grandma-isms

Today’s family introduction while I temporarily reside in Kent is Grandma. Grandma was born in Wales, trained as a teacher and left for Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) when she was 27 years old. Back then it was a pretty adventurous thing to do, but as it was after the war the depression was, well, pretty depressing, and her along with many young professionals were being offered a better life in the new colonies (ooh such a dirty word!).

In Rhodesia she met my Grandpa and headed up north to Tanganyika (now Tanzania) to live in the bush and build roads. That’s where my mum was born. To cut a long story short, they eventually moved to Zimbabwe, produced my auntie and now grandma is living in Kent down the road.

Grandma has a great sense of humour although controlling her verbal output is not a strong point:

Trip to Wales
Two years ago I drove grandma to Wales and back. This is a 6 hour trip each way so there was plenty to talk about:
Me: oh it’s just so depressing, all my friends are getting married and having babies all over the place.
Grandma: all my friends are dying or dead. Pause. Hahahahahaha!

MDF’s first introduction to my family
We were having a jolly evening over dinner and as usual the booze was flowing. MDF, having travelled in from France was a little weary and probably looking a bit droopy. Out of nowhere:
Grandma: MDF, do you want to go to bed?
MDF: rendered speechless in shock, after spluttering out his wine at being propositioned by an 85 year old

Christmas
Another boozy family occasion and there was a rare lull in the conversation:
Grandma: oh it’s gone quiet in here
Mum: well what do you want to talk about then?
Grandma: sex!

Visiting grandma at lunchtimes
Grandma: pour me another glass of wine sarahemily
Me: what’s the magic word?
Grandma: (huffing and puffing) oh you know I mean ’please’ (and wishing inside that her difficult grand daughter would just get on with it)

Visiting grandma in the evenings
Grandma: pour me another whiskey sarahemily
Me: what’s the magic word? Etc etc

Giving grandma a manicure
Grandma: now I don’t want anything fancy, just cut my nails
Me: but grandma you know you like pink polish – just a little bit
Grandma: I’m telling you, sarahemily, I won’t have it
Me: well let’s just see (knowing that she loves it)
Later on all painted up:
Me: so what do you think?
Grandma: hmm, yes it’s ok I suppose
Me: it’s ‘english rose’ by Chanel
Grandma: oh EXCUSE ME!
Every subsequent visitor (and she has many) were forced to admire grandma’s newly polished nails which she proudly wiggled under their noses.

The birds and the bees
Grandma: sarahemily, I would love to be a great grandmother
Me: oh
Grandma: when are you going to get on with it?
Me: uhm I hadn’t really thought about it. I suppose we’ll have to get married first.
Grandma: you ARE sleeping together aren’t you?

While she is amusing and I love her to bits, sometimes grandma can be a little Catherine Tate-ish – British TV viewers will know what this is.

on the block

In a moment of madness I’ve agreed to be interviewed by enidd who is our future world dictator. Here goes:

1) what’s best about living in kiev? what’s worst?

That’s two questions isn’t it? In truly generous English style I’ll give you two for the price of one or buy one get one free (or BOGOF as it is commonly known):-

What’s best? – it’s 3.5 hours flight from home. Being jobless means there’s loads of time to surf the net and blog, drink cheap Moldovan fizz, and study. Becoming an expert in the art of filling the day. Looking forward to downing more alcohol with my new found blizz (blog + fizz) blends.
The fact that the minute it gets to 9C people are out on the pavements drinking vodka/coffee/vodka celebrating summer.

What’s worst? – becoming addicted to blogging (it’s a gorgeous sunny day here in Kent and I am on the COMPUTER). The cold winters. People hawking in the street. The kamikaze drivers. The lack of decent fruit and vegetables in winter.

2) it’s your eightieth birthday party and you’re making a speech.what would you like to brag that you’ve done in your life?

That I did a bungee jump over Victoria Falls bridge. And that now at 80 I have significantly more sense than to do something so bloody stupid.

That by the time I die I will have exceeded the average Briton’s statistic of having more than 4239 shags in my lifetime. Yep, that’s the news on page 3 of today’s Telegraph.

3) what’s your favourite item of clothing at the moment?

My new sports bra which will magic me into a super fit gym bunny overnight. Although, chances are the sex appeal of that over-shoulder-double-boulder-holder may reduce my chances of exceeding the statistic quoted in question 2.

4) did you have an imaginary friend when you were a child?

I’m not sure if you could call it an imaginary friend, although I had an imaginary figure in my mind that I used to ask questions and have discussions with (silently of course) but it wasn’t the sort of friend that I would demand an extra place for at the dinner table. Is this straight jacket worthy?

5) finally, and most importantly, are you a.r.c.e? (have a look here if you’re confused – http://www.enidd.com/?p=139)

I haven’t had a creme egg in years and I suspect now the icky sweetness would make me chunder. But that would help me meet the statistic of 149 litres of vomit I’m supposed to produce in my lifetime as an average person. Eeyeew – imagine all those diced carrots in it if I was average enough to eat 10866 carrots in my life.

Right, thankfully that’s over and done with. If you would like to be interrogated by me, here are the rules:

- leave me a comment saying so (make sure to enter an email address)
- I’ll will respond by emailing you five questions of my choosing (although I may be open to a spot of bribery if you offer me something nice)
- you then post the answers to the questions on your blog – include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else.

mrs r style discipline

As I am at home in Kent this week, I thought I’d start introducing you to my family in small doses. That’s after I’ve fiddled around with my blog for a million hours. The treehugger bit wasn’t working for me and at the moment I am preferring gossip to conscientiousness.Anyway, my mother (Mrs R) is a teacher and has an alternative approach to discipline. At times her sense of humour is befuddling to her pupils. I wish that she would start a blog but she won’t so I am going to tell some of her stories here.

I love this story which centres around a class of 14 year olds. Picture a lesson with studious girls and a bunch of unruly testosterone-soaked boys. The lesson is in full flow and at some point the conversation goes like this:

Boy: oh f*ck
Mrs R: I won’t have language like that in my class. Stay behind after the lesson

After the lesson:

Mrs R: do you understand why you are here?
Boy: no (pouting heavily)
M: I think I’d better explain. Would you like to repeat the word you said in class?
Silence.
M: ok, you said f*ck
Disturbed look flashes over boy’s face
M: and f*ck is not an acceptable word to use in my classroom
Boy starts squirming
M: do you know what f*ck means?
Boy is terribly distressed that his very proper teacher is saying f*ck
B: noooo….
M: well, in that case I think I’d better write to your parents because they obviously haven’t taught you the meaning of f*ck and I think they need to do so. Otherwise you won’t know when it’s appropriate to use the word f*ck
B: (at the thought of his parents sitting down and explaining the, er, ins and outs of f*cking over the dinner table) oh please Miss, please, no no no!
M: now I don’t want to hear you use language like that ever again. Do you understand?
B: yes miss. (skulks off thoroughly ashamed)

And that was the end of it, the boy behaved like a cherub ever after. There’s nothing like a bit of reverse psychology to focus the little rotters!

bad hair day

This is the first time I’ve taken part in a fun day so here goes. Robin is hosting the frivolities where you can see a whole range of hairy wonders.

Now, I have to admit that I am going to cheat a bit as I cannot find any pictures of my dodgy hair days. Because there weren’t any. No that’s a bare faced lie, but I think any dubious pictures were consigned to the rubbish dump some time ago when we moved house. By me.

However my mother hasn’t read this yet so no doubt she will dredge up some horror from my childhood much like yesterday and the chocolate marbles story.

So in the absence of real photos I need you to use your imagination and the following photos to create a picture in your minds of sarahemily at her finest.

Age 10. I started off harmlessly enough with a dismal imitation of an early Princess Di cut. Picture a 10 year-old, put a bowl on her head, cut around bowl.

Ah – the perfect Purdey (from The Avengers).

Age 12. The Spandau flick (thank you Tony Hadley) was my first graduation into, uhm, fashion. Oh the 80s… leg warmers, studio shoes…

Another fine example of the Spandau flick from Martin Fry.

Age 13. All I can ask is why oh why oh why? Sorry mum for the embarrassment you had to endure. (Thanks to mulletsgalore.com – who have provided me with endless entertainment) .

Age xxx. And finally we have the lovely Martika – which is roughly where I am now. Although nowhere near as glamorous (or busty).

kent or kiev?

I have realised that there are nearly as many worrying people in Kent as there are in Kiev. The former include some of my family. I arrived yesterday to their welcoming arms and today we had a long boozy lunch in the sunshine. A couple of friends came to join in the fun.

The afternoon rolled on blissfully until my mother announced that she wanted to do a speech at my wedding. Fine, I have no views regarding the etiquette on that sort of thing although I do think the fewer speeches the better and they must be short and funny. Well anyway my mother proceeded to dredge up all sorts of dreadful stories from my life, the most ‘amusing’ being those baby ones.

Ugh, everyone has an embarrassing childhood story but to have them regaled in front of my new parents in law would not my idea of making a favourable impression. Especially when it’s the story where I was a mere one year old cherub seated in front of the fire in my nappy. I rolled out a couple of bottom maltesers and attempted to eat them. Thankfully mummy dear was on hand to whisk them away and throw them into the fire. And boy has she never let me forget it.

Then my mother suggested that we play at our wedding her and my stepdad’s favourite song that they had at their wedding – “Leap up and down and wave your knickers in the air” (by Saint Cecilia). Those free loving flower power hippies have a lot to answer for. Now I’m not bloggacious enough to know how to upload a sample for you to listen to so I thought I do some research into this little known (or so I thought) song. I now know that “Leap up and down…” was:

* unbelievably number 17 on the UK charts in 1971

* worryingly listed on a German language site as a song to learn about pieces of clothing in English (have you ever heard a German say ‘knickers’?)

* and tellingly, part of Chegger’s Choice “the Worst Album on the Planet/40 Clucking Awful Trax”. Plain distressing is the fact that it was rated 4 stars out of 5 by Amazon readers, up there with The Birdie Song and Agadoo. (For those of you non-Brits, Cheggers is Keith Chegwin – a very annoying DJ / children’s TV presenter in the 1980s).

If anyone knows how to upload music please tell me and you too will be privilege to this little tuneful wonder.

delights on our doorstep

I have been thumbing through the local mags practising my Ukrainian grammar (yah hah!) looking for the hotspots to take my guests when they eventually arrive. Here are a few quotes I’ve taken from adverts highlighting the delights which can be found on our very doorstep (please remember that these are normal everyday magazines – in fact I think I picked them up at the gym):

Military sightseeing excursion – ‘look at the world through the embrassure’. ‘The necessary equipment: comfortable and not showing the dirt clothing and footwear…’ What’s an embrassure?

Hocorog Pozoviy (I think that’s what it says) strip bar – ‘The hostess of strip and trade mark ‘Catto’ tastes you every Saturday’. Gosh, how friendly.

Paradise Cabaret – ‘A theatre rather than a strip club’. Uh huh.

The personals – ‘Hi, my name is Viola. I’m 20, beautiful blonde, 170cm, 53kg, strong breasts 75B. All the best for you!’ Holy Moses! All the best to suffocate you with!

Another personal (sorry but I love these) – ‘From dusk till down. Victoria, 28y.o.’

Fellini restaurant – ‘Non-stop. Life just like in a movie…’ What kind I wonder – tragedy, comedy?

Soho restaurant – ‘Without superfluous words. We simply feed tasty’. Lucky tasty.

Kuvshin restaurant – ‘We are waiting for you with pleasure’. Ooh nasty images of chefs doing something they shouldn’t in the soup are in my mind.

And if you don’t feel up to any of that, you can go and look at the revolutionaries down the street which I did this afternoon. Sadly I have no pics to prove it but it was very exciting especially when the blue/yellow flag fliers had a showdown with the red hammer and sickle flag fliers. And I saw the toilets for myself and boy were they were heaving.

I know looking at magazines to spot the mistakes is a cheap laugh but it does make the evenings amusing especially when I’ve been drinking Moldovan fizz all afternoon. And it does show that it’s not all that bad and at least I can laugh at the silliness. Yep, still laughing, still staying.

So who’s coming to Kiev?

breaking news! pooey toothbrushes

Does anyone fret about whether to leave their toothbrush in the bathroom which has a toilet in it? Well, apparently this is a major concern to the neurotics of this world (totally including me), who worry about splashes of poo exploding onto their toothbrushes every time the loo is flushed. They worried so much that they got the Myth Busters to look into it. After a long and very detailed investigation, you worriers out there will be delighted to hear that: THE MYTH IS BUSTED.

When your toothbrush is in the same airspace as your lavatory it is not subjected to sprays of poo particles. I don’t know, I still feel uncomfortable if I have to leave my brush near a bog. It just doesn’t make sense that the poo spray isn’t going to migrate.

I also get twitchy about my toothbrush on holidays because of a story I was told. A family holidayed in a tropical country and when they returned to their room after a night out they discovered that it had been broken into. They called the police but found that nothing had been stolen (not even their camera) and everything was in place, so they carried on with their holiday happily brushing their teeth everyday.

When they returned home they got their holiday photos developed and found a photo of two big bottoms with their toothbrushes stuck inside them – brush end inside. Eeeyeeew! So the moral of the story is:

- take a digital camera so you can check it for brushes in bums the minute you get back to your room
- take your toothbrush everywhere with you
- don’t go on holiday

The choice is yours.

dedicated to MDF

First up, this is not a post dedicated to DIY – when my stepdad (who says he reads this blog but never leaves any comments. Maybe this will shame him into leaving one!) first read about MDF he got all excited because he thought my blog was about DIY. Being a man he goes all gooey-eyed at the thought of leaping around with a hammer.But, no this post is dedicated to my dear fiance, or MDF. boohoohoohoohoo – MDF has just abandoned me to the jaws of the revolution and has left on a trip to Australia. He is going to spend the next week galloping around chasing cattle in the boondocks. I do feel strangely empty (fnarfnar) without him. And as if he had predicted this, he thoughtfully left me with a couple of momentos:

That is a wallaby I think (my Oz reader might correct me) with a rugby ball. He bears a slight resemblance to MDF. I will be cuddling up with him tonight.

The French dictionary is there because MDF is a grown tadpole. See how it looks so well thumbed? (NOT). Well firstly that’s because MDF’s grammar (both French and annoyingly English) is utterly spot on, it puts me (being a rosbif) to shame, and he rarely needs to use the dictionary. Secondly, I need to get my backside into gear and start brushing up on la langue Francaise (oh please if anyone is French or knows what it should be, correct me).

Now what is the model aeroplane doing there? Well, MDF being a boy keeps these sorts of things and he had great joy last night bringing it out of the drawer (where I thought I had hidden it forever lest it make an appearance on our mantlepiece). It is to remind me where he is seating when he flies. Of course. Any boys out there – can you explain this to me?

For the next two nights until I flee to the UK, I am on my lonesome and will be bolting up our double top bottom blahblah very secure door and huddling under the duvet trembling in case the big baddies try to break in.

football and the revolution

For those of you who have have been on Mars for the last few weeks and have failed to notice there is a big political upheaval going on here, I am directing you to a good blog that has pictures of yesterday’s events. Have a click on Little Miss Moi’s site .

There was a ‘clash’ between the two different political party’s supporters as Yanukovych’s supporters (pro-Russia) tried to block the entry to the constitutional court. The court is deciding whether Yuschenko’s (pro-Europe) decision to dissolve parliament is constitutional. And this is all happening round the corner – not even five minutes walk away.

Amid this ‘crisis’, last night it was announced (by UEFA? I don’t know – it’s a boy’s thing) that Ukraine and Poland were going to host the 2012 European championships. How exciting is that? Lots of renovation of crumbling old stadiums will have to happen as will building of roads (motorways even) to get supporters to and from the different cities. The main stadium is at the bottom of our road. Pity (??) we won’t be here to see it in 2012…

bankers in kiev

I had another fit-inducing session at the bank today. In an effort to brighten up our sorry lives, we are getting a satellite dish so we can spend even more time glued to the telly than before. The sputnik (I love that word and it’s the only word I can understand in the conversation with the rental agency when we talk satellites) is being installed maybe tomorrow maybe Friday. This sputnik needs mullah to get it up hence the banking session. You may be familiar with my previous banking experiences earlier in my blog, so read it if you are remotely interested or even thinking of having a bank account here. I advise you to keep your money under your mattress.

Here is what happens:

- I walk into the reception area which is full of unhappy looking people rolling their eyeballs. It’s very hot and stuffy and there is a bad Kiev smell.

- Beyonce is blaring out the stereo.

- a Ukrainian man sitting opposite one of the bank clerks has a glazed look on his face and almost falls off his chair (I’m not sure if this is due to Beyonce or the interminable boredom. Or both). He was sitting there when I arrived and continued to sit there for another half hour.

- there is no queue, people just scatter themselves wherever they can find a chair. Therefore there is no queueing system so when a clerk becomes free there is a mini scrum to get to the desk.

- various people walk in and ask where the queue is and everyone else shrugs their shoulders and rolls their eyeballs. Even the general assistant (I have no idea what she does apart from stand there like a stick insect on stilettos in satin trousers) ignores everyone and makes no attempt at scrum control.

- finally I get to see the clerk and go through the usual lengthy process of explaining that it’s not my account but the papers to prove I am not a criminal blahblahblah are on their files if they care to look.

- I ask for a printed statement to date and eventually get one missing the last two weeks and it’s in US dollars. And it tells me there is $1.63 in the account. Oh crap. Then I spend the next 5 minutes trying to explain how this is totally wrong and eventually get a revised statement in Euros with the right amount in it. Actually they were probably two completely different statements and some poor sod probably has just $1.63 in his account.

The rest of the story goes on and on and I am actually getting bored now so to wrap it up, the banking statistics for today’s irritation are:

- a total of 1 HOUR AND 23 MINUTES was spent in the bank. Approximately 20 minutes was queueing. It’s anyone’s guess what the remaining time involved, but:

- I signed SEVEN signatures

- the bank clerk made SIX phone calls to her manager during my session. Nothing unusual was being transacted (is this a word?) but it demonstrates nicely the you-can’t-do-anything-including-wiping-your-bum-without-clearing-it-with-your-manager-first culture

- I have bitten the inside of my lip into horrible lumps

- I developed a twitch

HOWEVER!!

My faith-in-human-beings-is-being-restored and life-is-not-that-bad moments were:

- it demonstrated the rarely seen but (often noted in cultural awareness lessons) the gentlemanliness of Ukrainian men. A woman walked in and a man got up and offered her his chair. She promptly ignored him and carried on flicking her hair and being generally annoying.

- a nice lady pointed out that I was next in the queue for the clerk when someone else wanted to butt in.

- the bank provides free pens and notepaper so I could write my shopping list.

- from previous experience I took some reading matter and got through a load of material in the peace and quiet.

- I am actually learning to be more assertive and actually got into an argument with another customer and the cash desk queue ‘monitor’ when she tried to push in front of me. Actually I think she was in front of me but it was worth a try. I also raged at the poor assistant at the stupidity of this process and she shrugged and said she was sorry. At least I got a sorry. Not that she could give a flying fart.

- the chairs are comfy.

From now on I am going to try and see the light side of these experiences, because as MDF says – the day we stop laughing about this madness is the day we leave. Oh actually now there’s an idea – maybe I should stop laughing?