Thursday, 24 April 2014
Scribbling #42: The Big Move (Part One)
Posted by JC at 05:19 0 comments
Monday, 10 February 2014
Scribbling #41: The Supermarket Cart
Not only do they call it by a different name - a "cart" instead of a "trolley" - but there are many things that are very strange and slightly unnerving about entering such places with names like 'Wal-Mart' and 'Canadian Superstore'.
There is the attitude of a lot of drivers around the *cough* parking lot *cough* whereby they are permanently and irrevocably scared of pedestrians crossing the road towards where they need to be. This can either be the store or the car/van/whimsy of a truck, whichever is in the interest of the person in the direction that they're going. It's like they see a person, stare for a second as the neuron fires, then the brakes slam down, causing the car to go into a skidding halt across Canadian Snow and Ice It was as if they saw an amazing, incomparable thing and had to stop and make sure that it actually exists. On the other hand, I am a pretty darn handsome specimen, something Canada may not have seen before.
I'm taking your silence as awe with a slice of reverence on the side.
Or, it could be that the Canadian Snow and Ice was covering the unseeable crossing, and the only thing that was really stopping them was the law. Other than that, I'm sure I would be a smear across the parking lot that may not be good for me in the long run, but would be good for the landscaping.
Which brings me not-at-all neatly to the supermarket cart. This is not, but any stretch, something like a Tesco trolley. Oh, nosiree Bob, eh? The generic Tesco trolley is a wonderful thing within an establishment such as ah... Tesco and not so much within a canal. This lovely thing is more agile than a mosquito in a tornado, something that you can turn around at any given angle, spin around and make a 180-degree turn without any trouble at all. And I would always, by default, get the one with the wobbly wheel. It's like wanting to sponsor the amazingly ugly kid on World Vision or something. Nobody else is going to do it, so you have to show them how it's done.
That was possibly the worst analogy in the world. There is no such thing as a cute trolley.
Anyway, the thing is, is that, well... only the two front wheels spin around in most of the shopping carts in Canada. I may be corrected and told that the full AWD spinning carts do exist, but I haven't come across them yet. I thought that this was a horrible, horrible thing. It was made even more repulsive by the fact that the trolley sits high enough for the elderly to rest their upper torso on while carrying out their shopping routine around the badly disorganised supermarket. Yes, you, you in the back, your hands are on the same place on that shopping cart where once an elderly lady has rested her chest against it. Ugh.
It doesn't become clear until you go outside. Until then, you're grumbling about how the cart handles, that it doesn't know how to go around a corner properly, that it's too big and it's being driven by an idiot. Pretty much sums up most North American driving, then. Before you take the cart outside, you won't understand. The huge truck thing you won't understand either, until you get your hands on a shopping cart. These things with your groceries in, with their fixed rear wheels, will give you greater traction in the snow. Edmonton has snow six months out of the year. This is where it's at. Trucks are huge, ungainly, won't go around corners and are driven by idiots, but they go through the white fluffy stuff pretty well indeed. Same as the humble supermarket cart. If its wheels weren't fixed, then they would be going all over the place, making the person who has just shopped a very angry person indeed. You don't need an angry person behind the wheel of a two-ton truck with 400 horsepower. That would end badly. Make the carts have fixed wheels, said a smart person. All will be well.
Goshdarnit, I'm a handsome beast.
Posted by JC at 05:44 0 comments
Sunday, 24 November 2013
Scribbling #40: Manual is not a Spanish Waiter
During our transition back to In-gel-stan, I bought our family a shiny car to go along with our shiny new life. It was a large estate (translation for Canadians and other exotic species: 'station wagon', not a piece of land on wheels), it was black and above all, it was Central European - a Skoda. Yes, I do like a good. reliable Skoda. I don't do 'cool' or 'French', I do 'less bills', 'less money'.
Mrs. C is Canadian, and that comes with a few problems. Not just the penchant for using a lot of land in order to go nowhere (e.g. Saskatchewan) , or the constant moaning on about the lack of good cheap steak anywhere else in the world except for Alberta, but because she had to prove that she could drive a manual car in order to drive the car that I had just bought. For the record, Mrs. C had been driving a "standard" for the last six years in Slovakia, where the police only seemed to care if you're carrying a passport, yellow jacket and a warning triangle, if not an actual license. When presented with the fact that she had to prove that she could drive our new, shiny, manual car, her equally shiny Canadian driver's licence only covered automatics.
This is a shame, because in the UK saying that you "only" have an automatic licence blesses you with the stigma of "only" being an incompetent driver or an American. Delete where appropriate.
We really should have done our research before we bought the shiny Skoda. It led to an attempt at driving lessons that more or less failed miserably, after talking to a miserable, starving, driving instructor. We also found out that it now takes an average of fifty, FIVE-O, driving lessons in order to pass the driving test. Totally put off by the general miserableness (that year's UK summer weather being the most rubbish on record), we came to a reluctant agreement to change the shiny Skoda to a shiny something else, hopefully two for the price of one, like we did with our Passat.
I really should have got a bumper sticker for that car that read, 'All parts falling off this vehicle are engineered by Germany'.
We decided, after a democratic dictatorship-style (mine) vote, to NOT buy an MPV/minivan. If we did buy one this says a couple of things. First, goodbye to all resemblance of manhood. Second, school run mum. Instead we did something worse. We bought a 4x4 Volvo. Which still smacks of school run mum, but at least we're bigger than everyone else because we need to protect our children!
This machine was, in an old man kind of way, comfy and reliable, like putting on a familiar pair of shoes or an old baggy sweater from the back of the cupboard. And then 12 months on, just before its MOT (technical test) kicked in, it just... died. Like, no hope for the future died. Like, we just got a call this morning then Uncle Steve had just dropped dead after watching EastEnders. It was shocking. We were then a family that was down to one itty-bitty car where we have to squeeze our entire family into a 3 door supermini. It's no mean feat, but at least I'm still limber enough to (somewhat gracefully) insert the chilluns into their child seats.
And now we're off to Canada, land of V8 pick-up trucks, hockey, maple syrup, bad beer and amazingly polite beggars. If we bought a *cough* minvan there, then it would have its own area code and have a postbox as an optional extra. You can get in and eventually you'll get to the seat with the steering wheel. For some reason it's on the wrong side of the car, but I'll just put that down to rebellious colonials.
I shall get my cowboy hat ready. I'm sure that nobody will approve.
Posted by JC at 00:32 0 comments
Friday, 20 April 2012
Scribbling #39: The First Stages...
Stage One had been completed, but Stage Two has probably been the hardest so far of all.
‘Stage One, Stage Two?’ I don’t hear you cry. ‘What’s he blabbering about now?’
Stage One was the advent of the leaving of the Slovak Republic and getting into the
UK, in a Skoda Fabia. It’s green, with a key scratch on the left hand
side, a broken wheel trim, and the steering makes all sorts of interesting clonking noises. If I cut you off on the way out, then I’m sorry, although not really.
Stage One was completed without any fanfare, but a lot of adult-inedible snacks for
Joseph were involved, a nice pit stop was made in Badenweiler, Germany, via Austria and Switzerland, and then via Austria
again via an angry Austrian policeman who wanted me to move me out of
the way of all the other traffic that were all trying to go via
somewhere else, with the AAP (Angry Austrian Policeman, get with it) not
realising that wifey was inside at the border office, not realising
that it was the border office, as we were trying to pay an
overly-expensive highway sticker for Switzerland, and border offices
don’t do highway stickers. All because they’re almost probably run by
the French who are, at the end of the day, a little bit French.
If in doubt, bring up a thousand years of animosity
and blame the French, that’s what I have never actually said, but I
think I’ve implied it enough.
Post-Stage One, therefore, has
been spent more-or-less half and half at the parents’ house and with
another family in Dudley, who were very lovely to us for coping with a
screaming child every morning at 6am on the dot, making us feel very
welcome. Interviews for moi were carried out over the week., three in
total over two days. For helpful contacts, I quite rightly blame Mr.
Armitage. During that time, we visited a couple of friends (a couple
who were friends, more to the point), and went our merry way around the
area while we were booking interviews, eating fast-food and joining the
sweaty, acne-ridden ranks of the British unemployed.
Stage Two was when
Christina and Joseph left for snowy Romania to visit another
friend and to help out/coo over with the friend’s newborn. Everything
was packed and ready to go, we found ourselves waiting in the airport
car park to be picked up by the bus for the very short trip to the
airport, and then a thought struck me.
‘Car seat,’ I said to Christina.
With an ‘oh’, she took the car keys off of me, leaving me with Joseph
who was eyeing up all the ladies at the bus stop. After a couple of
minutes, Christina came back, car seat in hand, and all was good. They
were now ready to check in.
In the line at the airport, we had a
bit of “fun” with the bags, so Christina took off her coat and put it
in the checked luggage. This is a plot point, and an important one. We
did all the things that were necessary to get us through this bit,
passports and whatnot, then we said a long goodbye just outside of
security.
Sighing wistfully, my mind suddenly did that thing
where you know that you’ve forgotten something, but it isn’t going to
tell you until you’re outside a certain radius of the place that you are
in right now. It confused and subjugated my poor little brain, until
it decided to go into “default” and so I stared blankly into space while
waiting for the bus to arrive to take me to the car park.
Getting there, I came out, walked towards the car and felt for my keys.
Funny thing about keys is that... life seems to be about them. You need
keys for your house, your locker, your car and you even need a key for
the little cabinet to keep all your keys in. I, at this time, especially needed one
for my car.
Which is the one that I didn’t have.
Since Christina still had it.
And she didn’t have a phone.
And she was about to fly off to another country within an hour.
Joy.
English manly men do not panic We've all seen Dad's Army, where the old man shouts out "don't panic" while obviously doing so. Luckily, the other half of me, the Scottish bit, was a bit disconcerted so poked the English bit into action to actually do something, otherwise it would get all independent of myself. I saw one of the car park people walk
vaguely towards their car, so I rushed over, said that I needed to use
their car as soon as possible due to the above reasons, so please,
please, please, could you take me to the airport?
Yes, she said.
She drove us there in the same manner as Jack Bauer did after finding out that his daughter was kidnapped for the infinityith time.
Diving out of the car with a well trained ‘thank you’, and wondering
how I was still standing upright after that type of car ride, I ran,
ran, I tell you, up to security, praying frantically that this won’t
become a complete frickin' nightmare. I explained everything to them, expecting a
huge amount of help and assistance straight away. Happily, this did not
happen, affirming that Luton hasn’t changed much over the years, bless
‘em.
After a bit of talk back and forth about who BlueAir was,
everybody agreed that nobody could do anything at all, and that I had to
go back downstairs to talk to the airline. Once again, everybody
agreed that nobody could do anything, so after I prodded a bit more,
they decided that the best thing to do was to put a call out using one
of those red phones on the wall.
It was a small red phone
attached to the wall, looking as if someone got some sort of idea that
if you rang it, Batman might actually come. In any case, a helpful person was on the other
line and after hanging up, I rushed back upstairs to security, whereupon
Christina was being escorted through by a Mr. McSecurity. It should
have ended there but the thing is... is that the keys were in her coat which
she loaded into the checked luggage earlier. Remember that plot point?
Flying from desk to desk afterwards, we eventually got the bag off the
plane, the car keys were retrieved, the bag was checked back on, and we
said another fare thee well. In this sweeping statement I missed out
the bit when I got frustrated at EasyJetWoman’s amazing capacity of
saying ‘I can’t do that’ until I was overly assertive at her, ending the
problem. But other than that, no swear words were running through my
internal dialogue so after two years in Slovakia I guess I have grown.
I paid the 10 quid for parking, and the first two songs to play on
Radio 2 on the way home was the wildly inappropriate "Substitute" sung
by Clout, and Bon Jovi’s "Living on a Prayer".
It was way too cheesy
not to be a coincidence.
Posted by JC at 22:17 0 comments
Saturday, 13 August 2011
Scribbling #38: The Babka Army
Posted by JC at 03:30 0 comments
Thursday, 11 August 2011
Scribbling #37: The London Riots
Taken from the viewpoint of somebody that is British but actually lives away from The Motherland, and since there have been a fair few questions from my Slovak colleagues, my first response to the inevitable query is that, well, "it's sad". I feel disappointed about our country and culture, and having to defend them since I'm an expat.
However, I believe that the government has handled it well, although definitely not as quickly as one would like. The individual can move a lot faster than an established group, and this is seen here as random people are pilfering from shops, throwing rocks at police, setting fire to buildings, along with horrendous muggings and even murder. This isn't all disenfranchised hooded youth either, as is shown on television. People that have been caught have ranged from the guy who takes away your rubbish every Monday, to university students, and even a primary school teacher. Yeah, the people who were looking after your children, where were they? These people have seen the opportunity and taken it, since it means that they get to have more stuff. More shoes, more electronic items, more clothes, more food. The UK is a very expensive country to live in, especially when compared to here, and people who don't make the grade may feel continually trodden on until they just don't care anymore. Others may never have cared in the first place, and just want to see the world burn.
People who leave comments on various news channels have said such things as using water cannons and rubber bullets, in some cases to bring back the rope, burn them at the stake, water torture, and even bringing in the British Army. Remember the bit when Labour was in power and they used the Army to quell a minor prison riot? That didn't go down so well... Although the water cannons and rubber bullets (which can both kill) are on standby, the streets of London have been (according to news reports) flooded by police. This is totally the right thing to do. Police keep order, infantry kill people with big frickin' guns. Happily, the guy in charge is David Cameron, not Pol Pot, so when he eventually came back from holiday, he had a sit-down with the police or Cobra or Sylvester Stallone or whoever, formed a plan, then talked to the press. Instead of talking like Theresa May, saying that all the rioting won't be tolerated, he spoke about what the police will do and then carried it out.
Posted by JC at 13:06 0 comments
Monday, 8 August 2011
Scribbling #36: Welcome to Earth
It's 4 a.m and I've been awake now for the last half an hour due to Mrs. C accidentally knocking over a glass while attending to JJ, which shocked me completely awake as opposed to the near-sleepy-wakefulness that happens when you're concerned with your two-month old. The cleaning up and making sure everyone was fine period happened vaguely smoothly, with not even a peep from the baby. Me, on the other hand, still had that "I'm now wide awake enough to be annoyingly awake so that I can't actually get back to sleep again". So I turn to my secret weapon. I turn to BBC News.
I didn't know it was my secret weapon until I used it just now. That's how secret it is.
So, anyway, I decided, after seeing some worrying Facebook statuses, that I would look up the current financial crisis that's happening in the Eurozone, with a side order of "look how well UK is doing in comparison, see?" or something to that effect. There was a nice little graph that went with it, and according to that, Slovakia still has the highest GDP growth in Europe. It's higher than Germany. Germany. With all their big machines, and their precision, and their chocolate and watc- no, wait, that's Switzerland. I always get the two confused...
Maybe I shouldn't be so surprised to see this, since a lot of top management are very ambitious. I teach English at a couple of firms, and there are a lot of nice cars outside the front door... and I mean like Audi R8s, big Mercs, Jags and the like. It's good to see, and half of these guys don't even have a degree, it seems. It's mostly just the will to work long hours and getting on with the job at hand, and of course, having the right connections, which is all part and parcel in this bit of the world.
Swinging lazily from one extreme to another, the other one is bears.
The conservation of bears in Slovakia has really taken off in the High Tatras, according to some charity groups (like Bear Project), and they're now taking interest in the goings-on and the food in the local villages. I mean, the bears are now taking an interest. Not the charity groups. Although both are probably true. Most bears are now going home with new fashion accessories, sporting the latest collars, which was a far cry from the 80's where the latest gadget to have given to you by a human was basically a space shuttle clamped to your forehead. Wife bears wonder where the heck their husbands have gone to, rummaging through Mrs. Olgarova's rubbish again and coming back to the forest at all hours of the morning.
I'm getting tired.
Good night.
Posted by JC at 04:28 0 comments
Labels: codswallop