Following poor citrus fruit harvests, the price of a lemon has risen by up to 52% in some supermarkets.
How ridiculous.
Everyone knows you drink gin and tonic with a slice of lime...
Wednesday, 11 June 2008
Don't just stand there like a...
On the front page of the Daily Telegraph is a short article regretfully informing us that the price of a gin and tonic is set to soar, due to an increase in the price of lemons.
Following poor citrus fruit harvests, the price of a lemon has risen by up to 52% in some supermarkets.
How ridiculous.
Everyone knows you drink gin and tonic with a slice of lime...
Following poor citrus fruit harvests, the price of a lemon has risen by up to 52% in some supermarkets.
How ridiculous.
Everyone knows you drink gin and tonic with a slice of lime...
Tuesday, 10 June 2008
Euro 2008
I won't apologise for my spectacular lack of attention to this particular set of sporting festivities.
The only time I've really shown any inclination towards football was when I worked at a pub and it was a good excuse for taking five minutes off (plus no-one orders when the game's on anyway).
Oh yeah, and I was in Florence for the final of the last World Cup, which was quite exciting. Unfortunately I could see very little of the game due to my being rather less than 5'7" in my bare (ok, flip-flopped) feet and not being able to see over the heads of the crowd. As far as I recall, Italy must have scored a few times because every time they did, my then-boyfriend hauled me up under the arms and shook me around in the air like a large rag doll (which actually gave me a decent view of the screen, if rather sore armpits).
I would have paid more attention to the Czech-Swiss match on Saturday, only I had my back to the screen (the guys having already claimed the other side of the table) and I was finding myself shamefully light-headed on half pints of Kronenbourg.
And it was something of a surprise on Monday night when my Sister's Boyfriend accosted me on MSN Messenger:
SB: Hi
Me: Hi
SB: Sorry about the football
Me: Huh?... Oh crap! I completely forgot! So Poland lost then?
SB: yes
Me: ah
SB: (by way of apology) I'm drinking Tyskie...
I may try and get my hands on a copy of the Polish Sun. I'd love to see how that one pans out...
The only time I've really shown any inclination towards football was when I worked at a pub and it was a good excuse for taking five minutes off (plus no-one orders when the game's on anyway).
Oh yeah, and I was in Florence for the final of the last World Cup, which was quite exciting. Unfortunately I could see very little of the game due to my being rather less than 5'7" in my bare (ok, flip-flopped) feet and not being able to see over the heads of the crowd. As far as I recall, Italy must have scored a few times because every time they did, my then-boyfriend hauled me up under the arms and shook me around in the air like a large rag doll (which actually gave me a decent view of the screen, if rather sore armpits).
I would have paid more attention to the Czech-Swiss match on Saturday, only I had my back to the screen (the guys having already claimed the other side of the table) and I was finding myself shamefully light-headed on half pints of Kronenbourg.
And it was something of a surprise on Monday night when my Sister's Boyfriend accosted me on MSN Messenger:
SB: Hi
Me: Hi
SB: Sorry about the football
Me: Huh?... Oh crap! I completely forgot! So Poland lost then?
SB: yes
Me: ah
SB: (by way of apology) I'm drinking Tyskie...
I may try and get my hands on a copy of the Polish Sun. I'd love to see how that one pans out...
Sunday, 8 June 2008
... phone... home...
Apparently the UK is a lot more Polonised than it was when I left in January 2007.
This photo was taken outside our local newsagent in the dodgy end of town.
Since the town in question is Sevenoaks*, I suppose I ought to clarify that the 'dodgy end' is where the one-BMW-families live.
Still, five days back and disappointingly little sign of the rumoured hordes of invading Poles ravaging Our Sceptred Isle.
I shall have to search harder...
*see Torygraph ad above phone box.
Saturday, 7 June 2008
Polish Day
There have been proposals recently that the UK rename one of its summer bank holidays 'Polish Day' in honour of the contribution of Poles to our nation from the Battle of Britain to the beer menu at Wetherspoons.
A Conservative MP from a Polish background has "introduced a bill in the House of Commons calling for workers to be given one day off a year to celebrate the contribution of Poles to the UK. [the MP dude] argues the holiday is necessary to counter 'an increase in violence towards Poles', which he blames in part on BBC coverage."
... says the BBC news site.
Now there's an interesting thought. I think Polish Day should fall on May 3rd - the constitutional holiday. This will bring about yet another day off in May, thus constituting another step towards the international goal to establish an entire month where nothing and nobody works.
Here are some suggestions for celebrations:
- All shops and traders close in accordance with the Lech Kaczyński rule. Everybody buys their booze from gas stations.
- Said gas stations immediately and mysteriously run out of change.
- All women over the age of 60 shall sharpen umbrellas and don berets in preparation for their yearly rampage.
- Girls will drink pints through a straw.
- It will be generally accepted that food tastes better the longer you leave it to stew in vinegar.
- Men will get the bill.
- For two days prior to the event, mysterious constructions, possibly including a stage, will be erected in main squares across the country. This will be accompanied by someone periodically and loudly testing the amplifier on his guitar. During the two days following the event, these constructions will be gradually removed. Everyone will say 'Did you see the concert?' but no-one will actually bother to go.
- A rash of small wooden huts will also appear. Piles of kiełbasa and fried potatoes will be served from some, and grilled oscypek with cranberry sauce from others. You will drink The Worst Mulled Wine In Christendom with the excuse that it tastes better outdoors.
- Everybody will suddenly be struck with the desire to drive to the mountains (for the UK, substitute 'the seaside' i.e. Blackpool, Bournemouth, Brighton and other gloomy places that begin with B) or to Babcia's house in the country. Roads will be jammed from here to John O'Groats and everyone will wish that their car CD player was working and/or they could tune into something other than Wiltshire FM on the westbound A303.
I think it's a good idea actually.
Long live Polish day! Niech żyje Polska!
A Conservative MP from a Polish background has "introduced a bill in the House of Commons calling for workers to be given one day off a year to celebrate the contribution of Poles to the UK. [the MP dude] argues the holiday is necessary to counter 'an increase in violence towards Poles', which he blames in part on BBC coverage."
... says the BBC news site.
Now there's an interesting thought. I think Polish Day should fall on May 3rd - the constitutional holiday. This will bring about yet another day off in May, thus constituting another step towards the international goal to establish an entire month where nothing and nobody works.
Here are some suggestions for celebrations:
- All shops and traders close in accordance with the Lech Kaczyński rule. Everybody buys their booze from gas stations.
- Said gas stations immediately and mysteriously run out of change.
- All women over the age of 60 shall sharpen umbrellas and don berets in preparation for their yearly rampage.
- Girls will drink pints through a straw.
- It will be generally accepted that food tastes better the longer you leave it to stew in vinegar.
- Men will get the bill.
- For two days prior to the event, mysterious constructions, possibly including a stage, will be erected in main squares across the country. This will be accompanied by someone periodically and loudly testing the amplifier on his guitar. During the two days following the event, these constructions will be gradually removed. Everyone will say 'Did you see the concert?' but no-one will actually bother to go.
- A rash of small wooden huts will also appear. Piles of kiełbasa and fried potatoes will be served from some, and grilled oscypek with cranberry sauce from others. You will drink The Worst Mulled Wine In Christendom with the excuse that it tastes better outdoors.
- Everybody will suddenly be struck with the desire to drive to the mountains (for the UK, substitute 'the seaside' i.e. Blackpool, Bournemouth, Brighton and other gloomy places that begin with B) or to Babcia's house in the country. Roads will be jammed from here to John O'Groats and everyone will wish that their car CD player was working and/or they could tune into something other than Wiltshire FM on the westbound A303.
I think it's a good idea actually.
Long live Polish day! Niech żyje Polska!
Thursday, 5 June 2008
Monday, 2 June 2008
The Modern Girl's Guide to Dealing with Emergencies. Part III: Moving House.
Over the past five or six years, I don't think I've spent more than about eight months in any one place. Until I came to Kraków that is.
It's surprising how much stuff one person can accumulate in just fourteen short months.
On Saturday morning, after the goodbye party, I woke up early and stared in despair at the six bags and one cardboard box on my bedroom floor.
They stared back at me and didn't show any signs of getting smaller.
The day was scheduled with military precision: at 2pm I had to collect the keys for the tourist apartment we were renting. At 2.30pm a friend would come to pick up the tv. At 3pm my landlord would come and collect the keys from me.
In between all that, somehow, I had to get my six cases and one box across two streets and up four flights of stairs. The mercury was rising... 28 degrees C.
I decided it was as good a time as any to call a truce with Car Guy.
At twenty to two I got a call:
- Running a few minutes late but I'm running, now.
I walked to the bank to get the money for the apartment. When I got back, he was already standing by my front door.
Time check: five to two. I decided I could delay slightly on picking up the keys.
We started to load the car. By 2.25 it was full and we drove across Dietla to the new place.
- Stay there for a second. I said.
On the other side of the gate, the apartment's housekeeper was there with the keys to meet me.
- Have a look around and check that everything's ok.
she said
- No, no, I'm sure it's fine, really...
I was anxious to get back to the car and back on schedule.
- Here's your room, look... and this will be your parent's room. There are two bathrooms. What about the alarm. Do you want to know how to set the alarm?
- Uh... yes... maybe... no...
- And let's go over the keys again.
Finally, I locked the door behind me and fled down the stairs, all four flights of them, since we were on the second floor.
Thirteen minutes to three: My phone beeped. It was TV Girl.
- I'm on my way! Just collecting the next set of keys. With you in two seconds, really!
Ten minutes to three:
- Don't you want me to unload your stuff? said Car Guy
- No time for that! The landlord's coming at three and we have to go back to let TV Girl in for the television!
We jumped into the car and sped away.
Then things started to happen all at once:
Four minutes to three: we arrive back at the flat. TV Girl and friend are waiting in the shade on the other side of the gate. My flatmate's brother is waiting upstairs to collect her art things and her share of the deposit. We go in, TV Girl's friend picks up the TV and my flatmate's brother picks up the art portfolio.
Two minutes past three: Car Guy, my flatmate's brother and I are standing in the hallway, looking at our shoes, waiting for the landlord.
Three minutes past three: I decide to clear out my kitchen cupboards, and try to offload all my leftover spaghetti, rice, sardines and so on onto Car Guy:
- Uhh... are you sure? I mean, yes, absolutely, but... don't you want to eat over the next few days?
I pointed out that my parents would be here, and added a bottle of olive oil to the rather unstable pile in his arms.
-Greeeat! It's been years since I was paid in food!
A moment later:
- Absolutely! I love Marmite!
(I have never before heard this phrase uttered by a non-Brit).
Twelve minutes past three: doorbell rings and the Landlord comes up the stairs.
Instantly, all three of us are on Our Best Behaviour.
- Czy Pan chce cos do picia? I say, simpering (I really wanted that deposit in one piece). Not that we had anything in the flat other than water and most of a litre of Zubrówka left over from the party last night.
Quarter to four: Landlord is finally satisfied. All the keys are there. The TV cable is disconnected. He hasn't noticed where my blu-tack took flakes of plaster off the wall.
We leave the flat.
Yes!!!
Five to four: Car Guy and I arrive back at the tourist apartment. We're close to caramelisation inside the hot car, so we decide to get on with the move as quickly as possible.
We get through the gate ok, but stop short on the other side.
- What is it? says Car Guy, sounding slightly muffled behind 15 kilos of book-filled cardboard box.
- Nothing. I say 'But suddenly I can't remember which staircase it's on'.
Of course it was on the third staircase.
Me, Car Guy, a 15 kilo cardboard box, two wheelie cases and a rucksack crossed and re-crossed the courtyard three times.
We were stared at with mild curiosity by various neighbours from their various balconies.
- What floor? asked Car Guy, once inside.
- Uh... second... I said, in a very small voice.
We marched grimly up four flights of stairs.
I opened the door...
- Ooh! This is cool!
Four fifteen: Me, Car Guy, one cardboard box and six cases are all inside a Very, Very Posh Flat indeed. We all look uncomfortable and are trying not to get grubby fingerprints on the surfaces.
Four thirty: Car Guy leaves. I subject him to an extremely awkward hug with lots of elbows and then send him off back down the four flights of stairs.
I sit on my own in the middle of the flat and hug myself and think: I made it!
For now...
It's surprising how much stuff one person can accumulate in just fourteen short months.
On Saturday morning, after the goodbye party, I woke up early and stared in despair at the six bags and one cardboard box on my bedroom floor.
They stared back at me and didn't show any signs of getting smaller.
The day was scheduled with military precision: at 2pm I had to collect the keys for the tourist apartment we were renting. At 2.30pm a friend would come to pick up the tv. At 3pm my landlord would come and collect the keys from me.
In between all that, somehow, I had to get my six cases and one box across two streets and up four flights of stairs. The mercury was rising... 28 degrees C.
I decided it was as good a time as any to call a truce with Car Guy.
At twenty to two I got a call:
- Running a few minutes late but I'm running, now.
I walked to the bank to get the money for the apartment. When I got back, he was already standing by my front door.
Time check: five to two. I decided I could delay slightly on picking up the keys.
We started to load the car. By 2.25 it was full and we drove across Dietla to the new place.
- Stay there for a second. I said.
On the other side of the gate, the apartment's housekeeper was there with the keys to meet me.
- Have a look around and check that everything's ok.
she said
- No, no, I'm sure it's fine, really...
I was anxious to get back to the car and back on schedule.
- Here's your room, look... and this will be your parent's room. There are two bathrooms. What about the alarm. Do you want to know how to set the alarm?
- Uh... yes... maybe... no...
- And let's go over the keys again.
Finally, I locked the door behind me and fled down the stairs, all four flights of them, since we were on the second floor.
Thirteen minutes to three: My phone beeped. It was TV Girl.
- I'm on my way! Just collecting the next set of keys. With you in two seconds, really!
Ten minutes to three:
- Don't you want me to unload your stuff? said Car Guy
- No time for that! The landlord's coming at three and we have to go back to let TV Girl in for the television!
We jumped into the car and sped away.
Then things started to happen all at once:
Four minutes to three: we arrive back at the flat. TV Girl and friend are waiting in the shade on the other side of the gate. My flatmate's brother is waiting upstairs to collect her art things and her share of the deposit. We go in, TV Girl's friend picks up the TV and my flatmate's brother picks up the art portfolio.
Two minutes past three: Car Guy, my flatmate's brother and I are standing in the hallway, looking at our shoes, waiting for the landlord.
Three minutes past three: I decide to clear out my kitchen cupboards, and try to offload all my leftover spaghetti, rice, sardines and so on onto Car Guy:
- Uhh... are you sure? I mean, yes, absolutely, but... don't you want to eat over the next few days?
I pointed out that my parents would be here, and added a bottle of olive oil to the rather unstable pile in his arms.
-Greeeat! It's been years since I was paid in food!
A moment later:
- Absolutely! I love Marmite!
(I have never before heard this phrase uttered by a non-Brit).
Twelve minutes past three: doorbell rings and the Landlord comes up the stairs.
Instantly, all three of us are on Our Best Behaviour.
- Czy Pan chce cos do picia? I say, simpering (I really wanted that deposit in one piece). Not that we had anything in the flat other than water and most of a litre of Zubrówka left over from the party last night.
Quarter to four: Landlord is finally satisfied. All the keys are there. The TV cable is disconnected. He hasn't noticed where my blu-tack took flakes of plaster off the wall.
We leave the flat.
Yes!!!
Five to four: Car Guy and I arrive back at the tourist apartment. We're close to caramelisation inside the hot car, so we decide to get on with the move as quickly as possible.
We get through the gate ok, but stop short on the other side.
- What is it? says Car Guy, sounding slightly muffled behind 15 kilos of book-filled cardboard box.
- Nothing. I say 'But suddenly I can't remember which staircase it's on'.
Of course it was on the third staircase.
Me, Car Guy, a 15 kilo cardboard box, two wheelie cases and a rucksack crossed and re-crossed the courtyard three times.
We were stared at with mild curiosity by various neighbours from their various balconies.
- What floor? asked Car Guy, once inside.
- Uh... second... I said, in a very small voice.
We marched grimly up four flights of stairs.
I opened the door...
- Ooh! This is cool!
Four fifteen: Me, Car Guy, one cardboard box and six cases are all inside a Very, Very Posh Flat indeed. We all look uncomfortable and are trying not to get grubby fingerprints on the surfaces.
Four thirty: Car Guy leaves. I subject him to an extremely awkward hug with lots of elbows and then send him off back down the four flights of stairs.
I sit on my own in the middle of the flat and hug myself and think: I made it!
For now...
Sunday, 1 June 2008
Cukiernia
The cukiernia* on a Sunday morning is not the best place to be when you've suddenly realised you need to be somewhere in a hurry.
At the front of the queue, a young-ish Polish woman was ordering a cavity-inducing sugary breakfast for her family (consisting of small, chubby child and rather larger- surprisingly British - chubby husband). The stout little lady behind the counter was puffing up and down between tongs and teacups, trying to keep up with the ever-increasing number of requests.
Two rather overheated babcie were sitting either side of a table against the wall opposite the counter, apparently just there for the hell of it.
The requests continued. The small chubby child refused to believe that there was no strawberry juice (there were definitely Cappy bottles with something pink in, but Mama insisted it was orange or apple or tough luck).
Three or four young Polish guys in shorts came in, walked to the other end of the shop, and launched into a deep discussion about what to eat and what to do later. Another babcia entered stage left and stood by my elbow at the counter.
At this point, I realised that I should probably get home and have a shower in order not to be late for class. I gave myself about an hour and a half to eat breakfast, wash and dress and walk to the school.
I waited for the stout little lady to finish her pottering. For once I'd had plenty of time to decide what I wanted, and I'd even managed to glean a bit of vocab from the woman in front. She paid and I moved in for the kill.
Except I had reckoned without the marauding babcia forces to the starboard** side. With lightning speed and deadly intent, she swooped in with a 'Prosze wpół kilo...'.
I checked my watch again. Maybe I wouldn't be on time for class after all...
*Patisserie. From 'cukier', from German 'zucker' (according to Wikipedia, so take with pinch of salt: I'd have thought from 'zucchero' cos of the Italian queen but hey) and both come from Sanskrit roots via Arabic sugar traders in Sicily... isn't this fun? Disclaimer: Pinolona studied 'storia della lingua italiana' as a hungover Erasmus student and is therefore not a reliable source.
**Disclaimer. Pinolona does not claim to know anything about sailing - however she does know about words, and 'starboard' sounds cooler than 'port'.
At the front of the queue, a young-ish Polish woman was ordering a cavity-inducing sugary breakfast for her family (consisting of small, chubby child and rather larger- surprisingly British - chubby husband). The stout little lady behind the counter was puffing up and down between tongs and teacups, trying to keep up with the ever-increasing number of requests.
Two rather overheated babcie were sitting either side of a table against the wall opposite the counter, apparently just there for the hell of it.
The requests continued. The small chubby child refused to believe that there was no strawberry juice (there were definitely Cappy bottles with something pink in, but Mama insisted it was orange or apple or tough luck).
Three or four young Polish guys in shorts came in, walked to the other end of the shop, and launched into a deep discussion about what to eat and what to do later. Another babcia entered stage left and stood by my elbow at the counter.
At this point, I realised that I should probably get home and have a shower in order not to be late for class. I gave myself about an hour and a half to eat breakfast, wash and dress and walk to the school.
I waited for the stout little lady to finish her pottering. For once I'd had plenty of time to decide what I wanted, and I'd even managed to glean a bit of vocab from the woman in front. She paid and I moved in for the kill.
Except I had reckoned without the marauding babcia forces to the starboard** side. With lightning speed and deadly intent, she swooped in with a 'Prosze wpół kilo...'.
I checked my watch again. Maybe I wouldn't be on time for class after all...
*Patisserie. From 'cukier', from German 'zucker' (according to Wikipedia, so take with pinch of salt: I'd have thought from 'zucchero' cos of the Italian queen but hey) and both come from Sanskrit roots via Arabic sugar traders in Sicily... isn't this fun? Disclaimer: Pinolona studied 'storia della lingua italiana' as a hungover Erasmus student and is therefore not a reliable source.
**Disclaimer. Pinolona does not claim to know anything about sailing - however she does know about words, and 'starboard' sounds cooler than 'port'.
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