What do Shrek, Skeletor and Bo Derek have in common.....?

So despite having only just written a post about football, and promtly ending it due to lack of material, my most recent viewing of further games has prompted me to write more on the subject.  Now one thing I do have to express is my disappointment with England's performance thus far - despite my patriotism which has been enhanced with my being in another country (although I'm pleased to say that my support for my new homeland has grown by the day, helped along by the fabulous Benaglio who really has saved more goals than any goalie I've ever watched).  Anyway, the first England match was obviously tremendously flawed due to the utterly muppetly performance of our own goalie - but at least I managed to stay awake during that match. 

The second match however literally had me nodding off.  Not least because the Algerians had cleverly camouflaged themseves at bits of turf so that they were virtually invisible to the viewer - instead giving the appearance that Rooney and co. were just sleepily kicking a ball about between the 11 of them, playing a lazy, half-hearted game of 'Avoid the Goal' while trying to stay awake themselves.  Not many people can get away with lime green I tell you - but better the Algerians than the English I suppose - Rooney needs no additional assistance in looking like Shrek.

I wonder who designs the outfits.. (sorry, strips)... They should get Patricia Field to do it - at least she'd accessorise them up a bit.  Especially the goalies.  If they have to wear a different outfit to their team mates they could at least embrace the opportunity.  I'd wear one of those all-in-one lycra thingys with a skeleton painted on the front, but instead of the black 'background' I'd have a grass-green one.  That would confuse the fuck out of the opposing strikers!!

Actually if I was a footballer I would be Dutch (and yes, you CAN choose - see pevious post), because I'm proud to say I'm one of the few people in the world that can actually get away with wearing orange.  Which I've always thought of as a good thing - especially given my cultural heritage... if I did ever end up in Guantanamo Bay (mistakenly of course - as if any of them aren't) at least I know I'd look good on my capture video - even under those harsh lights.  I prefer a 'coral' to a 'tangerine' but I'm sure they cater for a range of complexions, and as long as they do it in a size 6 I reckon I could totally work that jumpsuit look.

Anyway - veered from the subject matter there (again)... The other thing that gives me cause for concern are the hairstyles that some of these chaps are sporting nowadays.  The mullets of yesteryear might have been appalling but at least they were deemed trendy and manly at the time.  These days it's all girly Alice-bands and non-afro braiding - like those Vicky Pollard-esque chavs you see on Blackpool beach or cheap holidays who pay a tenner to get their hair braided and beaded and think they look like Bo Derek in that film "10" where she runs along the beach looking sexy with her braids bouncing around her in slo-mo....that was a one-off peeps if ever there was one!  So, it wouldn't surprise me to see a gingham scrunchie or a Hello Kitty barrette on the pitch soon, or even a borrowed-from-a-wag-Bumpit-enhanced beehive which could well prove a help, or hinderance I suppose, to the trajectory of a ball off a header....

Anyway, I'm pretty sure that over the next few days I will think of more to write about concerning the football, so I will leave this one open ended........ to be continued.....

The Foot Ball

It's football season and contrary to possible beliefs - I am fully embracing these few weeks.  No I am not a huge fan of the game on a daily basis, but I am a fan of getting in the carnival spirit, watching some gripping competitiveness at the local pub (I miss the days of the karaoke-off that used to take place every weekend in St.Reatham) and most of all seeing some football where the name of the team still actually bears some resemblence to the players in it! 

It goes without saying that in any occasion- be it sporting, political, economic or otherwise, I will take the opportunity to find a fashion theme within it. The American elections gave me the perfect excuse to adopt a stars and stripes wardrobe-the red, white and blue of nautical chic combined with the hip hop / 80's combined trend of stars on any available bodily surface allowed me to fully embrace the occasion. With the UK elections parliamentary rosettes were translated into flower corsages, with the economic meltdown I adopted 'recession chic' which basically involved wearing very small clothes or bulk buying from Primark, Wimbledon always brings out the little, white summer skirts.  And this month, I officially announce the Foot Ball. Which is essentially a celebration (or Ball if you like) of all things foot-related. (if fact, anything from the foot upwards!)

Sparkle, lamé, pearls, lace, neon, wood, cork, beads, PVC, leather... all adorned upon perfectly pedicured with the English flag tootsies in a true celebration of the foot!  Add to that the thousands of themes that can be taken from the culmination of teams, players, countries participating in the world cup, and we are presented with the biggest and most exciting foot-fashion opportunity of all time! White knee socks, patriotic footwear (with matching bags of course), any African animal print going.. It's a pedi-carnival and I'm buying a float!  Bring on the Foot Ball!

Now, in my excitement and embracement of the sport, it has prompted me to delve a little deeper into the world of football and my research has brought to light some disturbing facts- possibly no revelation to most people, but to someone like me that naively thinks the best of most things until someone or something shatters my sparkly fairytale illusion, this has been a sobering (if such a word can be used at a time when I'm spending most of my time in the pub supping Prosecco) insight.  I discovered some shocking truths. 

1) Gone are the days when people supported their local team because they grew up with them, or their dads or their kids, or they worked in the same coal mines, drank in the same boozers and so on - when it was all about community and regional pride.  I have learned that nowadays some people even just 'pick a team' and that's all there is to it?!  Simple as that - eeny meeny miney mo... Sometimes they have never even been to the town that the team is named after, or even KNOW where the town is.  Ok, to be fair you can't fully blame the fans, especially as most of the players also have nothing to do with the town the team was named after either... but at least admit it, and stop pretending to believe that this has anything to do with anything other than money.  YES there are some skilled players about - but frankly if I was going to get paid a million quid a day for being skilled at something that I just happened to do all the time as a kid, and that was and still is lots of fun, - I'd be bloody skilled at it, believe me. Unfortunately dancing around to Aha with a gymnastic ribbon doesn't pay that much and frankly I can't be bothered to do anything more strenuous - I don't want a Hummer and a gang bang that much thanks.

2) There is a perception of football 'fannery' being hard, tough and manly.... yet in reality, footballers themselves are probably the most manicured, stroppy, diva-like, metrosexuals you could ever meet.  I know this - I have met many in my previous incarnation as a party organiser.  And I cannot believe how much of a mis-match there is between a real life footballer and a wannabe football 'hooligan'.  Sometimes I think the footballers don't get distracted by the bellowing chants of their fans, not because they are so expertly trained not to, but moreso because they are like dolphins... they can't hear noises that low.  Their delicate ears only pick up high pitched squeaks, like the ones their wives emit which are only marginally lower than their own....

3) I was amazed, when watching the Germans play the other day, to hear the commentator say "...and this is Cacau coming onto the pitch now.  He's only recently become a German..."   Ummmmmm - what so now if you don't like whatever nationality you are, or your team is shite, then you can just become from another country??! So Rooney can say 'sod you' to his England team mates and head off to join Brazil, and become Rooniño instead?  Well that just about closed the deal for me. 

I have come to the conclusion that the World Cup is fun, and the atmosphere is amazing, and the sudden patriotism that people develop out of nowhere is somewhat amusing, but I think that footballers should be put onto the minimum wage and then play the world cup, and I think it would be a whole different ball game (see what I did there?).  Football is a game made up of simple people who get paid far too much money- its like letting loose a colony of sex-addicted gorillas after giving them suitcases full of cash, some sports cars and a random selection of coke-snorting barbie dolls, and then sitting back to observe. Even the name is simple. "Foot. Ball." like some 3 year old literally said what it did on the tin and was hailed as a genius for coming up with such a word. Think of other sports- tennis, boxing, rugby, badminton .... Might as well call them 'Smack-with-Racket',  'Hit-People', 'Grab-Ball- and-Run' and 'Pointless-Load-of-Shit'
What is funny is that the Americans who actually do name every sport after what it does on the tin, chose soccer as the name for football. Which I actually think is a much nicer name for the sport.  Though I am probably giving them too much credit. In reality a meat-head jock most likely pointed at a footballers foot one day and went 'Sock. Urr.' (followed by a dribble - of the mouth kind, not the foot kind)' and that was how the name was borne.  Actually it wasn't even the Americans that came up with the name - (I just looked on Wikipedia) but what the heck, as blog-fodder the reality is boring, so I'll just make up whatever crap I want to!

And that's kind of all I have to say about the subject really.... a shorter post than the usual, but I'm loath to string out the subject any further, or change subject mid blog.  Plus I don't really know an awful lot more about football.  So I finish this with some of the stoopidest quotes about football, from footballers.....and then head to the pub for the next match.  By for now homies. xoxo

"Leeds is a great club and it's been my home for years, even though I live in Middlesborough."
Jonathan Woodgate

"He dribbles a lot and the opposition don't like it - you can see it all over their faces."
Ron Atkinson

"If history repeats itself, I should think we can expect the same thing again."
Terry Venables

"They're the second best team in the world, and there's no higher praise than that."
Kevin Keegan

"I definitely want Brooklyn to be christened, but I don't know into what religion yet."
David Beckham

"I never wanted to leave. I'm here for the rest of my life, and hopefully after that as well."
Alan Shearer

"The minute's silence was immaculate, I have never heard a minute's silence like that."
Glenn Hoddle

"I never comment on referees and I'm not going to break the habit of a lifetime for that prat."
Ron Atkinson

"I couldn't settle in Italy. It was like living in a foreign country."
Ian Rush

"There are two ways of getting the ball. One is from your own team-mates, and that's the only way."
Terry Venables

"The first ninety minutes of a football match are the most important."
Bobby Robson

"The world looks a totally different place after two wins. I can even enjoy watching Blind Date or laugh at Noel's House Party."
Gordon Strachan

"My parents have been there for me, ever since I was about 7."
David Beckham

"I can see the carrot at the end of the tunnel."
Stuart Pearce

"I always used to put my right boot on first, and then obviously my right sock."
Barry Venison

"We haven't been scoring goals, but football's not just about scoring goals. It's about winning."
Alan Shearer

"We must have had 99 per cent of the match. It was the other three per cent that cost us."
Ruud Gullit

Kinder Surprises

You may have noticed that my blog has had a makeover.  Well, contrary to my earlier posts it appears that I am somewhat technologically-minded after all... a few hours of painstaking trial and error, and a frustrating self-teaching session in how to amend html code.... and Bob ist dein Onkel!  It just goes to show that most things adhere to some kind of logic and even an impatient, number-averse chick like me with the attention span of a goldfish concerning anything that isn't immediately sparkly or exciting can work my way around the back-end of a website!  No longer am I quite as impressed as I once was with the new army of teenage super-geeks that are taking over the world.  I'll be writing algorithms next.  I actually don't know what an algorithm is, but it sounds cool (actually it sounds like hip-hop seaweed) and if its possible to make a pink, flowery one then I'll definitely give it a go..

Its funny how nowadays even children take technology for granted.  Just a few days ago I was having lunch with some friends, who have 3 small children between the ages of 5 and 11 years old.  The youngest was happily playing way on DoodleJump on her mum's iPhone while another was competing at Angry Birds on her dad's and the third had stolen mine to look up how big the biggest ever rabbit in the world was on Wikipedia.  I do remember having a Nintendo Donkey Kong Game that was the size of an encyclopaedia and had images that looked like they'd been created using an Etch-a-Sketch, which I am sure kept me amused for about 10 minutes and at the time was the absolute latest in technology.  However, imagine as a kid having been able to press a screen and get virtually any kind of game, watch films, TV, message your friends in real-time, even video conference with them!  I remember having to go to the phone box to call my dad when I needed a lift home or to arrange to meet up with friends.  In fact, come to think of it, how on earth do kids get away with telling their parents they are at their friend's house when really they are holed up in a dungeon of a nightclub knocking back Aftershocks and headbanging in a mosh-pit...?  The latest iPhone allows your parents to call you and see exactly where you are!  Try convincing your mum that the throngs of raving gurners behind you are just iPhone 'wallpaper' and that your pupils only look like that because you're using one of those programs that puts special effects on your face......

It reminds me of a time when I got my friend's older brother (older being the operative word - he was about 15 and we were about 13) to call my dad, masquerading as my friend's dad to ask if I could stay over for a sleepover (in reality the parents had gone on holiday and the house was full of 15-year-old boys, Diamond White and an impending game of Spin the Bottle).  How naive to think that my dad would believe the pubescent cracking voice on the other end of the line was indeed a 40 year old man.  Needless to say that he didn't and I was ordered home promptly and grounded for a week (again).

But it does strike me as incredibly difficult nowadays for kids to get away with the things we used to manage 20 years ago.  Which is probably a good thing in many ways, but kind of sad in others.  After all, much of life's learnings come from finding out the hard way, and it seems that 'the hard way' will soon be a thing of the past for many kids of today.  I can definitely look back now and say my mum and dad were always right, but I only know that because I did so many things they told me not to do, without their knowledge and experienced first hand that it may not have been the best idea to, for example, have a bolt put through my tongue / carve a boy's name into my arm with a compass / dance half naked on a bar being set alight with flaming Sambuca by loin-cloth clad men weilding flame throwers in Lanzarote resulting in a fall that tore every ligament in my knee and dislocated my shoulder rendering me unconscious in the back of an ambulance with two huge paramedics punching my shoulder back into it's socket......  I only know these things because I lived them.  And it's only now that I am of child-bearing age and mentality that it makes me feel slightly sick at how stressful it must be for parents to have to set their offspring free into a world where scary things can happen....even at their own hands!   Though this does make me glad in some ways that I live in Switzerland, as despite badness and temptation being everywhere, there seems to be very little in this part of the world!  Even the local 'thugs' apologise when they bump into you, and the closest I've seen to a gangster is someone with their baseball cap on sideways and a can of Red Bull in their hand.  A far cry from the streets of Streatham...! 

I am also finding it increasingly disconcerting that I can no longer tell the difference between a 12 year old and a 20 year old.  They all look the same to me, and sometimes I see what looks like a 12 year old about to drive a bus, or standing in a white coat in a doctor's surgery and realise that it is actually the bus driver, or the doctor, and I feel like I can't possibly board the bus or get pharmaceuticals from this person because they literally have only just been potty trained!  I went for one of those all-over-body MOT things a couple of years ago and one of these 'man-children' was the doctor.  It was fine up until the breast and gynaecological assessment at which point I absolutely had to draw the line and ordered him off to find me a grown-up (and a female one at that).  Doogie Howser MD has become a freakish reality!

This does remind me of a very funny moment when I was coming back from lunch with a friend of mine who walked up to a little boy that was standing in the lobby of our office building in London wearing a rucksack and with his back to us.  She crouched down, put her arm round him and asked him if he'd lost his daddy...as he turned round she was confronted with the bearded face of a 40 year old midget. 

Anyway - off on a tangent there but back to the subject in hand..... It's funny how we suddenly hear ourselves say something and realise we have turned into our parents.  I actually chose a pair of shoes for comfort rather than fashion the other day and when Dan asked me why, I replied "ooh well I wouldn't want chilly feet, I'd catch a cold".... WHAT??!!!! I used to go out in the middle of winter in a long vest with a belt round the middle, a pair of over-the-knee socks, a face-full of make-up and nothing else!  When did I start caring whether I caught pneumonia as long as I looked good ('good' being a matter of opinion clearly) in the hospital bed?  I also find myself worrying about things that I would never have given a second thought about.  On the bus, instead of listening to my iPod or reading Grazia, I am nervously tapping a foot and chewing a nail wondering why the sage has attacked the basil in the herb garden and whether I should have done something to prevent it and if I am neglectful for letting it get to this stage and oh my goodness what if I neglect my children to the same degree, how will I ever be able to help them with their maths homework when I didn't even turn up at my maths GCSE and I can barely add up?? And how will I teach them to be team players when I am the worst person ever at team sports because my attitude is that if I spend all that time and energy getting hold of a ball there's no bloody way on God's earth I'm giving it away to someone else - I'm sodding well keeping hold of it......!  Seriously - when do we start thinking like this?? I don't like it one bit.

Thankfully a glass or 3 of wine usually helps me get over the worry, and luckily I have managed to hang onto some of my shallowness and superficiality, so it's not all about the kids, the herb garden, whether I'm going to be a good wife etc etc etc.... I still have plenty of brain space for me, me, me.... Though my thoughts have progressed somewhat from "how shall I do my make-up?" to "When should I get botox?" and from "What bra will give me a great cleavage?" to "How many decilitres of silicone would give me the desired effect"....  Its a sign of the times I suppose, and in an age where if something droops it can be lifted back up again, and if something breaks you can just get a new one, and if something that God gave you doesn't quite work then a different kind of God (that can be found on Harley Street) can offer you a different kind.....  Don't get me wrong, I'm not the victim of any of the above (yet, and hopefully not ever!) but there's no harm in planning for the future is there?  That's what they tell you about life insurance and you have to be dead to benefit from that, so this is a much more realitsic plan to start with....!

And on that happy note I need to go and water the plants before they die of neglect, iron my shirt for work tomorrow, wrap the leftovers in cling-film, and then lie awake in bed worrying about how we'd survive if there was a terrorist attack tomorrow..... guten nacht meine Freunde und Lassen Sie sich nicht im Bett Insekten beißen.. (?  Luckily I don't need to worry about my childrens' language skills hey??!)

From Jungle Boy to Carrot Cake Girl

When I was about 6 years old one of my friends had a fancy dress party - the theme was Disney characters. All of the girls were princesses - Snow White, Cinderella, The Little Mermaid and so on. I went as Mowgli. All I wore was a pair of red pants..... I didn't need to do anything else as I was virtually identical to Mowgli anyway. Obviously I couldn't get away with that nowadays....as I'm clearly not as Mowgli-esque as I once was...!! However I suppose what I am trying to say is that I wasn't always high maintenence. I think people have the view that as a child I must have been the one always dressed as a princess, wearing butterfly wings, covered in sparkly things and obsessed with Barbie. Not the case. In fact I was always the kid with two grazed knees, twigs in my hair and an insect in a box somewhere ready to fry with a magnifying glass. My love of sparkly things developed over time and it wasn't until I was in my teens that my love of fashion and beauty flourished, and even then a 2-year goth / rock stage set me back temporarily!

I'd go so far as to say that fashion & beauty is a hobby of mine. In fact, I love everything that is fabulous - clothes, cosmetics, shoes, jewellery, sparkly drinks, roses, perfumes, chandeliers, sports cars, fairy cakes (to look at more than to eat - I prefer the taste of sausages to be honest, though they look less fabulous.... sometimes.). So I suppose rather than a fashionista, I am a fabulista - a lover and connoiseur of all things fabulous!

My idea of bliss is a Sunday afternoon on the sofa or in the pub with a stack of glossy magazines full of new ideas and products from the worlds of clothes, cosmetics, homewares, accessories, holidays and style, my laptop open to asos.com and a nicely pre-allocated budget for spending! I'm not one of these people who will spend £800 on a handbag when I could fill my summer suitcase for the same amount and look just as good - if not better (since when did a handbag ever enhance my bum, make me taller or give me a great cleavage?!) So it's not about buying the most expensive of anything, but buying what suits me and what I know I will get a good deal of use out of. Take my blue & white nautical striped skinny top. It's from New Look and cost me £12. I have had it for about 3 years and it is probably the most versatile piece of clothing I own. It can be glammed up with a pair of skinny jeans and heels, dressed down with a pair of bootcuts and trainers, turned into office-wear with a navy blue pencil skirt and neckscarf, worn on holiday with a pair of white hotpants and wedges. It can be long sleeved, short sleeved, sexy or demure - it all depends on how it's worn and what it is worn with. I love that about clothes & cosmetics.

However, in my move to Switzerland I have come up against a bit of a problem. Here to be a fabulista you have to be rich - and that's not what it's all about!  In fact that takes away most of the fun, not to mention the skill! There are none of the middle-of-the-road high street stores that I would frequent in London. Here you are either faced with the high-end designer boutiques (Chanel, LV, Burberry, Prada and so on) where nothing, not even a sock, costs less than 500 francs, OR those awful pikey clothes stores where everything is 'one-size-fits-all' (what so if you suddenly balloon in weight you don't have to buy a new wardrobe?  Petite to Maternity in one easy outfit?) and made out of highly flammable material (possibly so it can be easily chucked on a bonfire). With the exception of 3 shops (Zara, Mango and H&M) there are absolutely no trendy high street stores in this city. I'm talking Oasis, Warehouse, Next, Miss Selfridge, M&S, TopShop, Primark, Dorothy Perkins. As for the shoes?!! Don't get me started. Unless you want to wear a pair of clumpy stack-heeled sensible shoes or spend thousands on designer footwear then there aint nothing for you here.  LK Bennet, Nine West, Dune, Office.... where are they?! These are companies that are massively missing out on a market here in Switzerland and I am fast starting to think that Sir Philip Green needs to get his act together and start moving some of his empire over here pronto. There's a market and it's untapped. And the fact that anything ordered in from overseas gets subjected to a big, fat, customs bill makes online shopping a non-viable alternative unfortunately.

Anyway rant over.  Enough of that. It's too frustrating a subject, and boring too I'm sure. So, there's probably no one reading this anymore. Fuckshitbollocks..... sorry, just checking you were still there. Blame it on the selective-Tourettes. On a much more exciting note, Dan and I went on a week's holiday last week. We jetted off to Djerba which is an island off the coast of Tunisia that has no direct flights from England meaning we were the only English people there which was utter bliss - not that I don't like English people (obviously), I just don't want to be on holiday with hundreds of them seeing as I spend all of my time with them anyway despite living in another country - expat syndrome - and sometimes its good to get away from all that signifies home.  Anyway, despite the lack of English tourists, we did meet a lovely couple of English kiteboard instructors that lived over there and who took us under their wing for the last couple of days. And just to prove that we aren't stereotypical Brits, we ended up in a nightclub with them playing 'who can do the shittest, most embarrassing dance ever in the middle of the club?' while we videoed each other and drank shots of Sambuca before making our way back to the hotel, paralytic in a taxi with no seatbelts (or brakes apparently) driven by the love-child of Nigel Mansell and a blind, old, senile Tunisian nomad.

Anyway, the main reason I like being surrounded by people who can't speak English is because I can openly comment on them by the pool without them being any the wiser. Luckily my other half has the same holiday pastime. Our daily poolside conversations went something like this:

D: Uuggggh - look at that guy's moobs
Me: That's a woman - she's just very hairy
D: Oh yeah. Urrrrgh!
Me: Look at that guy there - he talks like he's deaf!
D: he is deaf
Me: Oh yeah. Look at him right next to you- he's so pasty he looks like Caspar the ghost
D: Haha - Oi, Caspar! (turns to me and chuckles)
Caspar (who is actually from Essex): Oi, 'ow do you know my name. I'll 'ave you!

...and so it went on, for a blissful 7 days. The only non blissful bit was being abducted by a Tunisian taxi driver (not Nomad Mansell this time) who decided (without telling us) that he was going to be our guide for the day and not take us to the place we'd asked to go, but instead to a traditional Tunisian ceramic mine. Sound interesting? Well, it was apart from the fact that a giant maingy camel crept up behind me and licked my neck just as we got there and I'd forgotten to bring any wet-wipes, and then I mistakenly agreed to 'have look in mine, have look in mine, follow, follow' and ended up between the guide and Dan, in an underground hole not even big enough to stand up in, which we got to along a long tunnel with no daylight, and when we arrived the guide lit a giant torch which illuminated the tiny coffin-like space, with nothing but an axe leaning against the wall, at which point he picked it up, stuck it in my face and said 'this is what we use to.....' at which point I literally legged it (in a scrambling / falling kind of way) along the pitch black tunnel, milliseconds away from a hysterical screaming, crying panic attack and didn't stop until I'd managed to climb to daylight. I could feel that Dan was following closely behind but when I turned round, bottom lip shaking, tears-gates about to open to check he was ok after our near-death ordeal it transpired that he was actually just trying very hard not to laugh. He did a good job though. I suppose there was an element of fear that if he did guffaw in my face I'd be back down that mine to retrieve the axe.

Anyway, the reason we went on holiday is because it was my final week of being a hausfrau, which means I have now officially started my new job. Today I became the new girl. It was surprisingly painless, and my long-lost sense of purpose was restored by the time I was halfway to work, morning newspaper tucked under my arm (never mind that I can't actually read the bloody thing - I just look at the pictures...), take-away coffee in hand, being carried along amongst the throng of daily commuters.  The working people of Zurich. I literally had a spring in my step. (I'm sure by next week I'll be missing my tracksuit and the Kardashians a bit but it will be short-lived I'm sure..) I also discovered the perfect way to get people to like you when you start a new job.   I had promised to bake Dan a carrot cake yesterday - my last hausfrau day, so I made an extra one and took it into the office today. 'BROWN NOSE!' I hear you cry, and yes, perhaps I am a bit. But I tell you what - I wasn't just 'the new girl' after that... I was, and will always be 'the girl who brought the carrot cake in' and thanks to my culinary genius of a mother, my carrot cakes (even if I do say so myself) are pretty damn divine. There wasn't a cake-crumb-free face in the building today.  And if anyone asked me a question I didn't quite know how to answer (in that 'oh, there's a new girl who has already been bombarded with random questions all day, I'll just go and ask her another one' way) I could easily deflect them with a simple "hello, have you tried my home made carrot cake yet?" instead of answering it, or at least buy myself a bit of time to come up with a semi-suitable answer.

So there you have it. That's my news for the moment. I will keep you posted on how the job pans out and all that jazz. Til the next time anyways fellow fabulistas. XOXO

Q: How many men does it take to open a beer? .... A: None, it should be open when she brings it to you.

I've never been super-hot on technology.  Don't get me wrong, I love it, and I couldn't live without it, but I don't care HOW it works, just that it DOES work.  I don't want to know the science behind it - I just want it to make my life easier on a daily basis.  For the most part I manage to be fairly advanced in my gadgets and gizmos.  I had an iPhone within weeks of them being launched, have a massive online music library, I am the proud owner of numerous contraptions that allow me to have all manner of hairstyles at the flick of a switch, I even write a blog!   Don't get me wrong - it does drive me insane sometimes that with every new advancement seems to come another reason for humans to whinge when something doesn't work. "OMG my iPhone app that pinpoints my exact location to within a square foot and tells me the current weather conditions and temperature isn't working!!!!! What am I going to do?????"  Stick your head out of the frickin' window, moron!!! 

I don't care about having the newest or best of anything (except shoes)- I just care that I can carry out tasks quicker, with more ease or to a higher standard than I did before, with minimal effort and absolutely no additional technological knowledge whatsoever.  I think this is a massive difference between men and women.  Just yesterday when I was having my bicycle-gear-changing-proficiency lesson with my other half it went like this:

D: Ok, bring your bike over here and lets do some basic stuff
Me: You mean Ueli
D: What?
Me: His name is Ueli (this is a very common Swiss name and it sounds a bit like 'willy'.  Not that I am immature or anything..... but if I am allowed to say words like 'willy' in public regularly without people thinking I'm weird or riddled with Tourette's then I'll be damned if I'm not going to take advantage.   This is not the only rude translation I've taken to using as often as possible...  Following a bit of probing I have also discovered that there's no way in the world Dan will allow me to call our as-yet-hypothetical first-born-child Ueli so I figured my bike would be the next best thing)
D:  Right. Ok, bring it here and get on it
Me: Him
D: (exasperated already) Ok, bring Ueli over here and get on HIM
Me: hee heee heeeee - get on willy?
D: Do you want to learn to ride this thing or not?
Me: Sorry. Yes.  (I get on the bike)
D: Ok, these are the gears and I'll explain how they work
Me: I don't care HOW they work, just tell me which ones I press to go up a hill
D: If I explain it to you then you will understand better - you need to know how they connect to the cogs on the bike.
Me: Oh  but PLEEEEEASE baby can't you just tell me which ones to press?  I don't care about cogs.
D:  silence (actually he has gone..)
Me: Dan? (looks around)  Dan?!......

It is a similar story whenever anyone attempts to explain the workings of technological objects to me.  I figure if I spent the time learning about exactly how the microchips in my laptop worked and what would happen if they didn't, then I could have actually hand-written a note on a piece of paper, cycled it to the recipient on Ueli, and hand delivered it instead of sending an email...... burning a few calories and getting some fresh air at the same time.  I could record all of my songs onto a multi-pack of BASF tapes instead of uploading them into iTunes (at least we didn't used to have to pay to record the Top 40, even if there was a bit of radio chat at the beginning and end of each song!), I could play Scrabble on a Scrabble board instead of sitting next to Dan on the sofa while we both play each other on our iPhones (which is lots of  fun btw - because it just WORKS and I don't need or want to know how...). 

My love of technology does not extend to computer games....  Again, there's is a huge male / female divide on this subject (and most females that  do claim to like computer games generally are just attempting to impress a man or appear to be one of the lads - you know it's true so don't give me any of that crap....)  I have conducted my own research and discovered that for females over the age of 14, any enjoyment in participating in a computer game is fairly short-lived - we are much too easily bored, unless the 'game' involves fitness (like the Wii Fit games), intellect (word games, solitaire etc) or real-life simulation (house interior designing, cosmetics etc) and then it's not really a game is it?  Its self-improvement, which we, as women are continuously striving to achieve.   Of course men will argue they are striving to self-improve too..... Self-improve their ability to gun down aliens, ram-raid police stations, rip the spinal cords out of mutant babies and tackle Rooney using only their fingers.... all skills that are going to be very useful on a daily basis.....  Guys, don't get me wrong - we love you for being you (most of the time).  Otherwise we'd all be lesbians wouldn't we? (don't start!)

In fact, during my only game of FIFA 2010, (despite scoring 2 goals in the first 5 minutes and never playing it again), my favourite bit was the cosmetic creation of the footballer (eye shape, nose shape, hairstyle, outfit etc....) which really surmounted to creating my ideal man - which luckily (for me and him) resembled my real-life man in his entirity!  I do actually believe (and again, I have conducted research on this), that us ladies should gracefully bow out of computer gamery instead of pretending to like it, and instead leave the men to it as they much prefer playing amongst themselves anyway.  In fact, I have it on good authority from a large sample group that men prefer it when women do not attempt to cross the line into their world and instead just bring them a beer from the fridge and then go off shopping or for a manicure and leave them to FIFA, or at best take on the role as spectator / cheerleader, clapping and shrieking and shouting 'MY HERO!' as they score a goal. 

As you can see, I am no feminist, in fact I am an anti-feminist, or preferably I'm 'pro-feminity' and I think in this day and age us girls have scuppered ourselves somewhat by trying SO hard to be more like men, that when we do expect to go off and do our 'girly' stuff it is no longer considered to be our right to do so!  Those of you who are responsible for this please STOP it now and let men be men and women be women!  For goodness sake girls, by all means watch the World Cup, even GO to a match (just dress for a sporting occasion...), have the odd beer and even the occasional arm wrestle (just make sure your nails are done if people are going to be looking at your hand).   Just keep it real ladies - we wouldn't like it if our men insisted on coming to the salon with us would we?  I'd be mightily disconcerted if Dan was to tell me he suddenly wanted to get into cosmetics or hairstyling (despite it being quite useful), or if he bought a pink, sparkly bike.  Yes he might wish to join me on my 'Pole Dance your way to Fitness' class but not as a participant, just a spectator...  And I don't see what's wrong with me bringing him a beer when he is watching the footie.  He always brings me a glass of bubbly while I'm watching X Factor!

Now, don't start taking this the wrong way and thinking that I am being a weak and inferior woman.  Quite the opposite.  We can be hugely successful in our own right, without compromising our femininity, or our intellect.  We are equal to men in many ways, superior in some and inferior in some.  What is wrong with that?  Us ladies have the right to indulge in excessive pampering, admiration & protection from our men, cheating at card games and a certain degree of well-placed petulance.  We should always let the men carry the heavy stuff (including ourselves if we happen to need a fireman's lift from time to time..)  It is also our right to decide if we want an elective caesarian (until I meet a man who can shit a watermelon, I will take no advice from one regarding childbirth!)
“A male gynecologist is like an auto mechanic who has never owned a car.” Carrie P. Snow

And if you STILL think anti-feminism is in any way only an emotion shared by weak and feeble women, then heed the words said by one of the most powerful chicks in history...
"I am most anxious to enlist everyone who can speak or write to join in checking this mad, wicked folly of 'Women's Rights,' with all its attendant horrors, on which her poor feeble sex is bent, forgetting every sense of womanly feelings and propriety. Feminists ought to get a good whipping. Were woman to 'unsex' themselves by claiming equality with men, they would become the most hateful, heathen and disgusting of beings and would surely perish without male protection." Queen Victoria, March, 1870

I leave you with a recommendation for a book that a very good friend of mine sent me a while back:
The Bombshell Manual of Style by Lauren Stover

Ciao ciao for now. TJAx

Employment-Enjoyment, Cyclo-Psycho & Quiet-Riots...

Grüezi my friends.  So, after a period of semi-unemployment and poverty, I have managed to land myself a proper job again!  Not one of the bottom-of-the-barrel ones that I had started to apply for in a desperate attempt to just earn some money, not one that involves a dancing pole, not even a 'this is beneath me but I need to just take it because I can't get anything better' job.... I have managed to finally get a proper job.  In a company where the business language is ENGLISH!  Woo-bloody-hoo!  At long last I can venture outside of the 'Budget' section in Migros and actually buy salami slices that include parts of the pig other than the trotters!  I can walk past a shop, see something I like and then actually BUY IT!  I can stop rationing food,  I can even get back in the salon instead of having to administer my own amateur beauty treatments.  THIS, my friends, is a day to celebrate.....

Trouble is.... I think I am so conditioned to not spending money, that even yesterday (the day I got a job) I was not out spending, I was not off on a well earned shopping spree or hanging about in the nail salon.  I was at home eating budget Bratwursts!  I have never had a permanent job in Switzerland as from the day I arrived here I have been saving and scrimping and literally living on the tightest budget possible.  I don't even know where the salon is!!  I suppose this is a good thing - it could have gone the other way and Dan might have returned home from the office to find me in an Aston Martin on the driveway, yacht trailer on the back (complete with yacht), and a credit card still smoking in my pocket... I think he is slightly bemused at my lack of frivolity yet slightly concerned that it is just a delayed reaction...he's not quite ready to breathe out or blink just yet...  still, the nearest Louboutin shop is 3 hours away in Geneva so I'd have to be pretty stealthy to sneak off there for a day and make it back in time to be on the sofa with my tracksuit on, watching E! TV,having discarded of the Louboutin packaging and any other evidence (though in fact, Dan has been with me long enough to be able to spot a Louie a mile off, even if I was to put them into a Vogele Shoes box...)

Anyway, I have 25 days left before I start the job.  25 days left of being a semi-hausfrau!  I am going to use them wisely and do at least one thing each day that I won't be able to do when I am at work.  I have decided to wear all of my most slutty shades of nail varnish for the next 4 weeks, and I am going to cook lots of time-consuming meals (I start today with a Boeuf Bourguignon).  I am going to set up visits to wedding venues, and have a DIY facial every day.  I will nurture the herb garden and read loads of books, and will finally go and see some of the sights of Zürich that I haven't been able to visit yet due to lack of money (yes, even buying a train ticket became a rare luxury reserved only for getting to and from interviews!)  

Speaking of transportation, last week I got a bicycle and I love it!  Having not cycled even once in the last 20 years and having never ridden a bike with gears before I was slightly apprehensive about setting off on this one, but yesterday I cycled 15km and apart from a serious case of gear-fear (I stayed in the same one the whole way), the consumption of 4 gnats (I have a tendency to listen to my iPod and sing as I'm cycling, and they took the opportunity to fly straight down my throat) and dead-crotch (it only regained consciousness this morning) I managed to stay in one piece and felt very pleased with myself by the end of it - though I do, in hindsight think that wearing a sparkly mini-dress,  a not-quite-dry manicure (I ended up with fossilised gnats embedded in my fingernails), dangly earrings and a fully styled barnet may not have been the best get-up for a bike ride.  Nor was the heavy (yet stylish) rucksack on my back containing my make-up bag, pair of gold wedges, hand cream, hairspray & hair accessories the best idea.... (well I thought maybe we'd go straight out after the bike ride!) 

In addition to all of that I'm still unsure of the rules of cycling etiquette and I am pretty sure I pissed a few people off by whizzing across pedestrian crossings during the green man, and veering into the path of a few hardcore speedy pro-cyclists who were probably trying to beat their own personal record until the weird English girl bellowing out the soundtrack to Top Gun cut across their path with wild abandon...  I'm sure there's a price on my head from the Swiss Authorities who are just waiting to fine me for all manner of cycling offences.  I'll just lay low for a few days, and perhaps buy myself a black lycra all-in-one and a helmet with a black visor for future bike rides.  Turning myself into a ninja-style, stealth-cyclist that whizzes beneath any radar.. (oh, but that would mean no more Top Gun soundtrack, sadly...)

Today in Zurich the May Day riots are taking place.  It's pouring down, cold and miserable outside, yet over 15,000 people have taken to the streets to partake in the 'riots'... a term that brings to mind serious bloodshed, looting & brutality... however this being Zurich it probably consists of a peaceful protest in which noise is controlled so as not to offend nearby residents, and missiles are made from polestyrene to prevent serious injury.  I cannot imagine a Swiss person hurling a Molotov cocktail at anything apart from their own cheminée to give it a boost during the winter.  Still, if it was a sunny day and I was feeling in the mood I'd probably head out to see the 'action' (and sunbathe whilst supping prosecco at the same time, perhaps indulge in a bit of looting if the shoe-shops happened to be exposed...), however I cannot think of a single reason or cause in the world to warrant standing in the rain for hours in protest!  Especially in this day and age where everything can be done by video-conference.

Anyway the Boeuf Bourguignon is 10 minutes from being ready, and I need to open the wine to breathe...  Til the next time homies,
Bicycle-Bimbo. xx

“I don't believe in the Republican party or the Democratic party. I just believe in parties" Samantha Jones; Sex & the City

On Saturday night we, along with my parents hosted a Bring Your Best Dish Buffet Party at our house.  Our motives were of course to get together with friends and have a fun evening, however the appeal of having people turning up with their best, most painstakingly composed dishes, spurred on by the element of competition and leaving us with tons of leftovers to feed us for a week did cross our minds too if I'm honest, though I was rather over-optimistic on the leftovers - there weren't many at all! We also decided to open our doors to the offspring of our friends, which was a decision I feared initially (moments after I'd committed to it!), but that turned out to be a great success.  A few toddler friendships were formed and one budding romance between a couple of 5-year-olds - the extent of my matchmaking success so far!  No parents having to cut their evening short to go and relieve the babysitter, no pre-occupied friends worrying about the kids at home, and most of all the added dimension of having children happily running about, making friends, bringing along their own contributions to the party, and falling into a cupcake induced coma in front of The Jungle Book to leave the grown-ups to party on.

I feel I have stepped over an invisible line all of a sudden.  At what point do we start hosting grown-up food-related parties with so little debauchery that children can be present without any long-term mental or physical damage?  Not so long ago a house party would have involved a bunch of rowdy youths (the fact I even called them that says a lot...)!, complaints from neighbours, a visit from the police, hot-rock burns in the sofas, the bathtub overflowing with beer cans, puke in plant-pots, graffiti on the bathroom mirror, gatecrashers aplenty, someone crying (always), people making out in the bedrooms and the only food on offer would have been munchy-fodder for the stoners - mixing-bowls filled with Wotsits and M&Ms.   Don't get me wrong, I am totally and utterly over those days - fun as they were, and was a host and guest at more than my fair share of them in the past.  How refreshing to only have to clean a small, chocolate handprint off the sofa cover the next day, instead of an unconscious, naked human.

One massive difference between hosting a party here and hosting one in the UK is that in Switzerland EVERYONE turns up on time!  Literally one minute I am there putting a 20th, and final spritz of hairspray on, and a minute later there are 25 people in the living room, a table full of food, kids running themselves into utter exhaustion & a party in full-swing - none of the awkward, quiet bit when only one person has arrived, and you have to make chit-chat when you have one eye on the oven, another on the bbq, and the party music that is playing just seems ridiculously inappropriate for an accompaniment to 4 people standing in a living room talking about the weather.  In addition, here everyone that says they will turn up, turns up (which despite being detrimental to the leftovers was very nice!) 

Entertainment is my thing - it's my profession of course but it's also my passion and if I could host an event every single week I'd be happy as a pig in poop.  Weddings, dinners, parties, you name it.  I have managed to make a successful career out of party planing for a very long time, so I decided to share my wisdom with you in the form of my 3 Top Tips for Successful Events:

1) If anything goes wrong, LIE!:  If something is burning in the oven, something isn't working as it should be, your whole plan of events has gone tits-up - my most important point would be to do whatever it takes (run into the kitchen and cry, SCREAM, punch something, stuff 3 cupcakes into your mouth, smoke a cigarette, D.I.O a triple vodka) but once you turn to your guests your face must be wearing your best smile, and an expression that shows NO hint of panic whatsoever.  Generally if people don't know there was meant to be a firework display timed to explode along to the Final Countdown, then they won't care if it doesn't happen.  This is a learning from my many years as an event manager in a couple of very large high-end investment banks - I've had an A list speaker drop down with a heart attack minutes before going on stage, I had a 150 starters thrown in the bin due to possible contamination moments before they were due to be served at a gala dinner, I've had a very senior and well known client on the verge of closing a huge deal ask me to assist in his decision by offering him hand relief!, I've had another A-list celebrity turn up to speak absolutely off her face on cocaine!  I have been a nanny, a bouncer, a chef, a paramedic, a speaker, a limo driver and even a lighting rigger at one point.  But ultimately as an event manager the biggest role you play is one of actress.  It is not a glamorous affair believe me, and it is not about BEING calm and composed at all times, it is about LOOKING calm and composed at all times to inspire the required confidence in your guests.

2) Introduce like-minded people: Yes I sound like Bridget Jones saying this ('Perpetua, meet Mr Tits-pervert'), but it's so true. Inviting people that you have already matched up in terms of likes, dislikes, common interests, mutual friends and so on can really work in your favour, and there's nothing more satisfying than introducing people, highlighting the common ground and then watching their conversation flourish and them become firm friends. Yes I know I am only talking about two 5-year-olds who both have a penchant for Spongebob Squarepants, but hey, it worked a treat! Thanks Bridget. Seriously though, your guest list is very important - I don't mean everyone should be specially selected and pre-screened, just that if you have friends that you know would hit it off together, there's no harm in a bit of premeditation!

3) Fake it: If there's one thing I have learned in the last couple of years, when the economy was falling apart and the budgets for events in the business world were literally reduced by 60 to 70% - its amazing what you can replace with a cheaper option - people pretend they will only settle for the real thing - but invariably do not know what that is.....even the most high-end of clients (who are usually the least hard-work!) Taking the business learnings and applying them to your own world - replace champagne with prosecco or even Cava - guaranteed after the first glass no one will know the difference, make your own cocktails using cheap vodka and supermarket juice, make 'finger-food' so that nobody needs to use a plate, knife or fork!, do what we did and theme the event as a 'bring your own' - hell, use Aldi's own brand ketchup instead of Heinz - who is going to know if it's in a bite-sized burger?  DJs are more or less redundant - in fact a playlist of your best party songs is infinitely more pleasurable than a muppet has-been trying to re-live his youth who can't get a gig in a club so instead tries to inflict 'A Higher State of Consciousness' on a bunch of 5-year-olds and their mums and dads who experienced the delights of Josh Wink and Abba-Gabba (still both classics of course)15 years ago when punching glow-sticks and chewing your own face off were the primary objectives of a party.  Nobody cares if you've cut costs here and there - as long as they are having fun. 

To end this post I want to leave you with some of my all-time favourite quotes about glamour, food & drink, partying, having fun & a couple that just make me smile every time I read them!:

"I only drink Champagne when I'm happy, and when I'm sad. Sometimes I drink it when I'm alone. When I have company I consider it obligatory. I trifle with it if I am not hungry and drink it when I am. Otherwise I never touch it - unless I'm thirsty"
Lily Bollinger

“Glamour is what makes a man ask for your telephone number. But it also is what makes a woman ask for the name of your dressmaker.”
Lilly Dache

“At every party there are two kinds of people - those who want to go home and those who don't. The trouble is, they are usually married to each other.”
Ann Landers

"I call everyone 'Darling' because I can't remember their names."
Zsa Zsa Gabor

“I feel sorry for people who don’t drink. When they wake up in the morning, that’s as good as they’re going to feel all day.”
Frank Sinatra

“I'm thinking balls are to men what purses are to women. It's just a little bag, but we feel naked in public without it.”
Carrie Bradshaw - Sex & the City

“When women are depressed they either eat or go shopping. Men invade another country.”
Elayne Boosler

“All right, brain, I don’t like you and you don’t like me – so let’s just do this and I’ll get back to killing you with beer”
Homer Simpson

“You men have no idea what we're dealing with down there. Teeth placement, and jaw stress, and suction, and gag reflex, and all the while bobbing up and down, moaning and trying to breathe through our noses. Easy? Honey, they don't call it a job for nothin'.”
Samantha Jones- Sex & the City

Queen of Hearts, Farts & Tarts

Hello and Happy Easter!  I am rather excited today for 2 reasons - firstly it's the start of a 4-day weekend which means my usually very hardworking fiance will have lots of time to spend with me - the sun is shining, BBQ on-the-go, Prosecco cooling in the ice bucket, fiance armed with tongs and adorned in a comedy-apron ... It's a perfect start to the weekend.  Secondly, my mother and father arrive tomorrow to spend a week in Switzerland with us.  I'm blessed with having a fabulous pair of procreators, whose combined brain power has the ability to give me the answers to absolutely everything in the whole world, ever.  My friends used to call my dad 'Dictionary Dad' because he knew the meaning of every word, question, cryptic clue plus the answers to all of life's most difficult questions ("but WHY Daaaaaad?!  WHY?!").  He's taught me so much over the years - including how to perform an emergency tracheotomy & how to say 'fart' in different Indian & African dialects.  Once when we were playing hide & seek he managed to cram himself into a TINY kitchen cupboard (and he isn't a dwarf), and stayed there for over an hour - PURELY in the name of entertaining me & my friends!  He's an all-time hero!

Mum is equally amazing - she always knows exactly what to do even when faced with the most adverse situations - whether a medical drama; (age 12: "Muuuum, I have a lump on my chest!"...."yes dear, that's your breast"), a work incident (age 25: "Muuum, a manager at work is being really mean to me".... "well my love, he's bound to have a tiny willy"), or a culinary crisis (age 32: "Muuuum, you know that wrapping that a pork leg comes in?  I can't get it off"... "You mean the string bag?"... "No, the one underneath".... "That's the skin darling").  She also taught me at a very young age how to get what I want, when I want it and from whomever I want it from.  My learned skills have, for the most part, served me well up until now but I think getting what I want in Switzerland is a bit more of a challenge, so I'm pretty sure that once the 'rentals have been over, they will have equipped me with a new set of skills to continue my success in my new habitat.

Being only semi-employed I have a lot of time to think about things and do things I wouldn't normally do at the moment.  Some of my brain-power has been put to good use - I have pondered many questions and wondered about things I hadn't previously thought of - (like do Orthodox Jewish men use curling tongs if they happen to have naturally straight hair?) I have learned some key German phrases to help me get by - like 'No, sorry - I'm English' (a phrase used in a variety of situations - being asked for directions, being offered a half-price mullet in the hairdresser's, being asked to drive on the correct side of the road) and 'Please may I have a very, very large glass of wine? In fact just give me the bottle.' (usually used immediately after one of the aforementioned situations).  I've rediscovered some of my previous long-lost loves - (i.e. things I used to do before the corporate investment bank machine ate me up and tore my soul from my being), like baking jam tarts, remembering to eat lunch, wearing nail varnish in slutty shades, having a mind of my own, looking at my hand only to find there is not a BlackBerry attached to it & going to bed on a Sunday night without lying rigid in case I puke with nausea and fear at what the following day might bring...

I have also become very good at things I've never done before or never thought I'd be good at - climbing up mountains, making log fires, painting pictures & ironing bed linen (yep - I really did this. once)
The internet has been a good friend to me these last couple of months too.  I have developed a finely tuned set of life skills, like How to Beat a Polygraph Test and How to Make Balloon Animals.  I know that once I am introduced back into civilisation, I'll be unstoppable!  This isn't a period of relaxation - this is TRAINING!! Like a Shaolin Monk I will slip silently, unnoticed back into the world of the unsuspecting civilians of Switzerland (in fact the flip-flop/sock combo will probably HELP me integrate here, given some of the fashion trends I've seen...)

Speaking of which, I have often thought I'd make a great spy - no one would ever believe that I am one, even if I accidentally announce it in the pub after a few drinks.  I'm far too indiscreet - not on purpose, I just forget that I'm not supposed to say stuff, which means I'd make the most unlikely spy!  I.e. I'd be the perfect candidate. Also, I often come across as much less stealthy and intelligent than I am - which is a very useful skill as I have come to appreciate over the last few (well, 32 actually) years.  It's much easier to lull people into a false sense of security if they just think you're a bit ditzy.  Take poker for example - no one would believe that someone would actually jump up, start clapping and shriek with joy when they are dealt a good hand, but I did this during a recent game (not on purpose - I just forgot it was a secret).  Anyway, I won that hand, and then a couple of games later I did it again and surreptitiously watched the smirks go around the table, only this time I had been dealt a terrible hand.  I won that game too....the skill isn't in the game play, it's in the hustle, and I am working hard during this time to perfect mine.

So I am actually very blessed to have been granted this time where my days are not filled with corporate pressure, despite it being somewhat difficult to adapt to.  I know if I didn't make the most of it I'd look back someday and wish that I had, so I am doing my best to dedicate my time to becoming accomplished at as many things as possible.  On that note, I must dash - I've got this tapestry to finish off before my folks arrive.....

Springli has Sprüngli

So, today I am sitting out on the terrace, in 18˚C!  Spring has definitely sprung and all of a sudden this country has shot up in my estimations.  Its like winter ends and the Swiss dust off the outdoor furniture, roll out the pretty awnings, take the lid off the lake, the rooves off their cars, the ski wear off themselves (finally!) and the whole place just feels a whole lot more cosmopolitan, holiday-like, glamorous and sparkly!  I love it - I had to stop myself donning my neon yellow string bikini today!  After all I am in the middle of the city, on a work day, in full view of a main road..... but if it gets any warmer and more summery than this it's only a matter of time! 

Being a cross-breed (and I am allowed to say that about myself before you get all PC on me!), I am blessed with a 'tan-switch' - at the first peek of sun, I just step outside and within an instant I am tanned.  This is good in some ways - no endless hours of sunbathing required.  However it can cause problems - today when I returned after a short trip outdoors to the grocery shop, I heard a noise as I was putting my key in the door, and turned round to find a crowd of the neighbours wondering what the strange Arabian woman was doing breaking into my house.  Once Mr Grübly had been called and I'd shown him my boobs he let me back in (its the only way he could recognise me you see, after the laundry room incident).  Don't get me wrong - it's not that there's no diversity here- just a lot less than in Streatham, so I am something of a minority, especially in my immediate neighbourhood!  It's fine with me - anything that helps me be the centre of attention is welcome! (cue neon yellow bikini).

Tonight I am going to a book club with some 'ladies'.  I say 'ladies' rather than girls because they all have husbands, big cars and children.  I have none of these things, but am working on all 3 (well, in a certain order anyway).   Does this mean I have been accepted into the elite group of the Swiss Expat Wives?  I believe it does!  This is cause for celebration.  I have never been to a book club before - I always thought they were just a front for women who wanted to get together and do tequila shots, play poker and get the Anne Summers lady round without their husbands knowing.  But I have been told that we are definitely going to talk about a book.  Maybe it's the Anne Summers catalogue....  either way, I am very excited as this really is a milestone.  Just short of 6 months in Switzerland and I am UP THERE with the creme de la creme.  I might wear my tiara.

This week we also decided to get a dog, which is fantastic as I am a big fan of canine company (you can tell them anything and they'll never ever utter a word of it to anyone!)  You can use them as a blankie, cushion or even a hanky when you're watching a weepie film...(ok did I say that out loud?)  The problem we have is that I would be happy with one of those dogs that most men think of as rodents - a chihuahua or a miniature pug or any little ball of fluff with a face.  I'd even have one of those mini teacup pigs!  (though I do worry that I'd come home drunk from the pub one night and eat it.  A bit of honey & mustard glaze on one of those babies, 30 minutes at 200˚C. mmmmmm.)  But of course we can't get a miniature dog as they aren't manly enough, nor can we get a big dog, or one that is too energetic as we don't have THAT much space.  So at the moment we have pretty much agreed that a Basset Hound would be the ideal, lazy, loveable, slightly stupid yet very cute pet.  It probably won't fit in my handbag (not all of them anyway), but I can live with that.  So our small family of two is soon to grow to 3, and I will no longer be the ditziest one of the lot (I hope!  Though I do have visions of Dan teaching the Basset Hound how to play FIFA on the PS3 get him a beer from the fridge.  I'll have to teach it how to pedicure...)

I've been so overwhelmed with the onset of spring, and being surrounded by Easter paraphernalia everywhere I look (the Swiss LOVE Easter!) that I actually ate a chocolate rabbit today.  This is VERY weird for me, as unlike most women I am not a fan of chocolate, at all.  However, living in the land of chocolate, having been given a chocolate rabbit as an Easter gift, trying to embrace my new found culture (and frankly being hormonal), I made a chocolate breakthrough today, and actually thoroughly enjoyed it.  However I am not going to get used to it, because if any of my other tastes are an indication, it would only be a matter of time before only the most expensive chocolate would do.  Considering a 10 inch high chocolate rabbit in Sprüngli costs 189 CHF, I think I'll steer clear of developing a new fetish...

On that note I need to cut this one short!  Or I'll be late for book club!  Til the next time homies. xxx

The finger and the pulse - an emotional reunion

In my previous existence I was something of an It Girl (that's It as opposed to IT btw...technology was never my strong point - see previous post).  I was always invited to the latest club openings, restaurants, parties and so on.  I would wear trends before they became trends, and was always well aware of the latest from the worlds of fashion, film, TV, media, entertainment and music.  I didn't really strive to achieve any of this - it just happened that my life was so entwined with the social scene, and because of my privileged job, I was professionally hooked up in the right circles too.  My generous salary allowed me to splurge on clothes, shoes, nights out, regular trips to glamorous destinations and every glossy magazine going.

Unfortunately my move to Switzerland and dramatic shift in demographic has meant the demise of my socialite status, and relegated me to someone that reads 6-month-old, German, second hand magazines in doctors' waiting rooms, hasn't bought a pair of shoes since last October (apart from a pair of very un-sexy, unfashionable 'comfy' boots to shield my once-weekly-pedicured feet from the Swiss elements)...  In short, my (once-weekly-manicured) finger has been rudely and dramatically torn from the pulse!  This has been a slow decline which I have thus far tried to ignore, but became glaringly obvious after it took 3 days for me to find out that Stephen Gately had died!  Previously I would have known he was going to die before even HE did!!  How could I have become so far removed?!!!

So, in order to combat this I have made it my mission to get back on the pulse (so to speak - sorry Stephen!).  This is not an easy task - living vicariously through websites, 2nd hand Grazia Magazines sent from my London friends, British TV ('enders doesn't exactly keep me up on date on fashion trends). There's no substitution for living, breathing and SPENDING in London.  However I made the unfortunate mistake of tuning into a TV programme about this year's Oscars fashion in a vain attempt to see what the Brits were wearing, and just to have a glimmer of that sparkly, red carpet feeling that I used to feel much closer to.  Needless to say apart from some 12 year olds from a dodgy vampire movie (you can't compete with the Lost Boys. RIP Corey) and Kate Winslet doing her annual "see, I don't always have to play the fat chick" speech there really weren't many Brits to catch up with, so instead I moved my focus to the Americans.  And OMG, let me tell you - 90210 has become my new WC1 - its all about Beverley Hills at the moment!  Who knew what a legend Jay Manuel is?  And who knew how quick and easy it is to get 450cc's of saline breast augmentation up through your belly button without so much as a pin prick in your boob area??!  Just ask Dr. Rey! This is all news to me and like a horrible car crash, or Joan Rivers' face, I can't tear my eyes away from it once I start watching.  The remedy?  Don't start watching.  Its a slippery slope and I came close to falling down it.  I rescued myself though, and have given myself a new project to run alongside my continuous job search and domestic goddess duties... its a secret though (mainly because if it all goes tits-up, crashes and burns, ends up being a flash in the pan... then you won't all be able to laugh at me.  Well you will, just not about this..) 

So, as I have banned myself from watching excessive amounts of Dr. 90210, Leave it to Lamas, Streets of Hollywood and so on... and I am restricted to only spending money on food and basic survival goods (like hairspray), and as I am unable to live in the circles that I once did, I have decided to share some of my innermost secrets with you on how you can live like an It Girl even if you are a poor, unemployed, out of touch nobody like moi....

1) Lip fillers:  You don't need collagen injections to achieve an Angelina pout!  My tip is this: over the course of the day, peel away a whole layer of skin from your lips (sometimes this is done voluntarily, other times it just comes naturally as you are rocking in frustration in front of your laptop searching even the armpits of the job market for some way to earn money)... and once you have a set of almost-bleeding, red raw lips just rub half a chilli over them.  They will swell up to at least double the size in seconds.  Slap on a layer of gloss (or if you can't afford it just stick your finger in some vegetable oil) and Bob ist dein onkel!

2) Hair extensions:  Upon close analysis of anyone with hair extensions, I have discovered that they really do just look like scraggy, untrimmed tendrils of matted hair.  Therefore the solution is simple -  just grow your own hair, don't wash or brush it for a few days and there you go!  And no ladies, I don't mean your armpits, eyebrows and moustaches ... just your head hair.  Unless you want to go for the Salma Hayek look in the film about Frida Kahlo...  As far as I am concerned there is no excuse for any woman, no matter how poor and destitute, to have any hair below the eyebrows unless it is virtually invisible or expertly 'topiarised' into a presentable fashion.   This is perfectly achievable and if you need instructions there are plenty of 'how to' guides on t'internet.

3) Parties and networking: Ok this one is easy - an It Girl is someone who looks, acts, walks and talks like an It Girl - nothing else!  No one needs to know that you spend most of your time in a tracksuit, shopping in Aldi, dodging the bus ticket inspectors & drinking Lambrini out of champagne glasses in your own time.... Appearance and demeanour is everything - and before you all laugh when I (of all people) say 'demeanour' just remember this:  When I was carried out of a party in a fireman's lift after drinking far too much champagne and literally jetting in just for that one night in the middle of 2 weeks on my feet with virtually no sleep, working between Germany, Switzerland and Israel, only to be SNEERED at by a (clearly NON It) girl, a good friend of mine (who was, is and will ALWAYS be an It Girl) told me "sweetie, that's the ONLY way to leave a party"...  I stand by that.  The fact that my fiance is actually a part-time fireman also means I can keep him in rescue-practice.  Therefore I am actually helping save lives.....!  Yay me!

4) Fashion:  I arrived in Switzerland in October - the beginning of winter.  Until now it has just been winter, winter and more winter.  This, combined with lack of finances, has not been conducive to me looking my best.  For the first time in my life I found myself opting for comfort and warmth over glamour and trend.  It has been a struggle.  I always imagined that if I was ever to 'hit the slopes' (that's a term that is quite literal in my case - I hit the slopes alright... face first!...) then I would be kitted out in a glamorous ensemble from Chanel.  In reality I ended up in shapeless age 13 boyswear from TK Maxx, a nerdy helmet and some special 'all weather' goggles.  Combine this with a frozen, red face and a permanent expression of fear - the whole get-up resulted in me looking like I'd just been shot out of a cannon in some bizarre circus stunt staged to amuse the designer-clad ski-bunnies of Switzerland.  I cannot tell you how pleased I am that spring seems to have arrived.  An It Girl only really requires a few staple items in order to maintain their look - a pair of Louboutin heels is a must, and mine are being dusted off as we speak.  Add to those a pair of oversized Fendi shades, an upside-down-head, volume-inducing blowdry, lashings of lipgloss and a bit of bling, and I'm back in the game!  Goodbye helmet-hair, goodbye 'comfy' shoes, goodbye hideous, freezing weather.

5) ...and finally:  Giving back to the community:  It is very important for It Girls to display a level of social responsibility.  I have pondered long and hard as to how I will do this as I have decided it is an absolute must in order for me to reclaim my It Girl tiara... and helping save lives by keeping my fiance in fireman's lift practice isn't really good enough.  Despite recycling my rubbish religiously I can't really claim to be doing an awful lot of good for the environment as I probably created the hole in the ozone layer singlehandedly through around 20 years worth of excessive hairspray usage.  I don't currently contribute financially to any charities (I can't!  I am too poor!  I AM a charity!).  So I am currently in search of a worthy way in which to give something back - all suggestions are welcome!  Answers on a postcard, or actually just post a comment.  Thanks!

Frugal, Google and Poo(gle)

My laptop has been playing up recently, and I have learned from my technologically knowledegable boyfriend that rather than calling it names, pleading with it (sometimes with tears) or stomping off in a mood whilst telling it to 'talk to the hand' in the hope that it will sort itself out, it is advisable to Google the problem as a question, and invariably there'll be a million other people in the virtual world that have encountered a similar problem and have had the decency (or absence of life) to put up their findings on t'internet.  

Now, in the past, as with most of my belongings, if it was playing-up, worn-down, broken, no longer matched an outfit, was off-trend or I was simply having a bad day I would have probably just bought a new one.  However in my current socio-economic status of UNICORN (Unemployed Nobody In Country Of Rich Nerds) I have had to be a little bit more frugal and attempt to find solutions to broken goods (or wear last season's clothing).  So, in my new found role of 'Technological Troubleshooter' I decided to google 'why does my laptop make a noise like an pneumatic drill every time I open Facebook, E! Entertainment Online or any online shopping site?' (hmmmm, had I been a cynic I may have thought, just for one fleeting moment, that my aforementioned technologically advanced BF was responsible for this laptop demise by embarking on a cunning plan to kill three birds with one stone..... I can almost hear his thought process now.....): "Raa haa haaaaa... with this plan I can a) prohibit my chick from bankrupting us by online shopping as she thinks that if her credit card doesn't actually leave the house it doesn't actually constitute 'shopping' b) prevent her from turning into a mindnumbingly dull 'hausfrau' with no brain-food other than the latest gossip from the world of Kendra or The Kardashians, and c) give her a lesson in technology, whilst also keeping her amused for hours at a time whilst she painstakingly trawls the internet for solutions to problems that can easily (and only) be fixed if I just replace this little 'bimbo-chip' in her laptop...."  But of course, he would never do such a thing!

Anyway - after cranking up the giant drill I opened Google and started to type in 'why does my....' at which point Google (as it does) brought up a list of things that it thought I was going to ask - (and despite my technological retardedness I do believe these things are the most frequently searched questions) to find that the things people really want to know are (and seriously, try it if you don't believe me)...
Why does my belly button smell?
Why does my cat lick me?
Why does my eye twitch?
Why does my dog eat poo?
I'm really hoping that it isn't just one poor, unfortunate soul that is asking all of the above questions....

Anyway - so here I am, a mere three words into my technology project and I have already found myself a new one!  Discovering the weirdest things that people google every day!  I decided that if I found so many funny things just from the words 'why does my...?' then there must be even more if I typed in 'why am I..?' or simply 'why...?':  Sure enough - I was faced with:
Why am I so ugly?
Why am I still single? (surely one doesn't need to look up both of the above...?)
Why do men have nipples?
Why is my poo black?

THEN I decided to move onto Google Images and go through every letter of the alphabet to see what came up as the most sought after images just from that single letter.  My discovery included a lot of the predictable things - A: Angelina Jolie, B: Beyonce, Breasts, C: Cheryl Cole, Cristiano Ronaldo... However I did discover a few interesting things....: P: Poo, U: Ugly people, Y: Yoda.... Why do people want pictures of these things???  Actually I don't really want to know.  However it is blatantly apparent that the UK is obsessed with poo, disgusting ailments and being ugly!  Lovely!

This did prompt me to pose a question (to myself - there's no one else here to ask)...
Do people in all countries ask the same questions?  I had my suspicions that they wouldn't.  After all, we Brits seem to be unhealthily obsessed with our looks, bodily functions and diets despite being a nation that eats too much, doesn't exercise enough, doesn't consume the right foods and so on.  You only have to look at all of those British TV programmes like Fat Club, You Are What You Eat (where that Scottish gremlin woman visits people who live on crisps and beer 24/7 and then acts surprised when their poo resembles a Heineken-soaked pork scratching), Embarrassing Bodies (the one where a bunch of GPs trawl regional England in search of people with disgusting ailments and conditions, who are too embarrassed to go to their local GP but more than happy to unleash their scabby, itchy, weeping parts on national TV to a doctor that everyone else seems to think is a heart-throb but I think looks like the guy Eric Stoltz plays in the film Mask where he has that weird disease that makes his head grow deformed and he is looked after by his 'normal-headed' mum who is ironically played by Cher....)

So anyway I decided to start my research with the obvious - Switzerland.  Are people in Switzerland obsessed with ugliness, gross conditions and poo as much as English people?  Well, in order to start this project the first task was to ascertain the words for 'poo' and 'ugly', as well as 'why am I' and 'why does my' in German (and Swiss German perhaps?) and then log onto Google.ch and give it a go.... 

I approached Dan with my questions.  He doesn't even bat an eyelid anymore when I randomly ask him questions like "how do you say 'poo', 'ugly' and 'why am I...?' in German".  He just gives me the answer, and nowadays even volunteers a little bit extra.  For example he told me the word for poo is Kacke (haha!), but then went on to informed me that there was a phrase in German used in the same way as we would say 'the shit will hit the fan' which is 'die Kacke ist am dampfen' which literally means 'the poo is steaming'.  Thanks darling!

Anyway, I did my research and actually the main questions that the Swiss & Germans have are
Why am I so dumb?
Why am I so unpopular?
but ALSO... Why am I so ugly? 
However there was very little in the way of poo or other bodily functions, so I figure the reserved nature of the Swiss & Germans hereby is proven via my own personal study of what they search for online.  I wonder how they do find the answers to Smelly-Belly syndrome then....?

Anyway, it has been a very scientific and worthwhile study if I do say so myself.  I am somewhat concerned about the obsession with ugliness that everyone seems to have.  Granted, there are some among us that are less easy on the eye than others, but to actually seek out the reason why on the internet?  I just hope some of these poor souls find the answers they are looking for.  Anyway, next up, top search topics from Outer Mongolia....(why does my Yak malt?  How do I knit a jumper out of my wife's hair?  Can Dr 90210 give me Genghis Khan cheekbones?).... only joking - I'm over this subject already....

Happy searching!

Üüüü! Bübies! ....said Mr Grübly......

The space you get when you rent an apartment in Switzerland is phenomenal - you may remember from one of my earliest posts that I felt I could have lived in either the loft or the cellar that we were presented with on our showround.  This is the norm - I have a friend who was shown her 'apartment' and was convinced that she, her husband and daughter would be sharing with another family, it was so vast and set over 3 floors!

In Switzerland it is also pretty much the norm that within an apartment building there are one or more (depending on the size of the block) communal laundry rooms in the basement, so that each apartment doesn't have to house a washing machine and dryer within it.  This is definitely a clever way to do things - it means more space and less noise in your home, the landlords are responsible for the upkeep of the machines, everyone has a 'washing cupboard' (in addition to their own cellar and loft), next to the laundry rooms, to keep all of their powder etc in, there is always a warm place to hang washing and it keeps down electricity costs overall....(which are of course monstrous over here anyway!)

HOWEVER....there is a down side.  It does require one to suddenly become very disciplined about laundry.... this is something I have never been.  In fact, I am not ashamed to say that for the 5 years before I moved here I had a cleaner that would look after all of my domestic chores for me.  Not because I was too lazy to do them, but because I worked every waking (and many sleeping) hours of the day and night, and simply didn't have the time.  So, when we arrived here I had to rediscover my inner domestic goddess.  This was a relatively easy task for the most part - I am perfectly capable of performing all domestic duties to a high standard, and when given the time, I actually enjoy some of them.  I love cooking, having a clean and tidy home, darning my boyfriend's socks (ok that last one was a joke)... BUT where I do have a problem is scheduling my laundry around 5 other households.  Gone are the days that 2 hours before a night out I could decide I absolutely MUST wear that black top that has been in the washing basket for 5 days, lob it into the machine for a quick wash and then a dry, and have it on my person within 90 minutes.

Now the way it works here is that every household has exclusive use of the machines, one day a week, and there's a spare machine which can be used by anyone as long as it is free.  No one is meant to use the machines on a Sunday (I always do).  We managed to manipulate it at the beginning of the year so that our day was a Monday (everyone else was away for Christmas so we were the first to get our hands on 'the calendar'), so now I can sneakily put washing and drying on on a Sunday and if I happen to leave it in overnight then the next day is our day anyway.... Yes, I know this is sad, but one is reduced to playground tactics when faced with such regimented policies!

Our landlord is a 'sweet' old Swiss man called Mr Grübly (that's not his real name but as you may have come to realise, and remind me to come back to this point later - Swiss names are not my forte, and I also am rather over-enthusiastic with the umlaut.. that is the double dot thingy above the letter 'u' which I now put on every 'u' which is wrong because it only goes on some 'u's to make it sound different from a non-umlauted 'u' in a way that actually sounds exactly the same anyway - well, to my untrained ears... a 'ü' makes an 'ue' sound and a 'u' makes an 'oo' sound... yeah whatever.). 

Anyway, back to Mr Grübly - he's one of those old men that looks very sweet and harmless on the outside, but is something of a dictator and well, arsehole basically, underneath.  He doesn't speak any English and knows I don't speak German (any version...yet!), however his way of dealing with this is to speak to me in Swiss German anyway, JUST REALLY LOUDLY.  Its as if he thinks being English is just a disability and should be treated the same as if I was a deaf Swiss person.   Anyway, Mr or technically HERR Grübly has been round a few times on our request to fix things and sort things out - our shower was a bit rickety, and one of the heating rings on our hob wasn't working, so Herr Grübly even brought his own casserole pan round to test it (he didn't believe our English pans were of good enough quality to be used on a Swiss hob...). 

He loves Dan because Dan speaks Swiss German and isn't deaf, and is also a member of the local fire brigade, which is a huge tick on the 'getting in with the authorities' checklist over here.  He also loves lingering around after a visit to have a cup of tea and discuss, with Dan (in a normal voice) and me (in a shouted voice still in a language I can't understand), the latest gossip from the local area, and other exciting news.  He can often be seen tottering around our apartment building, or lurking behind pillars in our car park waiting for someone to park in the wrong bay, or use the jet wash on a Sunday so that he can leap out and reprimand them appropriately - which in these parts will be a monetary penalty, believe me... (but I can't help thinking that Herr Grübly also has a little room somewhere with some rigged up car jump leads, and a tray of metal surgical equipment, a bare lightbulb with a lone fly buzzing around it, and sound-proofed walls.....)

Anyway, there is a point to me telling you all of this, believe it or not.  This Sunday was Valentines Day, so I had abandoned any thoughts of stealth-laundry and had spent the day on the sofa with my beloved and a stack of DVDs and microwave popcorn.  So yesterday (Monday) I had a day of domesticity and gave the flat a spring clean, and did 4 loads of washing.  I was nipping up and down from the laundry room throughout the day and as I was putting the final load in, I realised that I could also whack in my bra (the one I was wearing at the time) and traccy bottoms (which I was also wearing at the time)...  No one was around, it was the middle of the day, and I guessed it would take me a total of 40 seconds or less to get my bra off from under my top, and swap my traccys for a clean pair (that had just come out of the dryer) and get both into the machine...  Well, I made a rookie mistake didn't I?  What I should have done was addressed the top half it its entirety first - arms out of sleeves, bra off, arms back in sleeves, bra in washing machine.  Then should have addressed the bottom half; traccys off, new traccys on, old traccys in washing machine....  I didn't.  I somehow managed to get my bra off and then in my haste went for the traccys before getting my arms back in my sleeves......

As it happens I ended up bra-less and traccy-less, with my top round my neck, boobs out, standing in my socks and pants (pink thong as it happened), when I heard the door down the corridor close and someone's footsteps walk towards the laundry room.  Counter-productive in my panicked haste, I managed to turn my top round 90 degrees so I had one sleeve on the front and one on the back with no chance of getting an arm in either, and at the same time attempted to get into a pair of tracksuit bottoms and ended up with both feet in one leg-hole...

It was disastrous, but luckily (in hindsight) I became so entangled in my various clothes that I fell on the floor, against the door, blocking it from being opened from the outside.  I felt the door being pushed from the other side, and managed to hold it off for a few seconds as I quickly readjusted my garments.  I managed to get the traccys on, one arm into my top, and grab the laundry basket with my other arm (more as a prop really, or an impromptu wicker 'sleeve'), which luckily managed to almost conceal my one exposed arm and more importanly my boob, just as Herr Grübly walked into the room holding what looked like a cattle grid (probably en route to his secret room), saw me, gave me an exasperated 'CRAZY ENGLISH WOMAN' look before bellowing 'GRÜEZI!!' followed by something else (I dread to think what - I can't think of many reasons a woman would be half naked in a room full of washing machines....), in my face.. at which point I literally legged it, up the stairs, 2 at a time, wicker sleeve still on, and locked myself in the apartment....  I haven't left it since....  I'm scared of ending up in his secret room and I think next laundry day I will be sending Dan down to do the washing, just in case Herr Grübly is lurking behind the washing machine with his cattle grid or other 'utensils'...

Rules mean everything here, and if you don't follow them they hit you where it hurts.  Your wallet (or Fendi purse in my case).  You MUST recycle everything.  But in separate places, at separate times, with separate rules - e.g. you pay a deposit on bottled beer which you only get back when you return the bottles for recycling.  But not to the same place as where you recycle your wine bottles.  And then plastic is in a different place, and aluminium somewhere else again.  But if you dare to disrupt the peace by recycling on a Sunday then that's also a monetary fine.  As for paper and cardboard - God forbid if you treat them as the same.  I actually know someone who was putting out their cardboard for recycling, and had somehow managed to get a lone piece of paper mixed in with it.  She was actually shouted at from an apartment window, some distance away, by someone watching... "I think you'll find you have one sheet of paper amongst that cardboard!"....  In London there were lots of people who would recycle their bottles (fill them back up with White Spirit from the economy vat hidden in the subway), or their cardboard (the Lidl boxes are the best for roofing), or even rubbish -(I had mine stolen a few times)! It's a very different world over here though, and I have successfully managed to escape any fines thus far. Let's hope it stays that way.  I wonder if getting ones' baps out in a public laundry room is a penalty-worthy offence here...?

People must also pay to throw their rubbish away here.  Every rubbish bag must have a sticker on it which costs 2fr.  If it doesn't, they WILL go through your rubbish to try and identify you and you will be fined!  I have heard that many people actually store their rubbish in their cellar and then drive it over to Germany to dump it when they have a car load!  Personally I'd rather just pay the 2fr...  I have, however, become extremely efficient at stuffing as much rubbish into a bin bag as physically possible.  This involves getting one's leg (sometimes both) into the bag and stamping it down in order to cram another load in. I have also (just in case) tried to ensure that should anyone attempt to steal a sticker off my bag to use for their own, and frame me for the non-stickered offence, there are no traces of my identity left in my rubbish.  However I don't think there is anyone else in our apartment building who would have bin bags full of packaging from illegally smuggled Peperami sticks and Sainsbury's English Bacon in every bag... so that might just be a giveaway.

Anyway, I reminded myself to come back to the Swiss name thing.... just as an example, Dan and I were very seriously considering getting ourselves a dog last week.  We went online to look at puppies and Dan found THE most adorable baby spaniel for sale just an hour's drive away.  He called me to have a look at the picture on the internet.  It was an image of the most adorable little puppy ever, and even had his name underneath.  "awwwwwwwwwwwww!" I said.. "Look, he's adorable, and his name is Fenster!".... mistakenly thinking Dan was being silent as he was also stunned by the sheer cuteness of this little fellow.  I turned round to see him bent double and shaking with laughter.  When he could finally speak again, he said "His name is not Fenster.  Fenster means 'window'  That note at the bottom says Fenster Schliessen, which means Close Window!"  Needless to say, if we ever do get a dog, his name will definitely now be Fenster.