Of knedliks and kings.

Actually, queens (see below), but then there'd be no obvious connection with walruses...

Firstly, I must apologise to the entire Czech nation. For some reason, probably related to other dumpling-like potato-based products I have consumed in the past in other countries that were formerly located behind Mr.Churchill's famous ferrous window-dressing, I assumed that the noble and glorious knedlik was uniquely of potato origin. But it seems that nary a whiff of Mr. Raleigh's preferred New World tuber has made it into some of the recipes for this Czech culinary delight. And me having lived here for (on-and-off) five months, too. I hang my head in shame. Ignorant foreigner. No knedlik.

So although the knedlik distinctly resembles a squishy boiled spud in certain incarnations (unsliced), it actually resembles bread in others (sliced). It's all down to the recipe, flour, (potato or wheat) cooking and cook's creative muse du jour. Or which packet of ready-made frozen knedlik dough you buy in your local Albert supermarket. (None shall speak of the supermarket chain that ate the world, as a mark of respect for s-i-l's "commute from hell" period after construction above collapsed railway tunnel beneath on the main line via the Chilterns to Londinium.)

Knedlik dough is made from either potato flour, wheat flour or even mooshed-up bread, eggs and milk. Regardless of type, it's squeeshed into balls, boiled and served as an accompaniment to your favorite meat (pref. pig)'n'gravy-based main dish plus sauerkraut and PIVO (beer). Exciting variety can be obtained by stuffing the knedlik with things, mainly of the meat variety, drinking more PIVO, or taking the novelty approach to food service and delivering multiple smallish filled knedliky to the awestruck diner in a small brass cannon mounted on a wooden cheeseboard affair. This somehow seems more amazing if you drink more PIVO.

For the herbivores among us, the lack of acceptable gravy might make the knedlik a little hard to swallow. Inexplicably, despite the hordes of Czechs thundering through the mushroom groves (or fields, or patches, or rings) after the rains, straight-up pig-free mushroom ragout does not feature on many menus. But this is where the glorious and wonderful fruit, or "sweet" knedlik comes into its own. Yeasty or even soft cheese dough, filled with seasonal fruit compote, boiled and smothered in smetana (runnier than sour cream) or icing sugar or both. Mmmmm... My own bizarrely puritanical nutritional tendancies force me to class them as technically a dessert, but more reckless types do eat them as a main course.

One knedlik, two knedlik, three knedlik, four...

Fashunating fact only discovered while idly internetovating for knedlik recipes: the fore-runner of the slurpee (ICEE) was invented by a chap called Omar Knedlik who sold them in his Dairy Queen franchise. Queens, see?

Czech delicacies

Personally, I blame the intense discussion about knedlik (Czech potato dumplings) that proceeded these events for filling my mind with the most unlikely thoughts. I mean, there was some guy rattling on about how knedlik were like fine wine, or beer, to choose a more apt cultural metaphor. The taste had to be cultivated, but once acquired, the desire for potato dumplings would hold you in its deathly grasp for all time. No more would a victim, or their goulash meal accompaniments, be the same.

Fortunately for the fate of my dining future, I'm not one of the goulash-guzzling fraternity, but I was wholly absorbed as the gentleman described in halting terms his slow recovery from the knedlik-eating pit in which he had dwelt for so long.

Then, a discussion of my goulash-dodging tendancies steered the conversation into the calmer waters of mushroom-picking. This, the couple described as a traditional Czech sport, "like hunting, but not so violent." Throughout the year, it's possible to see people tripping through the city streets with baskets filled with freshly-foraged fungi (look, kids, alliteration!). Wicker baskets, even. People even take special mushroom-hunting holidays (more alliteration!).

So I had food fantastic on the brain when I headed off to exercise my feeble Czech language skills and deal with my share of the meal bill. To pay for my fried aubergine salad with warm stinky garlic and balkan cheese spread (mmmmmm...), I announced to the (fluent-English-speaking) waitress in my best "stress-on-the-first-syllable-banged-out-on-the-desk" Czech that I had eaten "smaženy lístek". Sounds good, you might think.

Except that Czech for aubergine is "lílek". Last night, dear reader, I proudly announced to the waitress and half the patrons of the restaurant that I had eaten fried menu.

Flat to the future

Astonishingly, this is a completely different individual to those mentioned before.

"Hello?"
"Hello. This is K---. I am here for the flat."
"K---. Have we spoken before?"
"I am here to see the flat."
"Yes, but you are new to me. How did you hear about the flat?"
"You are not comfortable to live with me?"
"I want to know how you got this number."
"You don't want to live with strange person? I am a good person to live with. I like people. I have a job. I will not torment you."
"That's fine, I'm sure. But who gave you my phone number?"
"I work for [insert name of well-known courier company here]."
"Yes, but how did you hear about the flat?"
"I live all over the world. Shanghai, Chicago."
"Where in PRAGUE did you hear about this flat?"
"I live ten years in Chicago. I am an operator."
"WHO GAVE YOU MY PHONE NUMBER?" (catching, see?)
"R---.* He did not like the flat, but I do."
"Oh. I am sorry, but I've found someone else."** (should've done that six questions ago)
"I live ten years in Chicago."
"I am sorry, but there is no room to rent here."
"No room?"
"No. No room anymore."
"You sure?"
"Yes, quite sure."
"It's not because you don't want to live with me?"
"No. There is someone else."
"Oh. Okay. Bye."
"Bye."

Drrrrr....
Five minutes
Beep.

Text message: "Hello. This is K---. I am sorry if my phone call offended you. Will you go out for drink with me?"

*Viewing no-show. Apparently psychic.

**At the time, this was a lie. Luckily, didn't mess karma. I think.

Snooooowwwww!!!!!!!

It's clearly catching

... and then rain.

I've been too preoccupied with other matters to mention it, but I am hereby fulfilling the naturalised-culturally-enforced demands incumbent upon me to comment on the weather and consequent state of the national traffic and rail networks. Gosh, it fair warms the cockles (and mussels alive-alive-o) of my icy northern heart.

Actually, the snow happened last Thursday morning and went by lunch, but there was a visible layer of slushy white stuff for at least a couple of hours. The sort that grinds the UK* transport network to a halt. And it has been cold. Warmed up a bit now, though.

On the matter of cultural obligation, be warned that house prices could feature next. (May-be it's be-cause oi'm a Landanaahh...)

Blame blogger - it went down for aaaages. Oh, and I'm emotionally strained from dealing with flatmate candidates. What is it about a)the price, b)the location or c)the advert, that attracts these rather odd characters? Or is this like those occasional phases I go through of being chatted up at bus stops and in front of estate agents' windows by scary bearded old men who stink of rough cider and wee?

*Of course, being in Prague, everyone apart from me smiled knowingly and said helpful things like, "Snow? You call that snow? This is your first winter here, right?"

Did I mention how scary I find this sort of comment and how it makes me want to rush out and buy a portable igloo and large, angry walrus (useful for subduing hordes of hungry citizens after my stash of baked beans, or worse... Who knew I'd be this damaged as a consequence of studying post-revolutionary Russian winter famines at an early age? And yes, I know I'm in the Czech Rep., which is nowhere NEAR Russia, but I'm still working at hammering my stupid, deeply-entrenched western ethnocentricities, generalisations and ignorance into submission.)

Punch-tuation

Hi!!!

My name is Z--! I was very EXCITED!!! to read about your flat! PLEASE!!!! answer IMMEDIATELY!!! I am DESPERATE!!! to find a NEW PLACE to live!!!! I am living in a HOTEL!!!! and it is VERY EXPENSIVE!!!!

PLEASE!!!! call me VERY!!!! SOON!!! I DESPERATELY!!! want to find a new flat NOW!!!!!!!!

Do you have INTERNET??????????

PLEASE CALL ME SOON!!!!!!! I must move in QUICKLY!!!!!

I am a VERY FRIENDLY!! HAPPY!! PERSON!!!!! Also CLEAN!!!!

CALL ME PLEASE!!!!!!!! I am VERY HAPPY to hear from you!!! Also EXCITED!!!!

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

I have a pathological fear of extreme punctuation. It's not irrational as this person is clearly insane. Eeek.

Flat-tery

Going nowhere

"Hello, I am phoning about the flat."
"Yes?"
"When are you leaving?"
"Sorry?"
"When are you leaving? When can I move in?"
"I'm not leaving. It's a flatshare."
"It's not a flat?"
"Yes, it is a flat. But we share it. It's a flatshare."
"What is that?"
"It is a shared flat. A shared apartment."
"It is an apartment? An apartment is a flat."
"Yes. It's an apartment where everybody lives together."
"You are sharing a room?"
"No. A flat. An apartment. It's a flatshare. Everybody has their own room."
"There is no bathroom?"
"No. There is a bathroom. We share the bathroom."
"Everybody has a bathroom?"
"There is one bathroom. There are three bedrooms. There is one kitchen. Everybody has their own bedroom. We all use the same bathroom and kitchen."
"Everybody is in the bathroom together?"
"No. It is a flatshare. This means we all use the bathroom. We share the bathroom."
"Everybody shares the bathroom all together?"
"There is a separate toilet."
"Oh."
"It is a flatshare. A shared flat. A shared apartment. We live all together. Is this what you are looking for?"
"Yes, yes. A flat."
"You want to rent a room in a flat."
"Yes, yes. A one-room flat."
"This is a three-room flat."
"Three rooms? In the flat?"
"There are three bedrooms. Everybody rents one room. They share the rent."
"Oh."
"Is this what you are looking for?"
"Yes. When are you moving out?"

Dunno...

Cheeeeeaaaatttt.

Yep. Brazen hussy cheatamacphile. That's me. These came via email from the shy and retiring I. But it's sort of thematic, and I did edit/weed a bit. And I'm reallyreallyreally tired and my brain is like soup because, well, just because. Because, because, because, because, becaaaaauuuuse. Great. Now I'm hearing munchkins.

Aviation quotes, no idea of their authenticity. But they're still better than anything my poor brain can come up with tonight. Toniiigght, toniiiigght, there'll be a moon toniii-- aaarrrgghh

"You, you, and you ... Panic. The rest of you, come with me." – USMC Gunnery Sergeant

"If the wings are travelling faster than the fuselage, it's probably a helicopter -- and therefore, unsafe."

Advice given to RAF pilots during WWII: "When a prang (crash) seems inevitable, endeavour to strike the softest, cheapest object in the vicinity as slow and gently as possible."

Basic Flying Rules: "Try to stay in the middle of the air. Do not go near the edges of it. The edges of the air can be recognized by the appearance of ground, buildings, sea, trees and interstellar space. It is much more difficult to fly there."

Packmule

"Are you carrying anything for anyone other than yourself, madam?"

Errr….

1 book West Indian cookery (soft-back, recipes include jerk seasoning and Guiness punch)
1 large box Yorkshire Tea
1 large block Irish extra-strong cheddar (store-brand)
1 packet organic bacon (no moral objections to carrying products of animals that died happy, it appears)
20 security key fobs
1 box "Celebrations" chocolates
3 trashy magazines and a "Hello" to lend an aura of respectability to the proceedings.
1 book piano nocturnes (Chopin)
30 concert programmes (with peak performance stapling effect)
3 half-tubes toothpaste (sorry, oh bearer of the collective suitcase, but I don't want to check my bag)
1 gentleman's disposable razor in plastic bag (ditto)
1 nearly used tube shaving gel, "Jill Monroe" brand (sorry, oh bearer of the painfully bulging suitcase, but the zipper on my bag is broken)
1 box sausage rolls (mini)
1 jar Thai red curry paste (large, extra-hot)
4 rolls toilet tissue (extra-large, extra-soft, extra pillows - this last person is a forward planner)

Courier fees:
Percentage chocolate and first dibs on the caramels
Bottle fizzy water
Discourse on leopard print as a fashion choice
Mug tea
Bowl pea soup with mint
One W.Indian veggie dish containing ackee and cooked to perfection for dinner
Explanation of the meaning of the word "jerk"
Three filthy Czech phrases, with context-appropriate translation
Begruding gratitude of IT dept.
Mouse

And miraculously, my luggage was no. 2 off the carousel twice in one day. I am the champion. I can be bought.

New words for old.

Loanwords came up in the comments in my last post on things orthographic. I've mentioned the impact of Czech words on English once or twice, but have somewhat neglected the reverse process. And of course, what with English being the devious language-invading hydra that it is, there are a quite a few of them.

Despite the howls of outrage from language purists, English loanwords are no bad thing for the anglophone language learner. For one thing, it's always helpful to have bits and pieces of vocabulary that sound the same as words you know, but with a funny accent. It gives you something to say in those loooong, awkward pauses. And besides, the borrowing language often takes its revenge and shoves a few false friends in a learnerly direction.

Czech has four main groups of verbs that conjugate in similar ways, depending on the ending of the infintive (leaving out exceptions group here). The third group are verbs that end -ovat, and tend to be formed from nouns. Foreign imports tend to find their way into this category, which means that for nonce, my favorite activities in Czechland are the following. (At least as far as Mrs. Jana and our agonising Monday-morning, "What did you do this weekend?" conversation is concerned.):

plánovat
pózovat
modelovat
telfonovat
fotografovat
testovat
cyklovat
relaxovat
luxovat (think Electrolux and hoovers)
waxovat
faxovat
internetovat

(May have messed up some diacritics, but the accent on a vowel is meant to make it long.)

I like the "x" ones best. Long may they live. And may I humbly offer the following words at a modest rate of interest to the Czech language:

blingovat: to ornament oneself in a roccoco fashion
hardhatovat: to protect oneself from the consequences of defenestration
alfalfovat: to forage for green leafy vegetables in the supermarket
eskimovat: to buy flannel bedlinen
muffinovat: to over-indulge in palačinky - Czech pancakes
navelovat: to use one's higher consciousness to contemplate the texture of an orange

Fleeced.

This is probably going to scupper something, and I'll return on Sunday night to a white-out, but we've been having lovely weather lately. Chilly mornings that make me contemplate gloves, and lovely clear days. Even the rain on the weekend was the warm gentle stuff of early autumn.

All of which perturbs me somewhat, because my original notions of Czechland were that it was a land-locked country, forever prey to the chilly claw and howling maw of Icy Winter. A bit like many think of Canada, akshully, so I should've known better. But since I made my first foray here in April I've been experiencing ye olde Bohemian spring/summer. Which has been lovely.

In fact, the closest point of reference I have is a trip here late last November when the snow lay thick on the ground. Although it wasn't exactly bikini weather, it wasn't particularly bad either. But when I mentioned this at the time, one of my colleagues commented, "Ah no. It's not so cold this week, but last week it was minus 15."

Eeek.

So with this in mind, I've been making shopping lists to help me see out the season in fine style. When you start looking, it's amazing what you can find in the fine fabric that is known as flannel. Woollens have never seemed so wonderful. Fear makes manolos (not that I wear them, but I'm all alliteration crazy today) out of mukluks. Now, where did I leave my thermal nose-guard?

Meme-ries

A book meme

Cheating slightly on my content rules, but this came through via email, and dammit, it's relevent. Anyhow, it's sneaking under the wire because I won't tag anyone, but if anyone would care to be tagged then they're more than welcome to post here, there or anywhere. Or just sing along.

Total number of books owned:

Absolutely no idea. Vast numbers. Reinforced floor demanding quantities. Unfortunately they aren't all in the same place, or even the same country. It boils down to:

40 smallish boxes (bigger than a breadbin, smaller than a teachest) in storage,
Carrier bag at one relative's. I think it's a supermarket one.
Shoe box at another's. Male relative, size 13 feet.
15 or so boxes in another's attic.
(none of these people know about each other…)

Two shelves here.

All this, despite my occasional ruthless periods when I cut a swathe through the paperbacks like the barbarian hordes of old. I'm slowly coming round to the notion of eventually retiring to a house constructed entirely of used novels. I'll probably tile the roof with old category fiction.

Last book bought:

These days, I buy in bulk when I get to a bookstore that sells in a language I can read. Some of them can see me coming from miles away and rub their hands in glee - I suspect it's the wild-eyed stare or something. Anyhow, I'm in a dark and grisly mood at the moment, so last trip's haul included:

Petty Treason Madeleine E. Robins
Triptych Karen Slaughter
Break no Bones Kathy Reichs
About three Lindsay Davis (glomming)
Sacred Pain Ariel Glucklich (have read it, but it was in the sale rack so couldn't resist - yes, he needs an umlaut, but the yesterday's post exhausted my supply of diacritics)
The Magic Circle of Rudolf II Peter Marshall
The Surgeon of Crowthorne Simon Winchester - the OED, murder and insanity. What's not to love?

Last book read:

That's not on the above list? Uhh… There's a half-read Angela Knight floating around the flat that I just haven't been able to finish. Not what I fancy right now. I've usually got a fiction and a non-fiction on the go. Just finished off Zero: The Biography of a Dangerous Idea (Charles Seife)

Five books you remember:

I think I'll do ones I haven't mentioned before here.

So, in some kind of chronological order of encounter.

Anne of Green Gables I was so obsessed with this series as a child that I used Mum's rouge and red felt-tip markers to try to make my hair red. Haven't read it in years, because I'm worried the magic won't be there.

Pigs Have Wings. Actually, I want to say everything by P.G. Wodehouse. This just floated to the surface of my brain 'cos it has pigs in it and is the most recent one I've picked up. Perfect comfort reads, with added glamour factoid: he was published by Mills & Boon. Really. Him and Georgette Heyer and Jack London were all stablemates.

Good Omens is responsible for the first time I ever managed to clear a space on a train through uncontrollable insane laughter. Although the mildly goth outfit and aura of teenage angst probably helped. I think I own about three copies in varying states of decay because I have to read it annually.

The Age of Extremes. I could have picked a tonne of stuff in this area, but it's all pretty much Hobsbawm's fault. Well, him and the poison dwarf, aka sixth form history teacher. In a major moment of intense geek-girl squeeing excitement, I actually got to touch the man's hand (Hobsbawm's, not the dwarf's) a couple of years ago. Since it took place during a ceremony thingy, I didn't have the chance to actually say anything to him except a choked-up "Thank you". All told, this may have been for the better, since impartial-yet-caring witnesses noted that I was pretty well incoherent. Nonetheless, there is Actual Photographic Evidence of me holding the hand of Eric J. Hobsbawm. Oh, and he said a nice thing too. I did wash the limb eventually.

The Strange Hours Travelers Keep (August Kleinzahler). This was a present from someone I didn't know very well who magically managed to get it exactly right. Just fantastically good poetry, words, ideas. Love it.

Spellczech

(heh heh heh hehehehe)

Think about it. I have. On long journeys up escalators. In supermarket queues. While addressing postcards. Whither the "Cz"? I mean, the Czechs don't do it - they invented a handy little hook called a haček (rhymes with hatchet) to do the job. They speak Čestina in the Česka Republika, děkujuverymuch.

Their European neighbours aren't too bothered about creating extreme orthographic weirdness despite the sound not being a standard in some of their languages. They just cobble together a few random consonants and leave it at that. Thus "Tchèque", "Checa", "Ceca", "Tschechien" (Okay, maybe the Germans...). Or they fake it as best they can with exotic-sounding versions like: "Tsekki" "Tjecken" and "Txekiar".

But these languages use the same clusters of letters (aka digraphs, trigraphs and assorted multigraphs if you're in a pedantic mood) for similar sounds in other words, even if they're loaned ones. Whereas Czech? Well, there's "Czech" and ermm… "czech", and ermmm… "Czerny". If you're of a musical bent. And he was Viennese of Bohemian origins. Well, they did think about these things differently back in the day. After that exhaustive list, we're pretty much left with "Czar". Which you say "Tsar". As in "Twinkle, twinkle, little Tsar." (Hahahhhaaahhaaahahaha)

But if it's not from the Czech, and it's not from some weird English historical thingy, what is it? According to various online dictionaries it's actually 19th century from the Polish. Unfortunately, I don't have handy access to the OED, so no citations or anything. But why Polish?

Digging a bit, things actually get more interesting. Since it kicked off around the 10th century, Czech's pretty much always been usually written in Roman letters, rather than Cyrillic, but is full of sounds (aka phones) that don't exist in Latin. So after getting annoyed with just writing the letter closest to the sound they wanted, people invented clusters of letters to represent these sounds. Like English does with "th". But whereas English uses "h" to indicate that the preceding letter should be softened, it seems that Czechs used the letter "z" to do the same job. Hungarian and Polish still do this, which accounts for those eye-popping words that seem to twist their tongue in the face of human physiognomy.

Buuuuttt… then along came a man called Jan Hus. (Sounds like "house" and "moose" in a really bad fake Scots accent). In between sermons, rabble-rousing, reading Wyclif and generally making a nuisance of himself to the Holy See, he apparently found time to pen the stirring work, De orthographia Bohemica. Well, it's at least attributed to him, and since he was immolated (nice word, nasty death) at Council of Constance in 1415 he hasn't been in a position to confirm or deny things for quite some time. In it, he proposed a system of diacritics (little dots and slashes above letters) that would almost completely replace diagraphs. From now on Czech, sorry, Ċech (he left the "ch" in) schoolchildren would no more cower 'neath the tyranny of silly spelling rules. Well, that was the plan, anyhow.

The hostest with the moshtest

When in a foreign country, if offered mysterious liquid in an unlabelled, re-used, green plastic soda bottle, the normal response is as follows:
"What is it?" sniffing dubiously at plastic cup.
"It's good. Drink some!" genial offer from smiling host.
"But what is it?" more dubious sniffing.
"It's healthy. Very good for you."

These are danger words. Any drink touted as "healthy" by locals usually is only so in the sense of "healthy" competition. As in Darwinian competition. As in, if you can drink 2 litres of this liquid without undergoing immediate and dramatic liver meltdown, and retain the ability to bear children (some places, I think they make visitors drink this sort of thing in an icy stream) you are a survivor of the fittest.

So this sort of offer at quarter past nine in the morning is bound to make the gooseflesh rise. Especially as the liquid is the sort of murky brown that I last saw while ambling through South Bohemia's peaty swamps.

"Drink! Drink!"
"Ahh… It's quite early and I haven't finished my tea yet."
"No. It's healthy. You must drink." Three beaming faces watch the cup in my hand assiduously. I attempt to discern any trace of guile or deviousness in their eyes. There is none. This makes me more nervous.

I sniff. I sip. "Oh! It's apple juice." Knees go weak with relief.

"It is not apple juice. It is mošt!"
"Moshed?"
"Yes, yes. Mošt! It is just the apples, prrrressed." Mirek demonstrates the prrrressing of an invisible bushel of apples between his hands.
"But not apple juice."
"No. It is just the apples. Nothing else."

Petr likewise squishes some invisible apples. "Mirek's friend makes it. We take apples to his factory and he presses them."
Mirek adds, "Yes. They press many fruits. His parents make the alcohol."
"Ah, I see. But this isn't alcohol."

"No. It is not. It is mošt." Before, uh…" Jacek pauses. No one really talks about "before" here. "Before... In that time, we could not buy apple juice in the boxes in the shop. So we took the apples and pressed them. Now, this is not so common."
"I see. Why so?"
"The apple juice in boxes is different. It lasts longer but is full of, full of… chemical things."
"Preservatives?"
"Yes, preservatives. Mošt, you must drink quickly. But it has better flavour. Very healthy." Mirek and Petr nod in agreement and we all take a sip of healthy, short-life mošt.

Maybe it's just that the tea's so bad...

Last night I unsuccessfully attempted to mime (in Czech), "Please kind sir, I beg you, do not froth the milk before putting it into my tea… Pleeeeaaasssee…. Noooooooooo!!!!!!"

Perhaps it was the lack of white facepaint and stripy jumper, but it didn’t work. Paper cup of tea arrived at the end of the station with a lovely frothy head that would do a cappuccino, or even a Belgian-style serving of lager proud. I wept. It always seems to be the way. You spend time in a place where good coffee is steam-pressed by a million precision-engineered geysers, and the tea just goes wonky. If the tea is perfectly brewed nectar of the gods, then the coffee is made by someone running warm tap water over a few clumps of petrified instant coffee and shaking it about in a polystyrene cup.*

All of which leaves me, a tea-drinker at heart who has a fondness for really good coffee, somewhat bemused. I mean, why go to the coffee place and order tea? That's just asking for trouble. But sometimes, I just gotta dice with the gods. Live on the edge. Oh yeah, baby.

So given the deep and abiding excitement of my life, is it any wonder that I enjoy the odd spot of evil-villain(ess) excitement in my reading material? Possibly not. Nevertheless, I've never really had character identification as one of my top ten reading requirements. When I encounter this sort of bad dudette, I don't gush, "Ooh how thrilling! Secretly I have always wanted to claw out my enemies' hearts but lack both courage and pointy fingernails. At last, I can vicariously satisfy this thrill within the confines of a novel!"

Of course, I'm not going to deny the odd fantasy about bashing people's heads in after a stressful day. But it's a big step from that to thinking, "Aha! I have at long last discovered my soulmate, the one person in this crazy, mixed-up world who can truly understand me!" As I said, I don't actually like her. But compared to the witchy-washy heroine who's out to defeat the Mega-Evil That Lurks 'Neath The City, the villainess has more internal conflict, more personal growth and more tension. Could it be that a lifeless heroine makes the scary lady come alive by comparison?

*leaving out places Middle East in this, because there both tea and coffee are good, but neither taste the way I usually expect.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

In an effort to do my bit to reduce my guilt over the effects of my recent zooming about in flying machines I've gone and forked out a load of cash to make my year (so far) carbon neutral. Observe my shiny green halo. *ting!*

But all the effort to decide whether I'd get someone to plant a small woodland glen, or just sponsor a wildfowl whanging windfarm has exhausted me. I am thus inspired to reach back into the dawn of time (or around October last year) and haul out a very old rant that I never got around to finishing or posting anywhere handy. These things happen. It never got posted because it was too damn long.

Paddling about in the primordial soup that is my "drafts" folder hasn't really helped much in the length department. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if it had grown. So I'm going to chop it up into manageable bits, edit them a tad and then post them up in chunks. Genius plan to keep blog entries up in a busy week, methinks. And now, without further ado, I bring you, the unholy tapeworm that is:

I don't like you much, but your friend's kinda hot… Part 1

(It's all about books, and it's long - be warned)

I've just finished reading a book. Shock. Horror. Was okay. Again, falling off seat with astonishment. Hero and heroine both suitably imbued with purportedly likeable qualities? Check. Lively action scenes? Check. Good dash of healthy animal spirits (no, not the Keynsian ones)? Check. Fiendishly evil villain? Che--.

Ahhh, well here's the rub: I didn't like the villain(ess) - too tame. I didn't even love the villain(ess) - she's a bad guy, right? But I loved her scenes. Don't get me wrong, I'd run off screaming into the night barefoot over broken glass at the possibility of an real-life encounter, however unlikely, cos y'know she was baaad. And scary. And a people-eating human-possessing monster from the depths of the underworld with claws, scales and freaky glowy eyes. So I doubt she'd be overly impressed by my fascination with her inner demons if she stumbled over me cowering in a darkened alley. She'd likely eat me for being annoying.

But dammit, she was interesting. She had internal conflicts a-go-go. Best of all, while she was eeeeeviiilllll, she was interesting eeevvvillllll. She wasn't some two-dimensional monster stalking the pages like a badly-produced publicity bookmark. Yes that's right, kids. A character I'm pretty confident I do not like, but still want to read about. It's not such a big step. After all, I read about real-life bad guys all the time. Others do as well. So what's the appeal?

(to be continued)

More cheese

Some Czech-related news. Czechs in the news in fact. Not just the country, which seems to have become the location for all manner of conferences (it was in Prague that they decided a couple of months ago that Pluto was no longer a planet). The new Miss. World has been crowned, and she (for it is still a she) is a Czech student by the name of Tat'ana Kucharova. Apparently she likes sports, her pets and "listening to music with a nice melody". It seems her favorite food is chicken, rather than the traditional Czech dish of fried cheese with tartar sauce and some potatoes. Which probably helped her no end in her quest for world beauty domination.

Interestingly, last month Warsaw's conservative administration altered a poster advertising the contest with a discreet white scarf after deciding it was too racy since it depicted a mermaid with an artistic "wardrobe malfunction". Fortunately, Ms. Kucharova and her fellow candidates appear to have avoided that hazard. No one ended up in Narnia or anything.

In another beauty competition mercifully unlikely to feature a "wardrobe malfunction" but still featuring persons of Czech origin, posters are up everywhere for elections to the senate. Now I only have the foggiest idea of Czech electoral procedures, so I'm not going to dwell on these here. In brief, things are a bit iffy, constitution-wise. But frankly, looking at these characters' faces on the way to work doesn't give me huge faith in the imminent future.

None of them really look as if they like animals very much at all, even the one chap who resembles an aerodynamic stoat with a little grey moustache. There's another truly terrifying woman who greets me with a manic grin and hugely-shadowed eyes from the lamp-post by the metro entrance. And then there are also a couple of other likely lads who look as if they enjoy regular tasty snacks of fried cheese with extra sauce much more than Ms. Kucharova.

Of course, many would argue that elections are fought on policies, not potato consumption. But funnily enough there aren't many actual words on these posters.

Bok, Bok

So much more than a mis-spelling of "Book, Book"

It is a truth universally accepted that a family during the festive season must be in want of good telly. Fortunately, the folks at Shaw (Canadian digital provider) have come up with the ultimate solution for Thanksgiving (which is today if you're in Canah-diah): Turkey TV. All day long, lucky lucky Canadians celebrating the holiday can tune in and watch a turkey being roasted. Live. (Just the filming, not the turkey, one hopes) With occasional basting. There is even the roasting of vegetables and the stoking of fires. Most festive indeed.

Moi? I got to watch the little plane move slowly over a digital map of England, the North Sea, Belgium, Germany and the Czech Rep. Not a golden brown roasted parsnip in sight. Not even a baguette, since the gastronomes on the incoming flight from Milano had scoffed the lot. I was offered a "snak-pak" as a substitute, but refrained on the grounds that the spelling would give me indigestion.

But I am thankful. Mainly and rather selfishly, I'm thankful that I don't have to get on another plane for four whole days. Even a floatplane. I'm on bended knees with gratitude that for the last couple of trips I've come out good well hunting in the charter flight/cheap airline seating roulette, and ended up at one end of a row graced by an unoccupied middle seat and a non-psychopathic neighbour with progressive ideas about hygiene at the far end (now I've gone and done it…) Then there's the business of the rediscovered, unsquished mocha brownie extravaganza at the bottom of my carry-on bag. And of course, I'm also thankful for the usual: family, friends, sentience, fruit, opposable thumbs, the recent dvd release of season 2 of Green Wing.

So happy thanksgiving to those who celebrate it today, even if your turkey is only virtual (and by that, of course I don't mean turkey twizzlers). And happy advance thanksgiving planning to those south of the 49th parallel who have to wait another month(?) but may even be looking up pumpkin pie recipes as I type. In case anyone's wondering, I'll be having eggs tonight. But I might decorate them with a drumstick-shaped splodge of hot sauce.

Le Wibble

Well the plan was to dodge the jet-lag bullet by going and coming back so fast that my pineal gland barely noticed anything funny going on with the big yellow thing hovering in the big blue thing. Unfortunately, it appears to possess a rudimentary cunning and the sea of clouds shown in the plane's "flightcam" (position: forward) bestirred it to hideous action. I'm currently wrestling against the urge to sleep… sleepp….slleeppzzzz…

wha? sorry?

Oh yeah…my only aid the mighty coffee and the mightier still chocolate. But even these valiant weapons are beginning to flag, and I seem to be stuck in a mid-Atlantic time zone, perhaps one just off the coast of St. Helena.

A fascinating, witty and brilliant post came to me in one of those lucid dreams: the sleep-deprived kind that seem so real while sitting in a micro-chair four thousand or so feet above the Atlantic swells and distinguished only from its neighbours by a peculiar lump at mid-hamstring level. Unfortunately I've forgotten it. All I can remember wondering is how far I would actually have travelled across the surface of the earth if I bounded forward a couple of feet down the aisle towards the drinks trolley.

The post may have had something to do with float planes. Or parrots. I'm not entirely sure. And to be fair, it was probably less unmitigated genius and more along the lines of "Wha-fooo. Flrrrr... Parrot heehee means the life of the sailor. Oh my. Mmmm... Flffrry pillow. Wsfrgt my head stugg nunder armwrest?" But in the finest spirit of blogger, it's entirely unrecoverable. So instead I should probably reveal that I did end up taking a float plane (couldn't find the helicopter terminal), but the parrot was a completely different conversation altogether.

I probably shouldn't be operating this heavy machinery.

Extra! Extra!

Exciting new book-related novelty discovered yesterday!

Airport duty-free normally holds very little appeal to me. I'm not one for perfume, booze or fags. The clothes shops are all a tad upmarket for my scruffy tastes, and full of scary assistants that wear too much make-up and give my very disreputable carry-on luggage their most professional scornful glare. I've taken up the habit of not buying top ten bestsellers in regular bookshops because they're the only ones that ever seem to appeal in the better airport bookshops. The worse ones are where Sidney Sheldon books go to die.

However yesterday, as I hauled my appallingly-to-a-shop-assistant-non-Burberry-clad self up to the departure gate while chatting to rpc via mobile, I was compelled to interrupt the flow of our conversation.

"Oh my god, it's a book vending machine. In the airport."
"I see," says rpc, being his usual supportive self. "Tell me about it." (or words to that effect - maybe I just imagined those ones, but they're true to the spirit of the man and I have hardcore jet lag).
"Well, it's a vending machine. But with books in it, not chocolate. They're covered in clingfilm wrappers and everything."

Pause while I reverently stare at the glass case of a red metal box. I note the books are not the same price as chocolate, but are not apparently over-priced either. Downside is the lack of ability to read back-blurb or browse. Upside is that I can imagine these mushrooming all over the country, in motorway service stations, train stations, left luggage offices, work breakrooms and so forth. Imagine someone wandering into a service station thinking, "Ooo. I'll just get a packet of mints. But look, a book vending-machine. Perhaps I'll pick up a paperback too."

"So what sort of boks are there, then?" (more support from rpc, who understands these things).
"Ermm... the usual. Dan Brown in the top row, the latest Jodi Picoult, Zadie Smith, Kellerman and No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency a Harry Potter, some colouring books, a few Sidney Sheldon..." Reverential silence as I realise that I've already read the books that appeal to me. "Maybe a colouring book. I could do with some felt-tips on the long flight." Not sleeping for 24 hours does put me in the mood for colouring.
"Yes. Well you'll have to blog about it."

Can't help feeling that like the German cigarette vending machines on the street (I'd only ever seen them safely indoors in pubs/clubs before) it's the novelty, rather than the content that appeals.

A bit about the ???

Frankly, I wish it could be more exciting than it's turned out. "???" looks mysterious and cool. It has potential. (Like the Riddler, but without the stupid leotard... Err..., lets just skip lightly over that analogy.) The truth, as always, turns out to be far more mundane. Without going into one of those subjects that dare not speak its name, namely wErk, I was originally shipped out for a mere summer season in luverly Praha. Apparently it was because this is where they keep the enormous cold war technology brain sucking machines of the James Bond (Roger Moore) era, and they wanted to extract every particle of information from my grey matter prior to my departure. AKA training. In fact, brain hoovers would have been more entertaining.

Originally the plan was to then find another job October-time elsewhere, but I've now accepted a new job here so hip-hip-hooray for the lovely landlord and Mrs.Jana is chortling all the way to the bank as I sign on for another term.

So the "???" regarding location in the short-term can now be removed from my profile, when I get around to it. Luckily, to keep things interesting, the lastminute.com nature of the whole thing means I have a tonne of other things to sort out that I'd previously put off until the end of the year. The intention was to deal with them when I had more time. Now I have less of that commodity than before and have to do everything from a foreign country too. Roll on November.

Consequently, the "???"s have been let loose to frolic all through my life. Which is both good and bad, and leads me to my latest dilemma. This week I have to whizz off to God's Own Country for family reasons. 'twill be an occasion on the sadder side of life, but had thought to cheer myself up at the end and brace myself for jetlag hell and hideous charter-flight-return-induced-dvt by adding to my small-but-perfectly-formed list of more unusual methods of transport I have used. The float plane has been done before but I wouldn't object to a repeat, especially if I can do it from a different harbour. But in the course of my research, I have discovered that there's also the possibility of the never-before-experienced helicopter ride... oooo???

Boing boing

The Maasai are possibly East Africa's most well-known tribe. They're renowned for their warrior fierceness, their cattle currency, and their long thin silhouettes which appear against the setting sun in numerous postcards. Sometimes near a thorn tree, sometimes just with a spear. The young men are also famous for their demonstrations of youth and vigour in the form of jumping very high from a standing position. To do this, quite flexible achilles tendons are required, which is also helpful exercise if you're interested in improving your running style.

This jumping business is often described as a dance, but I can report that some Maasai also boogie, bounce and hip-hop. They may even do the funky chicken, but the night I saw a Maasai man dancing, the music wasn't appropriate. They play mainly reggae in the Come-Back Club, Watamu. In any case, he looked far cooler than the sprinkling of badly aging wazungu on the prowl for younger, more attractive Kenyan *koff* girlfriends and *koffkoff* boyfriends. Since they both share the same fondness for jewellery, and he'd checked his spear at the door, it must be the lack of a slightly-too-small, uncannily black toupee that does it.

Parklife

In Nairobi National Park, the speed limit is 20km/h and warthogs and children have right of way. Pets are prohibited by law, and only wild animals are allowed. Wild children raised by warthogs are probably covered. What's amazing is that this enormous wildlife park backs onto the city. So as drivers curse and shake their fists at the zebra that have a tendancy to block roads rather like herds of Welsh sheep (only stripier), tourists who have had their fill of black and white photography can admire the city skyline in the distance and watch small planes flying into Wilson Airport.

At the other end of the park, about 100 km or so away from the city, there aren't any fences. It just sort of stops being nature reserve at the Athi river and starts being something else. Buffet, perhaps. In the middle it's a black rhino sanctuary and is the scene of the summer wildebeest migration. I missed both these things, but did manage to see loads of buffalo (not shuffling so much as snuffling) and a pair of lions having a snooze. So that's two out of my big five.

The male lion spent most of his time hunkered down in the grass pretending to be a furry leaf and graciously ignoring the over-excited tourists and the enormous green lorry of the KWS (Kenya Wildlife Service) as it thundered past several times. The female on the other hand was sprawled out in a pose remarkably similar to the one the dog-niece adopts when she flaunts herself illicitly, pr0n-star stylee, on elder bro's fatboy when I do the dog-sitting. So you heard it here first. Dog is merely in touch with her inner lioness, and I am her enabler. Rar.

Toto-lly doomed

They are testing the internal radio system in the office today, and consequently ABBA Gold has been now playing for the last half hour over the announcement system. Despite the fact that I don't actually own this album and haven't listened to it all the way through since my student daze, I know it so well I can actually remember the track order, to say nothing of all the words. It's not right on a Wednesday morning.

Related to this, I realised last night that the noise the boiler at home makes as it switches itself on is identical in rhythm to the opening drum riff of Blondie's "Call Me." Also, when I flew up from Malindi to Nairobi the other day, I looked out to my left and saw Kilimanjaro rising above, er… Tsavo East.

(Favorite bit of that journey: the security screeing at Malindi airport. Two men in a uniform book-ending the most enormous steel beast purporting to be a luggage x-ray machine, but no one actually looking at any images it might produce. Mind you, it could have been emitting rays of doom to neutralise any illicit goods instead. Which would have been cool. It did have that kind of look, and that might have been an explanation for the peculiar grinding sound.)

At least the inevitable looping riff (Sehh-ren-ge-teeee) kept my mind off the pilot's unswerving determination to hit every pocket of air turbulance en route. (Quote from white-knuckled nearby passenger after we landed, "I wish to get out and kiss Kenya's good and Godly earth".)

Clearly, the 80s have left their neon and be-permed mark on my soul. Can a mullet be far away?

Of men in matatus

One of my most iconic memories of previous trips to Kenya has been the sight of overloaded matatus (mini-buses) flinging themselves around potholes at death-defying speeds as yet more passengers attempted to hitch a lift by grabbing hold of the ankles of those clinging desperately to the roof. Maximum speed limits were treated as a target to reach and exceed as quickly as possible. Eye-popping colour schemes vied with ear-deafening music volumes to attract the attention of any orbiting spacecraft. Danger and excitement wrapped up in one teeth-rattling package on four wheels.

But it appears that the matatu's vim and vigour has been muffled of late. From the danger point of view, this is rather a good thing, since matatu accidents have traditionally been fairly horrific. In Nairobi, fleets of nicely painted uniform minibuses in either purple or green now clog the rush-hour traffic. According to a taxi driver I spoke to, it all has something to do with the relative of someone in government who owns a bus-import business. Consequently, the green ones are better than the purple ones. Or was it the other way around?

Down on the coast, matatus have retained their free-spirited approach to music and décor, as long as it doesn't involve actual people and their relatives doing performance art out of the windows. However, a new new form of transport appears to be filling the gap 'twixt bumper and gearstick. The same three-wheeling star of Public Transport Destiny shines on the coastal towns of Brighton, Malindi and Mombasa: they have all taken the tuk-tuk to their hearts and made it their own.

I have seen at least six and a half (counted limbs and divided by 4) people crowded into one of these motorised rickshaws (what else is a boot for?), but the more usual two (fat) or three (skinny) passengers appears to be the norm. As for me? I'd advocate a sports bra on most routes.

The cheaper, more eco-friendly alternative, the boda-boda remains popular as well. Since proper ladies ride sidesaddle these, a certain degree of genteel fearlessness is necessary when it comes to maintaining dignity on the padded seat. Particularly while flying over speedbumps on a downhill slope. It's all a bit like swans, really. Frantic movement below the surface, while above, a serene smile and unruffled countenance. If I can ever get the hang of toting a bundle on my head while riding as well, I'll be indominatable.

In no particular order

When it came to my choice of holiday destination, I decided to opt for somewhere very, very far away from work, Prague and all things Czech. This is harder than one might think. For one thing, this sort of guideline strikes out most of N.America. In Texas, Czech is apparently the third most widely-spoken language. I kid thee not. If it's in easyjet's in-flight magazine, it must be true.

Since I was mainly hoping to think of little more than fish for about two weeks, the cunning option was Kenya, helped by a couple of handy-dandy off-season deals and the prospect of diving in bath-temperature waters. So it was na shledanou to Praha and jambo, habari to Malindi and Watamu with a big bottle of insect repellent so strong it melted English flip-flops more quickly than the midday sun, and an even bigger bottle of factor 50 sun protection that managed to bond with any sand to form a rock-hard cement within seconds.

All very far away from knedlik, cobbles and the conditional tense, you might think… And yet… And yet… I'm not even speaking of the ubiquity of Bata, the Canadian shoe firm of Czech origin. Even though it's just opened a new branch in down-town Nairobi, just off Haile Selassie Ave. Oh no.

As I sped away from Nairobi airport through the African night, my eyes were inexorably drawn to the placards affixed to every lamp-post along Uhuru Highway (and if that doesn't make you think of Star Trek, you're a better earthling than me). For one thing, advertising in foreign countries is way more fun than the home-grown stuff.

Consequently I bring news that Mada hotels are "always in the right spot," and that "you never know what you might find" at Nakumatt shops (including love in the paper products aisle brought on by puffy red cartoon hearts). In fact, even sponsoring a lightpost is "more than just an advertisement".

And so my brain shifted into low gear, hypnotised by the flash… flash… flash… sequence of signs. Until, to my horror, the hoarding for a new and upcoming Ugandan tyre company hove into view. Later billboards revealed the fact that "Africa rides on [these] tyres". But little could the founder have known that his choice of corporate name would strike fear in the heart of this unwary student of the Czech language.

And so my gales of laughter at a fortnight's escape from dreaded grammar turned to hideous screams of terror that cut through the night like demented hyena juggling chainsaws through granite. For the PR people had chosen that particular overpass to make a bold and uncompromising statement of the company name in red and white block capital letters, eight feet high:

YANA

I have seven minutes to write this

So, I haven't run off with a trapeze artist named Dave and his collection of fascinating beer mats. It's just that the dramatic developments in life which have a lot to do with removing the question marks after "Prague" in my profile have also made it extremely busy.

Dramatic developments being what they are, I'm now on holiday, and therefore internet-deprived. But am shortly about to head off and perfect my imitation of a submerged wounded seal (something to do with lack of neutral buoyancy, and mysteriously light ankles - who'd have thought in?) and attrack the attention of any wandering Great Whites. Or something like that.

The good news is that I'm scribbling loads of stuff on old-tech paper, and it may eventually find its way here. If I get a working connection.

Must dash...

Is no gouda

Life has suddenly taken a rather dramatic turn (for the good, fret not), which means things will be slightly frenetic for a while. I'm kind of having to maintain a façade of calm while inwardly jumping up and down like a demented rabbit, squealing huzzah and pumping the air with my fist, and this is also cramping my style. As a consequence I won't have much patience for blogger-battling over the next few days, particularly on the photo front.

However, just to throw something out there, a while back (too lazy to link) there was a post in the Guardian blog about chatting up people reading books on public transport. At the time, I thought, "Interesting idea, but has ramifications." Then took a look at what I was reading (Christopher Moore's Blood-Sucking Fiends) and thought, "Perhaps not the best totty-luring material." At which point I got distracted by medieval justice and that was the end of that.

But a few days ago I sat next to an elderly man on the metro reading Le Petit Nicolas and smiling in appreciation at certain passages. And so the discussion popped up in my head again. For one thing, it seemed a bit of an unusual reading choice and for another, when I know someone has enjoyed a book I've liked, I feel like there's a potential for some kind of connection.

Of course, having been on the other side of the booker/bookee experience, and being possessed of a fairly healthy dose of reserve (I'd give it a nationality, but apparently I've always been like this) I also know that down that path lies the fear of stalkerdom and all kinds of assorted creepiness. And so the elderly man was safe from my attentions while I began to wonder about how the choice of reading material seems to say so much about a person. But that's a blog for another day.

Wow, wow, wow yowe boat.

This weekend we (yrs truly + companions) went to Česky Krumlov for a spot of rafting down the Vltava and some castle-tower climbing. ČK is a small town of almost unbearable chocolate-box cuteness. It has cobbled streets, highly-manicured baroque gardens, little alleywayettes, olde-worlde houses in sugared almond shades and sgraffiti (posh European graffiti, aka renaissance wall etchings) a-go-go. There's even a pink-and-gold gilded wedding cake confection of a Renaissance redecorated tower.

The town proudly claims to be no.2 on the UNESCO world heritage list after Venice. As far as I can tell UNESCO avoids listing anything in order of importance, but ČK is definitely one of the eight hundred and thirty-odd sites. And no, the contents of this list have not now been added to my personal list of future travel destinations. Honest, guv.

The tourist office, while touting the delights of the "Museum Tortury" and "Club Horor" (sic), prefers to gloss over the time when that sociopathic-painter-and-decorator-with-a-dodgy-moustache-who-shall-not-be-named posed for cheering crowds in the main square. This was just after the annexation of the Sudetenland which spearheaded his European-scale living-room remodelling project. Subsequently, during another period of Czech history of which none doth speak, Germanophones were booted out. Then the whole place was left to moulder under layers of murky grey communist aspic and socialist dust until the Velvet Revolution blew away the cobwebs and opened the medieval gates to tourists (but so far, no major fast-food chains).

And hot damn is it ever cute. It's so cute that while wandering around you expect teams of dancers in adorable but itchy technicolourful regional costumes to spill out from rose-bowered doors, then start dancing in formation through the streets while singing a local song of welcome in quaint but unclassifiable central European accents.

"Fa la la laaaaa vee vel-come youuuuu!" chirrup the ladies waving sheaves of golden wheat trailed with ribbons. "Tra lala laaaaa, and your little dog toooooo!" chorus the men, as they skip lightly around the fountain in the main square in knee-length britches. "Ahh-haa-haa-haaaaa, like a special steeeeyeeewww!" trills the children's choir in cherub outfits from the eaves, while showering the dancers with local produce. "Varming ourr hearts in vin-ter, and cool in der zommer toooooo!" they all harmonise together, and release doves from some unimaginable hiding place behind their be-tasselled gaiters.

Well, it could happen. In the meantime, we were treated to the delights of the annual "Folk, Tramp and Country" festival in the self-same square mentioned above. The performers featured a lot of Czech folksongs which everyone knew but us. However, just to lend things that ever-so-slightly surreal edge, quite a few of the performers also treated us to rousing songs from the western pop canon, translated into Czech and reinterpreted in a Folk-Tramp-Country idiom.

While "In My Tennessee Mountain Home" was easy enough to identify, "Hello (is it me you're looking for?)" was trickier to pin down. I think I'm still taking in the notion of Lionel Ritchie tunes with a banjo accompaniment. Anyhow, I'm not entirely sure what the lushly-moustachioed, bald-headed pipe-smoking rider of this vehicle (nice fringe) thought of events, but he did occasionally smile, as did the two goths present. Several kiddies appeared to be having a whale of a time too. And of course, the music was loud enough to block out the faint whirring noise of not a few grave-spinners from the darker corners of history.

(Blogger refuses to cooperate on the photo-uploading front this evening. Hopefully will work tomorrow)

One man's fountain is another man's, erm…

This is a moving sculpture outside the new Kafka museum (their hips swivel and other "parts" move in a stunning display of hydraulic engineering - I kid thee not). The two gentlemen are standing on an outline of the Czech Republic. Make of that what you will.

The Return of Mrs. Jana

The cockles of my heart chilleth over for Mrs. Jana has returned from her holiday full of vim and vigour, and smelling faintly of pine forests. Just in time to test my knowledge of the locative case and take up the challenge of the conditional.

While Ms. Ivanka favoured the "gentle introduction" which involved wading through the shallow waters of basic rules before slowly striking out for deeper water, Mrs. Jana prefers the "cold plunge" deep into the heart of Czech grammar. The over-riding principal is the survival of the linguistic fittest, and I tremble at the thought of failure.

Thus, her disapproval was manifest when she began her preliminary assessment of my progress over the last few weeks. "Use these words in a conditional sentence," she instructed. But apparently, I used the wrong kind. Ohhh nooooo… woe betide the hapless student that uses the easy conditional, the "I-would-have-done-my-homework-but-my-pencils-all-were-stolen-by-a-vengeful-elf," conditional tense. Instead, they must produce something else. Only I'm not entirely sure what it is, so I'd better start studying again.

Bit squished, but still here.

Halfway up the stairs isn't up and isn't down, particularly when there are 289 of the very narrow things twisting their way heavenward from transept to tower. I've never felt that emotion more clearly than last Saturday morning when we ascended St. Vitus' main tower along with all the other herds of tourists thundering through Prague. Oddly, this group seemed to include what felt like the entire population of Spain. Bro, soz-in-law and I somehow ended up behind a rather portly couple who appeared to be about to wheeze their (forty-unfiltered-a-day) last at that point (stair no. 144.5).

And in that moment the knowledge that we were neither in the tower, nor on the ground filled our hearts with dread. The sheer press of humanity on their way up meant that try though they might, descending was extremely low on the list of options, unless one of them had brought a pickaxe and rigging for just such an emergency.

And so they stopped. And we stopped. And the mass of humanity behind us stopped. And they panted. (stair no.144) And I began to mentally revise CPR. And the mass of humanity behind us surged forward another step. And they puffed. (stair no.145) And bro began to mutter darkly about Drake and the Armada. And we wondered if that was a death-rattle. (stair no.144 nononono) And the mass of humanity pressed upward.

And they creakily began to debate their options in husky Spanish. (stair no.145 yesyesyesyes) And I attempted to calculate the clearance between their heads and the ceiling and the weight-bearing capability of their shoulders propped at various angles. And then they began to shuffle around a bit.(stair no.146 ohyespleasegoonmysonsyoucandoit) And the MOH began to get restless.

Until, with a last desperate lunge, (stairs no. 147, 148,149,150151hoooorrraayyyy!!!!) they reached the window aperture half-a-turn up and there was enough extra room for us to squeeze past, with the mass of humanity, Spanish hordes included, in hot pursuit. I have never been so grateful to see a bell-loft in my life.

Despite this near-death experience, there were were no fatalities last weekend, which marks it as a resounding success in my book, particularly as all injuries incurred were fairly evenly distributed and should eventually heal with proper medical treatment and appropriate clothing. They included:
Two nose-bleeds (mine).
Two pairs of feet worn down to bleeding stumps (bro and sos-in-law).
Chafing in an unmentionable (and for me unthinkable) area (bro, as s-i-l wore both comfortable pants and shoes).
One random, distracted tourist bruised in an unmentionable (but for me thinkable) when he walked into a bollard at just the right height.
One German lady accidentally punched in the left boob. (Guilty party: me - I averted an international incident with a quick-thinking apology in my very best Czech and a rapid exit of the cramped washroom).

And the cake was very good.

The eagle is landing

I'd actually intended to use today's post to sum up some thoughts (Kadri's and mine) about the trials I wrote about last week. But elder bro and soz-in-law are descending on Prague tomorrow for the weekend. As long as no one between there and here decides they're a potentially lethal substance, they'll hopefully be bearing vast quantities of extremely stinky olives. Felt obliged to withdraw my request for the disposable bbq though.

Nothing but sweetness and light in casa peril, you might think. Or at least as much sweetness and light as brine, oil and the pungent odours of raw garlic, chili and jet fuel can provide. Nonetheless, I am wracked with anxiety about the organisational side of things. It's a huge unknown quantity.

Visions of disaster flit across my empty mind. My track record isn't the best in this area. Since the time my sleeping bag acted as a sponge for a cow pasturesworth of collected rain during a howling gale, my tour leadership experience has been a veritable compendium of missed connections, closed-for-repairs, food poisoning, speeding tickets, riots and Polish mazurka dancers.

Not revealing any secrets because they don't often pass by here (but you never know…). Anyhow this is the plan so far:

Day 1
Crack of dawn (early-risers. sigh.)
Bridge
Castle
Emergency cake
Admiring of cobblestones
Admiring of brewery
Emergency beer*
Mala Strana
More emergency beer
Maybe some food

Day 2
Crack of mid-morning
Josefov
Emergency pancakes (shh… that's the secret surprise)
Old Town
Museum of Communism
Lunch potato
Museum of something or other
Emergency light beer
Dinner in the aeroplane restaurant
Emergency dark beer

Day 3
???????
Beer. Light and dark.

I think it could do with more depth.

*This is for them, not me. But if I get my timing right, they might not notice that I'm hiding under the table with a head-torch for 20 minutes of nerve-soothing Wodehouse.

If man is five...

[No animals were harmed during the creation of the following blog entry. Harmed? Have you seen the state of my lower intestine after that last seven-course meal? All that rich food, heavy on the dairy? No soluble fibre unless it was swimming in cream? And the toilet roll's like sandpaper, dammit. They were coddled and treated like a delegation of visiting royalty. And this is the thanks I get.]

This is not a review. This is a question of justice. For too long we have bourne bjorn put up with the slings and arrows of unkind man's ingratitude. You're mixing your playful metaphors again. For too long intelligent, highly-evolved non-human primates have been undervalued and disgracefully exploited while rascally homo sapiens-types grab all the glory.

Take the treatment meted out on one primate (species unspecified) only identified as "Pal", in this book about detectives from Houston. The cover goes all blurry when you wave it about like that. Slow down, will you? Besides, don't that writer's Texans normally grow up to be cowboys?. In this case, as everyone knows, there are no species of ape native to Texas What about Bigfoot? so the action mainly takes place in Washington. Not the rainy state, the D.C. one.

As the story opens, the very innocent anthropologist heroine with soft brown hair has come under suspicion of stealing a 5000-year-old cuneiform vase. The embittered detective hero with darker, springier hair arrives to clear her name, and is told about three potentially shifty faculty members with boring hair as well as the highly-intelligent and well-groomed primate used for research in social development. The detective immediately finds a mysterious hair at the scene of the crime and takes it the FBI lab for analysis. But it's too coarse to be human... Should have used conditioner

To give the hero and heroine credit, they struggle in truly heroic fashion against the blatant pro-human bias of the plot. They promptly dismiss the hair as unimportant. They attempt to remove focus on the primate's history as an escape artist by discussing melon balls and the decline of civilization. They try to divert attention from the ape's lock-picking skills with big dramatic misunderstandings, thund'rous passion, sweet, savage misunderstandings, nefarious-friend-provoked passion, more violent, hungry mis-. Hang on. I think I'm getting a bit confused here.

But despite their noble efforts, the tail… That's not funny tale rolls inexorably along its predetermined course. And guess who gets caught bare-pawed in a thrilling denoument four chapters from the end and then ignominiously shipped back to the zoo, to be replaced in the research lab by an iguana? AN IGUANA!

That's right, blaaaame the monkey. Blame the friggin' monkey. Sorry, ape. At least the heroine is able to make that distinction. Make him the scAPE-goat so that the story can end with the humans free of false accusations and happy as gumivores in a sweet shop, while the more intelligent biped is sent to rot behind the bars of a cage. Don't ask the obvious questions, like WHY any self-respecting primate would want to steal 5000-year old dried mud…

*bing!lightbulb* …hang on… the primate's name was Pal… That sounds a bit like…Hal, doesn't it? And the species is never properly identified. The writer even throws out terms like "australopithecus insidious" and "missing link" seemingly in jest. She knew! SHE KNEW! It's all so clear… This is horrifying... Wait! What are you doing, D-?

*brooding silence*

Briefly stunned into insensibility

This is from something like the Czech equivalent of Now, called Jim. From my rough translation of the blurb, it's a photo of the highly-secret wedding between the "rocker" (NOT singer), Josef Vojtek and the lovely dancer, Libuše Hůlková. It took place at Průhonice (the garden and castle we visited last month where we marvelled at the ability of Czech women to hike gravel paths in spike heels).

Perhaps at the time we were actually witnessing some bizarre suitability test, akin to those conducted in days of yore when prospective brides would chop down forests with dried herring, crochet bullet-proof antimacassars from spaghetti, line-dance on the head of a pin and so on.

The caption does note that the outfits were inspired by musicals. The Pirates of Penzance and Moulin Rouge are clearly in the mix, but what about the rest?

Edited to add: Lookee what rpc found! It's uncanny, I tell you.

The wind beneath its wings

This weekend, flatmate J. and I went off to wander along the banks of a 16th-century fish pond and look at a giant neo-gothic mausoleum in South Bohemia. Třeboň (aka Wittengau), to be precise, footnotes from whose history might eventually feature here if I ever manage to sort out something for rpc on witches and alchemy.

The fish pond was very large and wet. The mausoleum was neo-Gothic and had 27 coffins in the crypt. I've evidently watched more "Buffy" episodes than most of the Czech republic including the tour guide, because they didn't seem too impressed by my badly-mimed requests for a bundle of wooden stakes and some holy hand grenades of righteousness.

We also temporarily sought shelter from the permanent downpour by ducking into an exhibition on the surrounding area called, "Třeboňsko - Man and Nature". It featured little video clips and dioramas on the construction of the ponds, unique eco-system of the area (nature films) and the local peat baths/spa (bathers au naturel films).

As seems to be de rigeur anywhere that has an old castle, the "wildlife" section was partly an excuse to dust down and exhibit some of great-great-uncle Bohumil's taxidermy efforts. However, the exhibitors did seem to recognise that some visitors might have qualms about the enormous quantity of dead, stuffed animals they had managed to acquire and were sensitive enough to provide detailed explanations in certain cases. Here's a typical example (slightly paraphrased):

Osprey - Pandion haliaetus

This osprey was brought into the animal welfare centre with a broken leg after it had been unfairly attacked by a wild boar. The boar was sent to anger-management therapy and has grown touchingly fond of its inner piglet.

After ground-breaking keyhole surgery, the osprey appeared to be on the road to recovery until it contracted a terrible fever and rejected its pinfeather transplant. Despite the heroic efforts of staff, and the prayers of the entire Czech nation the osprey unfortunately succumbed and passed away peacefully in a nest made of finest-quality organically-grown, pesticide-free reeds.

A state funeral with full honours followed, attended by the president and famous celebrities from Velký Bratr (Big Brother) 3, one of whom - the loud one with cavernous nostrils - tearfully expressed the determination to change his name by deed poll to AuspReigh to honour the bird's nobility of spirit.

With its dying squawk, the osprey had expressed a wish that its body be given to science for the benefit of generations to come and thus after the ceremony it was stuffed with sage and onion loving care by tender hands and now features as an honoured part of this exhibit, for which we are eternally grateful.

Would would Della do?

Leaping with the speed and grace of a mountain lion over several centuries and a few thousand miles, we arrive back in Scotland during the reign of James VI, aka James, King of England, Scotland, France (yes, I know - that's another long story, lets just say nothing beats a monarchy for stubborness) and Ireland (see comment for France), Defender of the Faith (as long as it was the right one), etc. (this is an official royal etc., rather than me being lazy)

Son of Mary, Queen of Scots, James was actually raised Protestant and married Anne of Denmark to cement his religious position. In fact, he claimed to have been struck by love's dart after seeing her portrait for the first time and wrote her love sonnets, including the immortal lines:

The fever hath infected every part
My bones are dried, their marrow melts away,
My sinnews feebles through my smoking smart,
And all my blood as in a pan doth play.

(cue gross bit - as if that wasn't enough)

Touching stuff, I think you'll agree.* Anne evidently thought so since she bore him 9 children although apparently they later drifted apart. Anyhow all this helps to show that James was not a squeamish man who fainted at big piles of gore, blood and guts. He probably found them inspiring and full of meaning in some ineffably Elizabethan way. Dude, they were a morbid bunch.

The tendancies described above might help to explain why in October 1600 (a few years after he got over his obsession with witch-hunting) he ordered the attendance of John and Alexander Ruthven at Holyrood. They were to answer charges of treason for attempting to kill him, but it was their months-old pickled corpses that arrived at court. This couldn't have been a surprise to the monarch since it was James and/or his attendants that had killed the brothers back in August and ordered their bodies' preservation. (p.177)

Following their conviction for their part in the "Gowrie Conspiracy", the corpses were then dragged through the streets of Edinburgh, publically hanged, quartered and their heads put on display. This wasn't even the end of it, since nine years later, Robert Logan had been dead for three years when witnesses testified against his reassembled skeleton for his part in the same conspiracy. (pp.178-9) Nice.

This practice faded out in Britain (with a brief hiccup for regicides at the start of the Restoration), but across the Channel, even a century or so later the trial and execution of corpses, particularly suicides, wasn't unusual. Take the conviction for suicide of a 74-year-old man in 18th-century Picardy who had hanged himself because he was convinced that his bride (20) was magically making him incapable of the "dance as old as time". (p.171)

Magic. Absolutely. But the interesting feature of this case is that convicted suicides normally forfeited their land and wealth. Since the man's lovely young bride had remarried a bare 2 weeks after his death, it's not a stretch to imagine that he was actually counting on this outcome. However this time the court mitigated the forfeiture and awarded his widow 1500 livres. (ibid) One cunning, Agatha Christie-type revenge plan foiled, methinks.

*Luckily, the most famous work associated with his name (The King James Bible) only does so because he commissioned it. He mercifully left its composition to a committee of 50-odd translators.

Page references still to this book

Is the Pope?...

Once upon a time in Rome, the shiny fisherman's ring of office didn't exactly poof from one pope's finger to the next in a graceful flurry of white doves and smoke. Transitions were a tad bumpier than the stately shenanigans that recently graced St.Peter's Square. It wasn't all about kicking around in the Sistine chapel admiring the pictures and drinking Benedictine while waiting for a super-secret conclave (flock? davinci? gibson?) of cardinals to make a decision. Those who would be pope used to take a bit more of a hands-on approach to things.

More blood, more assassins, and sometimes... zombie popes. Or at least Pope of the Living Dead. Kinda.

And so we turn our minds back to events following April 4, 896 when Pope Formosus (yes I know, would you call your son Formosus? Maybe some would, after all it means "good-looking" in latin, but what's wrong with a nice biblical name like Manger, anyway?) shuffled off this mortal coil due to old age, heartbreak, guilt or chagrin depending on whose version of events you read.

Before his death, Formosus had been caught up in political squabbles over who got to rule the Holy Roman Empire.** While he favoured Arnulf of Carinthia (East Frankish Carlovingian/Carolingian/Karling dynasty), his next successor-but-one Stephen VI (Boniface VI, the pope in between, lasted only two weeks) preferred the rugged and manly charm of Lambert, Duke of Spoleto. Since both these gentlemen had been crowned emperor by Formosus at different times (long story), Stephen VI took drastic action to ensure Lambert's legitimacy and undermine Arnulf's descendents claim. Lambert and his mother Agiltrude, no fan of the Carolingians herself, also wanted vengeance on Formosus for his double-dealing.

(gross bit coming up)

And so in January 897 they disinterred Formosus' decomposing corpse (do the maths - that's grim), dressed him in his papal togs and propped up him up on his throne.Then they convened a special synod and tried him as a usurper. The synod would come to be known as the synod horrenda or cadaver synod. (p.167)

After a bit of angry shouting by Stephen VI, the synod convicted Formosus, chopped off the three fingers he used for papal blessings, stripped him of his vestments and dumped him in a pauper's grave. But there was no rest for Formosus yet, since grave-robbers made off with his body. When they found nothing of value on it, they dumped it in the Tiber. (p.168)

Stephen's macabre trial did little to endear him to the people of Rome, and their discontent found a focus when a monk wandering along the riverbank later that year spotted a body which he quickly identified as Formosus (well, what other corpse could possibly have been bobbing along down Porto way with missing fingers?) and fished him out. Rumours quickly circulated that the waterlogged remains had the power to perform miracles. A public uprising followed and Stephen VI was deposed and put in prison where he was strangled in either July or August of that year.

In November that year, Pope Theodore II found time during his 20-day reign to annul the synod's verdict, and the body was kitted out in a new outfit and returned to its tomb in St.Peter's Basilica. His successor, Pope John IX declared any future trial of a dead person unlawful and burned the synod records.

Even this wasn't the end of the story. A later pope, Sergius III, (904-911) would overturn these rulings and write a lovely epitaph for Stephen VI's tomb. There are also reports that he exhumed Formusus' much-abused corpse, tried and convicted it a second time and then beheaded it. Although never over-turned, Sergius III's decisions were disregarded afterwards due to his Spoletan bias. Accusations of murder, corruption and the nefarious influence of his concubine, Marozia, probably didn't help.

Now of course, it could be argued that this was the sort of thing that those addled medieval-types got up to when they'd sampled a bit too much of their home-brewed mead. But this was by no means the last time a corpse was tried… (what a cliff-hanger - insert doom-laden music here, preferably with bagpipes).

**Charlemagne, son of Pepin (not a hobbit) was the most famous Carolingian King of the Franks, a Germanic confederation which covered the Low Countries, western Germany and most of France apart from Brittany. The treaty of Verdun of 843 saw three of his grandsons split his kingdom into three parts: Lothair got Middle Francia, Louis the German got East Francia and Charles the Bald (hee!) got West Francia.

East Francia slowly and stickily became the Holy Roman Empire of the West (aka of the German nation aka the Reich), the process finishing under Otto I the Great in 962. A bit before Otto, Charles the Fat (son of Louis the German) helped things along, since he managed to inherit large chunks of his uncles' territory owing to their unfortunate habit of dying without heirs. But nothing was straightforward and the situation often became as messy as their Merovingian predecessors' hair in a force 10 gale.

Picture:
Jean-Paul Laurens, Le Pape Formose et Etienne VII, 1870, Musée des Beaux-Arts, Nantes, via Wikipedia

MacWitch?

More from the book. All good stuff, really. Comments forthcoming.

James VI of Scotland, aka the later James I of England, was astonishingly intellectual for a monarch which quality earned him the sobriquet, "the wisest fool in Christendom." Well, what else do you call someone who translated texts from Latin to French to English as a child for fun? (p.124) Low on fluffy-lambkin character traits, high on paranoia (p.126), he feared a coven of witches were plotting against him and kicked off the first mass witch-hunt in Scotland.

So things weren't very much in the way of sweetness and light in late 17th century Scotland, what with Jamie-boy forming a commission to safeguard the country from sorcery, authorising the use of torture and worse still, publishing an enormously thick treatise on witchcraft, the smash (well, it was heavy enough to kill a cockroach acting as a minion of the dark side) hit Daemonologie, which recycled most of the usual superstitions and anecdotes. However, by 1597 he'd chilled out a bit and reined in the activities of witch-hunters, as well as starting to question some of the prosecutions. (p.128)

But James' influence on the rise in witch-hunting shouldn't be over-stated. It was actually a period which marked a rise in witch-hunts throughout Europe. Also, about twelve times the number of witches were burned in Scotland as in England at this time, a phenomenon Kadri attributes to institutional differences between the two countries. Scotland had moved to a more continental-style of trials led by judges, often in private, whereas England usually had jury trials. (p.128)

However, Jamie-boy would soon have other irons in the fire. Even DEAD ones...

Trials and Tribulations

At the moment I'm reading a really interesting book on the history of trials. There's a chapter dedicated to the trials of non-humans (animals, objects and corpses), which is a practice that didn't really fade out until the Enlightenment. Lots of theory about the evolution about the modern judicial system, but even more good stories.

So for your delectation, a couple of anecdotes from this chapter. The first concerns a certain Jacques Ferron and an unnamed female donkey both of whom were convicted for improper relations back in Vanvres, 1750. Man and donkey were sentenced to death, but prior to the execution Jacques' neighbours and parish priest came rushing hot-foot with a petition for mercy. Mercy for the communally-owned donkey, that is. They stated that they had known the poor maligned creature for four years and that she was "in word and deed and in all her habits of life a most honest creature." Donkey was back in the grazing ground by tea-time, nibbling while Jacques burned (alive). (p.156)

Back in 1535 Nottinghamshire a jury was convened to establish culpability in the death of one farmer Anthony Whylde, who had been suffocated when a large haystack fell on him. In a Perry Masonesque feat of deduction, the jurors managed to identify with astonishing precision the exact small bale responsible for Anthony's death. The ultimate fate of the bale is not noted. Insert bad pun of your choice here. (p.179)

Tomorrow - corpses in the dock. Wa-hay!

Still standing... le vikend

Rather dissipated, I think. Inexplicably, although I don't drink the fruit of the vine, the hop, the barley, the malt, the potato, the sugarcane, the date, the rotting palm-fruit, the wormwood, the old tyre, and so on, I still feel vaguely hungover/lethargic two days later. And I think I broke my air guitar.

Personally, I blame the idiot frenchmen who were doing their level best to single-handedly reverse the national stereotype of centuries by avoiding even the slightest hint of sophistication and savoir-faire in their behaviour in favour of acting like marauding idiots. Toes trampled in drunken efforts at "dancing": 793. Limbs ashed by flying cigarettes: 7 (one twice).

If they really were French… They seemed to have difficulty understanding or even speaking that language too. Favorite gem of conversation, "You are your friend's nose." I'm still bemused by that one. Because there must be meaning in it. Somewhere. Then there was the 'Meurican who claimed not to have known the name of this country before he arrived. All well and good, but I'm not sure this is the sort of thing in which I'd take pride. Or advertise to passing strangers.

He also produced this little snippet of conversation with Californian flatmate:
"Hey, your friend doesn't speak English, right? Where's she from?"
"England."
"Hey, they speak English good here, don't they?"

Sadly I missed the opportunity to chat with this fine speciman of manhood owing to the complete impenetrability of my dialect. Luckily I normally wander around with a portable subtitle machine or heaven knows how flatmates and I ever managed to negotiate a cleaning rota.

But a most entertaining evening in all. Hopefully, 'twas the chocolate ornament on flatmate J's birthday French lemon tart covered in seasonal fruit. And besides, if we hadn't gone to this particular 80s/90s night, I would have lived without ever seeing a hen party from Essex dance around a crutch to the Bangles (though I could have happily lived without ever seeing the middle-aged male belly-dancer from Pinner, music optional.)

Fruit?

Ahhhhh…. Friday. Light-hearted pudding of delight and rosé-fingered dawn of the weekend. Or something like that. Mel is free now, but after my manifold and great struggles with blogger over the photos for the last post I'm not sure I am able to face another attempt.

Besides, I'm busy ordering a birthday cake. (We have an oven but no pans so baking isn't really an option.) French-style lemon tart with seasonal fruit, or orange-poppyseed with mascarpone cream? Or perhaps New York or marble cheesecake with crushed amaretti biscuit base? And can I just say that there are some damn fine bakeries and cake-shops in this city?

Which leaves me only to close with the immortal words of Marvell in To His Coy Mistress, a manly man's poet with nutritional interests that were far ahead of his time, "My vegetable love should grow/vaster than empires, and more slow." Perhaps after the cake.

A cat can look at a king

In the Kingdom of Argondia, the man with the bushy beard and velvet robe is king. Well, it's not as if he's gonna be Keeper of the Garderobe or a Fuller or something, is it? So all hail King Reon and his mystic wine, fruit juice from concentrate and interior decoration skills. Lesser mortals (ie. not his famous customer, Jimmy Page) who have not visited the Kingdom of Argondia will find it about half-way up Petřin hill.

(ETA: For full Argondian effect, please play Clannad/Enya through the left earphone and Deep Forest through the right one. At a fairly deafening volume - there, that should do the trick)

It's an astonishing experience. What can I say? You know how sometimes in Changing Rooms a designer will go for a "theme". And the surprise of the unsuspecting owners when their previously white-on-pine Scandanavian master bedroom now looks as if TGI Friday's have set up shop in Tutankhamun's aging mistress' bordello? Entering the Kingdom of Argondia creates that level of disconcertment. You can get culture shock walking through the door.

Outside, birds twitter among the trees. Inside, vaguely Celtic-type music (pan pipes, muted female-angel-choir-on-heavy-echo voices that swoop to recreate the sound of leaves on water or some such thing) drowns out footsteps. Outside, timber-framed serenity. Inside, hallucinogenic paintings. Outside sweete lyttle Czech house. Inside, astonishing magic grotto effect, achieved by use of aluminium foil, fairy lights, and not a small amount of plaster. (How'd the elves get it all up that hill?).

Edited to add 2: Outside, leafy nature. Inside, steroid-enhanced demonic Argondian chia pets.

As for the subject-matter of his art, if Reon would be king, it seems his potential pick of queens are all nubile topless beauties with big eyes and the odd fish-tail. As befits the monarch of a magical realm, his courtship is likely to be fraught with peril (heheh), what with those scorpions and antlers growing out of their heads. But no doubt it will be luminous.

ETA: Photos finally added after much agonised perseverence, blogger has been relentlessly uncooperative. King Reon may have greater powers than I suspected. Apologies for their quality and flash issues, but I don't have much photographic ability and it's very dark in the Kingdom of Argondia.

The lost ones...

As mentioned in yesterday's post, as soon as I tell myself that I ought to write about something, I immediately find it next to impossible to do so. Here's a list of the most recent topics:

Mushroom picking and berries in baskets
Kingdom of Argondia
Mr. Cimrman, Czech inventor and misunderstood genius
Mongolian death-worm
Lost book
Saint-under-a-rock church
Baby tower
Marie Whatsherface, Cordonnier, in her own words
The Trial
Clocks
X marks the spot
Eiffel Tower
Thai food
Bread rolls
Opera and radicalism

Since most of these relate to what I've been doing lately, clearly, I'm no travel writer. Ah well.

A day late and a dollar…

For various reasons, including time zones, I've never been able to coordinate myself enough to contribute to Beth's SB Day - a weekly celebration of all things reading. But yesterday she asked, "What don't you read?" which is a really interesting question.

For one thing, I can't find it in me to come up with a list. I read all the time, and can barely remember a time when I didn't. If desperate, or wondering about the right sort of thing, I could read almost anything. It doesn't mean I have to like it or even think I'll enjoy it or that it's good, but in the right frame of mind almost anything could be interesting, even if only for five minutes. So it's really hard to come up with something about a book that would put me off if I had absolutely nothing else to read, although in some cases it might have to be the last book in the world. Although the last book in the world? I might put off reading it forever. Just to have something to anticipate.

Oddly, the one thing that does put me off reading something I'd otherwise enjoy or find interesting is obligation. The minute I "have" to read something it becomes a chore, and one that I'll put off for as long as possible. I have struggled through official reading lists of core texts, while devouring the "further reading". I used to dread being set well-loved or interesting-looking books to read for a class, because being forced to read them could suck all the joy out what should have been a pleasure.

Incidentally, this is even true when it's me telling myself that I ought to read a book. In a way it's a lot like the way things are turning out at this blog. I had plans for what I intended to write about for the next couple of days, but find myself completely incapable of doing this now that I've made the fatal error and thought, "I should write about xyz." On the other hand, the right question or a fleeting thought will catch my interest and mushroom into something completely unexpected, like this post.

Just to round things off, here's a list of reasons why I decided not to buy various books recently. The trick here is to realise that they haven't put me off for good, but just for now. Because in the now, when I have lots of choice, I can be really picky.

Massive hype (fear of disappointment).
Hero sounds like a jerk.
Heroine sounds shallow.
Expensive.
Trying too hard to be "wacky".
Second in series and I haven't read the first one.
First one doesn't look as good as the second one.
Really liked another book by this writer, and worried this won't be as good.
Read a lot of this sort of thing lately and doesn't sound different enough.

Also when very young, I refused to ever re-read The Tale of Samuel Whiskers because the scene where the rats rolled Tom Kitten into roly-poly pudding gave me nightmares. I also refused to read Where the Wild Things Are because the picture on the cover scared me. Instead, I used to hide it where I would hopefully never come across it, like the bathroom cupboard behind mysterious, ancient and unused hair-taming equipment. Mind you, I think I'm over this by now.