Wah? Over 3 months?

Shurely not... Anyhow, must do something to fend off evil spambot invasion.

Oooh, look. I've just been on holiday. And it was insanely cold, although since I've returned, all the Poles at work have been going about saying that their -29 back home trumps my -16... Except they've been all toasty warm at -3 here in Prahahahaha while I was in the wilds of South Bohemia freezing off vital parts and hollering for more wood for the fire.

Have a photo of a tree:

And a snow angel:
(Photos not mine, but a compadre's, but the snow angel was indeed mine, all thanks to bargain ski trousers and a jacket. Weirdly, no one I was with had ever even heard of them (snow angels, not skiwear sales. I blame the communists.)

Once upon a time, in a blogiverse far far away...

There was a person who regularly posted. That was about a year ago.

Then the ebhil curse of the drinking classes (or even glasses, I assume) got in the way.

Then she got her library shipped from home and trapped herself in her front room with some over-ambitious Ikea self-assemblage. After devouring three packets of rye crackers with only mustard ease things down, suddenly MDF looked rather tasty, and she managed to nibble herself free through a week spot in the backboard...

Only to decide that a holiday was the solution to all ills. So off she went (by train, metro, foot and ferry) to a remote mountain hamlet in Crete where she fulfilled a life's ambition and learned to milk a goat. There are pictures. She wasn't very good at it. It was cool. There was no electricity. Unfortunately, she had to come back by plane and is now scarred for life by the "complimentary" meal served to console her for missing her connection in Athens. To say nothing of the hotel room and its lovely view of one of the city's finest roundabouts.

CleaR! Bzzzp! Bzzzp!

"Hey, so have you got done your Christmas present shopping yet?"
"No."
"Oh."
"And it's already too late for some. Unless I order online locally."
"That's okay. Look, you can order the Philips HeartStart Home Defibrillator with Slim Carrying Case from Amazon.com. only $1,275.00. Free shipping within the contiguous US."
"Not bad. They were saying the paper the other week how the exchange rate was getting more favorable."
"Yeah. You could probably get the storage cabinet as well."
"Nice. It's very clearly labelled."
"Only 4 in stock, mind you. Better get one soon."
"But if I order the HeartStart Defibrillator without the Slim Carrying Case for only $1,249.00 I can get the Free Philips HeartStart Home Automated External Defibrillator Adult Training Pads Kit instead."
"What a dilemma."
"Yeah. Maybe I'll just send those biscuits instead. The ones with vanilla filling."

Never the twains

…and then the wireless vanished, and we were left alone with nothing to do as night fell but sing to the sea and the sheep.

Unfortunately, we couldn't remember the words of many trad. songs about the sea, or sheep for that matter, so our choice of ditties was perhaps a little light. We stood with our trousers rolled up to our knees in the surf and ended up bellowing out a few choruses of Drunken Sailor and Yellow Submarine before we stubbed our gritty toes back up the beach. It was nice.

But the best bit was getting there.

Not sure if I've mentioned it before, but I love trains. Not overwhelmingly or obsessively, you understand, but I think they are about my favorite means of transport. Somehow, going on holiday by train feels right. Going off for a weekend at the seaside by train is even more right.

This weekend, after the hard-core commuter line from Euston, followed by the usual hideous bank holiday mess around the Midlands there was the utter glory of a local service that ambled through North Wales, lurching between scenic splendours and industrial car parks. Periodically, after a flurry of engine shunting and frantic racing by confused passengers to the front or back two cars (as appropriate), carriage segments would break off to escape along branch lines to the sea.

My own fun-filled journey went something like this:

Euston. Fellow traveller missed train. Angry commuter line in shiny, yet souless Pendolino service to Wolverhampton. Had seat. Meanwhile, fellow traveller gets on another train. Goes wrong way.

Hellish bank holiday confusion/cancellation/delays at Birmingham New St. information desk. No seat, much waving of small pieces of paper.

Depressed local commuter line from Birmingham to Liverpool Lime St., descending at Wolverhampton. Had seat. Pieces of paper jettisoned.

Sit on Wolverhampton platform, looking anxiously at delay updates for train from Birmingham New St. that might-or-might-not be cancelled. Check clock. Fellow traveller has turned around and arrived in Telford by mysterious means. Check clock. An hour passes.

Train for Aberystwyth. It's the only one going anywhere Welsh-wards. Everyone else in Wolverhampton agrees and gets on the train. No seat. No carriage. Stand in loo. DUE TO THE CANCELLATION OF THE 18:42 SERVICE FROM BIRMINGHAM NEW STREET, PASSENGERS FOR ALL STATION**FRSTZZ** TO LL**-DDY*-*AOWFRSPZZ**DR SHOULD NOT CHANGE AT DOVEY JUNCTION BUT REMAIN ON THE SAME TRAIN AND F**PSS*8RR**--**RSTZ UP THE PLATFORM.

Move to behind the buffet car for the line to Pwllheli. PASSENGERS FOR ALL DESTINATIONS ON THE 19:27 TRAIN TO YSF*--ZZST--** SHOULD IMMEDIATELY BR::RSF**ARRGGHH--YZSZ--SZT***ting*** FOR THE LAST TRAIN TO LLF**R--SZZ_SHUN*GGK.

Train pulls out of the station the same way it came in. Seat is now backwards and disconcerts me. Night falls. Man from Birmingham with tent and beer produces map of North Wales and attempts to chart the course of his journey. THERE IS A TROLLEY SERVICE ON THIS TRAIN UNTIL BZZZST** Pencil line drawn by man from Birmingham with tent and beer falls into the Irish sea.

PASSENGERS ARE NOT PERMITTED TO MOVE BETWEEN CARRIAGES WHILE THEY ARE BEING DETATCHED. Run up the platform to the front two carriages at Machynlleth. Curse book-buying spree. Crash into fellow commuter, who has lost phone. Train turns around.THE TROLLEY SERVICE HAS NOW ENDED.

Train carriage is now devoid of life apart from selves, sleeping man from Birmingham with tent and no beer, and a family all speaking in Welsh. They wear shirts saying, "I support Wales and everyone playing the English." I hide behind book and fellow traveller tries to look Australian.

PASSENGERS ARE REQUESTED TO ADVISE THE CONDUCTOR IMMEDIATELY OF THEIR REQUIRED DESTINATION. THIS IS A REQUEST STOP SERVICE CALLING AT STATIONS TO F%RSZ*-*KKZT-WYD. THERE IS NO TROLLEY SERVICE ON THIS TRAIN. I advise conductor of our requested destination and she writes it on a little notepad.

Phone rings. Friend with car who is picking us up asks that we get off at another station, which is the second-stop-with-the-same-name-on-the-line. Tells us this three times. I advise conductor of our revised destination only once.

Once is enough. She sniffs. "You'll need to get off from the middle doors here." THERE IS NO TROLLEY SERV-- I am too afraid to confirm if she has decided to drop us at the first or second-station-with-the-same-name-on-the-line.

The platform is the size of a bus shelter, and we have to go through a cattle gate to leave the station. According to the rail timetable footnotes, at request stops marked with "x" , passengers desiring to join the train are advised to make themselves clearly visible to the train driver from the platform. Shades of "The Railway Children", methinks.

Beehive behind the bonnet

Before the year is out, I will be a biological evil Auntie, rather than the "ties-of-friendship-rather-than-blude" evil Auntie I have been so far. The parents of the future be-evilled niece or nephew have been practising their parenting skills on the dog, so I am generally optimistic about the whole business of keeping the infant off the sofa and training him/her not to climb up the stairs, chew the bottom step to matchsticks or make messes on the living room carpet.

The dog has also been generous enough to allow me to practise my own evil aunting skills, which in her view generally involves letting her sprawl with pr0n-star abandon all over the older bro's fatboy (posh beanbag) revealing all sorts of Overly Frank Truths (it's a girl! it's a boy! later this year - it's a filled nappy!) to the world and shedding a good quarter of her body hair. Meanwhile I watch DVDs.

But while in the car on the way to the mouth of Wey this weekend with tricky, we were chatting about this and decided that in honour of the occasion I should probably up the evil quotient somewhat. We idly debated the possibilities of motorbikes, red leather, tattoos and a mysteriously untraceable smell, but in the end came round to the idea that the crowning glory could only be provided by my er... crowning glory.

Maybe it was the giddiness brought on by the pending weekend at the Great British Seaside. Maybe it was the prospect of greasy, paper-wrapped heaven in the form of the best fish and chips on the south coast. Maybe it was the Annual Trawler Race. Maybe it was the monotony and dull back pain induced by the Great British Bank Holiday Series of Traffic Jams. Maybe it was the ipod-wielding genius of tricky himself, and his selection of finest tunes. A combination of nostalgia and pop is a deadly thing.

But five and a half hours later, we poured ourselves onto the grey and windy beach utterly convinced that the ultimate badge of evil auntieness, the towering edifice that is the iron badge of the truly Great Aunt is the rock-solid, weatherproof, waterproof, wellie-proof beehive.

I'm off to find the lacquer and half a country cob.

Sprung

The curse of the drinking classes has unexpectedly pulled a few extremely rare rabbits out of my sweat-stained and rather grimy cap this month. Like buses, the ineffable rabbits of "off-site" trips all seem to come at once. The last of these is a week in Italy at the end of March, with the opportunity to extend through the weekends either side. So hooray for a total of 5 days to visit the electronically elusive but gorgeous I. and shop for big bags of coffee and beautifully-preserved foodstuffs in glass jars.

In a slightly more peculiar but very cool vein, I'm also hot-foot off to Mexico at the end of this week. Cancun, to be precise, which is the surreal bit. Apparently there's this bizarre cultural phenomenon known as "Spring Break" going on right now which turns the whole place into a madhouse heaving with scantily-clad American college kids.

My (middle-aged, male) colleagues find this notion somewhat exhilerating. I am a tad unenthusiastic about seeing these gentleman embrace the phenomenon wholeheartedly and halfclothedly. I'm also beginning to wonder if I should be packing a toga for both trips, or just hide my shame under the world's biggest sombrero.

How do I dub thee?

...cheesiest of days?

For some today is a festival of the highest squidgy-wuv-bunny-wunniest degree. A time when women are not ashamed to out-ruffle the pink chiffon whiffliness of la Cartlande, and men dress in tights and floppy hats to serenade their inamoratae 'neath a honeysuckle-scented arbour. A time to shout your love to the heavens and not fear the next morning's sore throat.

It is also time of expensive and scratchy underwear that you secretly feel will look faintly ridiculous at a later date. A time to venture into the hostile territory of fiercely-regimented public dining, expensive meals that do not become inspiring by virtue of being in the shape of a heart, or worse, cupids performing unmentionable acts. A time of embarrassing public gaffes, dry cleaning bills and a "rose for the lady." For others it's worse.

And so, here is the anti-valentine. It's dull, obvious and actually written on corporate email while doing a poor impression of writing an unpleasantly tactful memo about the people who remove their shoes in the office. It has then been printed out on featureless stationary and typed up in a badly-lit late-night airport waiting lounge where all the shops are closed apart from the one that sells bad overpriced coffee. The closest it comes to romance is the 25-crown-for-5-minute-leatherette massage chairs that look like someone's stuck a motor on the cast-offs from a garage sale.

Note the lack of hearts and sentimentality. Note the lack of pictures, even from a corporate logo (although the one with the dead turtle might have been appropriate, come to think). Worst of all is the fact that I have extracted this whole thing from an email to a friend and then re-worked it into a blog post in order to completely de-personalise the whole experience and ensure it thereby loses all meaning.

And to round things off nicely, I slept poorly, my breakfast banana was bruised, the milk in my tea tastes funny and I'm flying east-west so the whole day is actually 25 hours long. Happy Valentine's Day.

Christmas fish

Ladeeez and Gentleman

I give to you, the Czech Christmas... In fifteen minutes or less. Thanks to bookwormom for reminding me about this one.

Yes, Virginia, here in the wilds of Bohemia (and Moravia come to think of it) there is no Santa Claus. Instead, the traditional Czech bringer of gifts is Ježíšek, which roughly translates as "Baby Jesus". He arrives on Christmas Eve and drops off presents on a table in one room, while the children all wait patiently in the other. As he leaves, he rings a little bell which is the signal for Czech kiddies to burst the eardrums of any on-lookers with shrieks of delight, stampede into the room and proceed to clout one another around the head with their new gifts.

During the communist period, Ježíšek managed to survive the Russian invasion of "Grandfather Frost", who tried to boot Christmas into the stratosphere and replace it with a more secular timetable for present-giving at New Year. There's an iron-(curtain)y buried in there under the discarded wrapping and (velvet) ribbons.

Although Ježíšek managed to stand firm in the face of Ded Moroz, now Santa Claus appears to be encroaching on Ježíšek's territory in a big way. As a result, a casual group of professionals in the advertising game have set up an anti-Santa campaign, which has attracted some attention.

Happily, I can report that other aspects of the traditional Czech Christmas are alive and well, such as the eating of carp and potato salad for Christmas dinner. Well, at least the carp are very much alive and swimming around in their big plastic blue buckets behind the street-corner stalls, although I personally think that these carp don't have much going for them in the liveliness stakes. At least, not compared to say, sharks. These days, instead of being carried home live and dumped in the bathtub to keep them going until Christmas Eve (sharks would definitely add interest to this tradition), they are instead bashed on the head and filleted at point of sale.

Close enquiry of a bunch of Czech people has confirmed that the traditional Czech potato salad is not made from feral potatoes that have run wild in the Krkonoše mountains all year.

Gotta go - Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, or as Mrs. Jana would make me say (several times while bashing a ruler on the desk), Hezké vánoce a šťastný nový rok 2007. Please don't tell her I just read the year as individual numerals.

If a duck quacks in a manger...

...no... that's not right...

I have just received a lovely season's greeting email that contained the fascinating piece of information that a duck's quack never echoes, but no one knows why. Ooohhh. Spooky. Seasonal - less so. But I now desperately need to find a duck and a very echoey canyon as soon as possible to test this out.

In other news, former flatmate E has requested photos of Praha looking all Christmassy. So here are some. Since the blog template colours are decidedly non-festive, to help recreate the holiday atmosphere in the comfort of your own home, I recommend humming "Last Christmas", "White Christmas" or any other song with "Christmas" somewhere in the lyrics while looking at the pictures. Enough mulled wine and you'll think you're already in Prague. As long as you don't do it in an office Christmas party karaoke style (aka imitating a herd of wounded buffalo… I'm still traumatised days later), we can all remain friends.

A large purple tree.


Old Town Square has a very big blue tree...

...and also trdelnik, cooking on a trdlo. mmmmmmmmm...

Round it all off with a rousing chorus of "Little Donkey". You know you want to...

Happy Hanukkah

Of the hundreds of photos that I've managed to take in the last six months, I have precisely two that involve lights in the dark/candles and things of that sort appropriate for a Hanukkah post. It may be something deep and psychological, but it's more likely that it's down to my total lack of ability to take pictures in the dark that aren't wonky due to camera shake. (What is that you say... "Tripods?" Didn't they also invade earth from Outer Space in the Seventies?)

It's just gone dark here, so apologies for the paucity and here's a candle for anyone who's calling today 25th of Kislev, especially the lovely D'eath, son of D'eath, husband of D'eath and bump of D'eath.