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.