They are all running away.

Another neighbour today informed me that he is leaving for the UK. I'm long used to hearing it. But what's this? I read in the British press that 'figures suggest' that Poles are returning to Poland. Really? That smacks of spin. Don't believe a word of it, I certainly don't see any evidence of it here. A British government under fire for their open door immigration policy which has brought public services to breaking point (6 out of every 10 babies born in the UK has an Eastern European mother, an increase of 77% according to the BBC). And a Polish government ashamed and embarrassed about the mass exodus from Poland. Poles returning to their own country? Mmm... I'll believe it when I see it. Every day I have the following discourse at least three times.

Me at the newsagent... "Elle Decoration please."
Newsagent... "What is this? We no have this. You not Polish man. My sister live the London."
Me... "Really?"
Newsagent... "Maybe I will come there. English people fat and lazy yes...?"

Me getting in a taxi... "The airport please."
Taxi Driver... "Where from you? You the English? I go England!"
Me... "How interesting."
Taxi Driver... "My son already live in the Glasgow but he no understand when they speak."
Me... "I see..."

Me chatting up a girl in the pub... "Maybe we could meet again...?"
Girl... "Yes, I like practice my language because soon I will to live in the Great Britain."
Me... "Oh... well I suppose we could have a tumble in the hay before you go. Another vodka?"
Girl... "What it mean this tumble in hay?"
Me... "A few rounds between the sheets. Play hide the sausage."
Girl... "I no nothing understand. I must to go home now. When we have English lesson?"

Me leaving the barber... "Keep the change."
Barber... "Mmm... do all Englishmen leave good tip?"
Me... "Haha, it depends in which county you are."
Barber... "My sister live in the Bristol. In England they rich yes? I think I should to arrive there."
Me... "And do they like her Bristols?"
Barber... "Yes, she like Bristol very much!"

And so it goes. I had many friends when I first arrived in Poland six long years ago but they have all fled. My neighbours have gone. My girlfriends have gone. My barber's gone. My dentist. My plumber. My barman. And many with not a word of English.

It can be quite depressing living in a place where any attempt to get to know people is thwarted by their determination to leave the country. My friend Big Andrzej put it quite succinctly... "They are all running away. They think English people shit gold bricks."

The toilet is everywhere!

I woke this morning to more snow and two men urinating in my courtyard. Poles piss in the streets everywhere. There is a Ukrainian saying 'Where is the toilet? The toilet is everywhere!' That seems to apply to the whole of the ex-eastern bloc.

I used to complain to the offenders but got only argument and aggression in return. It is part of their culture. But I will never get used to it. The daily pools of piss outside my front door, rank in the winter and ranker in the summer, are a part of life in Poland. It cannot be avoided. Nobody cares. The women don't do it, so why do the men have to? I wonder if the millions that have fled to the UK are pissing in public or do they realise that it would not be so welcome there?

So finally I begin.

On this nondescript & bitterly cold night I put pen to paper (aah, does anyone do that anymore?) to tell of my daily survival here in Eastern Europe. My empty days and endless nights. I'll put it all into my diary. Another one. But oh how different. My constant companion, my trusted tome of 2007 now sits on my top shelf gathering dust, a small biblical looking volume already forgotten and waiting to be discovered in 10 years and marvelled at. How my life was then! How amusing! How depressing! How dull! No comparison to the halcyon days of today.


Now I embark on a new venture. Not an illicit black book, secret, something that provoked curiosity and suspicion ("are you writing about me?"), but an altogether different proposition. A journal that could be read by thousands of people (I should be so lucky). My hopes, troubles and fears shared with countless strangers instantly. A daily account open to criticism. And to what end? A form of expression, a release, a therapeutic exercise to help keep me sane in this harsh environment. To assess my lot, to clarify what I have that is positive and worth something. To make contact with the world. Unlike my last year-long chronicle which was a lonely and solitary affair, my internet diary, my weblog, my blog, will be an outstretched hand. A blog that will recount my demented and often surreal life in this most peculiar of places. Why peculiar? Read on...