think, but the flotilla was highly disappointing – it looked as if they summoned anything that would float and threw it onto the river without any apparent plan or order. Yet people seemed to be having fun and enjoying themselves, both on the banks of the Thames and in their smaller groupings, waving Union Jacks energetically and drinking somewhat a lot - were I the Queen, I would be deeply moved by how thoroughly my subjects celebrated me. The Queen herself said she was humbled – which is mainly a distinguished way of saying the same thing.

On Elvis

Whenever I watched footages from concerts, or other events involving the presence of stars, I would sigh with lack of understanding and a feeling of certain perplexity at the teenagers and no-longer-teenagers waving frantically at their idol(s) and screaming their hearts out in an almost religious trance. Do not get, do not approve, get a life.

And then I watched Elvis with Jannick. And there we were, two mature women in their 30ies, otherwise mostly reasonable and calm, crying and screaming at the telly, pressing our hands to our lips with emotion as if trying to contain the squeeky noises that were forcing themselves out of our throats (but failing miserably).

(Other people present retreated to the conservatory for the duration of the concert.
Paul, me thinks, had a hard time getting to grips with what was happening to his normally rather much less noisy girlfriend.)

But still, it was Jannick and me and lots of wine and Elvis. Not Westlife or the likes.
Yet, I now know from which part of one's insides those screams emerge and that it is not possible to contain them.
So I no longer judge.


NB. I was told later on that it was rude of us to watch Elvis instead of all of us doing something together. Maybe so. But then I remember another social gathering during which people put on football that some of us had no desire to watch and that was ok. I sometimes get a paranoid feeling that if someone else does it, it's ok, but when I do it, it's rude...

On my problem with London

I don't like going to London much.
I don't like going to London, because I don't feel comfortable in big cities with all their crowds in haste.
But mostly I don't like going to London because I like it too much. Like Paris. Like Berlin.
I spend the day doing the touristy stuff, pushing my way through crowds, being pushed myself, clinging on to my handbag and to Paul's hand so that this whole unspeakable energy and movement would not suck me in and make me disappear.
But then we sit somewhere for a drink and I start watching people walking past and my mind starts imagining the lifes they have, what it would be like to be their friend or colleague or neighbour, and I spot a street with particularly nice (interesting, unusual, ugly) houses (trees, shades, lamp posts, you name it) and I start wondering what it would be like if that street was mine, if I lived there/walked past it every day, if the pub/cafe I'm sitting in was my pub/cafe, what friends I would have if I was hanging out here, what kind of job I'd be doing, and a whole new unknown life starts unravelling itself in my mind.
The itch.
Later on I get back home, I wash off all the metallic dust of the underground, and I feel relieved that all that buzzing and chaos are far away from me and I am safe in my little house. The itch subsides a little.
But then I go to bed and I fall asleep listening to the cars driving past my window and I wonder where they are going to, are they going to one of those unknown lives I lurked into earlier on that day? Or to yet a different one, in yet a different place?
What is it like? What would it be like to live there?
And it saddens me that I will never find out...

On stag dos

I’m not sure if I understand the idea of stag/hen weekends away. I mean, in some cases it is obvious – go away where no one knows you in order to get laid one more time with a total stranger before you make your vow of fidelity and, at least in theory, have to give up that kind of behaviours forever (but then why take your friends with you – after all one of them could say something to someone on another drunken night and your other half could still find out).
Anyway, that reason being out of the question, what’s the point?
Paul’s just been on one in Munich and what they did was: drink beer, go go-carting, play football in the park, drink some more beer. All of which they could have done over here without paying an arm and a leg for flights and hotels. I would have understood if they had done one thing that was actually about Munich – but they didn’t! Unless you count drinking beer, that is...
Two years ago another friend of his was getting married and they went to Amsterdam, which made sense as the point was for the said friend to get stoned braindead as he loves to get stoned so Amsterdam was the place to go and he couldn’t have done that over here. But this one?
Don’t get me wrong – when/if it comes to my hen do, I would love to go away somewhere with my friends. But I would see something of the place on top of merry making...

On local sensitivity

One thing that strikes a foreigner moving over here is how quickly you are on the first name basis with people, whether the situation be social or professional. In other countries there is a more or less official ceremony where the elder (in whatever way – age, status, job, anything) suggests to the other party involved to move on to less formal terms, in some cases followed by both of them sealing the new pact by drinking high percentage alcohol in various doses.
Nothing of the kind here, your boss is ‘Peter’ immediately, your partners’ parents, the mailman, your elderly neighbours, anyone. Of course, we all know it before we come here, we’ve learnt it and about it in our English lessons.
Where we’re lost, is that this apparent informality and friendliness finishes there and then exactly. You can call your boss ‘Peter’ but you won’t ask him about his family (you’re still required to answer politely when he asks you about yours, but you should limit yourself to meaninglessly acquiescing them being fine). You call your superior “Catherine” but beware how you ask her for help – the appropriate way is to say in an emotionless voice ‘I could use your support on this’, accept being brushed off and wait patiently until some time is allocated to you. Even if in the meantime a student is reducing you to tears every time they enter your classroom and clearly enjoying it very much, saying ‘I’m sorry to be pushy, but I really need something done about this’ is rude.
Mainly, whatever happens, be it in social or professional situation, any kind of reaction other than smiling and pretending that it is all right is not acceptable. You have to be nice to everyone, regardless of whether or not they are nice to you. (Actually, the locals seem to have a way of not being nice to you that is not considered rude by the bystanders – you’re hurt, but no one else sees the problem. Unfortunately, as I haven’t mastered that art yet, when I retaliate, I’m inevitably rude...)
In conclusion, it seems that I might need to leave my personality and my opinions at home as having them does not seem to be socially acceptable. Plus, I don’t think it is a good idea for me to drink around other people – I inevitably say something that I have managed to repress while sober and I end up having to apologise for hurting people's sensitivity by my inacceptable behaviour. And I grow angrier each time...

Bletchley Park

Last weekend we took Paul's school French exchange partner, who's been staying with us for a week, to Bletchley Park. I had never been before but I knew about it of course, coming from a place as obsessed with the second world war as the Poland of my childhood was.
I was bracing myself a little anticipating a need to clench my teeth and say nothing, as yet another Polish contribution to something big was going to be ignored and buried under the local achievements. I was wrong - they even have a memorial to Polish ingeneers who started it all!
Highly refreshing after finding out about all those exceptional French people, such as Marie Curie-Sklodowska, Fryderyk Chopin and even Robert Korzeniowski.
(A big rant full of witty and sarcastic remarks could follow, but I'm afrait that if start, there will be no stopping me!)

The Nutcracker

was brilliant. We loved the Snowflakes, although we were rather disappointed by the Sugar Plum Fairy. In my humble opinion she should have had some more power and all she did was execute a number of highly skilful and admirable but still – poses. Oh well. It still was great.
What was not so great was the way out of there – it took us almost an hour just to get out of the car park! And there was this bastard who went through the ‘no exit’ lane and pushed his way into the queue right in front of us! Seriously, just because you have a landrover, it doesn’t mean you’re exempt from queuing like everybody else! And the British are supposed to be the masters of the art of queuing! And Naomi didn’t even use the horn on him, I suppose cause we were still in the car park. But she did use it on some other bastards trying to force their way through on Broad Street, which was fun. As was singing along to Tina while queuing. It could have been a fairly entertaining queuing if it hadn’t been for the bastard in the landrover (who gave a whole new meaning to ‘nutcracker’ I guess). Oh well. Sleep now!

Life in supply

Being a supply teacher means that quite often you have to teach subjects other than your speciality. Up till now I’ve taught English, History, Citizenship, Music and PSHE (which stands for Personal, Social and Health Education). It is not a big deal really, cause work is prepared for you and you just have to set it and then make sure that the kids are doing what they’re supposed to be doing, so mainly you’re baby sitting. The other day, in History, I was bored so I flicked through the textbook the kids were working from on the subject of the Cold War. And I found out that the only thing worth mentioning when talking about how the Eastern Block collapsed is the dismantling of the Berlin Wall. As far as the British secondary school history teaching is concerned Solidarnosc did not exist. Which makes me think that if it wasn’t for the recent massive Polish immigration, me telling an average British teenager that I’m Polish would probably mean as much as if I told them I was Martian.

S/M à l’anglaise

I was bored in the staff room the other day which explains why I reached for a copy of one of the local free sheets that someone left lying around. Among many fascinating stories, I found a review of a book about the kinky side of British sexuality (you will forgive me for forgetting the title). Therein, the author mentioned an S/M club, featuring a man dressed in leather in a big cage. There is also another man dressed in leather next to the cage. He is… the Health and Safety Officer.

Everyone should have a Cate

I love train stations. Train stations are where everyone is going somewhere (which you can’t really always say about life). Everything has a sense of purpose, and there’s always something or someone waiting for everyone at the end of the journey: home, adventure, experience, something. Train stations are happy places. Life really happens there.
One thing that amused me while I was waiting for the train that was going to take me to Oxford, was the announcements. “I’m (extremely) sorry for the (severe) delay to your journey.” said the speaker and to my expat year it sounded as if the person making the announcement felt personally responsible for the problem.

I love going places, even if it often makes me way too thoughtful for my own good. You get to see bits of life that you would have wanted or could have had. Oxford is an academic city, knowledge and study seep from each stone and each angle. And one of Cate’s friends made me talk about my thesis, which sort of made me miss all that…

But most of all, I love Cate. Cate is someone that makes you think, review your opinions and form new opinions about things you never felt you needed to have an opinion on before. Cate is also full of random facts (did you know that banana was actually a berry?) and quick advice that always makes sense. So I’m back from Oxford untangled and back on track. My reason is back where it belongs and no longer absent without further notice. Everyone should have a Cate. And next time I go shopping I will buy chicken.