Nasty Polish drivers.

At least 30% of drivers in Poland are on their mobile phones at any one time. It is technically illegal but nobody cares and no-one has ever been prosecuted for it. Even at great speed and when overtaking they will not put their phones down. They are aggressive and ungracious, they will accelerate in order to prevent another car to change lanes in front of them or to allow a vehicle out. They have no patience and overtake on both the left and right. The moment Poles get behind the wheel they become arseholes.

On the road (as in life) I treat other road users and pedestrians as I would like to be treated. But I am alone. Hostility on Polish roads in difficult for foreigners to bear and few of them drive... Poles are just so nasty to each other. The death rate is 260% higher than in Great Britain where there are far more cars and far less space. Car wreckage in Eastern Europe is a common sight.

I love driving Esmeralda but it is a shame that Polish motorists make it so unpleasant.

A recent find.

As I was slinging my binbag into a metal wheely bin, I noticed a small and dirty dog cowering underneath. A tiny thing and little nervy but easy to handle I took her upstairs. She had no identification tag and the next day the vet confirmed that she had no chip. Apparently a Miniature Schnauzer, her tail had been cut off (an awful practice) but otherwise she was healthy and seemingly used to human contact. I was sure she had an owner and put the word out around the neighbourhood.

Over the next few days our new scraggy companion enjoyed jaunts to the park with Molly and Daisy and proved to be a sprightly contender. Showered and fed, she was fun to have around and fitted in nicely.

I begun entertaining thoughts of life with three dogs when a woman approached me outside my building and I knew it was Scraggy's owner, the dog belonged to her eight year old son. I told her the dog had been given a full service by the vet and had been well looked after. I suggested she invest in a dog collar and name tag. Once in my flat her reunion with the dog was lukewarm and I thought how different it would be if I lost Molly or Daisy. No adverts had been placed about the lost dog who lived in the next building (although I'd never seen it before), and nobody knew of the loss. She had done nothing to search for it. Scraggy hardly seemed to know who she was. The woman asked me if she could buy me a bottle of wine, an odd request and of course I said no, if she'd really wanted to reward me she would not have asked but simply turned up the next day with something.

This was some weeks ago and I've not heard anything from them since.

Word of the week: Niewdzieczny meaning ungrateful.

Original features.

Zygmunt, my 86 year old neighbour on the floor below me has gone for his usual bi-monthly trip to New York to get his pacemaker checked. He has an old pal there who is a specialist. Meanwhile, his younger sister Basha has decided to have a clearout and sling a lot of rubbish. I'm a hoarder but in their place you can hardly move.

I've only ever been invited into the main salon and have never managed to get deeper into the apartment. They have lived there for 60 years. Much of the furniture is - like the flat - grand and impressive, and most probably was bought by the flat's original owner 100 years ago. You wouldn't want to move it in a hurry. A feast for the eyes, it is combined with garish kitsch which elderly people seem to acquire a taste for. Nylon clad dolls, miniature plastic and glass ornaments, teddy bears, battery powered figures which light up and dance, and other hideous knick knacks.

In the guise of helper I have seized the opportunity to take a look at the rest of their flat which has long been kept hidden and my first glance confirmed what I'd long suspected. A treasure of orginal fixtures and neglected furniture. At the other (and less ornate) end of the flat is - at in my place - the second stairwell which would have been used by the servants. Wooden panelling in the hallway (covered by years of yellowing gloss), ebony coathooks and a splendid oak framed mirror stand outside the disused kitchen which is just as it was when it was built in 1906. Art Nouveau tiling on the walls, a white tiled Aga type cooker with brass hooks and rails, a belfast type sink with brass taps, and an exquisitely tiled turquoise and cream tiled floor. Basha and an elderly helper discuss 'updating' it all, getting rid of everything and turning the room into a bathroom. I know that if I offered to fit a cheap plastic shower for them I could strip the whole space and take it upstairs.

This forgotten room is filled with copious bin bags of clothes, rubbish, and fragments of antique furniture. Serving as a junk room, the door is opened only to throw in another broken chair or worn out coat. The layout of my apartment is the same upstairs on the top floor, although I have prettier ceilings, more light and less original features.

Basha is in her sixties and a lunatic. Hundreds of pills are invariably spread out on every horizontal surface. Her brilliant make-up is applied as a clowns on smack, the outfits are ludricrous and accessories favoured include dead animals and extravagant costume jewellery. When I knocked on the door she appeared in a blonde wig and panama and insisted I don what she presented me with before I could enter. Sat sporting a purple velvet smoking jacket, long brown locks and a bowler hat, I drank vodka while she attended to her Santa Claus which lit up and skipped around on the table making HoHoHo noises. Dust covered framed photographs of Basha and Zygmunt in their youth sit on the grand piano along with dusty deflated balloons on sticks.

Quite early on in the evening Basha began pulling out curled up sepia snapshots of herself in her twenties and proclaimed belligerently how beautiful she was and how she had been adored. I've become accostomed to this routine and make all the right noises at each new photo presented to me. They have no children and no family to speak of. I often hear them arguing when I pass their door, Basha screeching obcenities and poor Zygmunt pinned into an armchair, his pacemaker working overtime.

The perfect flatmates.

My apartment is vast - over 2100 square feet - and can be quite lonely sometimes. I tend to leave the lights on. Having dwelt on it for sometime, and against all advice from friends, I finally decided that I would like to find a flatmate.

I live on the most desirable part of one of the most famous streets in Poland, and after posting a couple of pictures online asking for minimal rent was not surprised at being swamped with emails. Being the start of the academic year a large proportion of prospective candidates were students. Four weeks and many meetings later, I narrowed it down to two lively and pretty girls, with a couple of bedrooms to spare and not wanting to disappoint one of them I eventually settled on both. One a natural platinum blonde - a rarity indeed even here in Poland, and the other a raven-haired dancer. A typical male choice of course for which I refuse to apologise! They've been with me now for a few weeks and it is easy, fun and much warmer at home. They have the run of the house as long as they don't fill it with hideous things and we share everything.

What happened to Autumn?

I remember long leafy autumns in East London, Victoria Park in the rain, a slow gradual slide into a winter not particularly cold. Dark evenings when the shops light up the dim streets with colourful displays and living room windows give us an eye into the lives of people returning home after work.

Here in Lodz we plummet from the high temperatures of summer to just above zero almost overnight. Unprepared and unwillingly to succumb immediately to the start of another long and bleak winter, I freeze in light tops with no hat or gloves. They tell me that until the snow falls we are indeed in autumn but I find that of little comfort when I'm shivering at the tram stop. It's easy to spot the British here in Poland as they too are still wandering around in t-shirts apparently oblivious to the chill.

Word of the week: Jesien meaning autumn.

A few days in Dusseldorf.

I saw out the last days of the summer in Dusseldorf with my Big German Friend, his wife Chrissie and their adorable seven month old baby. They have a beautiful apartment above a trendy coffee-shop in a pretty tree-lined street filled with luxury cars. Chrissie's artistic eye ensures that every corner of the flat is deeply pleasing and a joy to be in.

At the weekend classic cars are brought out from their dark hiding places and paraded for all to appreciate while sipping caffe lates and peeking out from the Rheinische Post. Laid back and unpretentious, Dusseldorf exudes relaxed confidence and wealth and I imagine is what Monaco feels like without the gauche and suntans. Even the wide Rhine gliding through the middle of the town has a serene tranquility which the Thames and the Seine lack.

We soaked up the sun in their garden which is a 10 short stroll from the house and a stones throw from the river. I was impressed with their friends, interesting and interested, well-travelled and fun, warm and well-informed. This is what I miss most in Poland.

There is always a part of me that wants to stay in Dusseldorf. Buy a pretty period house in a leafy street with an old Jaguar parked in the drive and BFG just down the road. Another of Dusseldorf's attractions is it's size... it's surprisingly small with a population of less than 575000. It feels like you can get anywhere in the city within the space of 15 minutes.

BFG works long and hard and he was rundown, when I left he was about to jet off to Ibiza for 5 days of golf and leisure... although he told me golf also has it's stress!

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.