A quiet Easter in the Ugly City.

I spent Easter with Big Eggs in Warsaw. I booked myself into a hotel as he has a two-roomed flat and a sofa-bed which I'm convinced is stuffed with old potatoes. Poland being very Catholic, Easter is taken seriously and life comes to a standstill as the population return to their families. With nothing much else to do we wandered the desolate streets of the Old Town, not so Old as it was rebuilt fifty years ago. Stalin's troops watched as Hitler destroyed 94% of the city, then the Communists redesigned the capital in concrete. It's been known as the Ugly City ever since.

It wasn't until the next morning looking out of the hotel window 15 floors up and surveying the empty streets that it dawned on me that I was probably the only guest in the whole building. Keen for breakfast I whizzed down in the lift (not so easy with these security cards which often take a few attempts before working) and slinked self-consciously across the foyer which was resplendent in marble. In the restaurant the scowl on the waitress's face read "if it wasn't for cunts like you I could be at home celebrating Easter with my family in Bydgoszcz." I feasted on bacon and eggs (with HP!) with the skeleton staff watching me and then strolled 15 minutes across town to spend another lazy day with Big Eggs watching DVD's and chilling out. He also tends to spend public holidays alone since his mother told him she wished he'd never been born after he opened up to her that he is gay. She also told him he should change his name. Later in the evening, miraculously, we found a bar open and stayed late with a bottle of wine and sipping hot and spicy taco soup.

On waking back at the hotel on Easter Monday I knew that Big Eggs would sleep the whole day as is his wont so I got the surly receptionist to check the times of the trains and headed off to the railway station with my tatty suitcase and a three day old copy of the Sun which I'd discovered rather oddly sticking out of a hotel bin.

The wide and souless communist avenues of the capital were eerily quiet as was the station, a cold war monolith doomed among the sparkling new office blocks and shopping centres sprouting up all around it. I sat on a mile long platform for what seemed like an eternity, looking out at other mile long platforms. A lone tramp shuffled out of the shadows and asked for a cigarette, I gave him a pound, boarded a brand new train and settled down, its sole occupant, to the delights of a discarded tabloid... I'd never buy one of course!

One reason that would certainly keep Polish women off the streets on Easter Monday is the tradition of men drenching women in water. I have no idea from whence this bizarre ritual came but it is prevalent all over the country... men in villages with full buckets standing on street corners waiting for a female to walk by.

Once back in Lodz, I relieved Lola and her family (who'd been throwing back vodka since daybreak) of Molly and Daisy who she'd been looking after, and we waded through the snow to a large local park. We came across a handsome hound with a fine black coat that joined in the running and vigorous stick fetching. A young and bouncy Great Dane with his tail cut off, a cruel practice and one which I've never understood. In too good condition to be homeless, I wasn't surprised when a burly man with a stick emerged from the trees shouting Rex! Rex! Half the dogs in Poland are called Rex, the other half Nero, regardless of sex. I complimented him on his lovely dog but he ignored me, and instead of throwing the stick he proceeded to beat the poor creature. He wasn't interested in my protests and the dog cowered and followed him back to a block that backed onto the park. Rex had obviously escaped for a moments fresh air. We didn't see another living thing. I thought about the other dogs in the city, thousands of them, sat under tables in tiny flats all day while their owners drowned themselves in vodka and gazed at mindnumbing television.

Word of the week: Przeczyszczac meaning to wipe clean.