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).