Come on Ferdi, let’s go and see democracy in action!

I am staying up for news of the "historic" (it's always historic) UK elections. It's now starting to get light.

However, from what I hear – no overall majority, people being denied their vote and huge queues outside polling station – it hardly seems like this is a British election.

I think the event of the night so far that has received the least hype is that a Northern Irish count has had to be suspended due to a bomb threat from an abandoned car in the car park. Apparently a very blasé event compared David Cameron's Jag leaving his home.

What has shocked me the most about this election is the X factor style media frenzy, to coin a phrase, that has totally monopolised the campaign, and even goes on to dominate the coverage of the results, with Bruce Forsythe talking about the colour of his tie and four-times married Joan Collins talking about values of a nuclear family, all from a celebrity boat party on the Thames.

This seems to be very similar to (modern-day!) Romanian politics. Celebrity status is definitely a bonus – the president's daughter Elena Băsescu, who goes by E-ba for her campaigns is a clear example of gloss over substance, and Gigi Becali, elected to the European Parliament last year, just for being a football manager and generally well-known to TV viewers.

What I really find amusing, though, is the way in which "props" are so important to the run-up to elections. I have never been offered a Labour Party emblemmed box of matches or a UKIP shell suit (not that I would wear it!), but in Romania party clothing and accessories are seen everywhere. Even the politicians themselves wear them.

Do you think Sam Cam would get the same press inches if she was in a Tory maternity smock?

And once the election is over, out in the country you can still see people proudly sporting a party anorak to protect them from the rain (I suspect not because of their political allegiance but rather due to the lack of affordable warm clothing available).

And he former fiancé of a famous Romanian, Lembit Opik, has lost his seat. "Touch my bum, This is life, la la la, we are the cheeky girls...."

UPDATE FROM BBC WEBSITE: 1219

Cheeky girls singer Gabriela Irimiaexpresses her sadness for former fiancé Lembit Opik, who has lost his Montgomeryshire seat to the Conservatives. She says of the Lib Dem: "The voters have lost a dedicated man who cared for his constituency and the people in it. It was his life."

La Mulți Ani

New year, new picture. Enjoy!

I look at this road and I wonder...

Apologies, apologies...last time I wrote the weather was sweltering and this morning it was snowing – I really have severely neglected my blogging duties. If anyone is still out there reading this – îmi pare rău!

So, what is this title blathering on about? Well, it started out as an ironic reference to the street I live on. Although far from perfectly smooth, we did once have a tarmac-ed road outside our house. Until, that was, the water board finally connected us to a new water supply using plastic pipes – no more brown water, hoorah! Just intermittent water supply in August and September, right when people are coming to visit you – boo! One hot and sticky day, men with diggers and pick axes came and dug a lot of trenches in our road which filled with water. Then they left them over the weekend to stagnate. In the meantime, the neighbours had to dig their own trenches in order to access the pipes running into their homes (luckily we were spared this task as our new house had been fitted with plastic pipes as far as the street. I just had to give the guys a few beers so they'd connect us up properly). Eventually the water supply got back to normal – well actually it got better because now it is clean! – but sadly the same cannot be said for the street. The holes have been covered over with mud and, with time, this mud has been spread around the street. Now, when it rains you would be well advised to wear wellingtons to cross the street – unbelievable really.

Looking back at the picture, I got to thinking about other things...

*the picture on this blog is not actually of my street, but one in a village in South East Romania somewhere – mine is now far more primitive looking. I like it because it seems to say something metaphorical to me – about a journey I'm taking here, or some shit like that.*

I have now been in Romania for a year and to be honest the time has both flown and dragged by. So many things that I didn't plan for have happened, and so many things I have planned for haven't.

Let's see what the next twelve months bring!

Pitzipoance

Strutting their stuff with their fake (Buzău) or real (Bucharest) Fendis, these are the kind of women who step out of their car and hoist their G-string up. They have long blond hair, large amounts of make-up, particularly on their eyes, and their cleavage on full display, wherever possible. They are of the Victoria Beckham School of Style, but the distinct Romanian sub-branch that skips the modules on Less Is More and Don't Let Your Weight Creep Up Over 6 Stone.

For this, of course, they should be commended; these girls of usually healthy-looking and curvaceous and they proudly wear bold patterns and bright colours, which is a sight for sore eyes, after years in France where any female over the age of ten is restricted to wearing black in any social context.

I somehow doubt I could ever obtain the perfected grooming needed to be a pitzipoancă, and although I do have some of the necessary accessories – a lurid coloured house and robust 4x4 – one essential detail is missing, and that is a Fat Man.

The Malteaser is not so-named for his love of scoffing chocolate and decidedly not of portly dimensions. He has been told by many locals that he is too thin, which is not true. He is simply thinner than many young men here, who are definitely overweight. (And I should make a point here that although I often belittle the Malteaser on this blog, I am actually very happy that he hasn't given in to the pressure of Romanians to try and fatten him up!)

So my message is this. Girls, either ditch the fat lump or get him out jogging. If you like a big man, make sure it's muscle he's packing, not lard. If you go to all that effort I don't see why he shouldn't. Aim high! Think big toned!

For pictures and Romanian explanations, click here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FmkVBUpAao4

“This is my dance space. That is your dance space”

Hot and bothered, I struggle with my bags to the car park. And there, gathered around my car are three people, one with their foot on the wheel, another with his hand on the scorching bonnet. "Make yourselves at home", I snarl in English at them, regretting it the moment I'd said it.

I just need to get used to the fact that people's idea of personal space are a little different here.

When I go to pay my bills at UPC, it always takes me five times longer than anyone else. This is mainly because I patiently wait my turn, subsequently everybody else pushes past me. I just don't feel comfortable standing next to people as they discuss confidential account information. Apparently, others don't.

It seems that others go even further – someone recently took the bold step of taking tomatoes from my garden. They were still green! But they felt comfortable taking them.

Not long ago, I was upstairs with the radio on. The Malteaser was in the shower so we didn't hear the door. When I came downstairs there was a large bunch of home-grown flowers. Not a romantic gesture from the Malteaser (fat chance) but our neighbour who'd come into the house, found a vase and arranged the flowers carefully in the dining room.

Guess that there are some advantages.

For a very long time I was...

...disturbed to find a dead cat next to my house. And even more disturbed by the suggestion that I put it in the dustbin.

....I am over it now!

The Fortune-teller and the Bin Fairy

Bin day's Monday. The bin-men come round around 11 but the bins are on display and ready for inspection from about 9. You don't have 6 different bins like you might do in other countries but there is definitely an ad hoc system in place for dealing with recycling (and the amount of waste each household has for the week would put most Guardian readers to shame).

I learnt pretty early on that polite etiquette was to remove plastic bottles from the rubbish and leave them to the side of the bin. They are quickly squirreled away by some "less-fortunate-than-ourselves" to group together until they have a kilo. That earns them a whole 10p!

However, until recently I had the curious problem of finding much of my rubbish littered over the street when I went to collect my empty bin back in. This could sometimes be embarrassing, depending on the contents of my bin that week, and the number of neighbours in the vicinity. It was whilst playing with Ferdi in the front yard that I saw the culprit; our very own Bin Fairy.

She works deftly and nimbly, pouncing upon a full trash can, and looting it for its bounty in a matter of seconds. As I watched through the fence she'd emptied the drawstring bin bag, mostly back into the bin (now I know why no one else uses them) and whisked it off to use for further treasure-hunting, along with some of the more highly prized items from our bin. Leaving me to pick up what is discarded on the street. More recently she has caught me sorting out my recycling on a Sunday evening and wrestled the plastic bottles away from me through the fence.

Whilst I wouldn't exactly describe Romanians as particularly 'green', there certainly isn't a lot of waste in this neighbourhood.

A few weeks ago, back when the weather was slightly less stormy, I was walking home through the drizzle when someone called out to me from the side of the street. At first I didn't believe my ears, because it seemed such a cliché, but this old gypsy woman wanted to read my palm and tell my fortune.

This doesn't come cheap. I understood that I had to cross the fortune teller's h    and with silver before she would reveal my fortune about my future.

Having always been a sceptic, I reluctantly handed over a leu note. I got a curled lip. "Mai mare! Mai mare!" she shouted at me.

So I gave her five more lei.

"What do you want to know?" she crowed, finger waggling dangerously near my face.

"I don't know" I answered pathetically.

"Work, money, love....you married?"

"No"

"You will marry in one year. You have a boyfriend?"

I nod

"He Romanian?"

I shake my head

"He a doctor? Engineer?"

"Yes, he's an engineer"

"Give me more money and I tell you what to do so that he marries you"

"Don't have any"

"Yes you do, you're English, lots of money. Give me a bigger note.

"No I don't have any more money, I must go now"

"Mr Bulibaşă thinks you should give me money" (Mr Bulibaşă barely looks up on his way to the bar)

"Show me your purse. I know you have more money, a bigger note"

"I really must go now, Goodbye"

"Oh, go on. You've annoyed me now. Hey, where do you live?"

I ran.