The Various Uses for a Grand Piano

You always thought that pianos were for playing on. There is an alternative and conventional view that they are very nice pieces of furniture that should be protected, especially from children. A musical version of a Rolex watch. Both are examples of a failure, as we executives say, “to think laterally” or "to think out of the box". That’s another expression that I have always wanted to use. Just don't ask me what it means.

The Bechstein piano, made by German engineers, was designed to withstand the poundings of energetic but non-German pianists such as Liszt and Chopin. They were designed to be indestructible, although I was informed by my U.S. neighbour downstairs, that in the contest between a Steinway and the U.S. East Coast Floods, the floods win. The Germans had not thought of that one. Room for improvement here.

There are other alternative uses for a Bechstein, other than as a piece of furniture or as a musical instrument.

For those of you interested in the history of our particular piano (and for those of you who are not), it was originally sold by Harrods in1937 and restored by Kevin Rowley and his colleague Richard, in 1998 for yours truly, before being driven back through Germany in 2006, probably directly past the factory where it was built, and onwards to Chez Grumpy in Thalwil.

You may wonder how a Bechstein is taken up to a second floor apartment. Easy. You find four big chaps, take the legs off the piano and they carry it up the stairs. And I thought that they would get a crane and sling it through the window.

Back to the story and a bit of lateral thinking or thinking outside the box.

The top of the Bechstein makes for a very good desk surface, when you want to work standing up. That difficult letter that you wish to compose or the report on which you need to concentrate are both best carried out on the wings of a grand piano - I think that there is a pun in German here, but I am not too sure.

The main use to which I put my Bechstein, other than driving the neighbours crazy for one hour a day with Chopin’s third ballade, is for doing jigsaws. This is not normally considered as a musical pastime, but is nonetheless a very worthy use of such a fine piece of engineering. The height is perfect, the pieces can be spread out, a 70 by 30 mm jigsaw sits neatly on the top and allows more than one person to work on it at a time, providing they can agree on who does which part. (I can never be bothered with edges to start with, despite the conventional wisdom on this topic.)

 

I don’t know if this works as well with other grand pianos. But I am going to see if I can sell the idea of a new advertising slogan to the makers of Bechsteins.  “Do a jigsaw - get a Bechstein”.  

As a final grammatical note, I am reminded that the spelling is Bechstein and not Beckstein, with an “h”, not a “k”. I don't remember who pointed out to me the error of my linguistic ways, but I am sure that he or she is on this mailing list - hands up those of you who knew the right spelling. Hands up those of you who don't care.

Does the Post Office really hate stamp collectors?

I have just spent all day yesterday trying to get eight British stamps off three envelopes. Five British stamps of no particular consequence, but special commemorative issues, none the less. Three Olympic stamps and two Christmas stamps.

In the same postal delivery, there were two other letters from England, with the usual everyday definitive stamps. It always amazes me that the British Post Office manages to produce such drab stamps. The outline of the Queen is recognisable after a fashion, but for sheer lack of imagination these stamps are hard to beat. I guess it saves on design fees.

As if that were not enough, the Post Office has used the money that it has saved on design costs, and invested in purple crayons, like the ones that my grandson Bradley, uses to draw over his mum’s kitchen table. These purple crayons are then used to scrawl over the stamps to indicate that they have been used. “X marks the spot” is the training mantra here. Sometimes franking machines are used, but these are not favoured, as they are too neat. Much better to make the stamp totally unusable by anyone, including stamp collectors.

So it’s back to my failed attempt to soak these stamps off their envelopes. Normally stamps from any other country come off in about 30 minutes. These particular eight items of philatelic delight refused to budge one-tenth of a millimetre. My attempts included the use of cold water, then warm water and then hot water, all to no avail after twelve hours.

The Post Office has obviously used the remains of its savings on design costs (after the costs of purple crayons) to purchase special super glue, normally used to hold aircraft wings on to the body of a plane. Well, judging from my experience yesterday, it wouldn’t surprise me.

My efforts having been defeated, I have come to the conclusion that the Post Office hates stamp collectors. Well wouldn’t you? If you had to trudge around the streets all day, in all weathers, with your only outlet for frustration being to throw elastic bands on the ground (of which I was a major beneficiary during my time in Norwich), wouldn’t you hate stamp collectors, together with dog owners?

So today, I was off to the local Post Office in Thalwil to buy a set of commemorative stamps and what did I find? No – they didn’t have any. Perhaps commemorative stamps aren’t meant to be used. They are just meant to be bought and placed in the stamp collection.

By the way, if you are unaware of the significance of the Post Office and elastic bands, you might be amused by the following: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royal_Mail_rubber_band.

The English speak English

I promised in the email accompanying my last blog that I would write something nice about England.

I have spent over 10 years in Switzerland now. When it comes to the tests to see how far you’ve gone native, I score pretty well. On returning to Norwich (which is a part of England, for those of you who did not know) for a few months, I did better than expected in adapting to my “new culture”.

Just before coming back to England for five months, I was asked by a friend what I particularly liked about Switzerland. My answer was pretty poor (railways, mountains, etc – I did not even mention low taxes), so I was motivated to keep some notes, while in Norwich, of what I liked, disliked or just observed about England or Switzerland.

The list was fairly long on all three counts, with some surprising entries (e.g. I like the suggested recipes on the sides of sauces in English supermarkets. You might not think is important, but as an amateur chef, I came to like this).

But I know that you have all read the title, so you know what is coming next.

I was in a car park with Hazel by a store like B & Q – it wasn’t B & Q, but that is not the point. The point was that a man, who had parked next to us, came up and I made a complementary observation about his car. Within 5 minutes of banter back and forth, he had told me how old the car was, how old he was, how many grandchildren he had and so on and he probably heard similar information about me. (As we were both male, we will both have forgotten everything within 90 seconds, except that I remember that his car was red – I think).

Yes – English is my native language and this was England. I consider myself something of an expert of the English language, having used it from a very early age. However, as I was forcibly reminded with some disdain by a German lady in Zurich, “Colin, you have been in Switzerland for 10 years and you still don’t speak German fluently”. You have to admire the motivational words.

And yes – in Tesco Express on the Unthank Road “Hier spricht man Englisch” – Hurrah. Time for some banter about the weather, the Olympics, BBQs in the rain, Princess Katie or whatever else was on everyone’s mind at the time or having a minor rant (in English) about the automatic pay machines.

I have become convinced that banter (and probably humour and swearing) is only done well in one’s mother tongue. Here in Switzerland, because I can say “Grüezi” (normal greeting) with a reasonably good accent, I receive in return some sentiments in the local dialect. This is both flattering and totally reasonable. However, my response has to be (in my best German) “Sorry, but I am English, however, I speak some high (formal) German.”

This leads either to the conversation coming to an end or just as likely to a perfectly formed sentence in English from the other person, who having been to university in England, speaks fluent English. This is not the same as banter.

Best places for banter are: car parks, supermarket check-outs, fish and chip shops, (but not in Indian takeaways), bus stops when it is pouring with rain and buying theatre tickets. You may have other suggestions.

When we first arrived in Norwich (England), we had to force ourselves not ask whether they spoke English. (There was one occasion when I spoke to a cashier in the local Tesco Express in German by accident). Imagine being in a street in England and someone asking you if you speak English. I know that England has become multicultural, but that would be too much.

So it is probably true. The English are just not good at languages. We don’t get enough practice. And why should we – everyone else speaks English. Are we spoiled or just lazy? Perhaps a bit of both.

In the meantime, to answer my friend’s question, one of the things I like about England is that everyone speaks English.

 

The Need to Queue

Regular readers of this blog (thanks, Dad) will know how much I hate queuing. Whether I hate queuing more than having Google constantly redirect me to the German website or translating everything into German is a close run thing.

Of course, your view on queuing might be completely different, and probably is. “How do you use your queuing time?” This could be a useful social study, and should rank alongside such important questions as “Do you love Marmite or do you hate it?” http://www.marmite.co.uk/

For some, queuing might be an opportunity to consider and reflect on the meaning of life, or to think over some particular crossword clue. Others might just reflect or think of nothing in particular. I like to engage others in conversation, especially on the subject of why this queue is not moving fast enough / not at all / why the other queue is moving faster / debating whether the person at the front of the queue is trying to buy the entire train etc. and asking myself whether it would be cost effective to actually just pay the bill of the person three in front of me.

It is conceivable that one should just relax, but that it not a core Grumpy skill.

Whichever it is, Starbucks have found a new way of separating us from our free time and in providing us with an opportunity to practice whatever it is that we practice, while we are queuing.

The idea here is to have one person taking the orders and the money and another making the coffee. The trick, though, in the “Let’s help people to practice queuing” training department is to have the person making the coffee not turn up / be on his coffee break /visiting the bathroom. This way queuing practice time can be maximised until the crucial coffee maker returns or just turns up.

I may have mentioned this in an earlier blog, but the Swiss think that the English like queuing. I explain that we do not like queuing. We are just good at it.

I have visited Poland and have concluded that they are good at queuing, at least in the city that I visited. My observations have led me further to think that a significant percentage enjoy it. The feeble evidence for this rash thought is from the local supermarket which has two exits, one at either end of the building. Each exit has its own checkouts. One exit always has longer queues with shoppers with more shopping. This is for the experienced queuers (is there such a word?), or for those who are practicing. The other is for people like me, who are lost causes in the queuing department.

Perhaps queues are a test, although exactly what sort of test, I have no idea. And who would set the test anyway? More to the point, who would mark the results? The EU should seriously consider having a “Queuing Directive”, to enforce this character enhancing habit.

I will continue with this rather unlikely theme. If we are bad in this world, are we destined to come back as someone whose only activity is to wait in an everlasting queue, which never moves?

 I remember a Russian friend of ours, who volunteered, some years ago, to queue for some tickets for an open-air cinema in Zurich. She arrived there at 5.00 am and collected the tickets at 8.00 am. “Wow”, we said. “That was some queuing”. “That’s not queuing”, she replied. “When you stand for twelve hours, you reach the front and the shop then tells you they are closing and you should come back tomorrow, that’s queuing.”

Well, I guess that puts Grumpy in his correct place.

(By the way, there is a “I hate Marmite” facebook page – I shall be lobbying for an “I hate queuing” page on Facebook – perhaps someone can help me to set one up.)

Pencils, Pills and Toe-Nails

Exactly how far can a pencil travel? This is not a physics question. Neither is it a new Olympic discipline (although it could be). It is the practical question of what happens when you drop the pencil on the floor and why.

You know the feeling. You reach for a pencil to start the Sudoku puzzle from today’s newspaper. For reasons which cannot be explained by modern science, the pencil moves of its own accord, rolls across the desk and falls towards the floor.

All is not lost. From the great experience that you have gained from playing table tennis, you are confident of your ability to catch it, as it plunges earthwards – but no – the pencil slips past you and lands with a click on the floor, probably shattering the leads internally thoughout its length.

Before you can reach down to pick it up, it continues its journey to escape your clutches and proceeds to roll gently underneath the sofa. Yes – I have a sofa, next to my desk, so I can have a sleep, when studying German vocabulary becomes too hard for me.

Now it’s a question of getting down on your knees in your best jeans. You reach right to the back of the sofa and at the same time, collect up a handful of dust which has assembled since you lost the last pencil.

There you have it with pencils. They’re slow, don’t go far, but are cunning.

But what about pills? You drop one of those and you are really in trouble and I should know. These little swine, they not only slip through your fingers, then gripped by gravity, they always fall to the ground pointing sideways. This works on the same cosmic and logic defying principle that causes a cat to land on its feet and bread to land face downwards, leaving a nasty mark on the carpet.

Back to the pills. Landing on their side, they proceed to roll purposefully at about the same speed as you can chase and then disappear……You took your eye off it, didn’t you. The chances of this ever being found by anything other than the vacuum cleaner are receding by the second.

Writing that off to experience, you take more care with the next pill, still looking around the room, in deadly combat with the little pill that has decided to humiliate you. Yes – It’s personal.

To summarise: Pills – small distance, but fast and ruthless, with an invisibility cloak, straight out of Harry Potter.

How do toe-nails figure in this league table? Clipping toe-nails is a personal business, not to be lightly discussed in public. However, there are important questions to be asked.

You do your best to make sure that the clippings remain in a space where they can be tidied and collected up – I hope that this not too personal or embarrassing.

Then suddenly, the toe nail shoots across the bath room at the speed of light, diagonally from the basin to the corner by the shower. The cursed thing disappears from view. Do this a few times and you would expect to have a little pile of shavings, lodged in the corner – but no. They have gone forever.

At least you are not trying to do something useful with them, like complete a Sudoku puzzle or swallow them to increase the iron in your blood. (I think that they must have a great deal of protein and calcium in them, but I will leave that thought where it is).

So there you have it for Toe nails – theory of relativity defying speeds and general pain in the whatsits.

Pencils, Pills and Toenails – they are all out to get you. So who’s paranoid?

 

Jubilee Celebrations

“They said it couldn’t be done”. They said that he would give up. They said that no one could  keep up this level of grumpiness. They said that there just is not enough grumpiness to go around.

I don’t know who “They” are, but I have my suspicions. “They” were wrong. Here is the proof. This is the 100th entry in Grumpy’s blog.

"They"

One person said that 100 blogs is not enough– my message to him is “Pay the blackmail money or I go public”. Oh yes – he knows who he is.

 

How did Grumpy do it, some of you cry? Why did he bother, cry the rest of you. But all will agree that it is time for some Jubilee celebrations. Grumpy’s supporters will expect no less.

Did you know that Grumpy’s blog took its first tentative step into the daylight on 8 December 2009 to mark his decision to retire? From then on, he has moaned and groaned his way through various and sundry ridiculous subjects. Common targets have been technology, the news and newspapers, Thalwil as the art centre of the world and silly immature behaviour of yours truly and others, such as men’s inability to find the milk in the fridge.

The workplace however has been taboo as, firstly it is better covered by Scott Adams (Dilbert) and Lucy Kellaway of the Financial Times, and secondly and most importantly, I prefer not to insult people from whom I might need a job one day.

What form should these celebrations take? Can I match the Jubilee celebrations? Should there be a Grumpy salute on the Thames? Will the Royal Air Force arrange a flypast? A concert should be held with all Grumpy’s favourite singers. These should then be duplicated in Thalwil. A double Jubilee. Fantastic. I know that you all can’t wait.

So what is planned for the next hundred blogs? Well, first of all, there will be the 101^st blog, followed by the 102^nd blog and so on…….you get the picture.

What will have happened, by the time that I reach 200 blogs? Firstly, I expect to be able to write another blog about the Euro crisis (click for link). But more importantly, people will be asking whether toilet rolls are hung in a standardised way. Will the English “pounds and ounces” and “miles and yards” have taken over from the obviously inferior and ridiculous metric system?

By the 200^th blog, certain things will not have changed.

Google, Apple, Microsoft and printers bought from Tesco in Norwich will continue to assume that I wish to receive everything in German?

I will still not have received compensation from News of the World for their failure to hack into my mobile phone?

Googlemap will not have updated Trinity Street, Norwich, showing me in my luminescent blue coat?

But what more could there be to mark this 100^th Blog? Modesty forbids me to suggest a “Knighthood for Grumpy”, so I won’t suggest it, but it is open to supporters to propose this.

However, it is also a time for reflection. Don’t worry. I’m not going to give a Christmas style sermon. However, do you, reader, think that it is time for a change. What comments do you have? How can this blog be improved? How indeed?

And if you hadn’t realised that there was a catch in this, then you haven’t realised the huge ego of Grumpy. For guidance on giving suggestions and comments, please read one of one Grumpy’s first blogs (19 December 2009) on “Commenting guidelines” (click for link)  Failure to do so will be met with the most severe consequences, whatever that might mean.

So here’s to the next 100 blogs.

Learning from the Airlines

Anyone who has been with me on an airline will know that I do not travel well by air. I do not mind the experience of flying. In fact, I rather enjoy it, even when there is some turbulence. It is similar to a Disney World ride only longer. But I do not like queuing, queuing again, and queuing yet again, taking off my shoes, removing my belt (and having to hold my trousers up), taking out my laptop, and standing on the bus to the plane and then waiting for the couple who decided to check in five minutes before the flight time etc etc.

Then there is the tinny recording of a woman that has been in use for five years at London City Airport, telling us that any unidentified baggage found may be taken away and destroyed. (How many of us have remembered our baggage or children because of a “safety” announcement? “Oh it was a good thing that we heard that announcement or we might have left the baby in Starbucks.”) The announcement repeats this and other “useful and informative” messages every two minutes to make sure that you do not get too settled in your book, newspaper or Sudoku puzzle.

It is possible to create some light diversions out of all this. There are not many opportunities, but there are some, especially for the infantile and immature of us, of which I definitely count myself as one.

There is the “be last on to the plane” competition. Who can sit on the seat in the boarding area the longest? Upon the announcement to board the plane, most people stand up and join the queue almost immediately. Winning this game involves having nerves of steel, avoiding eye contact with other seated passengers, and pretending not to notice the other person playing the same game.

This game can never be won, as even if you think that you are the last person through the gate, there is always the couple who decided to check in five minutes before the flight time and who turn up after you.

There is a variation on this game, which is to sit in the wrong boarding area for a flight departing before yours and to sit there, pretending to play this game. The other participants will admire your nerves of steel, before conceding defeat and going through the gate.

Juvenile games aside, in terms of “Let’s really annoy and stress our customers” there are few organisations to beat airports. I am convinced that they employ people who think up new ways of making the experience as uncomfortable as possible. This is a new form of “Customer Experience”. These are the people whom Tesco fired when they suggested that, as a cost cutting exercise, it would be a good idea to operate only one checkout at 10.00 am on a Saturday morning.

The latest innovation in the “Let’s annoy the customer” game are automatic boarding card gates. You are required to swipe your boarding card in a number of different directions, at least twenty times, and have two members of passport control come over to make suggestions on the best way of swiping it.

The automatic passport face recognition system is a variation on this, designed to lengthen queues, and reduce unemployment by increasing the need for passport control staff and embarrassing the public as the machine tries to work out who they are.

However, Nat West and RBS, after their recent “Oh dear, we have lost all your data” problems, could do worse than copy the example of some airline staff at boarding. When the flight is called, the passengers swipe their boarding cards and show their passports. Now here is the clever bit. The airline staff now ask for the boarding card again, which you have just put away, and crosses your name off a list with a pencil (remember them – long thin things which you can write with).

You thought that the computer did this. Well, it probably does, but I guess that the staff don’t trust the computer (quite right!) and do their own check as well. If RBS had followed this line of thinking, then they might not have ended up in the pickle that they did. I think that there could be a whole new branch of consultancy here.

Consultants could advise on how to check the computer. The young unemployed could be employed to check transactions on computer printouts. They could file hundred and thousands of sheets of paper to be kept, just in case the computer goes down. A whole parallel processing area could be developed.

All we need now is a name for this new business practice. Any suggestions?

 

Awaiting my moment of Fame

We are temporarily living about 15 minutes from the City centre of Norwich. If you are an avid reader of Grumpy’s blog, you probably already knew this. However, it does no harm to be reminded and anyway there will be some of you who have not been paying attention.

You would never find Rose Valley on your own. Not that it is out in the sticks. Au Contraire. It is just off a main road into Norwich called the “Unthank Road”, apparently named after the family who owned the land a long time ago. This piece of information might be useful at a pub quiz and you will thank me later.

Rose Valley is like Platform 9 ¾ at Kings Cross in the Harry Potter books. You drive into this non-existent passage, more as an act of faith than navigation. There it is, a small cul-de-sac with about 20 houses. As another piece of trivial pursuit information, the one at the end of the cul-de-sac has a chimney made by DINAC, which is important as Kevin, my son-in-law, works at DINAC, so this is a very special chimney.

Our house is very well situated for serial shoppers like us. Back on the Unthank Road, only two minutes’ walk from us, there is an arcade consisting of a charity shop, a fish and chip shop, two Chinese takeaways, a pharmacy, a Lloyds Bank, one Indian Takeaway, which specialises in meat dishes without any meat, a funeral director, an estate agent and two off-licences, one very upmarket – so upmarket and expensive that it wouldn’t be out of place in Thalwil high street.

There is also a flower shop, two cafes (one of which calls itself a bistro) and two pubs (one of which calls itself a restaurant).  Last of all, there is a Co-op and a Tesco Express.

The Tesco Express occupies a crucial position in the universe for two reasons.

Firstly, it stands astride a zebra crossing, which has special rules which I have yet to determine. The normal rules about not parking on the jagged lines don’t apply to the flower shop, which must have a special exemption.

On this zebra crossing, pedestrians and motorists pit their wits against each other in the battle for supremacy. No self-respecting motorist wants to stop, even though the speed limit is 20 mph, for which the stopping distance is about 6 inches. However, the reflex times for Unthank Road motorists is about 13 minutes, so stand back when waiting at the zebra crossing.

I should add that I also have discovered that neither the speed limit of 20 mph nor the need to stop at this “just astride the Tesco Express” zebra crossing, does not apply to buses. They operate a minimum 40 mph speed rule on this stretch. Either this or they just hate pedestrians.

There is a second reason for noting this Tesco Express. This commercial marvel, designed to provide the Hawkers with their morning newspapers, milk and emergency provisions, as well as the daily experience of dealing with their very annoying automatic talking pay machines, sits on the junction of (as opposed to “astride of”) the Unthank Road and Trinity Street.

Trinity Street, so far in its insignificant history, has no particular significance. That’s the point of being insignificant. But all this may be about to change.

Three weeks ago, I was minding my own business, walking down the aforesaid insignificant Trinity Street, when along comes the wicked Google van, with its big teeth, long jaw and evil smile, and all the other paraphernalia on its roof, ready to record all images, download all images and private information within a 500 yard radius (but driving less than 20 mph, to distinguish itself from the local Number 25 bus).   

Imagine my excitement. I am going to be on the internet. There will be no missing me. I was wearing my bright blue winter waterproof, which has proved to be the most essential piece of clothing this “summer”. (Have I mentioned the weather yet?)

In my naive excitement and haste, but not so hasty that I couldn’t finish the latest episode of Lewis (when the murder was done by ….uuurrrghh….), I looked up “Street-view” on Google map, and searched on Trinity Street.

I know that you will share my pain and disappointment when the new super “Hawker included” version of Trinity Street did not appear. It not only did not show me in my radiant blue waterproof (being the third object visible from outer space), but showed a cyclist riding down the slope past a piece of waste ground, where Tesco Express should be.

This image, three weeks later, still remains on Street view. Perhaps it will never change. Perhaps, I am doomed never to achieve my moment of fame, apart from being visible from outer space.

Or is this a vision of the future, I ask myself? Perhaps Google has found a way of finding the images of the future. Now that could be useful.

But more importantly, if Tesco Express is no longer there, am I destined to have to walk an additional 200 yards to buy the morning newspaper and the milk for my bowl of Alpen?  

Battle of Waterloo Celebrations

Nigel Rogers and I are starting to prepare our talk on the Battle of Waterloo.

After our triumphant presentation in June 2005 to the noble members of the Zurich International Men’s Club on the “Life of Nelson and the Battle of Trafalgar (1805)”, to mark its 200^th anniversary, we decided, there and then, that the Battle of Waterloo should be the next subject.

This is a very big topic. We took 90 minutes to deliver our Trafalgar dissertation. The Battle of Waterloo probably needs about 8 hours. So the first challenge is to find an audience who will put up with this, and to lay on breakfast, lunch and dinner.

The other major challenge is what to call the combatants. In June 2005, Nigel and I made the mistake of referring to the English, as “The English”, and the French, as “The French” (not forgetting that the Spanish were referred to as “The Spanish”)

We were horrified, even mortified to learn of our error. This could have been very offensive to the French and very confusing if you were Spanish (as they were not always sure which side they should have been fighting for) and shameful if you were English. After all, who wants to boast about glorious military victories against former enemies and current allies? (I have been told that the French are our allies, notwithstanding the evil previous French President’s brush off of our glorious Prime Minister.)

The public celebrations for the Battle of Trafalgar in 2005 made no such awful mistake. Our brave and resourceful public servants were not going to fall into such an obvious trap and creatively and correctly named the two sides the “Reds” and the “Blues” (or was it the “Blues” and the “Reds”). It was a bit like the F.A. Cup Final with Chelsea and Liverpool, where Chelsea scored more goals, but, being good sports, said that Liverpool were jolly good chaps and could share the cup and winnings with them (Grumpy’s alternative version).

Now the Battle of Waterloo will be even more difficult territory. The French were the French, so that is simple enough. Instead of colours, this time we could use fruit. So we could call the French, the “Apple” team (no infringement of any copyright here, I hope).

The good guys, winning team, the Allies are more difficult to pin down as there were lots of them. There were the British, of course, a minority in their own army, whom we will call the bananas. The Prussians (Germans) had their own army, as well as forming one-third of the British Army, and will be called the Pineapples.

I had thought of Oranges. However that could be confused with a colour, as you might think that we were still re-enacting the Battle of Trafalgar. Kiwis are out as the New Zealanders did not take part in this particular European campaign, although I am sure that they would have done if the European Settlement of New Zealand had taken place by then.

We will make an exception of the fruit rule for the Dutch who should be the Tulips and the Belgians can be the grapes.

Now we have got that lot of old ***** protocol out of the way, Nigel and I can start to plan the 10 hour talk. By the time that we have finished this, I guess that the new Theme Park with Napoleon as its motif may be opened. I was trying to think of a way of celebrating a man responsible for the death of 5 million people in Europe, at a time when the population of England was less than 10 million. However, I failed. No doubt someone will manage it.

Probably the same people who thought of the “Reds” and the “Blues”.

It‘s War

Since moving into our house in Norwich on Good Friday, my favourite activity has been moaning about the weather. This is an English national sport, but I am trying to take this to new heights and generally driving everyone mad in the process.

In summary, according to my imperfect recollection, since moving in, there have been only 7 days with any sunshine worth talking about. Seven days in over two months. What is a sun-lover to do? And the rain has been something to admire. A rainfall record-breaking April, with three times the April average, flooding in June (and to make matters worse, the spin programme on the washing machine was temporarily broken).

But at least one group of wildlife is enjoying this and I am not referring to the ducks. We should have a guessing game at this point. You are supposed to have three guesses as to what animal I am thinking of. However everyone in Rose Valley, Norwich will know what I am referring to. It is the Snails, who are set for world domination or at the very least, Rose Valley domination.

These creatures are breeding like rabbits. Actually even rabbits don’t breed like these snails. When was the last time that you picked 70 snails off two clematis plants in a single afternoon? My trusty bucket now stands next to the clematis, ready to receive ever more of these plant devouring monsters.

General guidance and snail lovers (which seems to include the internet), will tell you not to kill these creatures. It is alleged that they form an important part of the ecology system. Apparently, they are food for the birds, which are next up the chain. Well, whoever wrote that hasn’t seen the birds in Rose Valley. Lazy, overfed and generally idle, they really cannot be bothered. What sort of attitude is this? The country is going to the dogs.

This merry band of villainous snails even tries to get into the house through the front door. Some mornings, two or three of them are climbing up the front step and if they get really carried away, are half way up the front door.

The history books will record that “The Battle of the Two Clematis Plants” (2012) was more or less won by the middle of May. But this was not the end. After the very unusual occurrence of three consecutive days’ sunshine (unusual at least for this summer), the rain returned. This was a signal for the snails in the flower-beds to come out and practice the opening ceremony for the Olympics.

I was prepared to leave them and see whether they were still around in the morning. However, they overstepped the mark. Two snails were in Hazel’s flowers in the tubs. It was War!! There was nothing for it but to bring out the bucket and work my way around the lawn, dealing with another 80 snails and 30 slugs. Where do they all come from? What were they doing? Was this some form of vast conspiracy or suicide pact?

 (Thoughts of capturing them intact and using them for cooking, adding garlic and serving up some delightful dish, have been discounted).

So it is up to me to be constantly vigilant, not to say neurotic or even paranoid. Every time I pass through the back gate, I am on “Snail Alert”. Snails beware. Grumpy’s about. The Clematis plants require special inspection. A close inspection inside all the vines is necessary each time to see what alien has alighted on a leaf. (This is very annoying for people who are waiting for me, especially when I haven’t unlocked the car and it is raining. This is almost as annoying as me moaning about the weather.)

By the way, did I mention how bad the weather has been since we moved in?

Unidentified Object in Bagging Area

„Unidentified Object in Bagging Area“. The words ring out. Perhaps aliens have landed. It could be the U.S. Secret Service. The unearthly voice rings out again „Unidentified Object in Bagging Area“.

Those of you familiar with the workings of Self Scanning in Supermarkets (or “SS in S” for short) will realise that I am not referring to a new cost saving device from the National Health Service, but the challenges that the poor shopper faces in the modern English supermarket.

Don’t get me wrong. I may be in a minority of one here, but I am a great fan of English supermarkets. I think that they get a bad press. Without wishing to appear to be on the payroll of the PR department of Tesco or Sainsbury, Swiss supermarkets have a lot to learn from these guys on how to operate a check-out.

Now checkouts are a kind of “make or break” experience, when it comes to shopping. After 45 minutes of stomping around warehouses the size of several football pitches, including having to return to the other end of the supermarket to fetch a single forgotten item, you then have to “Face the Queue”. (It is only a question of time before shoppers bring their own rollers blades. There is definitely a market opening for renting them out just outside the entrance.)

(By the way, “Face the Queue” has yet to be made into a TV reality show. It has a lot going for it as a TV concept and I am thinking about selling the idea to Simon Cowell.)

The idea (or “concept”, as we posh business people say) of Self Scan checkouts is a very modern, positive (and trusting) step and therefore one that I had vigorously resisted….that is until Friday 25^th May. I am not sure that anything else of note took place on this day, but I took the bold step (unreported on the “News at Ten”) of pressing the “Start” button at the Unthank Road branch of Tesco Express and off we go. “Yes”, we had our own bags, and were ready to scan in our loaf of Wholemeal bread, fat free milk (for us) and maximum-fat milk for Grandson, Bradley.

I like this scanning-in lark. There is something satisfying or annoying (depending on your point of view) about the bleep that is given off. Even when I am at an ordinary checkout, I always experience a small thrill from leaning over the side and scanning my Tesco Clubcard. It is pathetic really what gives people pleasure, but it is cheaper than playing computer games, and more rewarding than watching the England football team playing friendly internationals.

So back to my first experience at the personal “bleep bleeping” machine. First item was successfully scanned. No sooner was I about to scan my second item than the warning of aliens echoed through the store. „Unidentified Object in Bagging Area“.Oh no. What have we done wrong?

There was nothing to do except wait for the poor assistant, who had plenty of other and better things to do, and who had to come over and give it the all clear, just as he does 10,000 times a day……and I moved successfully onwards to complete the whole shebang.

Nothing for it, but to repeat the experience the next day. This time, I didn’t even get to the first item. “DO YOU HAVE YOUR OWN BAG?” “Yes”, I replied (in a technology sort of way), but I was lying. I did not have a bag at all. I was only buying a copy of the Daily Mail (What!! Is Grumpy really a secret Daily Mail reader?) and didn’t need a bag. “PUT BAG IN BAGGING AREA”  was repeated in the same tone. No assistant now to help out on this one. I am in trouble. I have told an untruth and have been found out. Chickens have come home to roost. Nothing for it but to scan in the Daily Mail, pay and make a dash for it. Phew.

I made it to the zebra crossing outside, clutching one copy of the Daily Mail without being further electronically harassed and crossed the road without being hit by one of the numerous drivers playing the Reality Game “Let’s see how many people we can run down outside Tesco Express today”. (I feel another blog coming on here)

How these machines make us feel guilty, I have no idea. “We must have done something wrong….AAAHHH”, like fare dodgers on being confronted by a ticket inspector.

But I still go back to the counter from time to time because I miss the banter. The English are good at banter. I am not really certain, but I don’t think that the Swiss do Banter with complete strangers, but the English are top of the class. At the very least, it is compulsory to make some passing comment about the weather. “Is this rain ever going to end?” or “Good weather for a BBQ, isn’t it”.

If there was an Olympic event for “Banter at Checkouts” (which there should be, given the events that are being accepted now), then the British would be Gold medallists.

I pulled the Curtains Yesterday Evening – with apologies to Louise, Kevin(s) and Tina

Bill Hall put me on the spot a few months back, asking me about things I liked and didn’t like about Switzerland. I do not remember my answer. I expect that it was somewhat feeble, referring to the usual subjects that we think about when talking about Switzerland, such as the trains and the mountains. (It wasn’t British Rail’s fault that the train that I was going to catch last month on my way to London City Airport was cancelled because of a badger on the line – Hazel tells me that it was not a defective locomotive, which is my suspicion).

On arriving in Norwich, I started to keep a note of my various observations of differences between England and Switzerland. Some of these fall into the + or – categories, but some are just observations. The list is becoming quite long now, and I am not sure what I will do with it eventually, but I’ll just keep going for the time being.

One of these was that the English pull their curtains, either with netting or half-slit blinds and curtains or fully drawn blinds in the evening. I commented on this to Louise, my daughter who lives in Norwich. “Why do you do this?” I asked, as one might. “To stop people looking in.” she said, without conviction. “What people? Who is looking in?” “Hmmm, I see what you mean”. (Later, she revised her statement and said that people do look in, but agreed that she was not sure whether this mattered – but I think it does matter to the English.)

This conversation was repeated with Kevin and Tina in Switzerland during my visit home to Thalwil, last month. They had been staying in our apartment for a month, having a holiday and “Apartment-sitting for us”. The blinds were down at 10.00 pm and the conversation was repeated, almost word for word.

Now before you think that I am having a go at those people who are very good friends and family and who are precious to me, the point of the blog is to make a confession. On my return to Norwich, I pulled the curtains. Yes – I PULLED THE CURTAINS. Or to put this into the passive tense, “The curtains were pulled by me.”

“Why Did I Do this?” I thought to myself. An inward groan (or was it actually outwardly expressed?) might have actually been audible down the street. I can make various excuses. Let’s try a few on for size and see if they fit.

Excuse Number 1 - We are on the ground floor, so people might look in. Although they could, they don’t. I know, because I normally watch them. (And if they did look in, so what?)

Excuse Number 2 – The view isn’t particular interesting. This is only partially true. It is not as good as the view from the Thalwil apartment across the Zurich Lake, but the Norwich view down our cul-de-sac is quite pretty in a suburban sort of way. The ghostly street sign, warning people of motor cyclists jumping over cars (work it out for yourself), casts a fascinating glow over the whole scene. The cul-de-sac itself has some pleasant bushes and has a pleasing symmetry, which mathematical types like me appreciate. (I am one of those people who like to straighten rugs on the floors and pictures on walls, even when they are meant to be “off-centre”).

Excuse Number 3 - It is just something in the air. It is something that you acquire when you come through passport control into England. It is genetic, handed down through the generations. What survival mechanism is provided by this is not immediately obvious? (Perhaps it evolved so that the Romans and other foreigners couldn’t look in to see if you were there).

So there you have it. It wasn’t my (Louise’s, Kevin’s or Tina’s) fault, Your Honour. Society’s to blame.

Anyway, I propose that the European Commission should do something about this. We cannot have people in different countries pulling their blinds and curtains down at different times. There should be some uniformity about this, and while we are on this topic, they should set up the “Curtain Police” to go round and enforce it, thus reducing unemployment at the same time. This could all be funded by a special tax on curtains and blinds.

So my apologies to Louise, Kevin and Tina (and Bill Hall). No more conversations about curtains again, I promise (until the next time).

Senior Railcard

I have just passed a „Tipping Point” in my life, from which there is no return (I’ve always wanted to use the expression “Tipping Point”, although I have no idea what it is). Yes, I have reached 60. This defining moment was reached on 16^th April. This was evidenced by the fact that two weeks later, I bought my “Senior Railcard”.

(By the way, in case you are worried by the lack of complaining in this blog, you should go directly to the penultimate paragraph.)

For the birthday itself, there have been three celebrations. I have had my “Zurich Celebration”. This celebration was brought forward to March to accommodate our early departure to England.

There was a small celebration on 16^th April here in “less than sunny / totally record breaking rain filled” Norwich, which included the consumption of Kentucky Fried Chicken (not available in Thalwil) and Champagne, donated by our friends, the Barringtons. Now that is what I call living.

A week later, a third celebration took place, when Louise (the daughter with the Bump) conspired successfully with the rest of the family to get me out of bed at 4.00 am to listen to the dawn chorus at Whittlingham Broad.  And very loud it was too. What are all those birds doing up at this time of the morning. Why can’t they stay in bed like everyone else? (I can’t believe that the coffee shop wasn’t open at 6.30 am, when we finished our walk around the lake)

In case you are interested, which you are probably not, but I am going to tell you anyway, Whittlingham Broad is the venue for the Norwich Sprint Marathon on 1 July. Cold looking lake, don’t you think.

Then of course, it was on to a full English cooked breakfast at the “Town House” at 7.00 am. What am I doing up at 7.00 am, having a full cooked breakfast? But then, how many opportunities do you and your spouse have for a breakfast with all your offspring.

There was barely time for a pause. 10.00 am saw us on the back of a charabanc, being driven around Norwich for nearly two hours, by one of Norwich’s top guides, Fred, including going past “Norwich’s 12 Iconic Buildings” – www.norwich12.co.uk . The oldest of these is the castle which dates back to the same time as the Tower of London (but without the ravens or the crown jewels). Both “Fred” (www.oldenorwich.co.uk) and the iconic buildings are highly recommended, if you passing through Norwich. (Does anyone pass through Norwich? Do you get £200 and not go to Jail.)In the afternoon, Ed and I paid a quick visit to the Arts Centre for a cup of tea and to see an exhibition of Photos remembering the bombing of Norwich, which was exactly 70 years ago  (27^th, 28^th April 1942), part of the Baedeker Raids (named after the guide book). Unfortunately, as part of the exhibition was in the canteen and the canteen was being used for a folk concert, so we failed to complete either of these missions.

But we need to return to the title, “Senior Railcard”.  This poignant moment seemed to be the instant in time on which the great milestone became a reality and was set in stone. “I was 60 two weeks ago. I believe that I can buy my first Senior Railcard”, said quietly, so as not to be overheard, and in the same tone of voice as “I think I’ve seen a flying pig”. Not merely the purchase of a discount card from British Rail (or whatever they call themselves these days), but also a secret confession.  I am now keeping a tally of the financial benefits, not just of the railcard, but of being 60 years old.

- £2 off my entrance into Brooklands transport museum in Weybridge. They did not ask for ID. I was very insulted.

- £25 off my new pair of glasses from Spec Savers
- £13 off my rail fare to City Airport from Ipswich

and the imminent saving of £10 for a return ticket to Peterborough.

….all of which amounts to considerably more that the price of a pizza in Thalwil.

Now there has not been enough moaning in the blog, so I will end with a familiar story of the super-intelligence of technology. Firstly, my new printer, bought from Tesco, Norwich, decided to install all the instructions in German. Secondly, Google, (who else) have also reverted to German, after I had taken the last 6 months persuading the ***** machine that I prefer English and www.google.com and not .ch.

It’s good to know that technology will always be a fruitful source of moaning and groaning. Like the English weather and British Rail, perhaps technology was really invented so that we could have something to talk and write about.

GRUMPY HAS BEEN OFF-LINE

Grumpy’s Blog has been off-line for several weeks now. He found it hard to keep up the pace and standards of irony that he has set himself, when being filled with various unknown chemicals, designed to make you do nothing more energetic that watch “Die Hard 4”. Anyway, that is now over, at least for the time being, so hopefully, it will be possible to resume normal service and to reassure my readers that I am still here.

Accidentally, a change of scenery has occurred. We are now in Norwich, in the Kanton of Norfolk, for a few months, enjoying the English weather. This famous English weather has not changed since we left England in 2002. The weather forecaster refrain “This is a low front sitting over England and that is another low front which will be arriving in three days’ time” has taken hold, as has the cloud and the rain, which has hovered over southern and eastern England, since we moved into our Norwich cottage  just over two weeks ago.

Why are the Hawkers in Norwich, you may ask. This may be obvious to those who know that Norwich was, up to the start of the Industrial Revolution (1760), the second most important and wealthy town in England. Having an urban population of 125,000 people, it has 33 churches. The City elders claim that more people walk to work in Norwich than in any other city in England, and of course, it has a premier league football team.

I am sure that all readers of Grumpy’s blog are already well informed about these matters. However, as good as these reasons are, they do not explain the temporary migration of Famille Grumpy to East Anglia. So add to these very good reasons, the draw of family and the impending increase of our clan, and you have it.

The Norwich branch of the Hawker family consists of Kevin, Louise and Bradley, plus Bump due in the second half of June. Louise is the “Keeper of the Bump” and a lapsed member of the “Swimming in the North Sea every morning at 07.00” club. Kevin is a regular contributor of ideas and comments on early drafts of “Grumpy’s brother’s blog”, and the junior Hawker is Bradley.



Here is a photo of Bradley just after he has finished a press conference to announce that he will be publishing his own blog from next year.

Our cottage is the one with the blue wheelie-bin in the front. As you can see, it is not really a cottage at all, but a terraced house, formerly two small terraced houses, now converted into one.

Blue-wheelie bins (Latin name unknown) are like weeds. They spring up everywhere you turn. The view from one of the bedrooms (now converted into a study) reveals how these triffid-like plants creep out at night, ready to pounce on unprotected strangers. The council has a secret nursery and then delivers them at random to unsuspecting households. Rumour has it that one day they will take over the world.

Moving away from wheelie-bins and back to the main plot, Grumpy cannot do anything without a plan. The notice board in the bedroom number 3/ study has a list of sights to see, activities to do, regular art centres to visit. Soon to be added are the cricket matches to be seen.

And high on the list of priorities is the training regime to compensate for the lethargy of the past six months and an increase of 9 kg. For the first time in Grumpy’s life, he has joined a fitness centre. Watching Grumpy on the cross-trainer is not a pretty sight and Grumpy’s attempts to get to 400 metres in the swimming pool are positively painful.

The list on the study wall does not yet show all the people to be visited during our stay. You might think that the object of this would be to renew old acquaintances and exchange news face to face, after so many years, whereas the truth is that I really do want to see whether one can get 900 kilometres out of a full tank of diesel in a Skoda Octavia. It doesn’t help that it is necessary to fill up the tank as soon as it is one-quarter empty, to comply with the Government’s “Don’t Panic about the Possible Tanker Drivers’ Strike” plea.

So don’t forget that if you just happen to be passing by Norwich, you must pop in and see us (if you can find it).

Thalwil – Cultural City of Europe

Before I get to the main point of today’s blog, I must report on the latest progress on “What do I do with my vuvuzela?” In case, you had forgotten, these were the trumpet type instruments that were handed out at the 2010 Football World Cup in South Africa. Here is a short clip just to remind you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YpXN8BvGp_o

(Do you remember now?)

My friend, Boris Kraus, bought me one, in German colours of course. This was used to great effect in the Germany vs Argentina quarter-finals, where the Hawkers could be seen blowing the Boris vuvuzela in the Marquee in Laax. We must obviously claim some of the credit for Germany’s 4 – 0 victory.

The question that has been taxing people is what does one do with a redundant vuvuzela?

Help is at hand. We have been told that a survey was carried out in South Africa to find the most popular use for a redundant vuvuzela. The use that came out on top was as a toilet roll holder. Not to be outdone, the “Boris Kraus vuvuzela” has now come out of the cellar and takes pride of place in the toilet by the front door.

Here are some pictures as we tested this idea.

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Now on to the main article of the day.

You might think that this is the neighbours just putting out their washing to dry. The weather was pretty damp, so it took a long time. Several weeks in fact, after which one begins to suspect that it might not be washing after all, and if it is washing, then someone is going short of his or her clothes.

 

 

No. This is more Thalwil art.

 

 

The reason that I say “More” Thalwil art, is that many of you will remember the Red Bicycle (with a Capital “R” and a Capital “B”).

Here are three links from my Blog last year:

14 June - First one    http://colinhawker.blogspot.com/2011/06/red-bicycle.html

Update of Red Bicycle http://colinhawker.blogspot.com/2011/07/what-clever-gadget.html

26 July - Demise of the Red Bicycle http://colinhawker.blogspot.com/2011/07/my-thanks-to-indian-embassy-visa.html

Do you remember the tears welling up in your eyes, when Grumpy broke the news that the Red Bicycle was no more? Such sadness. I am not sure whether anyone has ever written a book “Funeral for a Bicycle”, but if they haven’t, then there is clearly an opening here.

But back to Thalwil Art and the drying laundry. You will notice the shop to the right of the picture. “kultur labor” – a culture laboratory. This is a place where people carry out (humane and pain-free) experiments on Culture. Imagine that. If you ever wanted to know how to experiment on culture, then Thalwil is the place to come; the place where they tie Red Bicycles to railings and hang their washing out for six weeks.

So what are we to make of this particular experiment? Is it an illusion? Is the television satellite dish part of the art? Does the train form part of the art, as it finishes its journey into the City of Zurich? 

If the Red Bicycle explored the meaning of existence (where do I get this nonsense from?), then what significance should we place on “The Thalwil Washing”.

Is it a protest against the slavery of domestic work? Is it the opposite, perhaps, being a celebration of the liberating effects of the weekly washing. Do the shirts display patterns of Time and Space?

Perhaps this could start a trend. All towns could have washing on show in the high street, instead of putting up Christmas tree lights. There should be a national hanging out your washing day, complete with appropriate cards to be bought on Moonpig.com. “Happy Hanging out your Washing Day”.  

What next? Watch this space. How can the people of Thalwil build on these artistic triumphs? “Thalwil – Cultural City of Europe 2013”. Forget Liverpool, as the cultural centre of Europe. Come to Thalwil.

But Thalwil has got a long way to go to catch up with Minnesota. (Charlie – I haven’t heard from you for a long while, so I thought I would throw this in)

Please note that no bicycles, shirts or trousers, clothes-pegs or washing-lines have been harmed or distressed during the writing of this blog.

HISTORY LESSONS

History lessons used to be so simple, at least in principle. You were given a list of dates of great English victories, usually over the French and you had to learn them. I wasn’t very good at this, but I could see the point. You needed some direction as to who were the good guys and who were the bad guys. A bad guy could be one of ours, usually if he (and it was always a man) lost a battle against the French.

We won’t talk about relations between the English and the Scots, especially in these delicate times.

However, the French have come up with another wheeze. They are going to make history a matter of law. http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-16811533. This particular case is even better, as it relates to the history of another country.

I think that this raises all kinds of possibilities, which all countries should use. Instead of having a curriculum for history, you qualify as a lawyer and learn “The Historical Truth”, and if you don’t like it, you go to prison. There is a certain intellectual simplicity to this, and avoids the need to do any serious research or thinking for oneself, neither of which I am very good at.

There are other possibilities as well. I haven’t seen the French legal small print, but if they were to extend the law to such “Illegal statements made anywhere”, they could start locking up Turks, as soon as they came into France on holiday.

The border control guards on the French border could hand out multiple choice questions to travellers coming into the country. If they were incorrectly answered, then they would be locked them up.

Better still, Turkey could pass the opposite law and start locking up French business men (apparently, the French are better at exporting goods to Turkey that the Turks are at exporting into France). Wherever you are in the world, and whatever you say on the subject, you would be in trouble.

Extradition lawyers would have a field day, with the Turks and the French extraditing each other all day long. Planes would be full of Turks flying to France to be put on trial and Frenchmen flying to Turkish jails.

This principle could be extended globally. If the U.S. became involved, who knows where this might lead. The U.S. could pass a law, saying that it is illegal to state that England’s third goal in the 1966 Football World Cup went across the line. England, of course, playing fair by all this, will pass no opposite law, and before you know where we are, we are all being extradited to the U.S. This will merely reinforce a current trend, and we all end up in U.S. jails, something that is quite likely to happen anyway, courtesy of the English courts.

Do you have a favourite piece of English history? (I will leave the Scots to lobby Alex Salmon). Would you like it enshrined in English Law? Then lobby your MP, make the business case in terms of votes to be won and Bob’s your Uncle.

If you choose something that your neighbours disagree with, then you have the joy of seeing them locked up. Be careful though, in case they get in first. Answer all questions with “I think that Ipswich Town Football Team are the finest football team, the world has ever seen.”, until this becomes outlawed, which it ought to be. 

Easy, Innit.

By the way, as I travel across France in the car, from time to time, I should like to add that in my opinion Nicolas Sarkozy and all future French Presidents are very fine fellows (to the extent that this is not already a matter of law).