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

A memorable journey.

I have an old theatrical friend in London called Percy who asked when I was going to be back in town. Ryanair and the new local airport make it easier than it was, but because of the density of Poles now in the UK and the consequent mass movement back and forth from Poland to Britain, it is quite challenging to find cheap seats as they are all snapped up well in advance.

Percy (who never flies) wondered why I didn't get the train like he always does, and I'll certainly look into it. Long train journeys can be blissful but sometimes cost the earth. I remember last Christmas it was impossible to find a reasonably priced plane ticket as they had all been bought up months before, and so I was forced to pay a fortune or take the coach, which in the end is what I did...

26 hours of arse-aching monotony, and any chance of reading was frustrated by brainless Hollywood action films with loud Polish voiceovers which were shown throughout most of the journey. Poland is as flat as a pancake and the Autobahn through Germany all look the same, so the view isn't too exciting. On reaching the coast one does not even have the ferry crossing to look forward to as the coaches now go through the channel tunnel.

Still, it was certainly more memorable than most flights and it's easy to strike up conversation. The highlight of the journey was when at 4am and just about to cross into Germany, we stopped off at a truckers type cafe which was annexed to a small motel. Suspended in a nocturnal limbo between sleep and reality, I stumbled out of the bus and into the bitter winter night. Taking in several other sleepy souls, we crept carefully across the ice like extras from a zombie film and entered the gloomy foyer of the motel where I instantly felt I'd been transported back 30 years. Heavily made-up females, looking deeply available, lounged in large brown leather-look armchairs and with a twinkle in their eye surveyed all who passed. A short splindly fellow with a handlebar moustache and a polyester suit stood pouting at the reception, presiding over a wall of empty pigeon-holes under which hung rows of keys. A turn to the left took us through a dimly lit corridor and into the 'restaurant' which teemed with life. A brassy bleached blonde wearing a grubby apron stood commandingly behind a formica counter dishing out hot broth with chunks of stale bread. Bigos and sausage were also on offer. Big bellied bruisers sat round tables hunching over bowls of gruel which they shovelled down their gullets, half of it running down their chins. Groups of middle-aged women downed shots of vodka between hysterical bouts of laughter and thick cigarette smoke engulfed all. The din was equal to that of any nightclub in the West End on a Saturday night.

"Sounds marvellous" said Percy in all seriousness. I'm not sure I could put my posterior through that again, although it's preferable to paying 300 pounds to fly. That coach trip across Europe cost me a mere 50 quid return.

I come here to cry.

Over the summer Polish cities become very quiet. Schools and universities close until October and shops and businesses shut down for a whole month. Most people have a place outside the urban sprawl where they spend July and August, these range from small wooden shacks to huge and hideous breeze-block houses surrounded by high concrete walls. In the past travel abroad was difficult and expensive but now since Poland's accession into the European Union many more people are taking advantage of budget flights to venture further into the continent and overseas.

The new airport in Lodz (paid for with EU funds) provides quick and cheap travel to London, Edinburgh, Liverpool, Dublin, Shannon, Rome, Tunisia etc. The majority are flying for the first time and the Ryanair staff are endlessly pleading with the roudy mob to stop pushing, switch off their mobiles and refrain from smoking in the lavatory.

Being one of the few left in town is pleasant albeit hot as there is no river through the city or any lakes to speak of. Fewer lunatic drivers means less roaring traffic and hostility, and the tranquil parks provide solace as I was poignantly reminded yesterday.
"I've seen you often," an attractive woman in her fifties said to me... "I recognise the dogs." Her husband and sons had all moved to the UK two years ago and she was alone, although they visited. She did not want to leave Poland as she spoke no English and had an aging mother here. She whispered to me that she came to the park frequently to cry. She gazed into the distance as though she were concentrating on someone far away...
"Maybe you could help me, but I don't think so..."

My years here have hardened me and consequently I have long stopped reacting to such ambiguous requests. It is not the first time a stranger has opened up to me, especially in the public gardens which seem to attract an army of lonely individuals, all wandering around aimlessly.