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.

Ferdi and the Bear

Despite a less than auspicious start with Romanian dogs, the Malteaser and I made the rash decision to adopt one. But then, wouldn't you be tempted?

His name is Ferdinand, or Ferdi for short. Romanian history buffs will recognise the name as being that of one of the kings of their short lived dynesty. His being from Sinaia, it seemed appropriate.

The Malteaser and I found Ferdi and many other small dogs in a layby on the mountain road behind the historic castle. I'm not really sure who chose who, but he didn't put up much resistence. Funnily enough, neither did anyone else, as we whisked away a 4 week old pup, barely able to walk without falling over.

We're just hoping he gets a bit better with the potty training.

Within minutes of the kidnapping we met an interesting mother and baby combo. We were very excited about seeing them so close, evn if we were slightly afraid. We like to think of our little canine adoption as having saved him from the clutches of a big scary bear!

For months now, I have been wondering....

....what on Earth these little plastic things are. I found one in the garden the other day and they're everywhere arounf the streets of Buzău. Anyone able to shed some light on the subject?

A visit from Geo

We had our first visitor in Romania a few weeks ago. I could tell you all about it but I think I the best thing to do is to read about it in her own words; http://joabroadeurope.blogspot.com/2009/06/romanian-hospitals.html

I think it'll remain a memorable trip for if not necessarily for all the right reasons. For one thing, it has earned her the nickname "Geo". Before finally being remedied at the hands of the Francophone doctor with the leather-clad door, we tried some more alternative therapy. Whilst passing through a mountain spa-retreat (yes, Romania does have some of those) we stopped at a cafe which "Geo" limped up to. As we were accompanied by a four week old puppy (more about that later) we soon made friends with the cafe's patrons and one of them, let's call him "Matchmaker", introduced us to his young friend, a masseur. Quite what a massage was supposed to do to for an insect bite I don't know but we ended up in this masseur's bedroom, as the only convenient place for her to receive treatment. His hotel room (for this is where he worked) was shared, as indeed was his bed, with a fellow worker who merely moved over to allow enough room for "Geo" to lie down. It quickly became apparent that I was playing the role of chaperone - they both seemed beside themselves to have two girls in their room and we suspect the one in the bed may have taken a surreptitious photo from under the bedclothes. About twenty minutes later, we managed to free ourselves (Geo still limping) and return to the cafe where the Malteaser was anxiously waiting dog-sitting.

We bought our new friends a beer for their services (not that they didn't enjoy every minute of it) before getting back in the car, not before exchanging numbers and promises to return next weekend (fat chance with Geo living in Swirzerland, mate!). Sure enough, later on that afternoon I received a text. "Y like Geo verry much. Love. Kiss."

Rather her than me! I still haven't replied!

The Malteaser’s tale

My apologies for the lack of posts of late! I have a whole stack of subjects that I'm hopefully going to trot out in the near future. For now I have a little story that the Malteaser recently shared with me about a business trip.

Whilst travelling with one of his heads of department, who is Romanian, in her car, but with him driving, the Malteaser was pulled over by the police. Not aware that he had committed any kind of offence, he calmly pulled over and produced his driving licence. His colleague did the talking and it turned out that his heinous crime was that of driving, in daylight, without his headlights on. Obviously this awful law-breaking could not go unpunished so the police officer wrote down his name (luckily for the Malteaser just his two Christian names) and informed him (via his interpreter) that he was going to be prosecuted.

Despite repeated pleas and arguments the officer seemed hellbent on making an example of the Malteaser. There was a brief round of Gallic shrugging before his Romanian counterpart decided on a different tack. As fortune would have it, the police officer in question, along with his colleague, had been whiling away his time in their stationary vehicle by drinking. So the Malteaser's plucky right-hand woman offered the law-enforcers a little bribe;

• "Perhaps you'd be interested to know that I have a case of wine in the boot," she proffered.
  
• "Hmm, you'd have to speak to my boss about that," replied the polițist, hesitantly.
  
• "It's French wine".
  
• "Oh no. We don't want that!
  
• "Well, what I meant was it was made by French producers in Romania.
  
• "Oh, well if it's Romanian wine...."
  

So, it seems that silence can be bought – but only if the goods are top quality. Don't even think about offering something as shoddy as French wine.

And that's how a Frenchman gets evades the law in this country.

Home sweet home

I'm back from two weeks in the UK and yet again I am staggered by the differences between my two – one childhood, one temporary – homelands.

I was back to go to my sister's hen do in London, complete with fancy dress, cocktails, a bar crawl and a big shiny double-decker bus. It was strangely liberating to be out with a big group of girls, drinking and dancing and speaking English in the way that is frowned upon in France and expect is not the norm in Romania.

We spent more in one night than I usually spend in a month here, and London was full of shops, bars, cafés, restaurants etc, all willing me to spend money. Normally I would be slightly opposed to this brazen capitalism but I do feel now comforted by what I grew up with as normal.

That being said, I did not like my first visit to the new shopping centre in Bury St Edmunds. It looks out of place in the quaint Olde Worlde town, and was so squeaky clean it was uncomfortable. So, maybe I'm not ready to become a WAG just yet.

After the hen do, comes the wedding of course. Which was lovely, if a little damp and chilly.

And then all too soon I'd waved good-bye to my family again and I was back on a plane to Bucharest. The weather here was decidedly not chilly – the taxi driver was in shorts. At half past 11 at night.

And when we crawled back onto out muggy street there was a party going on; not quite like the one I'd been at the previous night in a smart hall, in a park with everyone in their finery. One with people dancing on their driveway by songs sung by their uncle, not unlike this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-61EW799GkE

If only it hadn't gone on 'til sunrise, I might got some sleep!

In the beginning of April 2009, I was mostly....

...fretting about having no TV. It's sad how lost I am without it. Seems like the TV drought is set to continue, too. :-(

Watch Your Language

As you are probably aware, I'm learning trying to learn the great language of this country, so as I don't have to spend the rest of my time here as a mute social outsider. Despite taking lessons for over a year now I still feel like I understand next to nothing and inarticulately stumble through verb/adjective/nounless sentences (and sometimes all three) with the help of hand gestures.

However, I came to the realisation that I must be making progress following some recent events.

I just stepped out to get milk and bread when a neighbour came over and starting badgering me about buying a camera from him (he's already snared the Malteaser at lunchtime and he understood as much without ever having a Romanian lesson in his life, so no medals so far). He explained to me it was very cheap and that it was a surveillance camera and I could take it and check to see if it worked on my computer before buying it. I agreed, seeing no polite way out of it. He went into his house to fetch said item and two of the young Romani girls from next door came over to ask if I was coming to pay for the camera. When he came back they were pawing him, asking for the money. He told them he hadn't got it and that I was going to try the camera first. I duly went back to the house with the minute (and clearly nicked not new) camera in tow. When I returned I explained that it didn't plug into the computer (which it didn't) and that we didn't need a surveillance camera, thank you. I don't know if he managed to sell the thing or where the girls got it from, but I knew I was best off out of it.

By now, another neighbour had joined us who, fortunately enough, spoke good English so could help the conversation along. He invited us into his garden and gave us strong homemade (is there any other kind?) țuica, he then invited us to have some food with him and his wife, which I felt obliged to accept because a) it looked good and b) he had told me all about how good Romanian food was. The other neighbour left for a family party so we went inside to eat. I sat in the kitchen and waited for him and his wife to come back. Eventually he came back and his wife stomped past me, without so much as a glance in my direction, picked up her plate and stormed out again, saying "I just want to be alone, why did you have to invite her, you sit with her if you like her so much" or words to that effect.

In hind-sight I'm not so sure it wasn't better before I knew what was going on.

A Europe without borders...

This post was supposed to be me telling you all about how I spent a fantastic Easter weekend on the beach in Bulgaria. But I am an idiot and left my passport behind so instead it'll have to be another story about Romania.

The Malteaser assured me we were going to a touristy area and we even bravely packed the camping gear and made for the Romanian coast. The plan was to stop in Vama Veche, (Once the private domain of Cluj university faculty members and associated with hippies and nudism. Apparently. ) before hopping over the border. Unfortunately, without a passport/official identity card (of which no Briton has) it was access denied. The border official was having none of my driving license and big flashing smile. I'd got so used to living in the Schengen zone, just a short car drive from 5 European countries you could just waltz into that I didn't even think about the need to account for my identity, especially as I was still in Europe.

So, we ended up in Vama Veche which seemed a long way from the packed tourist spot the Malteaser had promised. There wasn't a sole around apart from a growing motley crew of nasty dogs. The weather was sunny and bright but the evening brought the wind in and the temperature dropped. There didn't seem to be any hotels open and we struggled to even find anywhere to sell us a beer. We spent the night in the back of our car, listening to the dogs fighting. I'm sure in the height of summer that this place is heaving with people and abound with entertainment (the Lonely Planet indeed describes it thusly) but the place was deader than a dodo for Easter weekend.

Later the next day, I got to thinking... (Feel free to imagine me à la Carrie Bradshaw, in front of my shiny laptop, but perhaps minus the designer shoes and plus a couple of stone. Other than that, frankly, the physical resemblance is uncanny)...about why this place was not cashing in on the Bank Holiday weekend. Here is what I narrowed it down to;

1. Romanian people don't consider that it's hot enough to go to the beach. As someone who once got sunburned in April in Northern Ireland (but don't tell anyone), I consider anything over 20°C to be mandatory summer clothes weather. Here, with temperatures in the high teens and bright sunshine, children are still in woolly hats. All of them.
   
2. Everyone had gone to the beach in Bulgaria. There was a long line to cross the border but seemed to be almost nobody coming the other way. Apparently it is cheaper too, and a news report on Tuesday suggested the same thing; Romanians were defying the economic crisis and holidaying abroad.
   
3. It is not appropriate holiday time. In France everybody goes on holiday at the same time – skiing in February, beach in August. They even refer to the first week in September as "la rentrée" as the world and his dog returns from the coast en masse and goes back to work. In Britain we tend to take our holidays abroad but summer Bank Holidays are notoriously busy on the roads, even more so at Bluewater, and utter mayhem at the entrance to B&Q. Perhaps people just don't go away for the weekend at Easter (although this would contradict point 2).
   
4. They are all having picnics and fishing.
   

After our polite refusal at the Bulgarian border we headed back up the Black sea coast and again found ourselves in the Danube Delta. Every winding path took us past families and groups outside, barbecuing and dancing (traditional Romanian dancing where you all stand in a circle and hold hands). We stopped by the Danube where people had set up camp, presumably to fish all weekend (there not being much else to do) at the point where the "road" (and I use this term lightly) had been submerged by flooding. It was a fantastic spot but as we were rather underequipped, having barely any water and no food or beer, we left after a few hours.

The Malteaser was disappointed – where was the bar? Why had no one thought of setting up some kind of café/ice-cream stand. I thought he was wishing the full-felt might of advanced capitalism onto the place a little too soon. If you have a bar then it has to be built on land that somebody owns and be paid for. If you follow this logic it is not far down the slippery slope before people have to pay to fish here, pay to camp and that access is limited to certain routes. You would no longer be able to explore the countryside as you wanted; in short, most of the things that we appreciate about Romania, their difference from Westren Europe, would disappear.

For all the crappy things that you have to put up with in Romania there are some absolutely fantastic advantages. I hope that they are not going to papered over sanitized in the name of progress and the EU.

This aint no upwardly mobile freeway...

...despite what the name might suggest! The town-planners were obviously on a coffee break when somebody thought up "Street of the prosperous", although I must say that it actually looks more attractive with the blossom on the trees, and probably beats my street hands down, even without bitumen. If you look closely enough you can make out the rugs hanging over the fence (apparently this is part of the big Spring Clean, just in time for [Orthodox] Easter, which is on Sunday).

I have been meaning to take a picture of this for ages but not dared until today - this is a local "insurance broker's", parked outside McDonalds! He's obviously very confident about the quality of his product as he's swanned off and left the door to his "office" open.

in March 2009, I was mostly...

...in Australia.I will get back to blogging as soon as I recover from this strange (tropical?!) illness that I have been afflicted with since my return.

Washing carpets amid the dunes

I'm finally back from Oz a little less pale and jaded than when I left this dreary backdrop and I'm pleased to see that Spring has (finally) sprung.

I had such a great time in "Fritza" our ickle camper-van, cruising around Tasmania which has stunning countryside and beaches and also pleasant, clean towns with friendly people. My friend looked beautiful for her wedding day and although it was a little damper than she may have hoped, it was a great day. And of course it was great to spend time with my friends, chatting and laughing, drinking and eating, hiking and sleeping...until it was time for us all to go back!

Sadly the Malteaser couldn't make it along (let's just say he has a position of greater authority than me, his new responsibility being to keep me as I'm now broke!) so Ozfest 2009 was 100% Anglo-centric. Whilst I caught back up with my French after a couple of days, I fear that the break has set my Romanian language learning back quite a bit more. I shall have to redouble my efforts if I want to reach any level of competency this side of Christmas!

Luckily the sun and rising temperatures put me in an optimistic mood and there has been a noticeable increase in activity levels in and around our street. Building projects that seemed to have been put on hold over the winter months have resumed, resulting in even more untidy piles of raw materials spread over the pavement and onto the street. I don't actually find it irksome to have the road covered in sand, gravel, uncovered earth or, this weekend, rather potent compost (ironically as I came back from buying compost!) but I imagine that this behaviour would have any self respecting middle class resident of any of my previous addresses up in arms and haranguing the perpetrators constantly with terse notes through the letterbox before deciding to write a very stern letter to the local paper (I can feel you all quaking in your boots at the wrath of Middle England). Here it goes almost unnoticed and many mounds have remained untouched over winter, providing convenient areas for dogs to relieve themselves.

The other activity that has seen a steep rise is carpet cleaning. The general practice among the țigani is to hang their washing out over the fences of their houses. This is where they hang large indoor rugs too, before beating them with a stick to remove all the dirt. You will also find teams of women on the street, either with the carpets on the quite dirty pavement or on the not much cleaner fence, scrubbing at the rugs with soap and water. It seems very laborious and rather a thankless task as it seems to have to be repeated ad nauseam.

I've heard rumours that the carpets are placed on bare ground, not on floorboards, hence the need for all teh cleaning. This is thusfar unconfirmed, I'll have to get back to you on that one!

In the first week of March 2009, I was mostly...

...getting into exercise DVDs.Too bad I might have to get into a bikini before they've had any effect on my **insulating** layers of flab!

Chats with the neighbours

One of the great things about Romania is the sense of community. People not only know who their neighbours are, but speak to them regularly. In many cases; this is what actually passes for entertainment – in the country nearly everyone has a small step or wooden bench outside their gate and will sit here in fine weather, watching the events on the street and waiting for people to come by and chat.

I have only recently discovered the joys of these chats, having been too afraid to speak to my neighbours as I presumed I would understand nothing of their conversations. When I did try, the latter did indeed turn out to be true, but my neighbours seem genuinely delighted, not to mention patient, with my incomplete sentences and inability to decipher more than the barebones of any conversation.

As such, I have met (and forgotten the names of) many more people on the street, which has a lot of benefits. They will help you with where to pay bills and find the items you're looking for. They'll collect your bin in after the binmen have been past, as well as your post (this week the two were combined as I found my empty bin back in our courtyard with our letters at the bottom of it!). Unfortunately they will also ask for favours in return, usually help in finding a job, which I, personally, cannot help with, although it is automatically assumed that I can.

In particular, one guy from up the street regular comes to the house calling "Monsieur, Monsieur", until the Malteaser goes out to talk to him. He wants to work for us, from what I understand, but each time we have to tell him we have no work for him. I'm not sure we could actually afford the rates. Recently another neighbour asked the Malteaser to work on the house as he was going door to door. Twenty minutes later we saw him again in the street – another neighbour had given him 30 lei to clean her carpet. 30 LEI FOR 15MINS WORK!?! That works out as £20 an hour! And yet minimum wage earners here get around £250 a month. No wonder the economy's in a mess with these crazy pricing structures.

Even so, 15 minutes of work a week, however well paid, is not enough to support somebody and there is no way you cannot feel the divide. "What you up to?" "Nothing, you?" "Well, just off down the shops to get a couple of new tops and then I thought I'd get my nails done"....you see my problem. I was actually about to say that I was on my way to the dentist's the other day (I'm still plagued by brown teeth, appointment tomorrow) when a woman walked past with a smile that'd give Shane McGowan a fright. In the end I just kept my mouth shut (pun only half intended).

My other appointment this week was to get a bikini wax. You can skip this part if you're of a nervous disposition. Needless to say it was an interesting experience, which took place in a first floor room that looked like someone's kitchen and had an overwhelming smell of gas. When I arrived the door was open and I was concerned that I was going to have to disrobe in view of everyone. However, after a very public consultation about what I wanted done (which can only be made more embarrassing by the fact that I'm now writing about it in a blog) the door was closed and I was lying on a slightly grubby table (where were the protective paper sheet things and the dolphin noises CD? Not that I was particularly worried. I don't believe, as many Romanian women seem to, that infectious diseases can be contracted through the buttocks. This is why I do not stand on toilet seats and squat over the porcelain in public restrooms, leaving muddy footprints behind on the seat for the next person to wipe off). I was also pleased to note that the use of neat alcohol is not restricted to barbers shops.

All I can say is that it smarts!