Comparisons

This:

....is an English springer spaniel.


And this:

... is me.

I've been thinking about this theory that people are like their pets. And I've come to the conclusion that the spaniel and I actually have quite a lot in common.

For example, we both like to work. The spaniel came from a gun dog breeder in Kent, and she likes nothing more than to play endless, pointless games of fetch. She is at her happiest when hunting some pesky tennis ball out of big bed of stinging nettles. When she is too tired to play, she carries the ball or the toy in her mouth and chews it until she has got her breath back. If there is no-one to play with, she takes the ball to the top of my parents' sloping front drive, drops it under the car, and runs around to catch it as it rolls out on the other side. I have a really great video of this but it has my sister's voice on it so I will post it as soon as I've worked out how to remove the sound.
The dog is obsessed with tennis balls and bouncy toys, and I am obsessed with pens, highlighters, glossaries and my laptop. When there is no-one around to play with, I will happily make notes in the margin of Polityka, or listen to clips on Repubblica TV.

Also, we are both a bit shy. The spaniel is scared of strangers and often growls at people who just want to be friends with her. I can definitely see where she is coming from, but fortunately human social protocol does not admit that sort of behaviour.

We don't like it when people shout. When my Dad knocks over a big tray of paint on the hall carpet, or when I stub my toe on a chair, the spaniel slinks away to hide with her tail between her legs. She also has a horror of the vacuum cleaner, which I think is very reasonable.

And lastly, we are both easy to please: a long walk in the woods on a Kentish spring day will bring a smile to both our faces

Are you similar to your pets? How?

One Week

I've been in Kraków for a week now, and as far as I can see very little has changed (surprising I suppose if you consider the speed of change in the mid-2000s - what do we call this decade anyway? I hate 'the noughties', plus Noel Coward got there first).

I'm living in an apartment block, very similar to my old place on Starowiślna. I think it's slightly newer: at least the flat seems newer inside (no window panels on the doors). I'm still on a main road, even more main than Starowiślna, but slightly further back, so the noise isn't so much of a problem. Plus I'm on the other side of the river now, so fewer drunk revellers!

What have I discovered in a week?

- I'm sorry to have missed the snow in England. I love snow, and the dog loves it too: it makes her turn into a puppy again. There was a little bit here when I arrived, but it's since melted.
- Cats are not as obliging or affectionate as dogs. I miss the dog.
- Running on old snow is a slippery experience.
- Teabags are not the same here: they're designed to be taken without milk, so the blend is less strong.
- Polish beer kicks my arse. So does wiśniówka, tatanka, and anything else like that. I am seriously thinking of renouncing them altogether.
- Cherry Powerade works magic on a dehydrated body (see above point on Polish beer).
- I have been to two aerobics classes ('w fitnesie') in four days. Polish aerobics kicks my arse. My knees look very wobbly in the mirror and my hands as though they might snap off.
- It is probably very unhealthy to check facebook on a long train journey. Whatever happened to reading (ok, I do that too) and I-Spy?
- I never thought I would willingly eat smalec* more than once (see above point on Polish beer).
- It is hard to speak Polish with Polish people if you are a native English speaker, and I have to make more of an effort, before my Big Test on Monday...



*basically spreadable lard with pork scratchings in

Fun in the snow

Sunday, Feb 01.

11.40ish: Snow begins to fall
18ish: P's mother no longer willing to drive to Gatwick Airport tomorrow morning
18.00 - 00.00ish: Panic and packing (and last-minute overlooked translation)
00.05: P sets alarm for 04.45: so early it's practically already happened

Monday, Feb 02.

04.30: P's Dad, loudly: 'What time did you set your alarm for?" P (very unhappy): 'about fifteen minutes' time'.
04.40: P gets out of bed.
05.10: P and Dad drag cases up the drive, through powdery snow, into car.
05.11: P rolls the Spaniel on its back in the snow.
05.12: Yellow snow.
05.14: P and Dad drive - very gingerly- to Sevenoaks station.

05.20: P purchases train ticket to Gatwick Airport, at extortionate peak commuter time price.
05.21: P and several haggard-looking suits (all male) are only people in station (apart from one Canadian guy with a big rucksack). Next train is due at 06.12.

05.40: Network South East operators come out and tell everyone that all trains are suspended*.
05.41: P and Canadian guy exchange looks of disbelief.
05.45: P goes to get refund on expensive peak-time train ticket. 'You'll have to go the ticket office', replies train operator. It is not yet six in the morning. Ticket office is closed. P can't answer that one.

05.50: P calls Dad.

05.52: Taxi driver pulls up at station. P accosts him in normal fashion.
05.54: M25 completely impassible. Apparently. P's Dad arrives at station.

06:00-06.20: P on phone to anyone, anyone at all alive at Gatwick Airport.
06.21: P gets through to A Real Person who is definitely alive and breathing at Gatwick Airport.
- 'Sorry, I can't help you with that: I'm the disability liaison officer'.
Britain is nothing if not politically correct.
06.25: P and Dad reckon the taxi driver was wrong and decide to give it a shot.

(Check in opens at 07.10)

06.30: small slide on snowy road.

06.40: P and Dad hit the M25 and wonder what they ever worried about. Lanes are clear, going is good. Phew.

06.55: QUEUES.

07.00: P and Dad in car

07.10: P calls airport. Automated system.
- 'There is no information for that flight. Please hold, while I put you through to a customer services advisor'. Music.
P holds.
07.20: P's phone runs out of credit.
07.25: P calls Orange and tops up phone.
07.31: 'All of our advisers are busy. Please hold.'

08.15: Junction 6**. P's Dad knows a shortcut. But it's through dangerous A-roads, which might not be cleared and gritted. Should they turn off? Should they stay on track?
08.16: Car inches past slip road.
08.18: Car inches just a little further.
08.20: P's Dad makes sharp skiddy turn back onto sliproad.
08.21: Hooting.

08.22: Classic FM plays Winter from Four Seasons, only for first time today.
08.25: A-roads are fantastic!

08.35: Drivers who are afraid of the snow and drive at 20mph in a 60-limit are not fantastic.

(Check-in closes at 08.50)

08.49: Gatwick Airport!
08.50: P hugs Dad goodbye and legs it, dragging two cases and one laptop bag into terminal building.
08.50 and a half: P jams credit card into automatic check-in machine. Yesssss!

08.55: Flight very delayed. Check-in open late anyway.

09.10 - 10.20: P becomes very well acquainted with departure lounge.

11ish (P has stopped counting):






*Due to lack of 'safety staff'. Hands up who's ever seen 'safety staff' on a PKP service?
**Sevenoaks is junction 5.

On why toned abs are impossible if you have a dog

Exercise no. 1: sit ups.

Lie down on floor, on back, with knees in air.

Enter dog.
Dog sees you on floor. 'What on earth are you doing down there?!'
Dog potters over, with a look of deep concern, presses its nose into your face and sniffs loudly.

Pull in stomach muscles and raise head and shoulders towards knees.

Dog looks disturbed, potters around in a circle, and places a worried paw on your arm.
You attempt to sit up but collapse in giggles.

Hold this position, drawing in abdominal muscles

With a deep sigh, dog slumps down beside you and leans its muzzle on your ribs.
More giggles, resulting in very sudden release of clenched abdominal muscles. Lie flat on back, panting.
Dog is disturbed, stands up, wags tail hopefully, looks worried, sniffs tail and potters around in a circle again.

Gently lower yourself back to lying down position.

Since you are already lying down, this is not easy.
Dog presses nose into your face again.
Jump to standing position and bend knees in fighting stance.

Dog - overexcited at the prospect of a playfight - pees on the carpet.

Throw in the towel and go to look for some kitchen roll.

I know I'm not allowed on the bed, but...

Koszmar

Last night I dreamt I was in Poland, visiting the mountains.

I know that I must have been in Poland, visiting the mountains, because the only part I remember is being in the bus station office, trying to ask the time of the last bus back to Kraków.

My Polish had clearly suffered because I couldn't remember the word for 'last': I distinctly remember trying variations on później and skończony, but nothing fitted.

At six in the morning, the dog asked, noisily, to be let out.

I woke up, let her out, nodded as finally the search engine pushed 'ostatni' into my brain, and went back to sleep again.

I hope I got the case ending right.

Keeping warm

It's late autumn now, the evenings are drawing in and - in spite of the sunlight blazing off the copper leaves during daylight hours - I still feel the irresistible urge to curl up into a tight little ball under the duvet and not come out again until April.

Over the summer, my parents changed the heating system in their house. They now have a condensation boiler: apparently this is the only kind you are allowed due to global warming. I had no idea. In any case, there are no flames in the bathtub. In fact, there is no heat of any kind in the bathroom whatsoever, and the only form of ventilation is to open the window.
On particularly frosty mornings, I am tempted to take the dog in with me for warmth.
Only the dog takes longer to dry than I do, so it wouldn't really be fair.

Now - I'm sure you've noticed - but every building has its own particular quirks, particularly in the noise department. We all know by heart the creaks and gurgles of our childhood homes shifting and settling in the night, and we've all been woken up by the desperate thud of silt in the boiler (disturbingly similar to the sound of someone banging on the back door). I'd just got used to the ice cracking on the back of the fridge on Starowiślna and, well, as a child I almost found babble of the radiator in the family home soothing.

Before I left for Sweden halfway through September the heating was still off for the summer.

Now, suddenly, the new radiators are on, and it's as though the house has started speaking in a foreign language.

I got back from Bratislava on Friday night to an empty house and tried to drift off to sleep. Not a hope. Downstairs, the sound of someone clicking light switches! I crept out of bed: no lights. Then: whoosh! A cascade of water - had someone suddenly turned on all the taps? No. It was just our noisy-but-ecologically-sound central heating.
It's taking a little getting used to.
Incidentally, there is an interesting side-effect brought on by hearing running water tinkling through the system twenty four hours a day.
Unfortunately it hasn't done much for the Spaniel, whose will is stronger than her bladder and who stubbornly refuses to go outside unless you play ball with her for fifteen minutes first.

The Spaniel is now allowed to sleep on the floor beside my bed. I say 'allowed' - she's clever and waits until I go into the bathroom to clean my teeth before sneaking in. I quite like the company, and she doesn't snore too much - although she tends to wake up a good two and a half hours before I do. I wouldn't mind so much if she'd learn to open the door and let herself out too but she hasn't got the hang of it yet. Instead, she accidentally makes some very loud Pino-awakening kerfuffle: either by shaking her ears noisily or thudding her tail ("oops did I wake you up? silly me").
From time to time, when she thinks my guard is down, she will wake me in the night. I hear whatever doggy disturbance she is making, wonder why I am awake and stumble into the bathroom. Upon my return, there in the middle of the bed is a small stubborn mound of curled-up springer spaniel. Her nose is very firmly buried in her own fur so I can't see the expression on her face.
- I'm asleep. It says - slightly muffled, doing a very good impression of a small, white, spotty Cumberland sausage.
I pull her off the bed by the collar. And then go to check the tap, which is leaking.

When I come back, the Cumberland-spaniel-sausage is curled up on my duvet again.

Scooping the poop

While I'm delighted to be travelling with my beloved canine companion once again

(isn't she pretty?), there are certain - messy- issues which threaten the harmony of our relationship.

Let's take a moment to look at dog owners and their habits in other countries (at least, those that fall under my limited experience).

In France, lots of people own very tiny, mangy little scraps of poodles. When the French mini poodle is hauled out for its daily scamper, the question of comfort breaks doesn't even rear its indiscreet head. One's evening promenade is all about appearances, cherie, and heaven forfend little Milord or Biscuit should disgrace himself in front of the neighbours. As a consequence, you often see these poor creatures desperately trying to hunker over and do what nature intended, while Maman continues to drag them down the trottoir on the end of an extendible lead.

In Poland (at least it seems to me), people in very small flats like to own very big dogs. The principal activity of the Big Polish Dog is to stare out of the window and drool on passers-by.


In the nineteenth century, gardens were cultivated down the centre of the broader, more prestigious streets in Kraków: ul. Dietla and Aleja Słowackiego, for example. These were grassy central reservations, with shrubbery and plant life and so on. It was said that these leafy promenades were created for the health and well-being of the citizens. Actually, they provided a great space for rich Cracovian apartment-dwellers to take uh... 'dobry pies'* out to powder his nose without causing too much embarrassment.

In the UK, local authorities are not so thoughtful. Encouraging little plaques along the pathway helpfully remind you that if your dog leaves a calling card in a public place, you will be subject to A Fine of up to One Thousand Pounds. A good reason to ensure that Rover** went before he came.
In practice, you have to buy a sheaf of little scented plastic bags from the pet shop/supermarket, and watch poor old Rex very carefully whenever he gets that far away look and starts sniffing around at the side of the road.
Please bear in mind: these are special little bags with No Air Holes.

Now. My family has selective hearing when it comes to saving the planet: they do it usually (and quite sensibly) when it coincides with saving them money. For example: they put out recycling bags, because you can use them to get money off the council tax (or something); they walk up into town instead of using the car, but parking fees are a bloody nightmare anyway. And so on.

So, when the spaniel and I go out for our evening constitutional, in the interests of not owing large sums of cash to Sevenoaks District Council, I arm myself with the Tesco bag hanging in the hall (specially packed with pooper scoopers, chewy toys and other exciting goodies for an evening walk).
Not ten minutes down the road and the little mongrel starts to sniff around at the side of the footpath, in an ominous way.
Uh oh.

When all is said and done, she looks up at me proudly and tugs on the lead. Oh no. We're not moving on yet. Now I have to juggle bags and scoopers, all the while holding tightly onto the lead to prevent my kamikaze spaniel from hurling herself out into the main road at the next junction.
Finally I manage to improvise a sort of plastic-bag-over-scooper. Please note. Since - to save the environment - we don't buy extra little bags from the pet shop, this is not an easy task. In the big bag are an assortment of: 1 Virgin Megastore CD bag. A Waterstones A5-size bag. A couple of rather holey polythene vegetable bags from the supermarket. One that looks suspiciously as though it came from a National Trust gift shop. None of them particularly suitable for fitting over a plastic scooper, performing the suave 'inside-out' move and tying in a respectable granny-knot.

Having finally managed to produce a decent and reasonably secure parcel, we move on. But oh no. Our troubles are not over. In the UK, it is widely accepted that small children love nothing better than to put plastic bags over their heads and asphyxiate themselves. So all British plastic bags, no matter how small, feature Tiny Little Holes to let the air in...




* I don't know any Polish dog names...
** Names have been changed to protect identity

Images of the Festive Season

An English 'szopka'


Christmas crackers: dreaded by the other dog because they contain real gunpowder

The pudding! Normally we pour hot brandy over it and set it alight (like crêpes, but denser), but I think the flames have gone out here.


The spaniel, reclining with a nice glass of chilled Chenin Blanc

Jolly Hols

I was jolted out of my doze on the train to Katowice when some guy got on at a provincial station and started lurching up and down the aisle with a large hold-all crying:
- 'Cold beer, ladies and gentlemen, cold beer!'
It was nine thirty in the morning.

Travelling in Poland is fun: I've now got to the stage where I can ask questions and understand an average of one word in every seven. My current strategy is to say of course, yes, fine, and smile and nod to give the frantically spinning cogs and gears in my head time to fill in the rest of what the sentence might have been. Then I march off following the approximate trajectory indicated by the ticket lady, faking an air of confidence. This usually wastes about half an hour based on the time it would have taken me if I'd simply asked in English.

I flew Lufthansa again and changed in Frankfurt. This time was not nearly as satisfactory. No Toblerone or Bombay Sapphire gin. But, bizarrely, sparkling wine. Again I had to run to catch my connection: not because of any misunderstandings (or alcoholic stupor), but because I was just getting to the exciting bit in Harry Potter and my hearing suddenly became selective.

Given the amount of trouble that book has got me into so far, I thought it expedient to leave it in capable hands in St Andrews.

Walking around the town early on Thursday morning, I had to agree with the school of opinion which reckons St Andrews has a decent amount in common with Hogwarts. Did I really attend the School of Modern Languages? Or was it the Faculty for Tongues and Incantations? How much easier would my life be now if I'd only taken a module or two in wand-flicking:
Textboxium auto-formattiarmus!
Recordio vocabulem slavonicus!
Accio synonym-for-'in terms of'!
It would also go some way towards explaining why I always walk into pillars at Kings Cross Station (or any station for that matter). Even without a nine thirty cold beer break.

Oddly, while in St A, four and a half months of being landlocked in Central Europe hit me, and I found myself demonstrating premature mad-old-biddy behaviour on the beach. An oddly physical need for the sea and water (as if we didn't get enough of it in Krakow last weekend) found me inhaling the scent of the stones on the pier (and then pretending to be scrutinising them for a lost contact lens to avoid embarassment in the face of early-morning dog walkers) and sloshing through the breakers on West Sands, under cover of drizzle. Thank goodness there are plenty of places to get hot chocolate and scones in town.
And thank goodness for my sister's oh-so-normal lovely flat in Edinburgh, and bad Chinese takeaway and home-made sex on the beach (there's a reason- I had forgotten- why I haven't touched Archers since I was seventeen).

My beloved spaniel and I were briefly reunited: I was assigned to the sofa on Wednesday night and she considerately curled up at around the level of my knees, forcing me to fold myself into a sort of zig-zag position, like someone trying to sleep across the armrests at Stansted Airport (now where did that image come from?).
Still, for a fellow neurotic old bitch I'm prepared to make some allowances...

Travels with my Spaniel

Last night I stayed over at my sister's flat in Edinburgh. Me and the spaniel had to share the sofa:





Me with the Love of my Life...