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.