Frustration

Frustration: I have a thing on my face, that I would normally have removed by a beautician by means of piercing and squeezing. Unfortunately in this country, a beautician is 'not allowed to perform any manual cleansing as they don't have medical training'. But of course, the thing is too little of a problem for a GP. So I can either (a) do it myself and risk having an even worse thing on my face (b) hope for it to go away on its own (c) wait until I go to Poland to get it removed (which is not going to happen for quite a while). Or, actually, (d) just get used to having it on my face. I'm not sure if I should (a) conclude that Polish beauticians are superior in skill and experience to British beauticians or (b) conclude that British women have superior piercing and squeezing skills I lack, or (c) feel annoyed at the oh so British need to protect people from their own stupidity by means of ridiculous laws.

Uh-oh, I've done it!

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.

An unexpected change of language

I went to a training session today, supposed to make my A-level teaching match the board specifications better, hence allowing for better exam results. As I arrived, the woman delivering the session was walking around registering participants and chatting a bit here and there. From where I sat, I could hear her having an animated conversation in French with one of the participants, which was natural given that she was French, as I deduced from her name written on the board next to the session's timings. After a while she approached me, we went through greetings and a bit of small talk in French, and then suddenly she switched to English - no reason, no warning - and stuck to English even though I stuck to French. And then it dawned on me - the change was not that inexplicable. It coincided with me indicating my name on her register. My name is rather obviously not French...

Stuff from home and stuff

I've been musing today about how some expatriates will always prefer products from their home country to the local ones, even if the local ones are essentially the same except for the label and the lower price. I've known people who had their relatives back home send them everything, even things like salt and pepper. I can understand missing what you can't get - I was myself a victim of cruel cravings for Polish sausage, bigos, pierogi etc., but beer was beer and yes, I missed my favourite Zywiec, but would have never bought it (had it been available) if the local similar product was cheaper. And now that it is available, I don't - also because I have discovered that there are many local ales that I actually like much better. But then again I gave myself the opportunity of discovering that by trying things - and so many people just won't. Wonder why.

French vs. British part 1

While Mother was here visitng, we took her to Blenheim Palace. Her English had improved a lot thanks to several language courses combined and crammed into a period of couple of months preceding her visit, but still was not up to understanding the guide there. I was therefore translating for her, as quietly as I possibly could, she was actually bending over to keep her ear as close to my mouth as possible. At one point, I noticed a posh looking lady giving me evil looks. Didn't think much of it, but the next thing I knew, the lady spoke: "Can you stop talking, I can't hear her (meaning the guide) if you are speaking in the same time." No please, no nothing, no being apologetic, and the accent leaving no doubt the lady was French. I didn't bother responding, just pulled Mother away from the lady, so that we would not disturb her anymore - the 'a bit English' part of me in control clearly, although the 'a bit French' part of me gave her an evil look and started listing snappy responses to her 'polite' request. After the tour, I told Paul all about it, and being both English and really nice, he opposed me vehemently, saying that I could not generalise. But of course I can. This is not to say that each and every French person would have behaved the same. Just an average one, as the French society teaches its members to function in a certain specific way towards others, and the English one in a different specific way - had the lady been English, my bet is she would have moved away from us, if I was really disturbing her. That is not to say, of course, that each and every English person would. Just the average one.

like riding a bike

'I bought a piano' I told my parents.
Mother immediately provided me with such an amount of good advice that I fervently wished I had not bought the piano at all or at least that I had had the presence of mind not to tell my parents about it.
Father said not to worry, that it was like riding a bike - one did not forget and it came back quickly.
Well, not really.
Not after twenty years (NB. saying this makes me slightly alarmed. I actually had not played the piano for twenty years. I am old enough to not have done something for twenty years. Not sure what to do with this).

Still, the piano has been bought and now is standing in my living room, like a wild animal that I have to tame knowing very well that it is not going to help me (might have something to do with lots of white 'teeth' staring at me as soon as I enter the room).

I am going to try though, as being able to play the Moonlight Sonata has been on my bucket list long enough and it's time I learnt it. Especially now that I have paid stupid money for a piano... (it reassures me that I am not likely to actually kick the bucket any time soon as it will take a lot of time to learn the stupid thing. That and a surgery enlarging the span of my fingers!)