Scribbling #11: Crisco's Diary

Found within the walls of the kitty litter box, we found cat hieroglyphics etched deep into the plastic. After minutes of blatantly made-up research, we found that it was a diary of Crisco's life so far. Since the cat has gone off into the wilds of Sala (and might possibly come back once he's visited all the local females and gambled all his money away - giving it six months at the moment...) we decided to give this completely fictional account for our own amusement.

Day 1 of captivity:

Today I was deceitfully given by the younger female human to another, older female. The large prison had been shut by then, making the older one feel that she had no choice. I love it when a plan comes together. This older female human seems pleasant enough. I purr contentedly, making her feel safe with me, thinking that I am a 'young' cat. Little does she know that back in 1972, a certain crack commando unit was sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn't commit. These cats promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Nitra underground. Today, still wanted by the government, we survive as soldiers of fortune. If you have a problem, don't worry, as this captivity is only temporary...

Day 3 of captivity:

Decided to urinate on everything that I like. Including the guitar bag, which smells great now. Have marked my territory by spraying everywhere. Wanted to spray on the female as well, but I thought better of it after the human was making loud noises and waving her front paws angrily at me. Never mind, everything is pretty much now mine.

Day 8 of captivity:

Yeeeaaah, maaaan!! Like, she put me in my basket, man, and went, really, really, really er... what was I saying? Yeah, fast! Fast... what, no food? No, in the car! Yeeeahh... we went to the vets and the guy there took out a small knife and before I knew it, I was asleep, maaan! And now I'm just wandering about, bouncing off walls and generally having a ball, man! Hmmm...

Hey! Something's missing!



Day 20 of captivity:

Getting used to being domesticated. I get a tasty stick-thing every time I do something that is not normal, like urinate in this sand stuff and not clawing the curtains, or attacking the human. Also like being given food and not needing to hunt it down first. I wonder if you can hunt this animal called 'Whiskas'? It is very tasty. Also getting used to drinking out of a bowl and not out of the toilet.

Day 58 of captivity:

The window is open and lets me go out into the wild. The window is still open when I get back. My human is good to me and I will get her a present. I believe that is her love language.

Day 60 in captivity:

The human was not impressed with the present I gave her. It was freshly killed and although there were a stream of feathers everywhere, I made sure that there was enough for her. I believe that makes her very ungrateful. What is this and the waving of the angry paws? Maybe she prefers the animal known as 'Whiskas'?

Day 128 in captivity:

After solving crimes around the city, I found out the way to open the front door. The silly human does not always lock it, so I find my own way out, if there is no other means of escape. I may decide to go out on my won, if the food doesn't keep coming and I am not allowed to hunt.



Day 1,257 in captivity:

I decide that I need to go. I leave a note explaining why - that Terry the gerbil and Steve the tomcat absolutely need to find Jill the water buffalo. This may take some time - around three months. I feel that I am leaving under a cloud and I may not return, but it seems that I have no choice.

Day 1,538 owned by a human:

Couldn't be bothered to find Jill. If a water buffalo can't be found be a gerbil, then all hope is lost anyway. So I go on a looting and pillaging spree, acquiring the affections of next door's and get free food. Two other humans I know find me - one that doesn't want to touch me and one that keeps sneezing all the time. I find myself back in my owner's apartment. I am at the moment very embarrassed as I have been forced into the bath and had been given a wash. The female is very pleased to have found me.

Day 2,128 in captivity:

The female has another human in the house. They seem to like each other. I show my liking for him, as he gives me food and lets me do Etch-a-Sketch on his arms, although he doesn't seem too happy about the latter. I show my appreciation of him by giving him a head-butt right between the eyes at 5am. Since he is then awake and waving his arms around, I then obviously ask for food. This is usually not given, but there is no harm in trying. Again. And again. And again...

Day 2,258 in captivity (the last entry):

I have been moved to yet another location, along with the two humans. The journey was nice enough, but I feel more trapped as there is not as much space. It is also a new town which I am eager to explore. And to meet local females. And maybe get more food. The female has left the window open, so I wonder if-

To be continued... Maybe.

Scribble #10: The Language Barrier

Language, especially when trying to communicate in one that is not your first, can have some results that are not entirely expected. For instance, a younger lady at work said to me, 'baby', which made me pause for a second. Do I now go red, stutter out something about being married? Or do I actually think about this for a second and realise that there should have been a slight rise in tone in the second syllable, making it 'baby?'. I answered 'nie', then tried to demonstrate the potential for embarrassment through the English language and mime, by sidling up to her and saying 'Lenka, baaaby' in an exaggerated fashion and using to my full advantage the optional extra of the waggling eyebrows. The result was that she went bright red, then laughed it off along with other work colleagues and myself.

The point of this is that I am amazingly blessed with the types of work that I do at the moment - first with the 'normal' eight hours a day, but secondly and more importantly the work that I can do with the youth groups here that are a part of ACET, YouthAlpha and the church plant that we're creating. With a bit of creativity (i.e. being completely bonkers), I've found that very little language skill goes a long way, especially when it comes to working with the kids here. My 'Mr. Bean' style of communication has helped immeasurably, as has my willingness to play various games with them.

On the other hand, going to the Post Office here is horrible, whether you know the language or not, but especially so if you don't know the local lingo. I do my best to smile, nod and look as friendly as possible without overstepping the invisible boundary and ending up looking like a creep, but there does come a time when you really do need to know what is being said and if your battery has died on your phone then you're a wee bit stuck. I'm currently resolving this by taking lessons with a personal tutor, who is not afraid to correct me on every word that I say and who actually encourages you to speak, not just stick to the books. I'm hoping to get at least to the standard of 'functional' within a year - but I'm not sure even then, as Slavic languages are the fourth hardest to learn in the world (according to the embassies in the UK, Basque is No.1, with Hungarian second). English is relatively easy to learn, but like the rest of them, you have to take the time and effort to master as much as you can.

Support from Slovak friends has been great - especially about positive comments about the accent, which I was afraid of. Come across as too British and there is no flow, making the language seem ungainly. Speaking it correctly the first time around - even though there may be a short silence before you work out what you want to say and how to say it - is a great thing and is hugely encouraging to the student, tutor and other potential students. I just want to fast forward a few months...

Scribble #9: Designated Driver Part Dva

There is no middle ground in Slovak driving, and this is particularly true when it comes to guiding an automobile through snowy and icy weather. Particularly ice. This winter's weather has been amazingly unpredictable and we even had a temperature difference of around 18 degrees during one week. This may not be such a big thing in Canada, which is a country that was never properly finished, and as a result the weather there can be safely described as 'a bit mental'. And we never had to take a pickaxe to our car in order to get four-inch thick layer of ice off. Also as a reference to how big Canada is... from Sala, we can reach three capital cities within three hours. In Canada, if you start off at Edmonton, you can reach Calgary in about the same time. And trust me, you really, really don't want to.

There is practically nothing that a lot of Slovak drivers (particularly those with 'BA' in their number plate) will slow down for. Blind corners, overtaking up a hill, leapfrogging in front of oncoming traffic - these are all taken for granted. Ice really isn't. And neither is snow. Driving limits are 50 km/h in a town, 90 on the open roads and 130 on the motorway. Drivers either go at a snail's pace in winter, or at a ludicrous speed that will either make them or another person end up in a ditch as all of them drive bumper to bumper. For instance, you suddenly find that you've hit ice and you are losing control of your car. You slip it into neutral and don't make any sudden turnings but instead steer it gently into the skid. Then you get hit by the guy behind you because he's decided to panic and put his brakes full on, thus sliding into the back of you. You now totally lose control of your vehicle and end up going into a ditch, while he keeps going on his merry way. I saw this time and time again, with people trying to flag passers-by down, with half of their car's rear end missing or stuck in the nearest tree.

Driving in snow, even with winter tyres, is something to be respected - I know, since I have hit a ditch once and had a few close calls. Winter tyres are lovely, but they are not made out of some sort of magical substance. Mrs. C has grown up in Canada, and has hit the ditch on numerous occasions, and this may not be her own fault either, as the roads can get so bad that the only way that you know where to go is to follow the person in front. If he happens to seemingly fall into a large hole in the road, then you kind of end up following him, no matter how hard you try not to. On the other hand, Canadians get skidpan training, which I think would be a lot of fun to do.

There have been quite a few times where I've glared back at the glaring high beams in my rear-view mirror, especially when on ice and that person is a little too close for comfort. But there's nothing you can do about it, except for going at a snail's pace yourself. I'm just glad the weather's warming up and the snows are melting. Roll on spring and 20C, that's what I say...

Scribble #8: How Not to Go About Your Business

One major gripe that I have about Slovaks is their work ethics, where basically they have the 'anything goes just so long as we don't have to confront anyone about it' (otherwise known as the AGJSLAWDHTCAAI) method down pat.  Case in point - timing.  It's all about the timing.  There really isn't any.

I've just started a new job here and I kind of found out that I had to come in on a Saturday morning about ten minutes before the end of Friday shift finished.  This constituted as 'overtime' - which I had not been asked about whatsoever.  For me, it was unusual because the week before I had been asked and gladly accepted.  This time, I hadn't.  Plus the fact that Mrs C. would put my head on a pike outside the factory if I did go in, since we were planning a weekend together.  After I had calmed down a bit, I walked into the office, put on the blue plastic bootie covers that the Japanese like so much, took a deep breath, took another one and then asked my manager, very calmly, if I was expected to come in tomorrow.

She looked at me.  Then pointed to the Human Resources lady.

I asked her the same question.

HR: Yes, you're to come in tomorrow.

Pause.

HR: Is there a problem?

Yes, there is a problem.  The fact that I feel like an indentured servant and that if I hadn't happened to look at the board ten minutes prior, I wouldn't have known, we wouldn't be having this conversation and I would probably be in a lot of trouble on Monday, due to lack of knowledge of what the heck I'm supposed to be doing, I didn't say.

JC:  Yes, [myself and Mrs C.] were planning a weekend away together.

HR:  Okay, then.  That won't be a problem.  We'll just shuffle these people around and...

To which, ten minutes later, she actually asked the shufflees to come in on those times, as she should have with me - at least to my way of understanding.

Slovakia runs on the JIT principle - that you get told what's going on Just In Time.  You may get a phone call on a Wednesday for a big planning meeting on a Friday - and don't forget to summarise everything you've done for the past couple of months before then.  And that's okay.  Because on the upside, they're flexible enough to move people and times around.  And it's also okay for important people within a meeting to just get up and leave and not come back for another hour or so.  The non-confrontational part of this shines through, as no-one wants to say to your face that, actually, it really isn't okay and yes, I really do have a problem with that.

When a foreigner puts his foot down, it then becomes passive-aggressive, which is never a good thing.  Items on the agenda may be done 'in your best interest', leaving you out of the loop, making you feel hurt and distinctly unworthy - especially if plans or projects had gone on for a long time.  It creates a chaotic situation that everyone just has to get along with.  This makes me think that it is the inability to actually trust one another which really bogs the country down - it takes forever to really get to know someone as a friend here, no matter how friendly you or they may be to each other.  Unfortunately, it reflects on me as well, as it takes about the same time for people to get to know me - the introvert who would much rather be writing to you than have a conversation with you, but who - somewhat ironically - likes to hear himself talk once in a while.  But, once you get there, then you really, truly, absolutely have a definite friend, who will put time and energy into you.

I'm finding this out pretty quickly for myself as we're just starting a new life in a little place called Sala.  There is a lot of history connected to the town, but more importantly there is a certain group of people here that we are increasingly getting close to.  We've seen glimmers of what actually happens in their lives and we're excited to get these tasters and know even more about them.  This creates a type of intimacy that you know in which you can be open about your opinions, which in turn can be rebutted or fuelled.  And quite frankly, this makes it fun.

Scribbling #7: A taste of Costa Rica...

So, there I was – hanging on a wire two hundred feet up in the air, completely stuck, suffering from dehydration and feeling a little bit like a complete idiot.

The guide wasn’t the least bit happy with me. I could feel his glare fifty feet away from me like the Death Star ray on Alderaan. Turning my body around on the spindle, I weakly reached up and tried to pull myself along by just using my arms.

Nope, not gonna happen.

I could hear Christina (AKA Mrs C) yelling at me from the other end, being generally encouraging and wishing that she could actually help.

I look down. And I think to myself, without a trace of fear, wow, it’s really beautiful here. I’m very lucky to be alive.

Costa Rica is a really lovely place, especially when you find spots that are a little – well, a lot out of the way of the main cities and towns. The people are friendly enough (well, they have to be, since their country hasn’t had an army since 1948) and I was glad that Christina and myself were having a great time on our honeymoon so far, especially since a lot of it was outside, adventurous and within the confines of ‘civilised’ wild nature. The country certainly ticked a lot of boxes when it was first suggested to us by another couple, so while my at-the-time-bride-to-be (otherwise known as ‘ATTBTB’ in the on-line gaming world) was working with preparations for the wedding, I was chasing up after companies, getting the nine or ten day honeymoon set up.

Yes. Good choice.

A sharp buzzing noise interrupted my dehydration-induced state of euphoria – it was a handle attached to a rope, running down the zipline towards me. The guide shouted at me to grab at it, which I did, without too much success. Then he started to encourage me - to not be afraid of the height, that everything was okay and above all, hurry up as he has a lot of sleeping and reading to catch up on. I wasn’t afraid – I just didn’t want to leave any time soon. Especially when it involved moving away from the really nice view of the canopy, overlooking a river set into a valley. What did he think I was? Crazy?

I made another lunge and unfortunately caught the handle. Our guide pulled at the rope, dragging me unceremoniously along with it, and got to the other end without too much trauma and a fair bit of sympathy from my new wife.

Our guide – let’s call him Pelé, because he ironically looked the exact opposite to the famous football player – said to me something along the lines of, ‘Don’t stop on the next one. There’s no rope to help you on the next one.’

To which I said – nothing, because I was too knackered to speak.

Nevertheless, I only got stuck because it was my own fault anyway, thinking that I had to slow down from the breakneck speed in which I was going. Slightly too much, it seemed.

The next few ziplines came and went without any incident – they merely had a cumulative effect on me in how great the views were and how pretty the country was, particularly when viewed from a greater height. Costa Rica seemed to have been set aside for the postcard industry.

Scribbling #6: Designated Driver

For some reason, the transition of driving from the left side to the right side of the road was never a big deal for me. My Canadian and Slovak counterparts did think, upon occasion, how hard that must have been to do. No - it was really easy. It's just the language transition that's hard. And that includes understanding Canadian - especially the cute way that they think I have, in some way, paused while speaking and immediately leap in with their opinions that they were conjuring up just a moment ago, thereby completely derailing my train of thought. Brits like to take their time during conversation - letting it flow back and forth, mulling over the words in the same sort of way as one would sip at a vintage wine, savouring each letter and phrase.

Conversations in the car between Mrs C and I have been rudely interrupted in the past, especially if we are in the fast lane of the local highway. You may think that you're fine, no-one is behind you at all. Check that rear-view mirror again, sunshine. Yes, that's a Mercedes coming up right behind you at over 240 km/h. And he doesn't look as if he is stopping. I pull over to the middle lane between two cars, lightly stepping on the brake, and the Mercedes roars by, the driver gesticulating at me wildly as if to say 'see what happens when you keep at the speed limit? It automatically puts you in my way!'. And neither am I particularly surprised to see the registration plate beginning with 'BA' - designating that the car has been registered in Bratislava. Any country road, any blind bend, going up a hill - you will be overtaken by some nutter from the capital city of Slovakia.

It's easy to drive defensively here. You just get out of the way of the idiots. But sometimes, you really can't - like being on a roundabout (translation for Canadians and other aliens: 'traa-fiic cirrr-cle')and you want to turn left, so therefore you want to be on the inside lane, then move to the outside, right? Not if the car next to you on the outside lane has anything to say about it. He wants to turn left as well, but just to be 'safe', he will do just that on the outside lane, cutting you off from the exit and making you go around again. In the UK, they have a great system, where the lanes are painted to actually force you out onto the correct exit, keeping everyone in their place. Which would be the 'proper' thing to do as we are British.

I've been honked at a couple of times as well, especially when waiting for a gap to drive into on a roundabout. So I ignore their horn and wait some more for a random mahoosive gap in traffic. It may take a couple of moments and I may be getting a strange look from Mrs C in the meantime, but I wish to savour the moment of holding up traffic. I should really name our car 'Dick Turpin'.

But of course there is always my personal favourite - winter tyres. To a Brit, these are like manna from Heaven. We revere them, but we have no way of obtaining them on the Isles - they're just too expensive. We like to blame the Man for not obtaining a stupid amount of salt for our roads, for not investing in snow ploughs, for not... and so on and so on. In this country, I've driven on snow at over 120 km/h.

I may have been drinking a cup of tea at the time as well. Which would also be the 'proper' thing to do.

Scribbling #5: New Year Shenanigans

New Year's Eve here is otherwise known as Silvester, named after Pope (or after he kicked the bucket: Saint) Silvester I. I'm not sure exactly what people did back in the 4th century AD to celebrate, but it would have probably been along the lines of conversation and food, which is what I experienced this year. The Wii hadn't been invented then, or Dutch Blitz. Or fireworks.

It would've really sucked to have lived in the 4th century AD.

With the clock nearly at midnight, we all went outside and walked up the street towards Zobor hill, in order to get a better view of the city. 12 am was struck and we beheld the Seige of Nitra, except with less Turks and fatalities. Colours filled the sky at a dazzling rate, with two-ers and three-ers exploding like nobody's business. And of course, since it was Slovakia and health and safety only applies here when someone actually gets recruited to fulfil that role, people were quite happily lighting them on the street, in their hands, aiming at their neighbour's house and generally not caring.

Slovaks love their fireworks, as opposed to the UK, where we merely like them and try not to get too excited by such things. For some reason we're very happy with sparklers, thankyou very much.

We flew Chinese lanterns (well, not actually FLY them. We didn't get on board of a massive one and floated our way to Prague or something. That would have been a daft idea. What were you thinking?) and then some more fireworks were lit by our Slovak compatriots. On the balcony.

Perfectly safe. Just don't set the garden or the dog on fire.

Scribbling #4: Christmas Time

Instead of the traditional Christmas turkey dinner (which was amazingly well prepared this year by our friends the Prices on the 25th), Slovaks have the traditional Christmas carp.  Unfortunately, I'm not too great with fish, especially bottom-feeders which go out of their way to look ugly and be very bony.  So, this year I didn't take the dubious pleasure of having carp at a friend's house - I had the offered chicken instead.  Christmas Day here is also celebrated not on the 25th, but on the 24th, when Baby Jesus Himself gives out the presents.  I'm not sure why the change of date, due to Wikipedia always shutting down on me since people are bored at this time of year and just want to find out about random stuff.

Anyway. :-)

This is how you buy a carp here - while it is still alive.  The seller (usually found outside the large Tesco here in Nitra) nets the ugly thing from one of the fishing tanks. It flaps all over the place while the seller puts it into a bag that isn't filled with water.  The lucky buyer takes the horrible thing home, fills up the bath, and then places said repulsive fish into the bathtub.  This is so that the unsightly fish can 'clean itself out' - whatever that means - and so be a 'cleaner' hideous fish before the buyer has the exquisite pleasure to snuff its life out.  Hopefully the buyer hasn't got too many small children running around, as I'm sure that the repulsive fish will eventually be seen as a family pet and given a name.  Like 'Buttercup' or something.  There'll be tears before bedtime...

The joyously dead fish would then be taken out, gutted, cleaned then cooked and covered with breadcrumbs or somesuch ingredient, served along with cabbage soup.  The latter I will eat with relish, but I will refuse the former.  Sad affair, but there you go.

Mrs C and I have had a great time over the last couple of days with our non-bottom-feeder Christmas, along with friends and no family (except on the phone - it's that way when one of you is a Brit and the significant other is a Canook).  We've loved receiving prezzies and we've really loved giving them out - it's all about the reaction, you know?  Even pumpkin pie was made in the C household - but unfortunately, Yorkshire pudding was not.  Since my birthday is coming up soon, then I can happily wait for that very special occasion. ;-)

Merry Christmas/Vesele Vianoce everyone, and Happy New Year!

Scribbling #3: Dr. House is not available at this time

Mrs. C has been a bit under the weather in recent months, coming down with what seems like chronic fatigue. Although she was getting slightly better over the past month, a rogue pizza brought her down to square one. And then a bad case of congestive flu followed. This, after a bit of cajoling, meant a trip to the doctors - and another new experience for me.

In the UK, we would go to our local General Practitioner (translation for Canadians and other aliens: fammm-i-lyy doc-torr), and he would recommend that we go to a hospital to get ourselves sorted out, if needs be. An appointment would come in through the post six weeks later to go to the hospital, then the doctor there would look at you again, say the exact same things as the GP, then give you another appointment to have more tests carried out etc. in say... a month's time. I'm not having a go at the NHS, since they have saved my life at least twice, but both of those times were an emergency situation. And the second time around I saw seven doctors, all of them getting more and more senior until I saw a guy in a suit. I'm just glad he wasn't wearing a top hat and carrying a tape measure with him. The third time I was there I was given the full force of NHS beauracracy, and I had to throw my proverbial toys out of the metaphorical pram in order to get treatment faster. My dig was this:

‘How come that you're giving me an appointment for an appointment in three weeks time, when my wife-to-be in the Central European country of Slovakia (NB. This was several months ago) can get seen within two weeks AND have surgery?’

This figurative plastic dog hit its mark and I was seen to after the weekend. Treatment went well, nurses and doctors were extremely nice, even the anestilologist had a chat with me before I was put under. Once you get there, the NHS does great work. So I was slightly surprised by Slovakia's 'do-it-all' method.

In two days, we saw the same doctor four times, one doctor for x-rays and another for ears, nose, and lung examination (three for the price of one!). No surgery was needed, antibiotics and a treatment plan was given. And that was it. Right now, Mrs C has the extremely pleasant experience of stuffing a spritzer up her nose and another one for oral use. For the latter, it seems that no-one could be bothered to add 'banana flavour' or something, as it apparently tastes disgusting. At least that's what I've deduced from the exclamations 'bleuuugh!’, ‘arrrgh!’ and my personal favourite, ‘yeuuuch!' that came from Mrs C.

So - Slovak medical health seems to be just fine, with the paperwork cut down and the level of care a good level. It's slightly frustrating being pushed from pillar to post with going from doctor to doctor, but I kind of expected that. And one of the female doctors said that I was good-looking. What's more to add?

Scribbling #2: Customer Disservice

We've just recently bought a 'new-to-us' estate car (translation for Canadians and other aliens: stai-tion waaa-gon) and the first thing that I wanted to do with it was to give it a 'proper' service by having it looked at by the guys at the main VW dealership. We had to get there by 7am, so you can imagine the cat's joy at thinking that he would actually be fed at 6am when we got up and disturbed his slumber. Yeah, right, like I was going to do that and then be disturbed by him head-butting me at 6am for the next two weeks, wanting to be fed.

Anyway...

The service went fine, until we had to pay VW. This in itself was no problem, but we were nearing to the time for a lunch date with a great couple we know in the nearby town of Nove Zamky. I was also interested in trying out and sitting in the big new shiny cars in the dealership that I knew I would never own, because I am not that stupid to buy a brand new car and watch money drop off it like water off a duck's back. That is, until Mrs C called me over to the desk. And gave me that look that most husbands dread, to which our response is to look at the ground and shuffle our feet.

Anyway...

Everything seemed hunky-dory. The Nice Man at the desk told us to wait for a colleague in order to pay and that she'll be there in a couple of minutes. He went off to find said colleague.

We waited. For ten to fifteen minutes. Nice Man came back. He expressed some version of surprise that the colleague had not turned up. We said okay. And we huffed about the time spent waiting. The Nice Man went away again to find the mysterious colleague.

A Nicer Man came who seemed more flustered than the Nice Man that Mysterious Colleague had not turned up yet. In the meantime I was watching the Nice Man wander down to the other side of the dealership to check for Mysterious Colleague to affirm that, yes, no-one existed on the other side of the dealership. It was just us on this side, huffing and puffing. Nicer Man went away with mobile phone in hand. Half an hour had elapsed.

Nice Man came back and with a surge of pro-activeness, decided that he in fact was actually qualified to give us the terminal in order to pay VW for their three and a half hours work. So, we paid Dozy Idiot (nee Nice Man) and were just about to be on our way... when Mysterious Colleague showed up after having her lunch break. We were edging towards the door with our car key in hand at this point, said a quick "Dovidenia" instead of following through to the third stage of huffing and puffing, and the metaphorical Elvis' left the building.

Dozy Idiot still had not finished with us, as he ran out of the building after us and then took half our paperwork away, as most of it was duplicates and stuff they needed for their files. Joy. We were 45 minutes late by this time, for something that should have taken ten. We can't get that time back. This "yeah, whatever" curse seems to be prevalent amongst most main car dealerships here. It's actually the back street ones that joke with you, give you a cup of coffee, do good work on the car, form a relationship and through that, a reputation - but they have no warranty on the parts that they use, unless they put one on themselves, which is rare.

Still, the VW dealership was thorough. And throughout this blog I specifically did not refer to the one  eight minutes outside of Nitra, on the way to Topal'cany. So you can't pin any of this on them, whatsoever.

Scribbling #1: The Hidden Way of Tesco (Slovak Republic)

A vaguely amused audience greeted me on entering Tesco today. Happily, the mirth was not directed at me but at a young woman and older lady combo who were being directed again and again by the security guy through the screamers. Well… you know, those strange things with flashing bulbs by the shop entrance that make a screaming sound not because someone has stolen something but because the cashier didn’t swipe the goods that they’re carrying properly. Anyway, since that type of free entertainment was not particularly rolling-on-floor-laughing-until-I-run-out-of-oxygen-to-breathe (otherwise known throughout the on-line gaming world as ‘ROFLUIROOOTB’), I carried on with my Tesco adventure and didn’t particularly care what happened to the ladies next.

My wanderings to find the necessities of the day are taking less time to carry out. Not because I’m more familiar with the language, only because I know where certain things are in the store. And going by colours for full-, semi- and low-fat. It’s sad to know that, but there you go. But the best thing I found out today was not just the fact that Christmas sales make the better goods cheaper than the Tesco brand – but I found out how to stop the cashier from being so fast with the checking.

Here’s how it usually works for me in Tesco:

1. Having acquired my goods, I queue up to pay, as all good British people do.
2. I gave my Tesco clubcard, as all good and self-aware British people do.
3. I fiddled with the Tesco plastic bags, with the last resort being rubbing my hands together over both sides of said bag in a vain attempt to open it, as all good, self-aware British men do.
4. I gave my money to the cashier after they’ve said the price, as all good British people do.
5. The Keeper of the Till gives me my Clubcard, change and receipt. And doesn’t bother to wait for me to finish bagging and carries on with the next customer.
6. I feel amazingly pressured while I’m trying to open a stupid plastic bag. The customer after me pays and then leaves while I’m still mucking about.
7. Afterwards, I go home, feeling slightly depressed about the whole Slovak Tesco experience and wishing once more that we were talented enough to train the cat to go instead of us.

This time around, I got to step four and my brain retaliated. It had sub-consciously found the Way of the Slovak Tesco for the British Man. Before then, it was on a metaphorical cigarette break. Anyway:

4. I gave more money and change than was needed. This gave me more time in bagging, because the cashier doesn’t then check it once, s/he checks it twice, then gives me some of the change back in return, with a slight condescending smile.
5. The Keeper of the Till gives me my Clubcard, change and receipt. I have finished bagging.
6. I go home, feeling rather happy about the whole experience. Not only that but the Keeper is also happy, as s/he has believed that s/he has actually helped a customer today. Or alternatively s/he is slightly ticked off by the silly foreigner who can’t open a plastic bag to save his life and gives her the wrong change. Whatever, I don’t actually care about the cashier.

This is the Way of the Slovak Tesco.