The Ukrainian Accordian Quartet.

Walking down the road the other day with Luscious Lola we came across three men playing accordians... it was Bach and we stood among a handful of people transfixed by these impassioned young men with these extraordinary squeezeboxes. It was cloudy and looked as if it might rain. Several people strolled by with a sideways glance.

After a few nervous glances heavenward they drew their concert to a close and started to pack their precious instruments away. The small number of people who had been watching walked away without leaving an appreciative coin. We congratulated them, put a note in their empty box, bought the cd's and invited them for coffee at my place 100 yards away. I repeated my road and flat number as I left them thinking they would not turn up but they surprised us a little while later.

They were the Ukrainian Accordian Quartet although the fourth had had trouble with his visa and had been unable to join them on this occasion. They came with flowers for Lola, polite and charming, they drank tea and we played Jenga. They agreed to come again later after their second 'concert' that evening. Apparently they were invited to play as part of a street festival but no-one seemed to know anything about it.

And what a fun evening it was! I picked them up in Esmeralda whom they loved although it was a trifle cramped and we headed over to Lola's place. We drank vodka and talked about the Ukraine, Poland, and Mozart. They didn't like Poland, and although the Poles were not generous it was possible to make more here than in the Ukraine where all are at the mercy of the mafia. Lola cooked and we laughed a lot. They had spent the whole weekend in Lodz but received little reward for their efforts. If they had been breakdancing or doing karaoke they would have had an audience of hundreds, but as it was no-one was interested in them. I often have to remind myself that the intelligentsia of Poland were wiped out by the Nazis and then the Soviets and consequently there is a distinct lack of culture or manners in this country.

Bathroom blues.

A have spent the last four days finishing my new bathroom. I had paid two builders what in local terms is a fortune for a refit but their work was just dreadful. They usually arrived about midday and some days did not turn up at all. They left rubble and rubbish all over the flat - I still have a WC and plasterboard sitting in the staircase, they had no tools but kept using mine, they had no work lamps and no means of transport. Picking up something from the hardware shop was a big drama for them and they kept asking for money in advance... and I stupidly gave it to them.

The work was to take just two weeks but they were still here in the third week with little done and us caked in dust and debris. After pestering them for detailed invoices, they eventually presented me with hastily scribbled notes with prices for each fitting that amounted to over 10 pounds for every hole drilled. Not even solicitors get paid that much. After the last cash handout they promised to finish off what they had started but I haven't heard from them since.

On closer inspection of the bathroom I see now just how awful they were. Nothing has been sawed in a straight line, the floorboards are damaged as they put no protection down, silicone and filler has been used to disguise the shockingly shoddy state of their work. My mistake was that I didn't keep a closer eye on what they were up to. They had no tools.

And yet I was so kind to them. I gave them 30 quid each just for carrying a table upstairs for me. In Lodz the average salary is less than 500 quid a month and for labourers much less. Friends have often warned me about being too nice... "You must be more Polish," they say, ie. hard and untrusting. I see now that it is true. I've been ripped off once too often. Those two jokers were obviously not builders and yet came on the recommendation of a friend's builder. I was an easy target, after having lived here for so long I should have known better. THEY HAD NO TOOLS.

80p for a piss.

This must be the most expensive slash in the world. I was on a train but the loos are unwelcoming to say the least, so, needing to point Percy at the porcelain, I waited until I got to the station in Lodz.

As is usually the case, a sullen and rather matronly female sat on the other side of a small window with the price 3.50zl fixed above it, that's about 80p. When I handed over my coins she furnished me with two sheets of toilet paper. Two exceedlingly rough sheets I might add. What you are supposed to do with two sheets of bog roll I don't know.

The foul stench that met me when I entered the urinal and the piss puddles I had to step over confirmed yet again that in Eastern Europe good value for money is hard to come by.

Mike & the mechanics.

My car mechanic and VW Beetle fanatic Michal - which I suppose would be Michael in English - invited me to have a drink with him and the boys from his garage. They are a nice bunch and the bar which they frequent is just across the road from me so I readily accepted.

The place is called Camelot and located at the end of a long courtyard. Two fat men sat on stools facing each other inside the entrance and after they had looked me up and down I had to turn sideways to get past them. Michal spotted me and dragged me over to his table in a raised corner where he held court. He was in his Friday Night Gear - a tight polo shirt and even tighter bleached jeans, and he sat like a local gangster - his back to the walls, his knees wide apart and overlooking all. He was beaming. This was the highlight of his week and he felt great.

A drunken mob sang into a microphone on the dancefloor and the awful din assured me that I would last just one drink and then make my excuses and flee. Michal sang along to the loud karaoke, clapping his hands hard and every now and then giving me a hard slap on the back shouting "It doesn't matter!!" He'd recently spent a month in London and was proud of this phrase he'd picked up.

I tried to spark up conversation with his pals but they had nothing to say. After we'd downed a few shots of vodka Michal's wife turned up with a couple of pretty pals. Before I had a chance to turn on the charm Michal suggested we (as in The Boys) go out for a rather handsome joint he'd prepared earlier and out they filed. I thought I'd better join them but by the time I'd excused myself from the girls and made my way past the lardy doormen my comrades had disappeared. Then I noticed a car in which the interior was thick with smoke, a door opened and a tattoed arm appeared from the issuing smog and beckoned me over. We sat squeezed together liked canned sprats and I listened while they talked about Volkswagen Beetles and axle differentials. This would have been dull in English but in Polish it was mindnumbing. Every time I passed the joint on another one arrived from the other side, by the time I got out of the car I could hardly move.

It was all I could manage to follow them back into the club and I sat down gazing like a zombie at the lovelies around me. A closer look made me realise that they were GORGEOUS and that I'd made a grave error. Now, as high as a kite, I had no hope of putting a sentence together and was capable only of grinning inanely at all around me. I slumped into a depression at such a missed opportunity and, looking down at the tray of gleaming shot glasses before me, resigned myself to another vodka.

Michal leaned over and giving me a mighty thump on the back suggested I start a Volkswagen Beetle club in Lodz as there isn't one. He is very impressed with the second Beetle I have bought (a fully restored beauty from 1966) and thinks I would be the perfect choice. The girls, flanked on either side by monosyllabic junior car mechanics, sat wistfully looking out at the merry-makers while I envisaged my role as President of the Lodz Volkswagen Beetle Club.

Word of the week: Mechanik meaning mechanic.

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.