A night on the tiles.

Big Eggs came over to spend Saturday night with me before I disappear into the wilds of the Ukraine for a month. We spent half the night in our favourite local hotspot where we mingled with all the old gang. The muscle bound bouncers greeted us with firm handshakes at the door, the barmen beamed, the Bummer from Belarus was in expansive mood and Gosha welcomed us with her warm capacious busom. Puhacz regaled us with queenie anecdotes at the bar, the film students were out in force surrounded by admiring girls and the reptilian Doctor slithered in circles... tongue quivering. Big Eggs attracted a lot of pointing and staring from the crowd which we both found tedious.

I got talking to a beautiful girl with thick black hair, whom I shall call M, and we went with her friend upstairs to dance... something I only do when I'm off my head. Later, one of the film students took us to a small cellar bar heaving with sweaty bodies writhing to a hypnotic beat. Fuelled by drugs and booze, M and I spent most of the night heavily entwined on the dance floor, mesmerised by the music and each other. Oblivious to all, we slid and grazed until finally, exhausted by the trance like thud, I decided I'd had enough. At six o'clock, M's friend still didn't want to leave, so we left them and stumbled out into the daylight and deserted streets. Realising suddenly that we were ravenous, we grabbed a kebab and strolled back to my place chomping madly.

Esmeralda and our maiden voyage.

I've never owned a car less than twenty five years old. Old cars are simpler (not too many buttons), and I like the fact that if something goes wrong then there's a good chance a local mechanic would be able to fix it with a couple of spanners and a piece of string. Old cars have character, they feel and sound like proper machines. They chug and gurgle and splutter. They vibrate. Modern cars just do not smell the same. Not that I would turn my nose up at a new Aston Martin you understand.

To this end, and bearing in mind that here in Poland my choices are restricted, I opted for a 1982 Volkswagen Beetle in metallic grey with lots of chrome, tinted windows, original old style dashboard and white leather-style interior. A beauty whom I have named Esmeralda.

Our first outing was at first nerve-racking as I had to contend with the usual abuse from lunatic drivers and sparse road signage... miss one half-hidden grubby sign and you face a serious collision. I waited until evening when there is little traffic and headed off with Molly and Daisy to the cottage I have bought in the country over an hour away.

It is one of the most pleasant journeys I've had. Esmeralda has an old Blaupunkt radio and a pleasing gear shift. I took it easy on the unlit and heavily pot-holed roads and before long we found ourselves in the middle of a dense forest and an even denser fog. Small animals scurried across our path, I couldn't make out what they were but their eyes shone like tiny diamonds. Frequent checks of the map ensured I had not strayed from my route. Unable to see anything and crawling along at a snails pace, I hardly got out of second gear and couldn't help thinking that at any moment some high-speed lunatic was going to ram us from behind. I haven't seen fog like that in England since I was a child when my father used to drive us down to Sussex, he also had old wrecks which were forever breaking down. Memories of being snuggled in the back of a Morris Minor on a lonely stretch of the London Road in the darkness waiting for the AA to arrive now seem particularly poignant. Esmeralda is very reminscent of my childhood. She brings back the adventure of travel, where every mile is felt and the fact that any moment an unknown knocking or grumbling could bring me to a halt. Such modern driving aides as air-conditioning, power steering & parking sensors spoil the fun. Eventually the fog cleared and we gathered pace, Esmeralda's air-cooled engine purring and putting loudly.

We arrived in good order and the dogs ran around excitedly, wildly exploring. Too dark to venture far, I'd brought a blanket and we settled down in the barn in a bed of thick hay among ancient farm machinery. The cottage itself is in too bad a state to stay in. In the morning we awoke to shafts of sunlight filtering through the wooden planks of the barn wall. Heavenly. We went for a long walk in the vast forest, trampling through a soft damp carpet of leaves and accompanied by the hammering of woodpeckers and birdsong echoing through the trees. Every now and then M&D would shoot off into the depths of the wood having caught the whiff of a boar or deer.

Later in the day we headed back to the city, refreshed and rejuvenated, knowing that this is a haven to which we will often return.

Word of the week: Odpoczywac meaning rest.

Polish television.

Big Eggs has been voted off the celebrity singing contest... he is relieved and me too. I spent one night with him at the studio for the filming of the programme (which goes out live) and he was very nervous and agitated. When his time came he gave his all only then to be criticised by three non-entities on the panel. And with millions watching nationwide. Why put yourself through that every week?

Polish television can be split into three groups:

1) Programmes copied from British tv. eg. Quiz shows, chat shows and 'lifestyle' shows (another word Poles don't have). The Weakest Link and Who Wants to be a Millionaire have only just hit the screens here and are hugely popular. Only the other day I was at a shop counter fishing around for my wallet and the assistant beamed at me... "Do you want to phone a friend?" Excuse me while I roll around with my sides aching.

2) Real-life type police 'Detective' situations with shaky hand-held cameras following aggressive and emergency situations. All the voices are muffled and faces obscured, with beeps every few seconds, and it makes for deeply tedious and oppressive television. It's essentially an excuse to show the police, who in Poland are usually fat and dressed up like the SAS in combat, supposedly tracking down criminals with mainly violent means.

3) Soaps imported from South America. All non-Polish programmes and films are not dubbed or subtitled, but have one person (voiceover) who reads everyone lines without any sort of emotion. It is most odd, but that is how Poles watch the box.

I have no television at home as it is just tripe. I hope before long to organise some satellite so that I can get some channels from the UK.

A break in Blighty.

I took a weeks break back home in London and have now returned to Poland, hence my absence.

The first few days back in Poland I am always struck by the marked contrast between England and Poland. The differences? Where do I start! Hold a shop door open for someone in Poland and you will not get a thank you, they will not even look at you. It is bizarre and something I will never get used to. No-one will ever open or hold a door open for you. They is no friendly eye contact on the street, no smiles or gestures except to stare, and people walk right in front of you without the slightest regard that you have to stop short. Western Europeans (and Americans) are very aware of their physical personal boundaries and do not get too close to people in public, but in ex-eastern bloc countries they barge into and on top of each other, push, shove and generally lurge around without grace or regard for others. In Western Europe it is the norm to gently say "excuse me", and then to move forward once the person has kindly cleared the way. In Eastern Europe, it is normal to walk right up to that person and push them before only then giving a very demanding excuse me. Horrible.

On the road in Poland the behaviour is even worse. No-one will let you out or allow you any space, drivers are dangerous and aggressive. If a pedestrian gets in the way, drivers will swerve into them (within inches) and at high speed, horn blaring, just to let the pedestrian know that the driver has in some way been inconvenienced. For some reason, when Poles are in their cars every single second becomes vital. More often than not, they're just driving back to their block to watch mind numbing Polish television. Today I could only look on as a tiny old lady had to leap for her life onto the pavement as one idiot accelerated towards her on the high street as she tottered across the road. She nearly had a stroke on the pavement. How would he feel if that was his grandmother I thought. In British town centres, cars and people weave in between in other with courtesy and consideration. Here, where there are far less people and far less cars, there is no courtesy and no civility.

In my first two hours back here in Lodz I witnessed more swearing, impatience, rudeness and hostility than I had during a whole week in London.

The end of another long dark dirty winter.

The first week of snow back in October is pretty but after six months the novelty has long worn off... Polish winters last forever. There is no drainage on the roads, not even in the city centres. The new streets and highways being constructed with EU funds do have a few drainage holes but the skill or experience of building good roads does not exist here, so despite the new drainage grates, the moment it rains the thoroughfares become rivers and stay like that. Cars and buildings are caked in filth and the streets are awash with muck. Leaping over piles of snow and negotiating paths through thick brown slush becomes an art form. The sub-zero temperatures are also difficult to deal with.

Today we have no snow and a glimpse of sunshine... a sign that the long dark Polish winter might be coming to an end at last.

It's all in a name.

From time to time I teach English at a language school of which there are many in Lodz. Mostly the teachers are Polish (Poles teaching English??), but at my school only 'native speakers' are employed. Many of the schools try to attract the masses that are leaving by advertising short intensive courses designed for those going abroad to live, there is a lot of competition for the dwindling population.

Despite speaking fluent Polish I often have trouble remembering the names of students which are similar sounding. I once had a class made up of nine men... Czarek, Jarek, Darek, Marek, Mirek, Romek, Krziszek, Grzeszek and Jacek. It gets easier after a few vodkas. The girls are usually called Kasha, Basha, Asha, Ania, Ilona, Ivona, Jola, Ola, Eva, Aga, Monika or Magda. In order to conform to Polish grammar all female names must end in a and male names with a consonant.

Word of the week: Zahipnotyzowac meaning to hypnotise.

A session on the sunbed.

"You look so grey!" Luscious Lola barked at me over coffee, "you will to come with me to solarium, there you will to feel better."
Despite my misgivings she eventually convinced me that a session on the sunbed would do me the world of good so off we set to a local place she attends regularly called Jamaica Sun.

Once inside, a delicious little creature the colour of a tangerine appeared from an alcove like Mr Benn's shopkeeper and smiled. After recommending a sweet smelling bronzing cream, she cooed "I put you nice music to relax" and ushered me into a 'beam me up Scottie' type cubicle. I smothered myself in the cream, stepped in, and pressed the start button. Hoping to be welcomed by the soft soothing tones of Nat King Cole or even Dido, my hopes were dashed as a deafening and ghastly techno beat pounded my entire hearing system until I staggered out in a sweat six minutes later gasping for air.