My Thanks to the Indian Embassy Visa Department

But before I pour out my gratitude to the Indian Embassy, here is the third and final update on the Red Bicycle…and yes, you have guessed. It is over. One day, it was there and the next one, it wasn’t. But not so quickly. As we passed by, mourning our loss, Hazel suddenly saw our bicycle over the fence.

So there it was. But the story does not end. Two days later, it had been removed completely. Alas, the Gemeinde (Local Council) must have decided that you could have too much of a good thing. All good things come to an end. Sorry folks.

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Back to the main story of the day.

As you have guessed from the title, I am indebted to the Visa Department of the Indian Embassy. Firstly, they processed our visa applications for our September trip to India in four days. That would be sufficient for thanks, but probably insufficient for a mention in my blog.

The second and blogworthy reason is to do with the method of returning our passports. They put the passports in separate envelopes, sent them registered post and put CHF 5 stamps (about £3) on each envelope (The Swiss post office also deserves a mention here for placing a delicate postmark on them).

You may be puzzled at this point, but I can still feel my sense of surprise and pleasure at seeing a high value stamp, neatly franked, arriving at our apartment, ready to be soaked off, dried and placed with other Swiss stamps, which have followed this philatelic route.

I do not remember the last time this happened. The need for commercial efficiency has reduced the high value stamp to something of a philatelic rarity, and certainly not to be used for its original postal purpose. The franking machines, both in the post rooms of companies and at the post office itself have seen an end to this.

In England, the Post Office itself goes one stage further in its battle against stamp collectors, by ensuring that any stamp, foolishly affixed to an envelope for the purposes of sending a letter, is completely obliterated with a black or blue chalk mark, that looks as if it has been applied by a two year child.

My two CHF 5 used Swiss stamps bear the image of a Catillac pear, which, according to the Guardian Life and Style section, is a great cooker (if you are interested in this sort of thing).

I will now place my Catillac pear-imaged stamps in my very poor and neglected stamp collection, with the hope that only the Indian Embassy will use these stamps and thus my philatelic gems will form an important and valuable part of my pension plan.

What a Clever Gadget

Before I launch into another burst of indignation about the difficulties of negotiating modern life, a quick update on the “Red bike”, also known as “The Red Bike”.

http://colinhawker.blogspot.com/2011/06/red-bicycle.html

I have had many concerned emails about this Bike. David Gray has thanked me for finding it for him, after he got lost on the way home in Derbyshire one day, and couldn’t remember where he had parked it. Others have made similar sightings which add to the theory that they are planted by aliens.

More recently, an empty tin of Red Bull was neatly placed in its shopping basket, adding to the sense of modern art. Should it now be relabelled “The Red Bicycle with Red Bull Can”, thereby adding to the sense of surrealism? (Louise – How am I doing?)

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However, “The Red Bicycle with Red Bull Can” was not intended as today’s main story. I am beginning to fight a losing battle with today’s technology. Last week, I was moving the cursor on my Laptop, when the screen size changed. Everything became bigger. The cursor did not move, but as I gave it a little wiggle, the main title moved in and out. I don’t know how I did it, but it was very impressive. Actually, I did not want my screen size changed, but you don’t always get a choice in these things. The most interesting thing is that this happens randomly, but fairly frequently.

Two weeks ago, the screen decided to go sideways, so I had to stand the laptop on its side. I then had to move the mouse on the pad to the right, and to move the cursor downwards on the screen. And if that has given you a headache just reading it, then you can imagine what it did to me, as I tried to read my junk mail, with the latest offers from French websites for unlikely pharmaceutical products and people asking me for my bank details.

And it gets worse. Earlier this year, when I was England, my outlook calendar decided to change the time zone of my PC (I am not sure how it knew this), but didn’t change back when I returned to Zurich. It obviously doesn’t like Switzerland. Perhaps that’s why it keeps switching on the Google translator.

Now the automatic Google translator could be really useful, if you needed an English translation of a German Website. The time that it is not useful is when you are looking at an online German-English translator. Can you imagine a Dictionary that translates English words into (Yes) English words (and not always correctly)?

Then there the websites that assume, because I am in Switzerland, I want the German version of the website. Google still doesn’t believe that I prefer English, and keeps reverting to German. Google is not doing well this week, is it?

But it is not only the computer conspiring against me. Our oven is in league with Google. I was wondering why a pastie would not cook, when I realised the oven was off. Now this is not as stupid as it sounds. The “off” switch for the timer is the same as the “off” switch for the oven. So if you get too excited when switching the timer off, you get underdone pasties. Perhaps it could be developed into a feature. 
But not all problems are insoluble. My Dad says that there is an easy solution to the changing clocks problem - http://colinhawker.blogspot.com/2011/04/how-did-you-spend-27th-march.html - This is to leave the clocks on British Summer time. That way you don’t have to take any action, and you are always early for everything during the winter.

Sounds like the best advice that I have received in years.

I took Nineteen Shirts with me

We have just returned from twelve days in Hungary, Slovenia and Austria. Budapest, would you believe it, is only slightly further from Zurich than Calais, although when you take into account the Munich by-pass / building site, you can add on the equivalent of another 200 kms.

Are you one of those people who find packing straightforward? You take a few things, throw them into a case at the last minute and off you go. Or do you bring the suitcases up from the cellar one week before departure date, and start agonising and assembling the assorted belongings during the following days?

I compile lists. I love lists. Lists of things to be packed at the last minute; lists of things to do just before we leave; lists of things to do, preferably several days before we leave….and so on. Then of course, I compare these lists with a master list that I made up about 15 years ago, when we used to go camping. I am even working on a List of Lists.

Then there is the obsessive watching of the weather forecasts of the target holiday region. What sort of clothes should we take? How many umbrellas will we need? Will we need dry clothes or wet clothes? How many pairs of shorts should I take? (Why are they “pairs” of shorts?)

This June has been a particular problem as most weather forecasters have managed to be consistently incorrect. I don’t mean being incorrect one week out, but incorrect 12 hours out. Perhaps they have been unlucky. Perhaps the weather has been too volatile, with English cricket weather taking over the whole of Europe - a kind of metrological imperialism. Perhaps they are all taking their information from the same incorrect source, or even (and this has my son-in-law, Kevin’s, vote), they are all just plain incompetent.

Their incompetence has led to one day’s cycling being cancelled at the last minute and an earlier than planned return from the mountains, when our intended walk in the sunshine, would have been entirely in the clouds and rain.

Whatever the reason, the end result is the same. It is not possible to work out, with any precision, how many of anything you are going to need. For men, socks and handkerchiefs are not too hard; one for each day. Underpants, still not too hard, as most men can get away with slightly less than one per day. No sweepstake is being run here. (Does anyone own up to needing only one pair?) One pair of trousers is enough, although three will always be taken in case the statement / question, “You are not going to wear those the whole time, are you?” is raised.

Shirts are always a problem. After much agonizing, for this central European voyage, I settled on two sports shirts, six tee shirts, four round neck shirts, two casual long sleeved shirts, two smart ones (although I have no idea why, as I never wear them on holiday) and two smart short sleeved shirts, plus the one I wear the day we travelled. I think that this all adds up to nineteen shirts for twelve days.

Do you think that this was a bit over the top? (Anyway, it is all the weather forecasters’ fault, as Kevin might say).

Cribbage (men only need read this)

I had forgotten what a bad loser I was. As a teenager, tantrums having lost at table tennis to my Dad were a fairly regular occurrence. Both the losing and the tantrums were a regular occurrence, at least until I went to university, where two hours a day with table tennis bat, reversed my fortunes.

I can rationalise this as a determination to improve, an unwillingness to give up, the striving necessary to make it to the next stage, and of course, all these were part of my genetic make-up, for which my Dad is 50% responsible.

My Dad will testify to numerous examples of Junior Hawker throwing things around, on being given out lbw at cricket, at being dealt a bad set of cards at bridge, or even worse, being dealt a fantastic hand of cards, and then not getting the chance to play it.

A number of broken squash rackets, not all of them mine, testified to the poor character of the now “Swiss Based and Totally Rational” Colin Hawker. A missed shot, followed by racket abuse, not on the soft grass of Wimbledon centre court, but the unforgiving concrete of the walls of Walton-on-Thames squash court, and another squash racket bites the dust.

And who would not sulk on being beaten at monopoly 12 times in a row, especially when you have Park Lane and Mayfair and the opposition only has old Kent Road, but manages to skip merrily over every danger, for at least 672 rounds, collecting £200 each time?

But all that is past me now. I am calmness personified. Serenity rules. The assembling of IKEA furniture is allowed as the only exception, as this is not a sport, but a military campaign. The screwdriver-marks in the plaster will testify to this. Apart from that, I can take defeat “like a man”.

Furthermore, I now consider myself sufficiently mature to regard winning and defeat with equal indifference. Indeed, the poem “If” by Rudyard Kipling, is my own personal mantra in this respect.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/If%E2%80%94

But then in May, Cribbage came along……..

Kevin, my son-in-law, has a great deal to answer for. I am sure that it was his idea to play. After all the Cribbage board had been sitting there for months, just asking to be used. “How about a game of Cribbage?” “Oh yes”, I foolishly and innocently replied, not realizing what demons were about to be released.

I thought I knew the rules of Cribbage, and regarded myself as an adequately good player. One hour later, all illusions were shattered. You have to understand that it was not my lack of skill, but that I had really bad cards and everyone else must have been cheating

I was not content with one night of ritual humiliation, Hazel and I continued playing for the following week. How do you cope with managing only 2 points with your own hand and the box, which in bridge terms is the equivalent of being dealt a hand with one Jack and nothing else higher than an 8? And how is it, that I never got 15 in the play (for “2” points). This conspiracy is a throw-back to my table tennis. Nights of humiliation at the Cribbage table continued, until Hazel took pity on me, and let me win.

“Don’t do it”, says my Dad to Hazel. Don’t take any prisoners. It’s good for his character.

No mercy there.

The Red Bicycle

This is a photo of a Red Bicycle. We shall call it “The Red Bicycle”. The Red Bicycle is chained up to a metal fence in a main road, near to the Station in Thalwil, where we live. I say “main road”, but traffic density here can probably be favourably compared with a country lane, I walked down recently in Liphook in Hampshire, as my son will testify.

Back to “The Red Bicycle”. We think that it has been chained there for about three months now. It is 300 yards from the station entrance, and there are other bike stands nearer. There are no other chained bikes nearby. It is not exactly a meeting point for chained up bikes, where chained up bikes can have a quiet chat over a coffee. No – this is a very lonely Red Bicycle, at least when it is chained up here.

This raises a number of important social and philosophical questions.

Firstly, why hasn’t it been stolen? It is a very nice Red Bicycle. It clearly doesn’t belong to anyone. It might be lonely and anyone stealing it, would be doing The Red Bicycle a favour, as well as adding back into the economy a valuable resource, which, at the moment, is lying idle.

Why has no one reported it to the police? There is no notice on it saying “Reported”. Perhaps someone has, but the police have better things to do, and anyway, it is not doing anyone any harm.

Perhaps, it is a work of Art. Some sculptor may have laid out 100 life sized bronze statues over the Austrian mountains; so perhaps, this is one in a series of Red Bicycles, chained to various fences, near to stations in Switzerland. It could be part of the modern art exhibition that is taking place in Basel.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2010/jul/30/antony-gormley-austrian-mountains-statues

It is always possible that it is a Swiss version of candid camera. Someone has chained it there and now lurks in the nearby undergrowth (not much of that here), and takes films and photos of passers-by, as they look and ponder. All that is missing is for the Red Bike to be able to say “So, wot u ….. looking at then?”

But I think that the real question is whether The Red Bicycle exists when no one is watching it. How do you know it is there? Perhaps it is our act of looking at it that brings it into existence.

At this point, I think that I have exhausted the limits of absurdity and will quit while I am ahead.

Why am I being ignored?

I have been waiting for the lawyers of the News of the World to contact me. I feel that it is only a matter of time. As an important person, never far from the news (although never actually in it), I must have been a target of phone hacking by the super sleuths from all sections of the English Press. The only question remaining is what level of compensation shall I accept?

But who can blame them? The English public want to know what Grumpy is about to publish in the forthcoming week. Who is he going to attack next? What stimulating insights into day to day life will he reveal? What Grumpiness will he shortly unveil? Who is inviting him to coffee? Are there gossip-worthy goings-on behind the lace curtains of Wannenstrasse. (Actually, nobody has curtains here, so we can all have a jolly good peek at what the neighbours are having for dinner or what they are watching on television.)

It is self-evident that there are no depths to which these hacks will not stoop, in their quest for Grumpy-gossip.

My indignation is running out of steam. There are several objections with this outburst. Not that Grumpy isn’t newsworthy (He just hasn’t been discovered yet), but if he cannot access his own voicemails (with his £2 mobile phone, with its £5 of talk time remaining), how will the sozzled members of Fleet Street be able to do this.

But if my phone is not being hacked, I am seriously worried. Why has no one been listening to my messages? I demand compensation for being ignored. The British Public demand an answer from the valiant defenders of our English Freedoms. If Grumpy is being ignored today, whose turn will it be tomorrow? Madonna; Prince William; Wayne Rooney; Liz Hurley?

The English Press have a duty to pry where no man has pried (or is it “pryed?”) before. It is their duty to provide the British Public with a daily dose of meaningless celebrity drivel. Fashion houses are relying on the Press to report what nail varnish Kate Middleton is wearing (or going to wear, if her voice-mail is to be believed).

Actually, I don’t believe that the English Press have hacked into anyone’s telephone. Why would they need to, when most of it is made up?

How Did You Spend the 27th March?

On Sunday 27th March, as decreed by the authorities across Europe, we all had to put our clocks forward…..or rather we didn’t …. or at least not all of them.

This very confusing state of affairs was demonstrated by my computer, which complied with this directive, of its own accord, by the time I rose to make my first cup of coffee.

My iPod had also decided to march on one hour, so I went on an exploration to see if the microwave and oven had reset themselves. No, in these cases, it was necessary, once again, to reach for the instruction manual and refresh my brain on how to do this manually.

My mobile phone did not know of this change, but what do you expect from a phone that cost 3 Swiss Francs (£2) and only has 9 Swiss Francs of credit on it, at any one time.

The car was more of a problem. The clock moves ahead of its own volition, so after six months, it has just about reached the new correct time. In September, I will need to set it back two hours. Not only does it fail to keep good time, but is barely readable anyway, suffering from old age and general bloody mindedness.

What about the battery operated clock on the lounge bookcase? (I am not sure why we have one here, but we do.) This one too had to be manipulated by one of those little screws at the back. You know the ones, which you have to pull out and then turn, by which time you have forgotten the time, and have to go to the kitchen to check the time on the microwave.

Naturally, microwaves are the proper point of reference on matters to do with time keeping. “What’s the time?” “I am not sure. I’ll just check the microwave”. (Why not check with the battery clock in the lounge?)

I also have two of clocks that are synchronised by satellite. I have no idea how this works. Actually it doesn’t any more, at least not for the one that I brought with me from England 9 years ago. I think that the firm that sold these must have forgotten to pay their satellite fee, because I even have to correct this one myself. The Swiss one still seems to be OK for the time being….or is it the other way around?

As for the DVD player and recorder, this is even more confusing, as we used to keep this on English time, but now keep this on Swiss time, or is it on English time for 6 months of the year, and Swiss time for the other 6 months.

So there we have it. Have I forgotten any time pieces? As you can tell, I spent the whole day hunting down clocks and related user manuals, to restore chronological harmony back into the Hawker Household.

How did you spend your 27th March?