Sunday, 25 August 2013
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.
Thursday, 5 July 2012
Thursday, 7 June 2012
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.
Monday, 21 November 2011
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...
Sunday, 13 November 2011
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.
Sunday, 30 October 2011
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.
Tuesday, 8 February 2011
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!)
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!)
Friday, 7 January 2011
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...
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...
Wednesday, 29 December 2010
On New Year's Resolutions
I have a computer now.
It is new (never happened before) and shiny and brown (although Paul claims it's actually black, the box said 'dark brown' and I choose to believe them).
I have my own computer now, it is sitting on the kitchen table and using it does not involve climbing up into the freezing loft and waiting for three hours for it to start and then three more for it to open Internet Explorer.
It is sitting on the kitchen table 24/7 and so is available to me also when Paul is not home eg. when I'm not too busy talking to him/serving dinner/watching Neighbours or QI.
I have a computer, it is mine, it is available with no restrictions in space and time, and I have no more excuses especially while I justified the purchase of the said computer to myself (4 years on less than a student budget in France conditionned me into believing that any purchase requires a valid justification and 'I want it' is valid only for items worth less than 10 pounds and once a month) by:
1. getting better about staying properly in touch with all my friends scattered about the globe
2. updating my blog regularly (cause otherwise what's the point?)
No excuses.
It is new (never happened before) and shiny and brown (although Paul claims it's actually black, the box said 'dark brown' and I choose to believe them).
I have my own computer now, it is sitting on the kitchen table and using it does not involve climbing up into the freezing loft and waiting for three hours for it to start and then three more for it to open Internet Explorer.
It is sitting on the kitchen table 24/7 and so is available to me also when Paul is not home eg. when I'm not too busy talking to him/serving dinner/watching Neighbours or QI.
I have a computer, it is mine, it is available with no restrictions in space and time, and I have no more excuses especially while I justified the purchase of the said computer to myself (4 years on less than a student budget in France conditionned me into believing that any purchase requires a valid justification and 'I want it' is valid only for items worth less than 10 pounds and once a month) by:
1. getting better about staying properly in touch with all my friends scattered about the globe
2. updating my blog regularly (cause otherwise what's the point?)
No excuses.
Thursday, 26 August 2010
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...
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...
Saturday, 31 July 2010
Aix
The difference between France and Poland, just as between England and France, is that I have never missed my life in Poland and I miss my life in France dearly - all aware that I am that I'm much better off in England, I can't help but miss my little appartment at the foot of a pinaide, the terrasse with a rusty table that has seen so many bottles of rose and so many good times, and so many other big and little things that I left behind.
So every time the plane starts to descend above the Marseille Provence airport, a big ball of nostalgia climbs into my throat and it feels like coming home (ah, difficult notion that of home, when you're me... but on that another time).
Then I spot Mount Sainte Victoire as the plane turns, then the first shock of the heat, the first gush of the Mistral, the ball in my throat keeps growing.
Then we get on the coach to Aix and I see all those place names, Pinchinades, Vitrolles, la Duranne, les Milles, names that were once new and full of promises now greet me like old friends making the ball in my throat grow even more. I does not matter that I have never been in many of them, I have read them, seen them, heard them, savoured the way their sounds rolled out of my mouth so many times...
Aix is still Aix.
The colours, the little streets, the blue shutters spotting the ochre facades of the bastides, the baguettes, the cheese, the wine, Pastis, the marketplace, Mamie's ratatouille, everything stopping for lunch, the cycadas driving you mad with their monotonous screeching, the oppressing heat, people stopping in the middle of a roundabout to get a newspaper, the bourgeoises riding their shopping trollies across your feet and failing to apologise... and Mount Sainte Victoire reigning overlooking all this madness and beauty, impassible and majestic.
Some friends are gone, some are still there. Some have drifted away a force de distances, the important ones greet me as if I had never left.
I still have my seat at the bar in Cafe le Verdun (although you can't smoke in there anymore) and Pat still accepts a glass of wine I pay him and then knocks a round off my bill.
Mamie and Papy are still Mamie and Papy, growing older without changing at all but each time I see them, I feel the painfully aware that they are not eternal.
And the house at the Roc Fleuri is still there too, with the pinaide behind it and the terrasse in front, the rusty table that has seen so many bottles of rose and good times...
Indeed, places where you were once happy should not be allowed to go on without you.
So every time the plane starts to descend above the Marseille Provence airport, a big ball of nostalgia climbs into my throat and it feels like coming home (ah, difficult notion that of home, when you're me... but on that another time).
Then I spot Mount Sainte Victoire as the plane turns, then the first shock of the heat, the first gush of the Mistral, the ball in my throat keeps growing.
Then we get on the coach to Aix and I see all those place names, Pinchinades, Vitrolles, la Duranne, les Milles, names that were once new and full of promises now greet me like old friends making the ball in my throat grow even more. I does not matter that I have never been in many of them, I have read them, seen them, heard them, savoured the way their sounds rolled out of my mouth so many times...
Aix is still Aix.
The colours, the little streets, the blue shutters spotting the ochre facades of the bastides, the baguettes, the cheese, the wine, Pastis, the marketplace, Mamie's ratatouille, everything stopping for lunch, the cycadas driving you mad with their monotonous screeching, the oppressing heat, people stopping in the middle of a roundabout to get a newspaper, the bourgeoises riding their shopping trollies across your feet and failing to apologise... and Mount Sainte Victoire reigning overlooking all this madness and beauty, impassible and majestic.
Some friends are gone, some are still there. Some have drifted away a force de distances, the important ones greet me as if I had never left.
I still have my seat at the bar in Cafe le Verdun (although you can't smoke in there anymore) and Pat still accepts a glass of wine I pay him and then knocks a round off my bill.
Mamie and Papy are still Mamie and Papy, growing older without changing at all but each time I see them, I feel the painfully aware that they are not eternal.
And the house at the Roc Fleuri is still there too, with the pinaide behind it and the terrasse in front, the rusty table that has seen so many bottles of rose and good times...
Indeed, places where you were once happy should not be allowed to go on without you.
Monday, 19 July 2010
On being told to shut up
The kind of child to tell you to 'shut up' (or 'f-off' as a matter of fact) is usually a distraught individual struggling to become human and thinking that being rude and fearless of consequences is what being an adult is all about. As far as they're concerned life is seriously shit and they will fight anything they can by all means possible, just in case.
And most of the time, you can see how distraught they get once they realise what they'd just said. Or, at the very least, how upset and worked up they got before saying it.
You still get angry, you shout at them, you give them detentions, but you don't hold grudges and deep inside you just wish you could use a magic wand make them less miserable and less angry at the entire world.
And then there is Kenisha (not a real name). Kenisha thinks you're dirt. Kenisha thinks that all is due to her and if she wants to talk, she will talk, whether you are trying to teach or not has no importance what so ever. And when you say 'Kenisha, could you please stop talking?', Kenisha looks at you as if you were a fly on her sandwich and says 'Shut up'.
Somehow I think Kenisha will follow into her sister's footsteps and get excluded before finishing year 10.
And I know that next time Kenisha sends a door into my face, I am not going to be willing to talk about it and make it go away in hope of establishing a positive relationship with her.
Screw that.
And most of the time, you can see how distraught they get once they realise what they'd just said. Or, at the very least, how upset and worked up they got before saying it.
You still get angry, you shout at them, you give them detentions, but you don't hold grudges and deep inside you just wish you could use a magic wand make them less miserable and less angry at the entire world.
And then there is Kenisha (not a real name). Kenisha thinks you're dirt. Kenisha thinks that all is due to her and if she wants to talk, she will talk, whether you are trying to teach or not has no importance what so ever. And when you say 'Kenisha, could you please stop talking?', Kenisha looks at you as if you were a fly on her sandwich and says 'Shut up'.
Somehow I think Kenisha will follow into her sister's footsteps and get excluded before finishing year 10.
And I know that next time Kenisha sends a door into my face, I am not going to be willing to talk about it and make it go away in hope of establishing a positive relationship with her.
Screw that.
Tuesday, 29 June 2010
On Sports Days
We're having a Sports Day at my school soon. Each form had to come up with a team and students to volunteer for different events. There's this one girl, who is an angry young woman, constantly in trouble, but I've put her down for shot put as others claimed she was really good at it.
This morning she came to school after a few days of absence, and I broke the news to her.
"Ain't doing that!" she said "You can't flipping make me!"
An expected reaction, granted, but I wasn't going to give up easily.
"Oh come on, it's just one small event and I hear you're really good at it. Come on, please?"
I have to say, I did expect this to be met with another rude outburst of anger. Instead I heard: "All right then miss. I'll do it."
I still think I must have been dreaming!
This does not, of course, mean that she'll actually show up on the day though...
PS. Later update: She didn't.
This morning she came to school after a few days of absence, and I broke the news to her.
"Ain't doing that!" she said "You can't flipping make me!"
An expected reaction, granted, but I wasn't going to give up easily.
"Oh come on, it's just one small event and I hear you're really good at it. Come on, please?"
I have to say, I did expect this to be met with another rude outburst of anger. Instead I heard: "All right then miss. I'll do it."
I still think I must have been dreaming!
This does not, of course, mean that she'll actually show up on the day though...
PS. Later update: She didn't.
Monday, 28 June 2010
On tea
Last night, as I was struggling to fall asleep, I have come to realise an astonishing truth: ever since I moved to the UK, I've been drinking a lot less tea than before.
Ok, fine, I have one cup of proper tea with milk a day (or something like that), which is me adopting local habits, but I used to have 2-3 cups of green tea a day before and what happened to that?
Well, school happened to that.
Need to buy a kettle and put it in my cupboard.
Green tea is good for you.
Ok, fine, I have one cup of proper tea with milk a day (or something like that), which is me adopting local habits, but I used to have 2-3 cups of green tea a day before and what happened to that?
Well, school happened to that.
Need to buy a kettle and put it in my cupboard.
Green tea is good for you.
Sunday, 27 June 2010
On wonders
We went to see Stevie Wonder in the Hyde Park yesterday and my God was it great!
The man is absolutely beautiful - the joy in his face as he plays the music would be enough for ten people or more.
Made me seriously happy.
What a brilliant day.
The man is absolutely beautiful - the joy in his face as he plays the music would be enough for ten people or more.
Made me seriously happy.
What a brilliant day.
Sunday, 6 June 2010
57 miles
Up to 4 miles, cycling is no fun. It's only after that distance that your muscles are properly warmed up and you start enjoying it as opposed to just wanting to go home and feel sorry for yourself. I know that, so I don't get discouraged and I apply all my energy to warming my muscles up.
After that, up to ca. 20 miles, it's seriously fun, sun is shining, interesting birds are flying, all hills are ascendable and it's so cool to ride down them!
Past 20 miles it's time for a small rest, a stretch, a sandwich, and off we go again, all positive and happy, cause it is such a beautiful day and I'm going to beat my distance record and all.
At around 25 miles, it is however starting to become harder, the muscles feel tired and on steeper inclines I start to struggle - or so it feels, as I always end up getting both me and Bob the bike to the top. .
At 30 miles I'm properly tired. I'm starting to speculate whether I actually do have to do those 50 miles or if I could just go home now. But soon I want to continue, cause look, I've beaten my record and I'm still cycling! Besides soon we'll make a proper stop and have a good rest, it will be fine.
A couple of miles later, all I can think of is a pub or a shop where we could refill our bottles hence forcing the stop, cause God it hurts when it's uphill!
And after that stop it is all better, I'm still tired but I think that if we can stop when needed, I'll be fine. I'm just slightly worried: Paul has to pull my gloves off for me, as my fingers are no longer prehensile.
45th mile: I get off my bike, sit down and cry. 'I can't do it, it is too hard' I sob pathetically blowing my nose into the surrounding foliage.
Paul takes me litterally and suggests we find me a nice place to wait and he'll go and get the car, as nothing is worth such misery.
It takes me a while to make him understand that I was just letting off pressure and that I'm fine, really, and I really meant 'I'm finding this very difficult, I need some encouragement, but I'll still do it'.
'Well, that's not what you said' says Paul and I think he is a little bit annoyed that I'm speaking female at him and expect him to understand.
But anyway - we get back on our bikes and get safely home, 57 miles on the counter all together. We shower and put the barbacue on. We have a couple of beers. My legs aren't even hurting really (though the fingers in my left hand still refuse to cooperate) and I feel extremely proud of myself.
After that, up to ca. 20 miles, it's seriously fun, sun is shining, interesting birds are flying, all hills are ascendable and it's so cool to ride down them!
Past 20 miles it's time for a small rest, a stretch, a sandwich, and off we go again, all positive and happy, cause it is such a beautiful day and I'm going to beat my distance record and all.
At around 25 miles, it is however starting to become harder, the muscles feel tired and on steeper inclines I start to struggle - or so it feels, as I always end up getting both me and Bob the bike to the top. .
At 30 miles I'm properly tired. I'm starting to speculate whether I actually do have to do those 50 miles or if I could just go home now. But soon I want to continue, cause look, I've beaten my record and I'm still cycling! Besides soon we'll make a proper stop and have a good rest, it will be fine.
A couple of miles later, all I can think of is a pub or a shop where we could refill our bottles hence forcing the stop, cause God it hurts when it's uphill!
And after that stop it is all better, I'm still tired but I think that if we can stop when needed, I'll be fine. I'm just slightly worried: Paul has to pull my gloves off for me, as my fingers are no longer prehensile.
45th mile: I get off my bike, sit down and cry. 'I can't do it, it is too hard' I sob pathetically blowing my nose into the surrounding foliage.
Paul takes me litterally and suggests we find me a nice place to wait and he'll go and get the car, as nothing is worth such misery.
It takes me a while to make him understand that I was just letting off pressure and that I'm fine, really, and I really meant 'I'm finding this very difficult, I need some encouragement, but I'll still do it'.
'Well, that's not what you said' says Paul and I think he is a little bit annoyed that I'm speaking female at him and expect him to understand.
But anyway - we get back on our bikes and get safely home, 57 miles on the counter all together. We shower and put the barbacue on. We have a couple of beers. My legs aren't even hurting really (though the fingers in my left hand still refuse to cooperate) and I feel extremely proud of myself.
Sunday, 30 May 2010
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...
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...
Saturday, 29 May 2010
On hairdresser therapy
I went to the hairdresser's today, a treat after a long half-term and other turmoils, and I felt that some hair needed to come off.
My hairdresser, Sarah, is this nice lady from South Africa, who seems to remember all I tell her about me through the months in between my visits, which is a quality every good hairdresser should have as frankly, getting a new haircut is only one of the reasons we go there.
She washed my hair, which is one of the reasons I go to the hairdressers - I love having my hair washed by someone else, it's like the best massage ever, soothing and relaxing, and then my hair started to come off and we started to talk. First some small talk about work, fatigue, planned holidays, her son's schooling etc. Then we got interrupted by some idiot from my bank who had to speak to me urgently - no doubt wanting me to upgrade my account, which I have no desire of doing. Once I got rid of that woman, Sarah and I decided that commercial calls were annoying and pointless, because we know very well that there are other options out there and if we are unhappy with our current provider of whatever service, we will look into alternatives, we are not retarded.
As Sarah was putting the finishing touches into my now short hair, she said her husband (who is the one handling service providers in her household) gets seriously with such phone calls but always forgets about it immediately. 'I would be grumpy for a while' she added philosophically 'but he isn’t. I guess it's just that men are better at getting over things quickly, while we will go on turning them over and over in hour heads. They're better at compartmentalising stuff and moving on.'
And she quite possibly saved my relationship there and then.
My hairdresser, Sarah, is this nice lady from South Africa, who seems to remember all I tell her about me through the months in between my visits, which is a quality every good hairdresser should have as frankly, getting a new haircut is only one of the reasons we go there.
She washed my hair, which is one of the reasons I go to the hairdressers - I love having my hair washed by someone else, it's like the best massage ever, soothing and relaxing, and then my hair started to come off and we started to talk. First some small talk about work, fatigue, planned holidays, her son's schooling etc. Then we got interrupted by some idiot from my bank who had to speak to me urgently - no doubt wanting me to upgrade my account, which I have no desire of doing. Once I got rid of that woman, Sarah and I decided that commercial calls were annoying and pointless, because we know very well that there are other options out there and if we are unhappy with our current provider of whatever service, we will look into alternatives, we are not retarded.
As Sarah was putting the finishing touches into my now short hair, she said her husband (who is the one handling service providers in her household) gets seriously with such phone calls but always forgets about it immediately. 'I would be grumpy for a while' she added philosophically 'but he isn’t. I guess it's just that men are better at getting over things quickly, while we will go on turning them over and over in hour heads. They're better at compartmentalising stuff and moving on.'
And she quite possibly saved my relationship there and then.
Tuesday, 25 May 2010
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...
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...
Saturday, 15 May 2010
I don't want to brag...
but I will. Paul and I are training for the London to Brighton in June, which is a challenge and it should be an accomplishement and lots of fun!
And the road to it is also full of smaller but not lesser accomplishements: today I broke my distance record (30,5 miles - was 30 miles from when I'd done the Oxfordshire ride last year, notably so as it was the third time I was riding a bike in some 15 years) and my speed record (27.3 mph - was 21.7 mph). And those massive hills seem less massive each time I attack them.
My big worry however is a hill on the actual route to Brighton - I've heard stories about it and apparently 90% of participants push their bikes up that thing. Well, me being me, I know that I'll have to ride up the bastard or die in shame. The only problem is I probably won't be able to... and I'll have to get over it...
And the road to it is also full of smaller but not lesser accomplishements: today I broke my distance record (30,5 miles - was 30 miles from when I'd done the Oxfordshire ride last year, notably so as it was the third time I was riding a bike in some 15 years) and my speed record (27.3 mph - was 21.7 mph). And those massive hills seem less massive each time I attack them.
My big worry however is a hill on the actual route to Brighton - I've heard stories about it and apparently 90% of participants push their bikes up that thing. Well, me being me, I know that I'll have to ride up the bastard or die in shame. The only problem is I probably won't be able to... and I'll have to get over it...
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