New Year's Eve.

The worst thing about this time of year in Poland are the 'bangers' that are set alight and thrown around everywhere. What the fun is exactly I do not know. They do not give off any illumination but let out a deafening crack that terrifies every animal within a mile radius. I am told that these basic explosives have only been available in Poland in the last few years and consequently Poles find them hugely exciting. They are lit and thrown around without any regard for people passing by, but this is not surprising as Poles have no respect for each other whatsoever.

The streets and parks are full of idiots, many of them adults, drinking vodka and lighting bangers. The dogs bolt off, petrified and confused. Once captured they are quivering wrecks. I have been unable to take Molly and Daisy out the last few days as it is just so frightening and I don't want to risk losing them.

After much consideration I have decided to spend new year's eve indoors with my doors closed to the usual rabble. There were phone calls from various Polish 'pals' who I don't hear from all year, curious to know if I was holding a party. In previous years they've attended my New Year Bash and had a wild time. A perfectly located balcony in which to see all the fireworks, free food and vodka all night long, comfort and space for all their friends etc etc. They always turn up empty handed. They have never once bought me a drink when I see them in the pub. And I have never been invited to their homes.

This year it occurred to me that if that's the best on offer, to play host once again to all these parasites who crawl out of the woodwork two days before the event then why bother? Unlike the annual Christmas Party which is a free-for-all, I desire the company of real friends at the start to the new year.

Feeding (on) the ducks.

I'm spending Christmas with Lola and her folks who've treated me as one of their own since I first met them five years ago. I'm treated and fed like a king.

Last night Lola suggested we go for a stroll at midnight to check out the annual festive gathering in the old town square and possibly bump into some old pals of hers. It was minus 4 degrees so we wrapped up warm and set off for what I hoped would be a cheerie hour warmed with candles and mulled wine and accompanied by a little music and merriment. After all these years in Poland I still have subconscious expectations of how it would be as if I was back in Blighty. Lola reckoned being outside in the square preferable to the midnight mass which she presumed would be just elderly locals crammed into the ugly church, it did look decidedly uninviting. I was happy with her suggestion as being trapped in any enclosed space crowded with Poles elbowing me from all sides is something to be avoided at all costs.

It was foggy on the road, evocative of the old days by the Thames and Sherlock Holmes films. The only people around were groups of youths on street corners swigging beer and vodka. They stared at us as we were not attired in the usual shell suits, bomber jackets and beanies. Approaching the town square we were dismayed to find it was dark and empty. On returning we found ourselves in the throng of what looked like an average Saturday night, packs of loud tragic looking yobs in various stages of drunkeness and on the verge of hostility. We looked far too smart and they didn't like it, keeping our heads down with a lively pace we made it home in one piece but it was unpleasant. The air had been bitterly cold although I enjoyed the fog, but festive it was not and the Christmas Spirit was nowhere to be seen.

Today the women served up a feast, unaided by any of the men who in Poland stay well away from the kitchen. I washed up which pleased them to no end.

Afterwards I went for a two hour stroll to the park with Lola and the dogs. Lola had gathered up bread for the ducks which she likes to do regularly and finds therapeutic. Once at the pond she remarked on how few ducks there were. Indeed, the waters have teemed with the critters all year and now their absence seemed blindingly obvious and gave the ponds an eerie stillness. Lola then went on to enlighten me. Apparently the birds are caught by individuals and cooked for Christmas. It didn't surprise me. Although the main Christmas dish is carp, this is supplemented with other fish, meat, and, it seems, just about anything else to hand.

Wasted lives.

The flatmates have returned to their family homes for the Christmas break and I have the place to myself again... what bliss. For the last week Brunette Flatmate had her boyfriend staying for the second time, he'd travelled from the other end of the country and spent six days in Lodz glued to the box, that's when he wasn't sleeping.

Like the flatmates, The Boyfriend never once took a book of a shelf to have a look, never proposed an outing of any kind, never showed any curiosity about this city to which he has only visited once before. The Boyfriend is 21 and overweight. My closest friend back in London is 70 and she has more vitality, strength, intelligence and wit than these slovenly non-entities can ever hope to be blessed with.

Surrounded on every wall by books in Polish and in English, luxurious large format photographic books with minimal if no text, history, geography, art, biographies, pulp fiction and worthier novels etc etc. Over ten thousand books on every conceivable subject. None of my young comrades, however, are the least bit interested. They prefer to watch crap tele (I have just one fuzzy channel) or sit at their computers sending banal messages to each other on social networking sites. None of them are familiar with Poland second largest city, they have never been to any of the parks, have never visited the museums or art galleries, have never even suggested a stroll down the main street. Blonde flatmate attends college for just three hours daily and the rest of the time sits on her rapidly expanding arse doing sod all - watching films and online 'chatting'. She says she never has time to clean or hoover. Neither does she have the time for a part-time job. And now the parents of my soon to be ex-tenants must fork out more cash so that their offspring can move to accomodation that will be pricier, dirtier, uglier and further. Simply because their children are not willing to lift a finger.

Christmas is coming.

There is not much here to give away the fact that Christmas is almost upon us. Only the main street running through the city has a thin layer of extra lighting. Shops don't bother to alter or embellish their window displays in any way, there's no carol singing or public concerts, and no christmas songs on the radio - just the usual ghastly techno and heavy rock.

Fir trees are bought a day or two before the Big Day, as are decorations which then remain in place until the end of February. There's something distinctly depressing about seeing Christmas decorations still up so far into the following year.

There are even more police cars on the streets than normally (every second car seems to be an ambulance or patrol car), this is apparently because they are seeking extra bribe money from speeding motorists in order to facilitate some Christmas shopping.

As one would expect in a Catholic country the churches are busier than usual. It's always been a mystery to me how a nation can spend so much time in church and yet be so nasty the moment they step from the portal. I remember one Sunday watching a congregation piling out from one of Lodz's many places of worship, a massive monstrosity carved in concrete and steel. I was with my Big German Friend... "holier than holy... now watch them as they drive out of the car park..." he remarked. And we watched them... cursing and honking and pushing and denying others even the slightest consideration. Love thy neighbour? Forget it. Treat others as you want them to treat you? Not round here.

Word of the week: czlowiek religijny meaning churchgoer.

The Polish ski jumping champion.

Poland has little presence on the world stage, so when the opportunity arises Poles are more than anxious to get their flags out. Polish ski jumping champion Adam Malysz gives them that once in a blue moon chance.

Ski jumping is shown repeatedly on national television and the reason for this can only be what is indeed a rare species... a prize-winning Polish sportsman. Poles are not renowned for their sporting prowess, they're not what you could call active. In the four years I've spent running and cycling in the park daily with the dogs I could count my fellow joggers on one hand.

The populace prefer to sit in their blocks and watch television, mindless and banal television, and one of their favourite programmes is ski jumping... hours and hours of it. As far as I can see, if you've seen one ski jump you've seen them all, it must rank as one of the dullest sports invented. Nonetheless, tv stations nationwide continually show these dreary contests and the country gather round their Panasonics riveted.

On making new acquaintances it's not long before I'm berated because I'm not up to par on Adam Malysz... but who (apart from 40 million Poles) cares about ski jumping?

The quiet American and a conundrum.

I have a friend called Chris from Colorado. He has been teaching English for eight or nine years. He's had his fill of Poland and wants to return home but it's not so simple... he has a two year old girl called Aniela.

A few years ago he married a Polish girl here in Lodz. They had a child whom Chris's wife, quite shrewdly, ensured was born in the States. They have now separated, the wife has the child and he is renting a dingy little hovel down the road. His job is tedious and repetitive, he earns a pittance, and he finds the Poles rude and boorish. There is nothing to keep him here except little Aniela. He tells me he is frequently depressed and lonely, I see him often as I sympathise - but what can I say to him? What should he do? Stay or go? His soon to be ex-wife is vile to him but Chris still entertains the idea of a reunion purely out of love for the child.

Chris's father is loaded but does not help his son in any way, only telephoning occasionally to ask advice on his investments (Chris studied investment banking). Chris is a quiet American, well-mannered and intelligent. His parents visited once and hated it. They feel his life is meaningless. And yet how could he leave his child? A conundrum indeed.

The Christmas Party.

Every year I hold a Christmas party to which are invited all the staff and students of the English language school where I used to work, and just about everyone else I know. Well in excess of a hundred people usually cross the threshold. Alas, this year my friends will have to forego their annual evening of debauchery as my home and venue of countless nights of revelry will be still. Why? The flatmates of course.

My delectable lodgers have turned their once exquisite bedrooms into a haven of bacteria, they have discarded the luxurious white bedlinen in favour of their own patterned polyester duvets in hideous shades of yellow and lime green, on top of which they have 'rearranged' the furniture so that beds are now pushed up against balcony doors and bedside cabinets sit next to each other in the opposite corners. Like their fellow citizens in blocks throughout the nation they never feel the need to open a window, hence there is a distinctly unattractive whiff emanating from their dens. How could I possibly invite guests to my house?

One could of course just close the bedroom doors but it would not be the same. Visitors love to stroll through the corridors of my palatial apartment, gasping in delight at my vast library and impeccable taste, albeit coming from those who do not read and to whom any interior not painted yellow is indeed a marvel. Nevertheless, following partygoers from room to room as they breathlessly utter superlatives does my vanity the world of good and is one of the rare pleasures I get from my grim existence in this grey land.

So this year the party is off. A disappointment for many and another reason to shift my two tenants asap.

Taking the tram.

I dropped Esmeralda off at Mike and the Mechanics for a service and had to take the tram back into town. Tickets must be bought before boarding but of course there was nowhere to buy a ticket so I just jumped on. EU funding has allowed Lodz (and the rest of Poland) to replace it's public transport system and now smart Volvo buses and plush trams glide through the city on new roads and rails, but in order to buy your ticket you still have to search for a kiosk open.

Once aboard a dirty looking passenger approached me, flashed a plastic ID and demanded to see my ticket. I've heard of conmen who pretend to be inspectors, so despite his belligerence made a point of examining his identity card again. I explained that there had been nowhere to buy a ticket, but no matter, I had to pay a cash fine of 60 quid.

Today is Sunday and all the shops are closed. There are no ticket machines at bus or tram stops. If you want to travel today and you did not buy a ticket earlier in the week then you risk a fine.

Table manners.

I've decided to get rid of the flatmates. The novelty of them running around in their underwear has worn off after three months of constant cleaning... they are filthy. I've asked them on numerous occasions to buck up but they still don't know where the hoover is kept... "just tell us what to do," they whinge. Why should I have to tell them?

It was an accumulation of reasons that has finally led me to eject my two temptresses. Lola warned me from the beginning telling me that Brunette Flatmate was 'loud, vulgar, and primitive' whilst Bookshop Babe felt I was foolish to offer so much in return for so little. They were right. A well presented cleavage makes for a lot of leeway but the final straw came last Friday when I cooked for my lazy lodgers.

Poles have no table manners. Restaurants were almost nonexistant in communist Poland, only the occasional Bar Mleczny (milk bar), a no-frills cafe offering cheap dairy-based dishes. Despite having deeply rooted Jewish, Lithuanian, Ukrainian, Belarusion and Russian traditions, the people of Poland now prefer the dubious delights of cheap pizza, kebab and McDonalds which have opened in abundance. Lodz is the second largest city in Poland and there is only one decent restaurant which is closing due to lack of interest.

I've sat for the last eight years at the same dinner table as Poles and it is truly horrendous. They pile their plates high and scoop scran into their gullets like there's no tomorrow. They manage to talk and display every chewed morsel at the same time. They reach right across you if they need something from the far end of the table and napkins are not required. Courses come in random order, often the soup together with the main, and once the food lands on the table Poles do not hesitate and do not stop for breath. If you pause even for a moment then surly waitresses assume you have finished and take your plate from you, I have often had to fight for a half-eaten meal. There is no custom of putting one's knife and fork together when finished, indeed, there is no custom of any kind. It would be fair to say that a great many Poles consume food like pigs.

I remember a date I had with a divine looking girl I met when I first arrived in Lodz. I made the mistake of asking her out to dinner. The way she bent over her bowl and threw the food into her mouth, spitting it out at me as she jabbered away, and the lettuce dangling from her greasy chin swiftly eradicated any romantic notions I'd entertained. I shook her off faster than an unexpected daddy long legs.

So, there I was at my place on Friday night with my legendary pasta steaming away. I created a fine salad too but of course it was wasted on my guests as they are brought up on frozen and canned junk and are quite devoid of taste buds. Nevertheless, I sat there aghast as Brunette Flatmate and her halfwit boyfriend shovelled my cuisine into their mouths, spraying the table with red pesto and half-chewed olives. As she prattled on at me I winced at the food sitting on her tongue, she almost elbowed me off my chair as she dived over the table for another helping. It was unbearable, although she spared me from the usual plate licking. Of course I spent the remainder of the evening washing-up, Blonde Flatmate breathed over my shoulder "we'll do it in the morning" but I've come to understand that as "we might get round to making a start on it after three or four days."

I'm forced to deal with a lack of table manners in the pizzeria's and kebab houses but I can't tolerate it at home. They have six weeks notice. They'll be sorry to go as they certainly won't get it so good elsewhere in this city.

Word of the week: Wyprowadzic sie meaning to move out.

Tired.

I couldn't sleep due to the ambulances screeching around the city centre in the early hours. A Sunday night with not a soul to be seen but the ambulances do not let up.

In the morning, still groggy, I left the house with the dogs for the park. Two men were pissing in the courtyard as is usually the case. I stepped over discarded vodka bottles and more piss before we climbed into Esmeralda and set off.

On the road we were cut up on all sides by maniac drivers honking furiously. They also like to drive inches behind me 'right up my arse' as it were, aggression is the norm on Polish roads. In order to avoid a headache I played with the radio hopelessly trying to find a station not playing horrid heavy rock and ended up turning it off as is usually the case.

On arriving at the park the dogs jumped out and I was told immediately by two policeman to 'control' them. Polish law states that dogs must be muzzled and on a lead everywhere and at all times. As soon as the police were out of sight I let them lose again. Even here in the greenery you cannot escape the wailing of ambulance sirens which circle the parkland. I had to witness at least another half a dozen men pissing, they don't even bother going into the bushes but do it on the path. Some youths who had been drinking paused to smash their bottles on the ground and have a piss before exiting the park.

On the way back I stopped at a hypermarket for provisions. It is the only place where I can find olive oil and cheddar cheese, for a small 3" square I have to pay nearly 6 quid. About to enter the shop, I stopped and held the door open for a man coming out who did not say thank you or even look at me, I'm used to this although will never like or understand it. Once inside the security guard stared at me. Wandering up and down the aisles people walked right in front of me and two barged into me without a word of apology. I strolled through the processed and long-life fare and once at the cashier I had to tell the woman behind me to stop pushing her trolley into my back. On leaving the security guard continued to stare accusingly.

On our return I passed a car collision, three cars all write-offs, no sign of any passengers. This is yet another daily sight which has long ceased to shock me. If Poles had any brains they would just drive a little slower, it's not as if they are need to be anywhere in a hurry as there is nothing of any importance happening in this town.

Back at the flat I sat down and thought about Christmas. I am unable to get back to London for Christmas due to the fact that there are so many Poles now moving back and forth between the UK and Poland, especially over the festive season. And they buy up all the Ryanair tickets months in advance for a fiver.

I'm tired of it. Tired of the hostility. Tired of the spitting, pissing and shitting. Tired of the jingoism. Tired of the pushing and shoving. Tired of the rudeness. Tired of the ignorance. Tired of the bigotism. I'm tired of Poland. I want to be back amongst civilised people.

Breaking the law.

Outside my bedroom window down on the street about a hundred yards away is a crossroads complete with traffic lights. Newly installed speakers give off a loud penetrating clacking when the green man is shown. Despite this cars are still allowed to speed in between people crossing. There is never a time which is reserved just for pedestrians to move safely across the road. The loudspeakers are horribly loud and go on every time the green man appears, every couple of minutes all through the day and night. I (and almost certainly a hundred other residents living around the junction), have not been able to sleep.

So what to do? This is the main street of the city but it's residents are never consulted on anything, we have no voice as to what goes on. During the summer ghastly rock concerts are organised all along the street which go on til three in the morning, drunken people shout and stagger along the road stopping to spit and piss, ambulances speed down the supposedly pedestrian thoroughfare with ultra-loud sirens and horns blaring, ugly metal signs are chained to lamp-posts and clutter up the pavement etc etc. Residents signing petitions for the council to consider is unheard of and the idea would be laughed at.

Weighing all this up, tired and irate that my sleep had been interfered with, and will be from now on, and with seemingly no other option, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Around midday I left the house armed with a spanner, wire cutter & stepladder. I'd already done a reconnaissance and knew what needed doing. There was a speaker perched on the top of each red/green man light unit on every corner of the junction - 4 in all. Within a few minutes I had the 2 located on the nearest corners in my bag. During that time at least three police cars past me - they drive up and down the street with nothing to do, interspersed with screeching ambulances. 80% of the traffic on this main avenue is police, ambulances, and 'security' vehicles which is a Polish obsession. What a weird place Eastern Europe is. I was dressed like a builder on a paint covered step-ladder, no-one took any notice and besides which Polish police like to intimidate but are brainless. They are paid a pittance and are all open to bribery, many have second jobs. My kitchen was fitted by a numbskull copper who couldn't put a nail into a wall. The British don't know how fortunate they are. Nevertheless, I left the remaining two speakers as it should now be decidedly quieter, and if not I'll finish the job in the next few days. I hope it will not be neccessary to remove the final two as the silence would be noticed sooner rather than later and the speakers possibly replaced.

If the lights, and their co-ordinating speakers, were activated by someone pushing a button in order to cross then I might be able to tolerate it, although it's pointless anyway as cars do not stop. But why should I (amongst many others) be kept awake all through the night when the streets are deserted? An automatic system that serves no purpose except to keep people awake.

Polish Patriotism.

A quick browse on Facebook, MySpace, Bebo and other social networking websites lay bare the thousands of profiles of young Poles living in the UK and shouting to all about how great Poland is. They send moronic messages to each other in Polish saying that 'Poles are the best!' and how 'shit' it is in Britain. They write in (a hideous version of) English, they assume English names, they take everything that Britain has to offer but are ungracious about their adopted homeland. They wave Polish flags as if they were still here in Eastern Europe - which of course they are not.

This is an example of a typical Polish 'poem' found on Bebo:

My Polish pride
I will not hide
My Polish race
I will not disgrace
My Polish blood
flows hot & true
My Polish peeps
I will stand by you
thru thick & thin
till the day we die
Our Polish flag
Always stands high
I yell this poem
Louder than all the rest.
cuz every 1 knows
Poland IS THE BEST!!!
Polish Pride in my mind
Polish BLOOD is my kind
So step aside and let me through
Cuz its all about the Polish crew
Life sucks and then u die
but if your Polish
You die wit sweet ass pride

It would be hard to find a young Briton as proud, but here self-glorification is instilled into the population as infants. And yet what are they so proud about exactly? Poland has never won a war, nothing has ever been invented here, Eastern Europe is grim and oppressive in the extreme, a hostile police state in which people are rude, aggressive, anti-semitic, anti-gay and completely lacking in manners or style. Primitive Polish men in shell suits spit and piss everywhere in public. Thousands of Poles are continuing to leave Poland daily headed west but they have their pride crammed into their suitcases.

Poles abroad, if you love Poland so much then why don't you return to your beloved country and STOP BORING US WITH YOUR PATRIOTIC DRIVEL.

Word of the week: dumny meaning proud.

Gone fishing.

Fishing is peculiar to men and something that I've never really understood. As a muddy boy I messed around with small nets scooping up sticklebacks in the Regent's Canal which runs through east London, but that pastime didn't last long. And sitting for hours watching an illuminous stick in the water for the slightest movement has never appealed... I'd rather read.

And yet fishing is very popular in Poland. It is illegal for people or dogs to swim in most public ponds, rivers or lakes but fishermen can do what they want, and do, leaving a trail of hooks and line and litter.

I managed to contain my excitement when a couple of the boys down the pub invited me on their weekly jaunt in search of carp and the like. On contemplation and always open to an odd adventure I thought 'Why not?' Maybe I will discover what it is that Polish men find so fascinating by the waterside... apart from a free lunch of course.

We set out at dawn in a giant jeep, four of us and piles of equipment. On the journey through the rain and out of the city I imagined an idyllic setting, the gentle trickle of a stream or occasional splash of a duck on a pond, dew steaming from the soft luscious banks, a remarkable tree under which to plant oneself and gaze out at the drizzle and a misty horizon, a book to hand when mighty and mysterious marine life were not tugging on my line, etc etc.

An hour later we turned off the main road and headed down a dirt track for five minutes before arriving at what looked like a rubbish dump. After leaving the jeep next to a couple of abandoned cars we made our way past a breeze block house encircled by mad dogs chained to tractor wheels. We entered a compound via a metal gate and, stepping delicately along wet wooden planks, we crossed over small tanks which were heaving with condemned fish. Continuing single file in between mountains of discarded washing machines and other debris we reached the edge of an expansive and very man-made looking reservoir. Concrete shelters especially built for fisherman were located around the whole circumference of the water, each just a few yards from the next. I was already looking at my watch as we unpacked the tackle.

My pals armed me with a worm on a hook at the end of a long rod. I stood awkwardly freezing my nuts off for 15 minutes staring out at the water. My thoughts turned to the paperback protruding from my jacket pocket but I was given strict instructions not to take my eyes off the bait. Suddenly one of the boys shouted at me "pull pull!" I instinctively yanked and a tiny silver thing came flying out of the water and landed half a mile behind me in the midst of the wreckage, I rescued the poor creature from a lingering death under an old Zanussi and returned him to the water. He had been about four inches long, not record breaking but the first catch of the day! From then on, with a slight flick of the wrist, I was to land one of these blighters every few minutes while my comrades looked on bewildered. I was experiencing the renowned Beginners Luck, but I soon bored of it and sent them on their way as soon as I had unhooked them. The reservoir was crammed with fish, I spied armies of them chomping on anything and everything and it didn't seem like much of a challenge.

Back in the boozer a few days later propping up the bar with Blonde Flatmate, one of the beefy bouncers and leader of our expedition wandered over and asked if I'd enjoyed the day.
"Oh... wonderful." I enthused... "simply marvellous."
Blonde Flatmate turned to me mystified, "but you said it was boring!" She will be facing a dramatic rise in the rent if she doesn't acquire some brain cells quick. Despite her interruptions I managed to convince our leader that I had had a life-changing experience.

None of us landed anything bigger that day although since that outing my friends have regaled me with tall tales of colossal carp and tempestuous tench fighting to the death. They keeping asking when I will be accompanying them again but I'm just so busy at the moment... and will be for the next few years.

Let there be light.

I rent two garages from the council in which to house Esmeralda and Edward. In Polish terms the fees are steep, I pay more than what I receive from the flatmates, that's how much I pay... an exorbitant amount. There is no electricity, the doors are hanging off and both roofs leak. In one of the garages I have a source of illumination... a single bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling.

The building administration told me that certain neighbours have complained about my garage light. Why? The electricity comes from the communal source and therefore everyone pays for it. The light is hardly used and costs next to nothing but no matter. I paid for new communal central heating pipes to be installed as it was necessary and the admin said they didn't have the funds, but let that pass. I pay for the cleaner who does the staircases as the admin has no money, but never mind. Every year I hold a Christmas party to which all come and have a rollicking time, but that is of no consequence. I regularly give money to their begging children who play downstairs but that is irrelevant. The neighbours refuse to pay what is an insignificant sum simply because it is not their light. And I mean insignificant. The cost of one 40W light bulb (switched on for maybe 10 minutes a week) shared between 26 households. Insignificant.
"Okay," I said, "get the council to bill me and I will pay."
"But you do not have an electricity meter in the garage... you must install one. And then you must go the council and tell them and sign a contract. Then you must go to the electricity board and tell them and sign another contract."

This is typical and after six years in Poland does not surprise me. The council made no mention of this when I first rented the garage (they probably didn't know) and now I must go to the time and expense of installing an electric meter for them so that they can bill me a few pence every month... and for those dilapidated shacks I pay a kings ransom in rent.

When I lament about life in Poland all I get from my Polish pals is...
"Welcome to Poland!"

First Snow.

As a Londoner snow was a rare treat, arriving like an unexpected romance and lasting just as long - I always loved it. Crisp air and dazzling sunshine, brisk walks in the park, sipping port in pubs with open fires, the shops invitingly lit up from within, cosy sundays watching old matinees.... winters were easy to enjoy.

That was then. In Poland the first snow signals four or five months of bitter sub-zero temperatures. The snow stays and the rocky pavements disappear under inches of ice and become deadly. Moronic motorists continue to tear through the unlit streets with no regard for anyone. There are no street cleaners. Polish winters are dirty, depressing and dangerous. I dread them.

Cash for corpses - the ambulances of Lodz.

Ambulances in Lodz are the scourge of the city. They terrorise with speeds of up to 120km per hour in city centres, they have unnecessarily and unbelievably loud sirens and horns which are on even in the middle of the night despite the streets being empty. They are very very aggressive and don't give a fuck who they wake up or knock down... their intention when driving is to oppress and to terrify.

Ambulance crews in Lodz (and apparently throughout Poland) had long been accepting bribes from funeral parlours to provide details of patients who had died. This went a step further when in 2002 it was discovered by a journalist for Poland's biggest newspaper Gazeta Wyborcza that ambulance crews were using the muscle relaxant drug Pavulon to speed up patients' deaths before tipping off the funeral businesses.

This practice was not limited to ambulance crews. Doctors on emergency wards in Lodz killed patients by lethal doses of a drug that causes asphyziation after the families of the victims had agreed to use particular funeral homes which then paid the doctors more than 300 dollars per corpse in return for the business.

No-one was charged with murder for lack of evidence. Two doctors were charged with 'failing to assist patients despite their condition.' Forty ambulance and funeral home employees were charged with bribery, most of whom got off and the remainder received minimal sentences.

Word of the week: Morderstwo meaning murder.

Agnieszka's empire.

Every Pole is eligible for grants from the billions that Poland is receiving from the EU, and they are taking as much as they can.

The most common scam is to claim money which is supposedly for maintenance of land or forest. One student I know receives 5000 pounds every year which should go towards the upkeep of the forest he inherited from his father, he is in the pub every night and has already bought a new car.

Why the European Union (and the UK in particular) had to contribute so much to the ex-eastern bloc when they became member states I still can not figure out. Of course it was inevitable that Britain would go into recession while Poland continues to boom. Much of British manufacturing has relocated here while a massive chunk of the Polish workforce has moved west to work for less money than Brits can afford to because the Poles are living six to a room in Zone 5. And they don't spend their earnings but send it home to further boost the Polish economy.

I have a friend called Agnieszka who courts all the important people and has become expert at receiving money from the European Union. At a recent bash of hers (champagne all round) I got chatting with the ex-minister of sport and other various high-rankers. Agnieszka owns a large university in which she claims to have 8000 students (many of them receiving EU grants) although every time I've visited it's been sparcely populated with endless corridors of empty classrooms. Agnieszka owns several other buildings which she 'rents' to her own university. Crafty. She even has a company which she has set up (renting her offices of course) in order to organise financing from the EU, her university 'pays' this company for it's services. And on it goes. Agnieszka has just bought her daughter a new top-of-the-range BMW for her birthday.

The British taxpayer pays more into the EU than anyone else in Europe. On top of that the British government (unlike it's neighbours) has had an open door policy to all immigrants from Eastern Europe since their accession in 2004. Where is the sense in it?

Happy ending.

There has been a big dog living in the park. A friendly hound and resembling something between a wolf and a husky, apparently he was dumped a couple of weeks ago and has been wandering around enjoying his freedom with people regularly leaving food for him.

Molly and Daisy's jealous growls prevented him from getting too close and thwarted my attempts to capture him. But one woman who took a shine to him was visiting daily and he was all over her like Christian the Lion in the youtube reunion video we've all seen, yet every time she tried to put a collar round him he darted away suspiciously. After a chat with her vet she returned armed with sedation tablets which she laced his food with.... some time later she was seen heaving the dazed animal into the back of her Skoda.

The door.

Poland is one vast council estate. The communists covered the country with grim grey blocks in which the majority of the population have grown up. Take away the old town centre of Krakow and the port of Gdansk and there is little left worth mentioning.

Bearing this in mind you would think that the scarce period property is highly valued but that is not so. Since they joined the European Union Poles are getting richer and are now 'renovating.' DIY has arrived in Poland. Plastic windows and metal doors are replacing original wooden fixtures. Ornate ceilings are being torn down and cornicing replaced with halogen spotlights. Panelled walls are being yanked out in favour of plasterboard, and silicone is a Polish builder's best friend.

This vandalism is not just restricted to ignorant individuals. The apartment opposite me is being renovated by the council who own it and will rent it out. I have watched daily as original tiled floors have been dug up, ceramic fireplaces smashed, windows ripped out and everything thrown onto the rubbish bins at the end of the courtyard (they do not even dispose of it properly). And this is on one of the most famous Art Nouveau streets in Poland. It is indeed disheartening.

In the staircase they dumped a splendid intricately carved door and frame, identical to mine - in fact I spent a fortune to have replicas made when I moved in as I only had one original. I supposed that the builders were waiting until they felt strong enough to heave the mighty door downstairs. It took me a couple of days but I persuaded a couple of pals to pop round so they could help me nab it. I didn't bother asking the builders as they always want money even though their intention is to throw stuff away, in Poland there is no charity and nothing is free. But the door had gone. We soon found it, however, down by their van... in bags. The builders had sawn up the stunning door and it's frame into small squares for firewood.

An older brother for Esmeralda.

Browsing the classic cars for sale on the internet (a favourite waste of time) I came across a 1966 black Volkswagen Beetle which had been beautifully renovated and looked like it had just emerged from the factory. It is extremely hard to find original and unmolested classic cars in Poland.

Of course I already have Esmeralda, a lovely metallic-grey head-turner coated in chrome and born in 1982, whom I love driving and has never given me any trouble. I do not need another car. This black beauty, however, was flawless! Furthermore, 1966 is a prized year amongst Beetle enthusiasts as it was the only year that the 1300cc engine was produced, generally considered to be the best and most suited to the Beetle (Esmeralda has a 1200cc engine).

"What do you want another Beetle for?" said my Big German Friend, "besides, they're not cool any more." He has a classic open-top Porsche 911 in which he roars around Dusseldorf at the weekends. Granted that the VW Beetle does not offer the same excitement and yet I was smitten.

Lola indulged my curiosity by driving me across Poland in order to confirm to myself that the car would be disappointing up close, potential problems, defects that do not show up in the pictures etc. But when I arrived and the garage door was opened my jaw dropped and I knew immediately that I had to have it. After some hot haggling I parted with some cash and Mike the Mechanic said he would fetch it on his truck for 250 smackers.

Back in Lodz my gym pals were surprised that I was going to pay to have it delivered to Lodz...
"Why don't you drive it back?" they exclaimed.
"Drive it?? It's 220 miles away! And this is no ordinary car... it's an antique!" But they got me thinking. Why not? I could collect it late afternoon on Saturday and drive for a few hours, then spend the night in a motel and continue leisurely the following morning. I had breakdown numbers I could call if need be, and in the event it probably wouldn't cost much more than the original delivery bill depending on where I was.

So that was it. I set out on Saturday morning having only slept 3 hours as I'd had a spontaneous night on the tiles. The 8 hour train journey was uncomfortable and tiring and when I arrived at 6pm I was already exhausted. The car felt solid, and despite my fatigue I switched on the ivory knobbed radio and settled back to a few hours on the road. I spotted a few motels but kept going so that I would have a shorter drive the next day, after only three hours I found I was more than half way. In Poland there are no motorways, several are now under construction thanks to the billions they've received from the EU. I had to deal with the usual idiots driving aggressively inches behind me and trying to cut me up on both sides, no matter that I'm driving a 42 year old car. But I refused to go beyond 60mph.

I eventually got home at 11pm, just 5 hours after picking the car up and with one 10 minute break for a coffee. I was worn out and yet exhilerated. I am the owner of another handsome car that is now named Edward and have acquired a second garage in which to house him.

Remembrance day... but not in Poland.

Remembrance Day is not commemorated in Poland.

11th November is Polish Independence Day which it regained in 1918. This is yet another of the many days throughout the year in which the streets nationwide are lined with Polish flags. Local councils ensure that a flag hangs on each side of every doorway and from every lampost in the land. On the calender for today it proclaims NEVER BE ASHAMED OF YOUR PATRIOTISM! This zealous statement is hardly necessary as in every survey within living memory Poland has always topped the list of the Most Patriotic Countries. This despite the fact that given the opportunity to leave a great number of Poles would - and since their accession into Europe just four years ago over 8% of the population have done just that.

Word of the week: Ironiczny meaning ironic.

Running a red light.

Esmeralda failed her MOT and Polish law allows 14 days for repairs before she must be taken off the road. Unlike in the UK, MOT centres here do not fix cars so I had to take Esmeralda to Mike and the mechanics who set about her but took longer than expected and when I picked her up she was technically illegal.

Setting off on the dual carriageway I couldn't remember the way to the MOT garage so Lola drove in front of me as a guide. She zoomed through an orange light and in order to avoid losing her I foolishly put my foot down although I could easily have stopped at the red. At the next junction a patrol car crept up alongside and ordered me to pull over.

Ready to admit my guilt and pay a fine, I was also aware of how the traffic police operate here in Poland. I've been a passenger in the past when friends have been pulled over for speeding and know the routine. Around a hundred quid cash bribe is usually paid with no fine and points recorded.

The rozzers asked for my documents and informed me that it would cost me 6 points on my licence and 150 quid to boot. I chilled him out with a little charm and we chatted.
"So what should we do with you? he asked... "How much do you want to pay?" Something prevented me from suggesting a figure although they made it clear that it would be very welcome. He enquired several times how much I wanted to pay without actually asking for a bribe.
"Just tell me how much the fine is and I will pay it," I said, feigning ignorance. There was also a part of me that wanted him to know that I was British and bribing policemen is something that we just do not do.

In order to give me a little more time to let the idea sink in, or maybe he was genuinely interested, he asked me what I did in Lodz. He then surprised me by saying...
"Are you Polish?" An odd thing to say I thought. It is obvious even before I speak that I am not a local.... and why not ask simply where I was from? After enlightening him as to my heritage he asked.
"How much do you earn in London?"
"Oh," I said jokingly, "not much. I'm very poor, just look at my old wreck of a car." Fortunately Esmeralda was looking distinctly grubby after a few days with M & the m's. My shifty eyed traffic cop took another glance at my beautifully renovated classic VW Beetle and finally latching on that there was to be no forthcoming cash handout he gave me back my documents.
"As you are so nice we will let you off, you are free to go." That was indeed magnanimous of him as he could have given me a fine anyway, I thanked them and off they sped to their next target.

Word of the week: lapowka meaning bribe.

Cemetery weekend.

The 1st and 2nd of November are two days in Poland when the dead are remembered and commemorated. Everything shuts down on these public holidays and it seems like the whole population without exception return to the towns and villages where they grew up, meet up with their families and head off to where their relatives are buried. Flowers are placed, candles lit, and masses said. Neighbours and acquaintances are spotted and greetings exchanged.

In the cities roads are cut off and police guides employed to deal with the huge amount of traffic coming and going. During the day the cemeteries are not particularly appealing but when night falls the thousands of coloured candles make for a magical setting and dazzle from afar like a fairy scene from A Midsummer Night's Dream - this is the best time to visit.

Polish gravestones are much of a likeness, thick marble slabs of considerable size which are laid flat with a headstone at one end and are placed very close together in rows. They are exceedingly expensive and there is much pressure to spend a lot on such a tombstone. Even in the extremely poor parts of Lodz the cemeteries are crammed with costly chunks of marble, some families take out huge bank loans to buy a burial place costing a year's wages. It makes no sense at all but that's how it is here.

I once accompanied friends who went to choose a gravestone for a relative who had died... death is big business and tombstones are very lucrative for the companies making them. At the showroom we walked up and down lines of great marble slabs all costing thousands of pounds. My friends are retired country folk with no capital and when I made my astonishment at the prices known they said that they had no choice... "People will point at us in the cemetery and in the street and we would be humiliated if we do not buy such a gravestone" they confided. A simple cross is not an option.

Wardrobe woes.

Like most things in Poland, antiques are horribly expensive. The weekend markets are full of hideous rubbish and the people pushing their way round are hard to deal with. So I've been looking online at the Polish auction site Allegro which is similar to ebay. Ebay.pl arrived in Poland three years ago but has not made any headway at all - there is hardly anything on it... it is difficult to get Poles to change their ways.

So, browsing Allegro.pl I can't believe that I will have to fork out 600 pounds for an old wardrobe which you could pick up in the north of England for 25 quid. New furniture is slightly cheaper but ghastly to look at and poorly put together. Capitalism is still in it's infancy here. There are no bargains, indeed, sellers want a fortune for everything.

Scrolling down the Allegro items for sale, even the tat is described as UNIQUE!!!!!!!!! and has a ridiculously high starting price and/or reserve price. Invariably every sentence ends in dozens of exclamation marks and the majority of antique furniture is listed as ART DECO!!!!!!!!! no matter what it looks like. They do not know what Art Deco means but have latched on to this term as something meaning 'old.'

It is the same for cars. Even write-offs are advertised online at ludicrous prices. An 12 year old Jaguar which you could pick up in Blighty for a couple of grand would set you back 14 thousand pounds in Poland... laughable. And it would need a respray. Many Poles shoot across the border to Germany to buy stuff there including cars. Mobile phones and smaller goods are bought in the UK and often resold here for extortionate prices.

So shopping is tedious and expensive and the choice is minimal. Ikea has at last arrived in Lodz and should be ready by August 2009. I can't wait.

Nouveau Cuisine.

I bumped into Vincent today. Bespectacled, podgy, pasty white and not even slightly attractive, Vincent is from Belgium. He lives here in Lodz with his Polish girlfriend since meeting her in England a few years ago and he has a small business importing Belgian beer. We used to be pals but he fell out with me after inviting Lola and myself to dinner.

He had long boasted about his culinary competence and ordered us over one Sunday morning with instructions not to eat breakfast as we would be treated to a handsome lunch and a banquet of a dinner.

We arrived at midday already famished. It wasn't long before he started to fanny around in the kitchen with much clamour and detailed narration in his Poirot accent of precisely what he was preparing. An hour later he emerged with what he described as a 'symbolic' lunch as we should save ourselves for the evening feast. The lunch consisted of three small prawns on half a slice of toast. Having downed our meal in 3.5 seconds we had to endure Vincent 'ooohing', and 'aaahing' as he enjoyed the fruits of his labour, chewing for 10 minutes on each prawn. His girlfriend is built like a broomstick and hardly pecked at her fine fare.

I'd brought the dogs and it was suggested that we go for a long afternoon walk to really build up an appetite for our evening binge. This was not necessary as I was ready to start scoffing the sideboard. Once outside, I dived into a corner shop and bought some ice-cream hoping this would stave off our hunger.

When we got back I opened the wine we had brought (oddly their flat was devoid of alcohol) and sat back again while Vincent returned to the kitchen, popping his head out now and then to enlighten us on what exactly he was preparing and the skill he was employing to create this magnificent meal. Lola and myself lay almost comatosed with hunger on the sofa while the girlfriend waxed lyrical about Vincent's cooking and what a marvel he was.

By seven o'clock we were barely conscious when Vincent finally emerged triumphant with a vast plate in each hand which he carefully placed in front of us. The style of the food was the same as their flat... minimalistic. I was looking at four pieces of ravioli. Lola and I looked up at each other in disabelief. Two mouthfuls was all it took, I then turned to Vincent who was making appreciative "MMMMMM!" noises with each munch and asked if there was more... "MORE?" he bellowed as if auditioning for an amateur stage production of Oliver Twist. Of course there was no more.

They then wanted us to settle back and watch a film but we exited pronto and headed for the nearest McDonalds where we engulfed enough grub for 8 people.

A week later I met them in the pub and Vincent asked expectantly if we'd enjoyed his table. "Very tasty," I said, "but we were still very hungry when we left and went to McDonalds." This sent him into shock and he was inconsolable for the rest of the evening. He has never forgiven me for this confession and his stick insect of a girlfriend said that I had hurt him terribly. I was not angry that he had starved us for a whole day so why was he so upset when I'd simply been honest with him!

So that was that. We never heard from them again until I bumped into him today. It's a mystery why he remains so plump when he eats so little... it must be the beer.

Word of the week: uczta meaning feast.

The Ukrainian Accordian Quartet.

Walking down the road the other day with Luscious Lola we came across three men playing accordians... it was Bach and we stood among a handful of people transfixed by these impassioned young men with these extraordinary squeezeboxes. It was cloudy and looked as if it might rain. Several people strolled by with a sideways glance.

After a few nervous glances heavenward they drew their concert to a close and started to pack their precious instruments away. The small number of people who had been watching walked away without leaving an appreciative coin. We congratulated them, put a note in their empty box, bought the cd's and invited them for coffee at my place 100 yards away. I repeated my road and flat number as I left them thinking they would not turn up but they surprised us a little while later.

They were the Ukrainian Accordian Quartet although the fourth had had trouble with his visa and had been unable to join them on this occasion. They came with flowers for Lola, polite and charming, they drank tea and we played Jenga. They agreed to come again later after their second 'concert' that evening. Apparently they were invited to play as part of a street festival but no-one seemed to know anything about it.

And what a fun evening it was! I picked them up in Esmeralda whom they loved although it was a trifle cramped and we headed over to Lola's place. We drank vodka and talked about the Ukraine, Poland, and Mozart. They didn't like Poland, and although the Poles were not generous it was possible to make more here than in the Ukraine where all are at the mercy of the mafia. Lola cooked and we laughed a lot. They had spent the whole weekend in Lodz but received little reward for their efforts. If they had been breakdancing or doing karaoke they would have had an audience of hundreds, but as it was no-one was interested in them. I often have to remind myself that the intelligentsia of Poland were wiped out by the Nazis and then the Soviets and consequently there is a distinct lack of culture or manners in this country.

Bathroom blues.

A have spent the last four days finishing my new bathroom. I had paid two builders what in local terms is a fortune for a refit but their work was just dreadful. They usually arrived about midday and some days did not turn up at all. They left rubble and rubbish all over the flat - I still have a WC and plasterboard sitting in the staircase, they had no tools but kept using mine, they had no work lamps and no means of transport. Picking up something from the hardware shop was a big drama for them and they kept asking for money in advance... and I stupidly gave it to them.

The work was to take just two weeks but they were still here in the third week with little done and us caked in dust and debris. After pestering them for detailed invoices, they eventually presented me with hastily scribbled notes with prices for each fitting that amounted to over 10 pounds for every hole drilled. Not even solicitors get paid that much. After the last cash handout they promised to finish off what they had started but I haven't heard from them since.

On closer inspection of the bathroom I see now just how awful they were. Nothing has been sawed in a straight line, the floorboards are damaged as they put no protection down, silicone and filler has been used to disguise the shockingly shoddy state of their work. My mistake was that I didn't keep a closer eye on what they were up to. They had no tools.

And yet I was so kind to them. I gave them 30 quid each just for carrying a table upstairs for me. In Lodz the average salary is less than 500 quid a month and for labourers much less. Friends have often warned me about being too nice... "You must be more Polish," they say, ie. hard and untrusting. I see now that it is true. I've been ripped off once too often. Those two jokers were obviously not builders and yet came on the recommendation of a friend's builder. I was an easy target, after having lived here for so long I should have known better. THEY HAD NO TOOLS.

80p for a piss.

This must be the most expensive slash in the world. I was on a train but the loos are unwelcoming to say the least, so, needing to point Percy at the porcelain, I waited until I got to the station in Lodz.

As is usually the case, a sullen and rather matronly female sat on the other side of a small window with the price 3.50zl fixed above it, that's about 80p. When I handed over my coins she furnished me with two sheets of toilet paper. Two exceedlingly rough sheets I might add. What you are supposed to do with two sheets of bog roll I don't know.

The foul stench that met me when I entered the urinal and the piss puddles I had to step over confirmed yet again that in Eastern Europe good value for money is hard to come by.

Mike & the mechanics.

My car mechanic and VW Beetle fanatic Michal - which I suppose would be Michael in English - invited me to have a drink with him and the boys from his garage. They are a nice bunch and the bar which they frequent is just across the road from me so I readily accepted.

The place is called Camelot and located at the end of a long courtyard. Two fat men sat on stools facing each other inside the entrance and after they had looked me up and down I had to turn sideways to get past them. Michal spotted me and dragged me over to his table in a raised corner where he held court. He was in his Friday Night Gear - a tight polo shirt and even tighter bleached jeans, and he sat like a local gangster - his back to the walls, his knees wide apart and overlooking all. He was beaming. This was the highlight of his week and he felt great.

A drunken mob sang into a microphone on the dancefloor and the awful din assured me that I would last just one drink and then make my excuses and flee. Michal sang along to the loud karaoke, clapping his hands hard and every now and then giving me a hard slap on the back shouting "It doesn't matter!!" He'd recently spent a month in London and was proud of this phrase he'd picked up.

I tried to spark up conversation with his pals but they had nothing to say. After we'd downed a few shots of vodka Michal's wife turned up with a couple of pretty pals. Before I had a chance to turn on the charm Michal suggested we (as in The Boys) go out for a rather handsome joint he'd prepared earlier and out they filed. I thought I'd better join them but by the time I'd excused myself from the girls and made my way past the lardy doormen my comrades had disappeared. Then I noticed a car in which the interior was thick with smoke, a door opened and a tattoed arm appeared from the issuing smog and beckoned me over. We sat squeezed together liked canned sprats and I listened while they talked about Volkswagen Beetles and axle differentials. This would have been dull in English but in Polish it was mindnumbing. Every time I passed the joint on another one arrived from the other side, by the time I got out of the car I could hardly move.

It was all I could manage to follow them back into the club and I sat down gazing like a zombie at the lovelies around me. A closer look made me realise that they were GORGEOUS and that I'd made a grave error. Now, as high as a kite, I had no hope of putting a sentence together and was capable only of grinning inanely at all around me. I slumped into a depression at such a missed opportunity and, looking down at the tray of gleaming shot glasses before me, resigned myself to another vodka.

Michal leaned over and giving me a mighty thump on the back suggested I start a Volkswagen Beetle club in Lodz as there isn't one. He is very impressed with the second Beetle I have bought (a fully restored beauty from 1966) and thinks I would be the perfect choice. The girls, flanked on either side by monosyllabic junior car mechanics, sat wistfully looking out at the merry-makers while I envisaged my role as President of the Lodz Volkswagen Beetle Club.

Word of the week: Mechanik meaning mechanic.

Nasty Polish drivers.

At least 30% of drivers in Poland are on their mobile phones at any one time. It is technically illegal but nobody cares and no-one has ever been prosecuted for it. Even at great speed and when overtaking they will not put their phones down. They are aggressive and ungracious, they will accelerate in order to prevent another car to change lanes in front of them or to allow a vehicle out. They have no patience and overtake on both the left and right. The moment Poles get behind the wheel they become arseholes.

On the road (as in life) I treat other road users and pedestrians as I would like to be treated. But I am alone. Hostility on Polish roads in difficult for foreigners to bear and few of them drive... Poles are just so nasty to each other. The death rate is 260% higher than in Great Britain where there are far more cars and far less space. Car wreckage in Eastern Europe is a common sight.

I love driving Esmeralda but it is a shame that Polish motorists make it so unpleasant.

A recent find.

As I was slinging my binbag into a metal wheely bin, I noticed a small and dirty dog cowering underneath. A tiny thing and little nervy but easy to handle I took her upstairs. She had no identification tag and the next day the vet confirmed that she had no chip. Apparently a Miniature Schnauzer, her tail had been cut off (an awful practice) but otherwise she was healthy and seemingly used to human contact. I was sure she had an owner and put the word out around the neighbourhood.

Over the next few days our new scraggy companion enjoyed jaunts to the park with Molly and Daisy and proved to be a sprightly contender. Showered and fed, she was fun to have around and fitted in nicely.

I begun entertaining thoughts of life with three dogs when a woman approached me outside my building and I knew it was Scraggy's owner, the dog belonged to her eight year old son. I told her the dog had been given a full service by the vet and had been well looked after. I suggested she invest in a dog collar and name tag. Once in my flat her reunion with the dog was lukewarm and I thought how different it would be if I lost Molly or Daisy. No adverts had been placed about the lost dog who lived in the next building (although I'd never seen it before), and nobody knew of the loss. She had done nothing to search for it. Scraggy hardly seemed to know who she was. The woman asked me if she could buy me a bottle of wine, an odd request and of course I said no, if she'd really wanted to reward me she would not have asked but simply turned up the next day with something.

This was some weeks ago and I've not heard anything from them since.

Word of the week: Niewdzieczny meaning ungrateful.

Original features.

Zygmunt, my 86 year old neighbour on the floor below me has gone for his usual bi-monthly trip to New York to get his pacemaker checked. He has an old pal there who is a specialist. Meanwhile, his younger sister Basha has decided to have a clearout and sling a lot of rubbish. I'm a hoarder but in their place you can hardly move.

I've only ever been invited into the main salon and have never managed to get deeper into the apartment. They have lived there for 60 years. Much of the furniture is - like the flat - grand and impressive, and most probably was bought by the flat's original owner 100 years ago. You wouldn't want to move it in a hurry. A feast for the eyes, it is combined with garish kitsch which elderly people seem to acquire a taste for. Nylon clad dolls, miniature plastic and glass ornaments, teddy bears, battery powered figures which light up and dance, and other hideous knick knacks.

In the guise of helper I have seized the opportunity to take a look at the rest of their flat which has long been kept hidden and my first glance confirmed what I'd long suspected. A treasure of orginal fixtures and neglected furniture. At the other (and less ornate) end of the flat is - at in my place - the second stairwell which would have been used by the servants. Wooden panelling in the hallway (covered by years of yellowing gloss), ebony coathooks and a splendid oak framed mirror stand outside the disused kitchen which is just as it was when it was built in 1906. Art Nouveau tiling on the walls, a white tiled Aga type cooker with brass hooks and rails, a belfast type sink with brass taps, and an exquisitely tiled turquoise and cream tiled floor. Basha and an elderly helper discuss 'updating' it all, getting rid of everything and turning the room into a bathroom. I know that if I offered to fit a cheap plastic shower for them I could strip the whole space and take it upstairs.

This forgotten room is filled with copious bin bags of clothes, rubbish, and fragments of antique furniture. Serving as a junk room, the door is opened only to throw in another broken chair or worn out coat. The layout of my apartment is the same upstairs on the top floor, although I have prettier ceilings, more light and less original features.

Basha is in her sixties and a lunatic. Hundreds of pills are invariably spread out on every horizontal surface. Her brilliant make-up is applied as a clowns on smack, the outfits are ludricrous and accessories favoured include dead animals and extravagant costume jewellery. When I knocked on the door she appeared in a blonde wig and panama and insisted I don what she presented me with before I could enter. Sat sporting a purple velvet smoking jacket, long brown locks and a bowler hat, I drank vodka while she attended to her Santa Claus which lit up and skipped around on the table making HoHoHo noises. Dust covered framed photographs of Basha and Zygmunt in their youth sit on the grand piano along with dusty deflated balloons on sticks.

Quite early on in the evening Basha began pulling out curled up sepia snapshots of herself in her twenties and proclaimed belligerently how beautiful she was and how she had been adored. I've become accostomed to this routine and make all the right noises at each new photo presented to me. They have no children and no family to speak of. I often hear them arguing when I pass their door, Basha screeching obcenities and poor Zygmunt pinned into an armchair, his pacemaker working overtime.

The perfect flatmates.

My apartment is vast - over 2100 square feet - and can be quite lonely sometimes. I tend to leave the lights on. Having dwelt on it for sometime, and against all advice from friends, I finally decided that I would like to find a flatmate.

I live on the most desirable part of one of the most famous streets in Poland, and after posting a couple of pictures online asking for minimal rent was not surprised at being swamped with emails. Being the start of the academic year a large proportion of prospective candidates were students. Four weeks and many meetings later, I narrowed it down to two lively and pretty girls, with a couple of bedrooms to spare and not wanting to disappoint one of them I eventually settled on both. One a natural platinum blonde - a rarity indeed even here in Poland, and the other a raven-haired dancer. A typical male choice of course for which I refuse to apologise! They've been with me now for a few weeks and it is easy, fun and much warmer at home. They have the run of the house as long as they don't fill it with hideous things and we share everything.

What happened to Autumn?

I remember long leafy autumns in East London, Victoria Park in the rain, a slow gradual slide into a winter not particularly cold. Dark evenings when the shops light up the dim streets with colourful displays and living room windows give us an eye into the lives of people returning home after work.

Here in Lodz we plummet from the high temperatures of summer to just above zero almost overnight. Unprepared and unwillingly to succumb immediately to the start of another long and bleak winter, I freeze in light tops with no hat or gloves. They tell me that until the snow falls we are indeed in autumn but I find that of little comfort when I'm shivering at the tram stop. It's easy to spot the British here in Poland as they too are still wandering around in t-shirts apparently oblivious to the chill.

Word of the week: Jesien meaning autumn.

A few days in Dusseldorf.

I saw out the last days of the summer in Dusseldorf with my Big German Friend, his wife Chrissie and their adorable seven month old baby. They have a beautiful apartment above a trendy coffee-shop in a pretty tree-lined street filled with luxury cars. Chrissie's artistic eye ensures that every corner of the flat is deeply pleasing and a joy to be in.

At the weekend classic cars are brought out from their dark hiding places and paraded for all to appreciate while sipping caffe lates and peeking out from the Rheinische Post. Laid back and unpretentious, Dusseldorf exudes relaxed confidence and wealth and I imagine is what Monaco feels like without the gauche and suntans. Even the wide Rhine gliding through the middle of the town has a serene tranquility which the Thames and the Seine lack.

We soaked up the sun in their garden which is a 10 short stroll from the house and a stones throw from the river. I was impressed with their friends, interesting and interested, well-travelled and fun, warm and well-informed. This is what I miss most in Poland.

There is always a part of me that wants to stay in Dusseldorf. Buy a pretty period house in a leafy street with an old Jaguar parked in the drive and BFG just down the road. Another of Dusseldorf's attractions is it's size... it's surprisingly small with a population of less than 575000. It feels like you can get anywhere in the city within the space of 15 minutes.

BFG works long and hard and he was rundown, when I left he was about to jet off to Ibiza for 5 days of golf and leisure... although he told me golf also has it's stress!

Puncture repair kit.

On our daily ride round the park I got a flat tyre and ended up wheeling my bike home with the dogs in tow. Some time ago I bought a puncture repair kit in anticipation of such an episode and was actually relishing the challenge of doing something I haven't done since I was a teenager.

Whenever my dad was conducting repairs around the house he used to get me to 'help' which usually meant squatting by him for what seemed like an eternity while he fannied around with an ancient two bar electric fire, my favourite TV programme taunting me in the next room. Those dreary DIY sessions included bicycle servicing and mending punctures. It is of course a simple procedure and yet like many mundane chores inexplicably satisfying.

I opened the puncture repair kit and was comforted to find it is just the same as it was when I was running around in school uniform shorts and blackened knees. My kit consisted of 3 tyre levers, several rubber patches of differing sizes, glue, and a small abrasive file.
I pumped the tyre up and immersed it in a basin of water to locate the hole - a tiny line of bubbles confirming it's presence. I dried the area around the perforation and roughened it with the file to give the glue 'a key.' I applied a film of glue and allowed it to become tacky before removing the foil backing from the patch and placing it in position.

I left the repair to dry and explored the inside of the tyre carefully with my fingers for the possible cause of the puncture... a measure that is often forgotten. And there it was, a small sharp piece of metal embedded snugly and waiting for me to replace the inner tube so it could strike again. I removed the spike with the help of pliers and was grateful it had pierced my tyre and not the dogs paws. If I had a son, no doubt I would have him sat next to me helping, in the event it was Molly & Daisy watching intently, any movement around the bikes immediately incurring their excitement.

The next day I refitted the inner tube and set off half expecting the tyre to go flat again, my efforts, however, had been a success.

Moving up to Extra Large.

During my occasional bouts of weightraining I am often accused of looking gay. After careful consideration I have attributed this to the fact that I continue to wear t-shirts which have become too small while I 'beef-up'. Tight clothing is definately not cool, not on a heterosexual male anyway, so in order to eradicate this problem I have ditched my suddenly miniscule looking tops and took a quick trip down the shops to stock up on Extra Large.

This required quite an extensive psychological shift. I remember once being a Medium and the move up to Large was a vague and not particularly successful one. On examining my previous clobber on its short journey from drawer to dustbin I found that there were plenty of Medium in amongst the Large. No wonder I looked a bit of a Nancy, I've never been one to linger in front of a mirror and simply didn't notice. Generally, no-one wants to move up a size in clothing... unless you're a spotty seven stone schoolboy, beside which, when I was a Medium (in another aeon) Extra Large seemed massive.

Always reluctant to throw anything re-usable away, I would have rathered give my unwanted clothing - some of which had never been worn - to a good cause, but there are no charity shops in Poland and recycling is yet to take hold.

An unexpected adventure.

I set off in Esmeralda with Molly & Daisy for a Sunday jaunt in the woods on the outskirts of town. I picked up Bookshop Babe on the way and by the time we arrived it was looking menacingly overcast. We ventured well into the forest which apparently is the largest city forest in Europe as it is technically still part of Lodz. In the past I have come face to face with deer and wild boar. After an hour or so in the dark and eerie woodland, the sound of rain filtering down through the thin trees and gently landing on the forest floor persuaded us to turn back along the path from whence we had come.

I am reminded of the riddle "How far can one walk into a wood?" It never fails to befuddle and yet on hearing the answer it is delightfully obvious... "Into the middle, any further and one is walking back out again." My Big German Friend was so taken by it that he uses it when interviewing prospective employees.

Summers in Poland can be sweltering and the searing heat is often fragmented with storms the like of which I have never experienced in London, or indeed anywhere in England. I once passed through one on a night train and was thrilled and spellbound by the great shafts of lightning piercing the night sky, I remember peering through the driving rain running across the windows and wished that I could leap off and run out into the middle of the monsoon.

As we returned to the edge of the forest the rain had intensified and we took shelter in the concrete confines of a disused bus shelter. The light had dimmed to such an extent that a torrential downpour was plainly imminent. As we stood there looking out I took the moment to enact what has almost become a film cliche... I held BB in a close embrace and our lips met for the first time. It seems that in the movie world all the most romantic and dramatic scenes take place in extreme weather... or at the very least in the rain.

Having distracted ourselves for a spell we turned back to reality and the fact that the rain was not going to let up, so we ran for the car and, jumping in, set off for home. Road drainage is very poor in Poland, even on new roads in the city centres, and this makes for very difficult driving conditions when there is a serious shower. Deep pools had already established themselves across the wide communist boulevards, this combined with the leisurely to and fro of Esmeralda's windscreen wipers made the going slow and precarious. It can be difficult to judge just how deep these pools are until one is in the middle of them and it's too late.

After a little while we reached a main intersection, the rain was so furious now that visibility was minimal, and having narrowly missed a collision with another car who pulled out in front of us I managed to spot a place where we could pull over and wait for a respite in the weather.

Here we sat cocooned, Esmeralda's 1960's original style interior offering a pleasing relief from the raging elements. The rain hammered down and the windows quickly steamed up. We marvelled at the torrent, chatted and tried to comfort the dogs. And there we sat while the thunder roared and flash lightening illuminated all. Molly cowered at BB's feet and poor Daisy managed to squeeze underneath my seat, so frightened was she.

When I next wiped the window a little later I was confronted with a scene of pandemonium. Three cars had crashed into each other and another two had been abandoned nearby and were almost completely submerged. A steady stream of traffic in order to avoid the intersection which was now a sizeable lake were driving up and over the grass verge and tram lines to get onto another road. I opened the door to find that we were in a good eight inches of water and knew that we had to move immediately.

Notwithstanding the fact that I love Esmeralda, it's never far from my mind that a 26 year old car can be prone to trouble. She groans and squeaks and occasionally there's a discrete knocking from deep within her bowels, but she has never let me down and this day was thankfully no exception.

We followed the other madcap motorists up and over the tram lines and onto another highway. The storm was still ferocious and the thunder and lightening quite terrifying. BB lived not far and we managed to make it there by which time the tempest had abated somewhat. She invited me in to sit out the remaining squall but I determined to get home with the poor dogs. We made it back in one piece although I had to make a few U-turns due to vast ponds and accidents. At one point I nearly made a grave error when I approached a mass of water, the continuing downpour making it tough to tell its depth, it was only at the last second I noticed through the rain the top of a street bin peeking from the blustery surface.

I was glad to get home, the dogs even moreso and headed straight for the sanctuary of the dark bathroom where they sat quaking for the rest of the evening.

Word of the week: Burza meaning storm.

A marriage of convenience.

Big Eggs is depressed. Every so often the public curiosity about his sexuality gets on top of him and his paranoia about keeping his homosexuality a secret is indeed all consuming. He longs for a steady relationship but feels that it is impossible in Poland, at least if he wants to keep his career afloat.

So what to do? Get married? Mmm... organising a Russian bride who wants an open door into Europe would be easy, but she would soon move on and it wouldn't be long before the press are on his tail again.

Frequent holidays abroad to places like Morocco or Mykonos offer untold delights, but sneakily taken photographs can find their way onto the internet and fuel speculation.

So Big Eggs sinks into despondency and there is little I can do to console him.

A misplaced package.

I receive daily several small parcels in the post from the UK and the US, these being mainly books. I told my postman I'm happy to pick it all up regularly from the post office to save him lugging it around which is what I normally do.

Not so long ago, having collected two bundles of packages and returned home, I opened a large envelope to find a DVD about an obscure South American musician along with a few signed photographs, booklets and badges. This was clearly not destined for me and on checking the address I saw that it was from an American record company and intended for a flat two buildings down the road. I visited the address a few times but no-one was in. I also sellotaped a note to the door giving my number. I heard nothing and took to ringing the bell every time I passed.

One day someone answered the intercom with a gruff...
"Yes, I'm listening."

I was greeted with suspicion and ignorance as is so often the case in Poland. This is how the conversation went...

Me: "Hello, I have a package for you."
Him: "What package? Who are you?"
Me: "I live locally and the parcel was in amongst others that I picked up from the Post Office."
Him: "What package is this? Who are you?"
Me: "I told you, I'm a neighbour. It's a DVD from the States. I opened it accidentally."
Him: "You opened it? Why did you open it?"
Me: "Yes, I'm sorry, I receive a lot of USPS Envelopes from the States just like this."
Him: "You think it's nice to open other people's post? Why did they give you the package?"

By now I'd had enough. Another thing The Jerk did which happens to me often and I find terrribly impolite is that almost immediately he dismissed my ability to speak Polish by stating "We can speak English!" and then proceeded to stumble on in pigeon English. As if to say that his English was better than my Polish which it certainly was not. Such aggorance.

I restrained myself from telling him what a prick he was down the crackly intercom, but explained that the mistake was not mine and that I'd gone to some trouble to try and return the package. I ended with...

"Do you want the package or not?" There was a pause and then The Jerk said...
"I'll be down in a few minutes...wait there."

I gave him exactly three minutes then walked away.

A few days later one of the Norwegian Magnus's came round and, remembering that he has an extraordinary collection of music, I told him the story and gave him the DVD etc.

Eventually The Jerk tracked me down (not difficult) and left a note on my door for me to call him... some hope! My postman, a stoutly built and jolly fellow, informed me that The Jerk had been making a fuss down at the post office. If only he'd not been quite so uncivil he would have his paltry packet.

A few days afterwards, and expecting him, I opened the door to find what looked like the drummer from one of those Brit Bands of the late 1990's, but without the middle-class manners. Over-trendy glasses offset with unkempt hair and a big 1970's collar, The Jerk stood speechless as I nonchalently but firmly informed him I had better things to do than stand answering impertinent questions through cheap intercoms and that I'd put his package back in a letter box.

Magnus later told me that the DVD was pure piffle and he'd binned it.

Bookshop Babe.

I've rarely been able to walk past a bookshop without popping in to have a quick peruse. This day was no exception, and on leaving the gym I automatically ventured into a small retail outlet. Expansive reasonably priced book stores are one of the many things I miss. Polish bookshops are not anywhere near as interesting or diverse as back in Britain where we are spoilt with a wealth of wonderful reading and big bright coffee table books. In the UK you can buy a book on anything. My last trip down Charing Cross Road culminated in the purchases of Street Covers - a black & white photographic record of manhole covers, Meetings with Remarkable Trees, Last Letters of Audrey Beardsley, Fine Silks & Oak Counters - Debenhams 1778-1978, Decorated Paper Designs, Mythical Beasts, Wings of the World - Tales from the Golden Age of Air Travel, Beer Memorablia, The Fifty Worst Movies of all Time, and a beautiful lavishly illustrated extra large format volume Voyages of Discovery - Three Centuries of Natural History Exploration. One could not hope to find any books like these in Poland, or indeed any photographic books of interest other than about Poland itself.

On establishing that the stock of this particular premises consisted of the usual sparse collection of cheap quality paperbacks and touristy tomes on the Polish countryside, I was about to depart when a gorgeous girl in an outfit that could best be described as minimal asked me if there was anything particular I was looking for. Mmm... tempting, I told her I was merely browsing but of course always open to suggestions. She ended up recommending Paulo Coelho whom I've never read and she adores having whizzed through all but his last one Brigate (which they didn't have).

Somewhat distracted by this nymphet who continued to smile at me as I wandered round in a state of agitation, I sneaked out and purchased a card nearby and a copy of Brigate which I deposited with her a little while later. She sent me a text not long after that and we arranged to meet during the week.

Word of the week: Ksiegarnia meaning bookshop.

Letter to Daniel.

Dear Daniel,
Thank you for your news - I'm glad you're home safe and sound.
I have thought much on your hasty exit from what was an unsavoury affair and cannot help but deliberate on whether you will ever reappear on this side of Europe again. And I'm puzzled as to why you care if Agata knows about you and Marta. It was truly dreadful the way Agata treated you towards the end so why shouldn't you have had some fun from someone who valued your company? We were all incredulous at the text Agata sent one of the girls on your last evening in Lodz, saying that she intended to spend a nice night with you. Dear me... how she played with you Daniel. A local lad would never have tolerated being kicked around like a football, but you kept bouncing back to her.

Agata's female 'companions' told me how she came on to blokes when out on the town, and when your name was awkwardly mentioned she dismissed you as a 'short-term loser' with whom she would soon dispense. They told me how she embarrassed you. How she continually crushed you. As a Soft Foreigner she took huge liberties with you. Even before setting eyes on her I was wary as Darek had warned me - I value his judgement and of course I remembered how she had dealt with you over the phone when you came to stay at my place after she threw you out the first time. My fellow Londoner Jason described her simply as hateful, but I know only too well that even a misguided devotion can cloud the most coherent mind. Within half an hour of you introducing me to her in the pub she proceeded to be quite remarkable in her rudeness and had she not been with you I would have had her swiftly removed from the premises.

I warmed to you the moment we met and it was distressing for everyone that you could be so in love with a person who treated you with such contempt. Each time she tossed you into the street, all you could do was stare blankly at your mobile waiting for the faintest sign from her. It comforted her to know that you had no work and spoke no Polish. Had you not been so fixated and reliant on that woman you could have had a lot of fun here being single, but it's clear that she was your only reason for being around.

This brings me to the subject of Evelina and her English Language School. Evelina was exceedingly keen to hook up as she was (and still is) a teacher short. We discussed your visa situation and she could have dealt with that easily as she had done previously with other Americans, that was not an issue. The crux of the matter was not your ability (or your legal status) which was not in question as it was obvious that you would have been well-liked and up to the job. Evelina would have wanted you to commit for a year from September, but it quickly became apparent that without Agata it was unlikely that you would be hanging around, so we didn't go any further with it, and in the end that's exactly how it turned out.

I wanted to clear up the drug situation. You asked me several times to facilitate your quest for the purchase of cocaine, but it was ignoble that you should be seeking expensive recreational diversions - if you had spare cash to play with then your first thoughts should have been to pay back the money that had been given you. That surprised and disappointed me.

I hope you will find some satifying work my American friend and that the rest of your year is filled with success. It's a shame that your last weeks in Poland were so troubled but you yourself had made your bed and were unwilling or unable to remake it. You suffered a few late night beatings from Polish thugs and that saddened me, it's necessary to be alert here in these oft harsh climes - especially as an outsider.

It is only with age, sadly, that we can see the mistakes we have made and the opportunities that have been missed. I have also wasted time although, even in the thickest of infatuations, I've never allowed myself to be humiliated or degraded. Now you are back home, you are around people who genuinely care for you, there will be much to do and I know you will be more content. I wish you well and if you ever happen to be London bound then I would be delighted to see you.

Thank you for scooping up Magnus's jacket on Saturday night, it has made it's way to Lola so presumably will be in the hands of it's owner very soon.

The instructions you gave me for downloading films from the internet are indeed detailed, although I must say I don't know if I will get round to doing it. It takes quite a while, and besides, they're cracking down on internet downloading! It is of course appreciated.
Send me a picture of yourself with pals in Baltimore.
Best wishes