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).