Blogging is a bit like cleaning windows. The longer you leave it, the more of a task it becomes. Until one day, you think RIGHT. Let's get to it. And once it's done, you feel so much better! Well, I haven't cleaned my windows, but I was getting weary of prods from various people and complaints that I hadn't written a thing in over two months.
The thing is, I am not a reluctant housewife any more. I squeeze bits of housewifery in between other, more important tasks, such as going to work, or writing about computer-assisted translation tools. I have frosted glass windows that were previously transparent. I look out at the garden (with some difficulty) and sigh with relief that the enduring icy temperatures render any horticultural activity impossible.
Furthermore, I have more or less got used to Bovinia. There is nothing of amusement to report. The cashiers in the village shop are as unfriendly as ever. I got such a shock when, after two weeks in customer-orientated England, I popped in there to stock up on mango chutney. Scrabbling for small change in my purse, I remarked to the male unfriendly cashier that I still had pennies abound, and wouldn't it be great if the UK joined the euro? To which he gave me a blank look and held his hand out, wordlessly. Yes, that is one thing the Brits do really well. Chatting at the till. Niceties and smiles and all those things that make you feel you've had a pleasant shopping experience. You like it so much that you go back the next day, and they say oh hello, how are you? And you smile, and the old lady in the cake and biscuit aisle smiles too, so you buy some more fattening delicious products and while you're there, would you be interested in our three-for-the-price-of-one Cadbury's offer? Love it.
While in England, I got to wondering why I like it there so much. Particularly in December, when even the most bucolic of scenes looks grey and uninspiring. The rain and wind were buffeting the fairy lights and everywhere I went people were wearing dreadful Christmas jumpers and Santa hats. It would be unfair to even try to compare it all with the pure, wild beauty of the alpine scenery here. I worked out that my criteria for enjoying a country are:
1) can I get fresh hummus nearly everywhere I go; 2) as a vegetarian, am I regarded as a normal and valued citizen; 3) do people in general smile and make jokes (even lame ones: it's the thought that counts) and 4) do I have to pay every time I use a public convenience?
Talking of public conveniences, these are a phenomenon I usually avoid like the plague. But when you are on a long car journey, there are times when needs must. You may or may not be familiar with the Sanifair system in German motorway service stations. Let me enlighten you: the (recently increased) price of 70 cents allows you the privilege of relieving yourself in a clean, musak-pervaded environment, including toothless assistant and one of those hand-dryers that makes your skin look like that of an eighty-year old's. Children under a certain height can get in free, and there is a child-shaped hole in the turnstile for this very purpose. Of course, not everybody wants to pay the 70 cents. As I stood waiting for my family to reemerge, I caught several people squeezing themselves through the child hole. This makes life tough for the toothless attendant, who must divide his or her time between disinfecting the bowl and policing the turnstile (because even the most brazen of adults cannot really pretend to be seven years old.) The funniest thing I saw, however, was an elderly lady exiting the ladies'. Baffled and probably thinking she had to pay to get out, too, she contorted herself through the kids' exit. Her husband - thought himself a bit of a wag, obviously - said (not unkindly), those days are long gone for you, old thing. They shuffled off together to be verbally abused at the shop counter.
The thing is, I am not a reluctant housewife any more. I squeeze bits of housewifery in between other, more important tasks, such as going to work, or writing about computer-assisted translation tools. I have frosted glass windows that were previously transparent. I look out at the garden (with some difficulty) and sigh with relief that the enduring icy temperatures render any horticultural activity impossible.
Furthermore, I have more or less got used to Bovinia. There is nothing of amusement to report. The cashiers in the village shop are as unfriendly as ever. I got such a shock when, after two weeks in customer-orientated England, I popped in there to stock up on mango chutney. Scrabbling for small change in my purse, I remarked to the male unfriendly cashier that I still had pennies abound, and wouldn't it be great if the UK joined the euro? To which he gave me a blank look and held his hand out, wordlessly. Yes, that is one thing the Brits do really well. Chatting at the till. Niceties and smiles and all those things that make you feel you've had a pleasant shopping experience. You like it so much that you go back the next day, and they say oh hello, how are you? And you smile, and the old lady in the cake and biscuit aisle smiles too, so you buy some more fattening delicious products and while you're there, would you be interested in our three-for-the-price-of-one Cadbury's offer? Love it.
While in England, I got to wondering why I like it there so much. Particularly in December, when even the most bucolic of scenes looks grey and uninspiring. The rain and wind were buffeting the fairy lights and everywhere I went people were wearing dreadful Christmas jumpers and Santa hats. It would be unfair to even try to compare it all with the pure, wild beauty of the alpine scenery here. I worked out that my criteria for enjoying a country are:
1) can I get fresh hummus nearly everywhere I go; 2) as a vegetarian, am I regarded as a normal and valued citizen; 3) do people in general smile and make jokes (even lame ones: it's the thought that counts) and 4) do I have to pay every time I use a public convenience?
Talking of public conveniences, these are a phenomenon I usually avoid like the plague. But when you are on a long car journey, there are times when needs must. You may or may not be familiar with the Sanifair system in German motorway service stations. Let me enlighten you: the (recently increased) price of 70 cents allows you the privilege of relieving yourself in a clean, musak-pervaded environment, including toothless assistant and one of those hand-dryers that makes your skin look like that of an eighty-year old's. Children under a certain height can get in free, and there is a child-shaped hole in the turnstile for this very purpose. Of course, not everybody wants to pay the 70 cents. As I stood waiting for my family to reemerge, I caught several people squeezing themselves through the child hole. This makes life tough for the toothless attendant, who must divide his or her time between disinfecting the bowl and policing the turnstile (because even the most brazen of adults cannot really pretend to be seven years old.) The funniest thing I saw, however, was an elderly lady exiting the ladies'. Baffled and probably thinking she had to pay to get out, too, she contorted herself through the kids' exit. Her husband - thought himself a bit of a wag, obviously - said (not unkindly), those days are long gone for you, old thing. They shuffled off together to be verbally abused at the shop counter.
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