Bob ist dein Onkel!

'Schadenfreude'.  Now there's a word.  From the German Schaden (harm) & Freude (joy).  I love it!  Both the word and indulging in the act itself (and I'm not the only one...YouTube posts like this are a testament to that!)  

Switzerland in the winter is a great forum for schadenfreude.  And before you go on at me for being mean (again), then believe me when I say I probably provide those around me with a healthy and regular dose of the stuff.  In fact Dan and I have an agreement that when one of us trips over, stands on a plug, falls out of a moving taxi (he hasn't actually done that), stubs a toe or tumbles face-first down a ski slope (that's usually just me), then unless death or a horrific injury are on the cards, or there are hysterical tears (again, only me), we are allowed to laugh at each other, publicly, with pointing and everything.

As soon as I realise that all of my bones are intact and I am still alive then I will openly laugh at myself!  After all it makes me all the more happy to be alive having had a brush with the grim reaper himself (ok I know I am being over-dramatic but you get my drift...)

I have seen more people fall over in a comical way in the last couple of months than in the rest of my 32 years on this planet combined.  And the fact that the Swiss don't laugh at people ever, means I am usually singled out and given the evil looks from all of those around me as I openly guffaw at the poor soul trying to scrape themselves up off the ice whilst trying to attract as little attention as possible.  I can't help it!  There's something about the sound of someone slapping against a floor, or the sight of a pair of legs giving way and flapping wildly while trying to stay upright that is hilarious beyond belief.  And I AM (believe it or not) a nice person and always want to go and help people up, but I can't because I am usually too busy laughing, and scared that they will be so offended and humiliated by it that I would only make the situation worse.  So I'm afraid I just stand and watch everyone else, sober-faced and pretend-concerned (even after it is apparent that no damage has been done apart from to the pride of the 'accidentee').


Anyway, back to the topic in hand - words.  Don't believe it if someone tells you Swiss German is like German 'but just a bit different'.  That's utter nonsense (or 'unsinn' in German, which incidentally is 'seich' in Swiss German.....  Oh look how similar they are - they both have an 's' in them...... see?!)  Anyway, so when one arrives in Switzerland, motivated to learn a new language, ready to take on the challenge, determined to get by on one's own.... it can be somewhat disheartening to discover that there are actually 2 languages to learn.  Yes, everybody tells you 'learn High German because the Swiss understand it', but in reality, when every day around you all you hear is Swiss German, you start to pick up and recognise those words more than the High German equivalent - without necessarily knowing which language you are even hearing.  And then of course repeating them without knowing which language you are speaking.  'Duh!' I hear you say (which actually would be 'Doch!' in German and 'Moll!' in Swiss German)  'why not just learn Swiss German then?'  WELL - because Swiss German is not actually a written language, therefore in order to read and write here, one must learn High German, despite hearing Swiss German in everyday life!


Now,  I am very determined to at least be able to understand people (it makes me paranoid to be in the company of people that could quite possibly be calling me a muppet to my face while I smile, and nod and even say 'thank you'...), so at the moment I am continually questioning the very patient and linguistically superior Daniel.


HOWEVER, I am unfortunately of a very inquisitive nature and 'but WHY?????' is one of my most frequently asked questions.  I not only want to know what words mean, but why they mean it, and how they work in different sentences.  And frankly if they don't work in the way that I want them to, I will use them in that way anyway.  Initially this was to Dan's despair, but I am proud to say that I have now managed to make him start using my 'new' way of speaking German, sometimes without him even realising it - HEE HEE HEE (I don't know what that would be in either German)...  Take the very simple 'please', 'thank you' and 'you're welcome'.  Here's how it went;


Me: So, I say 'Danke' for thank you, and 'Bitte' for please?
Dan: Yes, and how do you say 'you're welcome'?
Me: 'Wilkommen!'
Dan: No, it's 'bitte'
Me: No it isn't - that means 'please'.  you just told me that.
Dan: Yes but it also means 'you're welcome'
Me: But WHY?
Dan: It just does
Me: well it should be 'Wilkommen'.  That means Welcome.  I know because it says it on the sign to the chicken place.
Dan: Yes, but that means 'Welcome' as in '"Welcome to the chicken place"'
Me: But it sounds better than saying 'please' to someone who has just said 'thank you' to you.
Dan: (thinks about this) Well I see your point but that's simply not the right word.
Me: well I'm just going to say it anyway (with a petulant 'and that's the end of it!' flick of the head)
Dan: errr, ok.... (looks around for help / escape route... I forgot to mention we are in public.  Not the chicken place but a steak place, which is neither here nor there to be honest as there was every danger that I was on the verge of testing out my new language preference imminently regardless of our location... which I did...)


After this point I have proceeded to say 'Wilkommen' every time he (or anyone) says thank you to me - (in any language.)....  and THEN... last week HE said it to ME!!!!  And now, it is just a part of our every day language!!  I just have to conquer the remaining 7,630,605 residents of this fine country, and Bob's your uncle (which of course is a perfectly normal phrase to use in any language).....


So there you have it.  Forget High German and Swiss German - they are SO 2009.  This year is all about the Tess-German.  I will be delivering lessons going forward so stay tuned...


Anyway, back to the Swiss German, or 'Schweizer Deutsch'.  DO NOT, under any circumstances, make the mistake I made at a corporate conference last week, and tell someone that you are currently learning 'Scheisse Deutsch'.  It was some time later in the day that I realised why he had walked away from me chuckling and wiping a tear of laughter from his eye.


Despite it being 'a dialect of German' Swiss German is very different, not just in the words themselves, but tone and intonation as well - on the one hand it is a very pleasant language as everything is said in a slightly sing-song way.  In fact the more you go up and down with  the voice, the more Swiss you sound.  I have a great deal of fun with this - I push it to the absolute extreme, literally flitting between octaves in just one word, much to my own amusement, only to find that the local I'm speaking to is nodding and grinning in a approval at my excellent interpretation of the language.  However there is also the unfortunate pronounciation of 'ch' which isn't said in the way we Brits use it (e.g chips, chavs, Charlton) but is more like the sound one would make when coughing up a furball.  Add this to the fact that lots of people here chain smoke, especially the old 'mountain folk', and there have been many occasions that I have grimaced and moved away from a nicotine-stained-bearded cowboy that sounds like he is gargling with his own phlegm and is about to spray me with it.  Unfortunately I actually did this on one occasion when the yellow-bearded-phlegm-gargler was talking to me.  Whilst I do try to be accepting of people, I draw the line at being unwillingly sprayed in bodily fluids of any kind.


I did actually meet a very nice yellow-bearded local in a bar one evening who told me that in order to test whether someone can speak Swiss German properly, ask them to say the Swiss word for 'kitchen cupboard' which is 'chuchichäschtli' and see if they get it right.  After 4 glasses of wine I spent around 20 mins perfecting this with help from my new friend George (actually his name is Tschugge, pronounced 'Chew Gay' but I heard it as George so have called him that ever since).  Anyway bucketloads of spit and a shredded throat later I mastered the Schiesse Deutsch and now wander the streets of Zürich saying 'Welcome' and 'Kitchen Cupboard' to anyone that will listen.  This website is a very useful one for anyone moving to Switzerland with a limited (to the point of non-existent) understanding of the language.


Moving on to place names... many street and towns names here end in '..kon' (pronounced 'corn'), '...wil' (pronounced 'veeel') or '..egg' (pronounced 'egg').  Some of my favourites are Bubikon (Booby Corn), Wetzikon (wet sick corn), Manegg (Man Egg), Eggrainweg (Egg Rain Veg) and my all time favourite - Spitteleggwegg (Spittle Egg Veg)....  Have a look here if you don't believe me!  I'll finish this post with a few lessons learned (so far)..


1) Richtung / Richtig:  On my first train journey home from work, I knew it was 7 stops until our station (Adliswil). So I got up after the 6th stop and waited by the door to get off.  As the train stopped I hopped out, looked at the sign and got back on the train!  When I eventually made it home I explained to Dan that the train had stopped at Richtig, Zürich instead of Adliswil....  Richtig in German actually means 'Right', but in Swiss German is also used for the word 'Direction' (which in German is Richtung.  Confused?  I am!)... and I had seen the sign at Adliswil station saying 'direction, Zurich' and thought I was at a town called Richtig...


2) Freudlichen Grüsse:  Emailing to reserve a table in a restaurant, I received an email back asking if I would mind eating 30 minutes later.   I replied... 'Dear Freudlichen Grüsse, we would be happy to arrive 30 minutes later.'  Freudlichen Grüsse is not someone's name.  It means Yours Sincerely....oops


3) Damen & Herren...  Yes I know this one is easy and there's no excuse, but on the day of arrival into the country, after a long drive and lack of sleep, and desperate for a wee, I hopped out at a service station and saw 2 doors - one had a word on it that incorporated the word HER, and the other incorporated the word MEN... to me, it was a no-brainer....  I only saw the urinals as I came out out of the cubicle and made a dash for the door, only to run straight into a man coming in who obviously needed a wee as much as I had as he was already getting his Schwanz out as he walked in.  That's a mistake I'll never make twice...


So there you have it.  I have also heard stories of people thinking that all motorways lead to a town called Ausfahrt (Exit), and so on.  So I know I am not the only one who has had problems.  Though I am pleased to say, every day there is some progress, and this week I found myself for the first time, speaking a whole sentence, effortlessly!  

I leave you with my favourite word to date:  'Kunterbunt', meaning 'varied' or 'multi-coloured'.... the perfect word to spice up an argument without actually saying something wrong... 'darling, I was only saying how 'varied ' you are!'

Heaven is a giant sausage, dipped in mustard

Disclaimer: If you are an over-sensitive vegetarian don't read any further....

I am the biggest carnivore in the world.  If it was once breathing, mooing, trotting, oinking, flapping or grazing, then I want to eat it.  And don't give me any of this cruelty to animals crap.  Eating meat is human nature and more importantly it tastes bloody (excuse the pun) marvellous, so imagine my delight when I arrived here in Switzerland to find that meat is even more a part of the staple diet than it is in the UK, or anywhere else I have been in fact.  Not only is meat everywhere, but it is of the highest quality I've ever known, and whilst it costs at least 50% more than in the UK, it's worth every penny.

I'm not a fan of the potato, rice or bread as a base for a meal.  Don't get me wrong, I am not some Atkins freak (or any other diet freak for that matter), but I would rather eat 2 sausages than one hot dog in a bun.  Meat is my bread.  My perfect sandwich is 2 slices of salami with a slice of cheese in the middle. Not eating spongy stuff just means I have more room for some extra animal derivatives!  Apart from copious amounts of meat, my diet consists largely of vegetables and fruit (liquid fermented grapes, and cranberry juice with a dash of cointreau and vodka both being regular contributors to my 'five-a-day').  I also keep in very good shape by exercising 3 or 4 times a week so frankly can eat what the hell I want without too much worry about the weight thing

Anyway, I used to find it difficult in restaurants in the UK to order meat accompanied just by salad, or vegetables.  Waiters would accept my order, but STILL bring my plate over loaded up with chips, potatoes, bread etc.  No wonder so many British people are overweight - having bucket loads of starch served up at every meal.  So it was such a welcome relief to come here and discover the 'Fitnessteller' which basically means 'piece of meat (could be chicken, beef, a sausage etc) accompanied by a salad.'  Practically every restaurant offers this as the norm!  Much tastier, and much less calorific.

It is also perfectly commonplace to see people walking around with a sausage in one hand and a little paper pot of mustard in the other, dipping as they go.  This is the 'on-the-go' snack in Zürich (a snack in Swiss-German is known as a znüni, but only if you have it at 9am...any other time is not technically a znüni as the nüni bit in 'znüni' means 9 o'clock.  There are not other words for snacks had at different times, so I have deduced that the Swiss are just so disciplined and meticulous with their timings, that they have never had to invent a word for a snack that isn't eaten at 9am, ever....  Go figure).

A giant bratwurst is also the post-pub option of choice.  Forget dirty, smelly kebabs electrically sliced from a dubious looking 'elephant leg' by a sweaty, machete-wielding scumbag. Here its all about the sausage.  And if one does happen to have a kebab, then it looks like it came from an animal that wasn't run over by a gritter 2 weeks ago and scraped up by a dirty shovel before being compressed into the aforementioned elephant leg with all of the other roadkill and grit.

Another discovery that I have made since being here is a cheese 'speciality' called 'Monk's Head' (yes I know. But it sounds ruder than it actually is).  Tête de Moine, or Monk's Head is a cheese first produced by the monks of the Monestary of Bellelay in 1192.  Read more of the history HERE. 

My personal experience of Tête de Moine is this.  I was sitting in a pub in Zurich recently with some friends, and we ordered a platter.  Now, a pub platter in a bar in England usually consists of some dodgy chicken wings, greasy spring rolls, cold pitta bread, humous, chips and a bit of dry chicken on a toothpick (if you're lucky) and usually costs about a tenner.  A pub platter here costs 3 times as much, as do most things, and consists of the finest cured meats, exquisite cheese, meatballs made of the premium beef I've mentioned before, huge king prawns perfectly cooked and the most artistic garnishes I've ever seen.

Well, it was one of these 'garnishes' that turned out be the Monk's Head.  I actually thought the platter was decorated with small white flowers to start with, and then looked closer and realised they couldn't possibly be.  And just as I was peering into the platter, and, in hindsight looking scarily like I was about to start grazing hands-free straight from the plate, I saw a hand grab one of the flower-like-thingys in front of me, and looked up to see someone put it into their mouth and eat it!!  Only then, after seeing the vacant expression on my face, did Dan tell me it was actually cheese, that had been intricately and artistically shaved off  the top of a bald round whole cheese (hence Monk's Head) with a contraption called a Girolle.  It tasted as amazing as it looks, and because of my instant love of the Monk's Head, Dan bought me my own Girolle and wheel of Tête de Moine as a Christmas present. 

This brings me onto the Bürgermeister Schwert, or 'Mayor's Sword'.... again, disappointingly not as rude as it sounds.  This is actually a sausage that is so vast it is served to the table skewered on a full sized sword.  This really is my idea of heaven, and I have yet to order one or fear of being watched by the whole restaurant as I attempt to eat it.  However I have some friends coming over in a week's time, and we have decided to have one 'for the table'....  Stay tuned for photographic evidence!  In the meantime, the photo below shows me in practising for the big occasion.....

Well, all this talk of food is making me hungry..... ta ta for now homies....

My Christmas ham, my sledging slam, my winter tan.....

I am happy to say that I made it back to Switzerland for Christmas, and am very pleased to have done so.  Despite missing my family, with it being the first Christmas I have spent without them, never before have I had Christmas in such naturally festive surroundings, with snow on the ground, logs on the fire and pretty much a whole farmyard worth of roasted animals on the table - perfect!  The week before Christmas was also glorious - spending time with friends and family in the UK and my beloved Papa's 60th birthday celebrations. 

Christmas on a budget was a very good exercise in being frugal, and I learnt some extremely important lessons that I am going to share with you (because I am so nice):

1) Nobody really gives a shit what their presents are wrapped in.  There was a time when I would never have adorned a present with anything other than the finest Selfridges gift wrap, complete with bows, tassles, tags and glitter.  In reality, you could wrap presents in pages of saved-up issues of Novembers' London Lite (or 'Zwanzig Minuten' as the equivalent is called over here) and the recipient would just be glad to have something to tear off.  (I didn't do that btw - things aren't that bad yet, but I've started saving the Zwanzig Minuten anyway in anticipation for Christmas 2010...)

2) Contrary to my previous beliefs, one CAN wear an already existing outfit to the table on Christmas Day.  It doesn't have to be a brand new sparkly number, specially purchased for the occasion of sitting at home, stuffing one's face and getting legless on Snowballs! Nor does one have to take a November holiday purely for the purposes of having a tan during the Christmas break - St Tropez in a bottle does the job almost as well...  What a revelation! 

3) One can be very creative with one's Christmas dinner components if need be.  I was in a state of semi-shock and despair to discover that neither Bisto nor Paxo (or an equivalent of either) exists in Switzerland.  And whilst I pride myself on my culinary talents, I have yet to discover a gravy that tastes as good if there isn't some Bisto mixed in, and am ashamed to say that I never had any rhyme or reason to make stuffing from scratch before.  Well, actually I'm not THAT ashamed -  there are worse things in life to be guilty of (many of which I probably am).  Anyway - thanks to my mother (who knows everything in the whole wide world, ever) I managed to pull off both, and to a pretty high standard if I do say so myself ....though I could have used the leftover stuffing as that bouncy flooring you get in childrens' adventure playgrounds the next day... (sorry mum but I added an extra egg and forgot to measure the breadcrumbs)

4) One can live (just!) without a shop being open on Christmas Day.  Although Christmas Eve in the local Co Op was possibly one of the worst shopping experiences I have ever had (and I usually love ANY kind of shopping experience)!  Panic-buying like I've never seen it before.  Red mullets going through those checkout tills ten-to-a-dozen... ;)

5) Swiss meat products are infinitely better than British ones.  Sorry homies, but it's true.  Yes, you pay the price for the extra quality but my goodness I have never cooked such good beef, ham or chicken ever before.

6) Smuggling pork products from UK to Switzerland is easy - 2 kilos of English bacon made it back with us, enabling me to make THIS BEAUTY on New Years Eve - a piece of art that I truly believe is my finest achievement to date, ever....!

So there you have it - Christmas in Switzerland is a wonderful experience, and I look forward to the next one being attended by my immediate family as well as my beloved's.

Now - onto the winter sports.  You may remember from my previous posts that the ever increasing (in direct correlation with the approach to winter) question of "ski or board?" was something of a distressing one for me to answer.  Well, I finally spent some time in the snow, and discovered that so far my favourite activity is without doubt sledging.  I was thrown into the epitome of all sledging challenges in my first ever attempt, by being taken to the longest sledge run in Europe - 12km of downhill, icy snow.  And THOROUGHLY loved every minute of it! (well, almost every minute - there was an unfortunate incident at the outset after deciding that it was obviously a much better idea to share a sledge with a 6"2' man instead of going on my own that rendered me temporarily immobile and on the verge of tears - ... clearly I missed the logical fact that with 83 kilos of additional momentum on board, any speed was going to be quadrupled and therefore any head-first, high-speed crash into a pile of snow would be infinitely more painful than if it was just little old me on my own!  But once I commandeered the sledge for myself, it was fun and games the rest of the way down!)

As for the "ski or board?" question...  I'm yet to arrive at a decision.  Once again, I'll keep you posted!

In the Christmas spirit (literally)

So, one thing they do very well here is Christmas.  None of these cheap neon plastic stars and trees hanging from lamp posts that you get in the 'burbs in the UK.  Here its glitz and glamour all the way.  I love it!  I stood on one of the cobbled streets in the old town centre yesterday evening, looking up at an beautiful array of golden, twinkling rain above me - it was like being in a sparkly, glittery fairytale world (which many people may say I live in most of the time anyway...)

The train station here has a 30ft Swarovski crystal Christmas Tree in it!  Train stations in England have beggars in them, puddles of wee, and sometimes needle bins.  All of which can be shiny, but not in a good way.

Its highly unfortunate that the one Christmas that I am not surrounded by neon tat, is the one during which neon tat just about represents my demographic profile...  Still - it makes my walks from the train station to home, via the 2FR shop much more interesting.  The 2FR shop being the Swiss equivalent of the Pound Shops back at home (although strictly speaking 2FR today is about £1.30 so as with most things here, you pay a higher price!)  I finished my job 2 weeks ago, so am officially unemployed for the duration of December at least.

Now, Christmas is a bit different in these parts.  First of all we need to address the issue of Schmutzli.  Schmutzli is like the evil Santa - he dresses in black and follows Santa around and basically (from what I can work out) beats the living crap out of naughty kids with a broom stick...... erm, ok.  Don't believe me?  Check it out here.
Imagine Schmutzli in Streatham?  He wouldn't last 5 minutes.  Some youth would have kneecapped him at the first glimmer of a broom, a long time ago.

Anyway, being fully briefed in the Swiss version of Christmas, I was feeling quite proud of myself a couple of weeks ago at work (when I still had a job), when one expat (who has been here a hell of a lot longer than me I might add) piped up (in the very quiet and serious office) 'does anyone know what Schmutzli is?  My 5 year old has been invited to a party and apparently Schmutzli is going to be there with Santa?' 
Me, being a) excited that I knew the answer, and b) loud because it was my second to last day there jumped up and went 'I KNOW! I KNOW! ITS THE BAD SANTA!' and immediately proceeded, hastily, to try and bring it up on Google to prove that I was right.  Not knowing the correct spelling I got as far as SMUT and managed to hit enter, at which point an array of porn sites appeared, and the company firewall shut me down - bringing up a red, flashing security alert on my screen, and all of the people who'd started to quietly gather around my desk for the lesson in Swiss Festive History witnessed my shameful finale at the Bank...  oh well, better to go out with a bang hey?

Now, the other thing about winter in Switzerland is of course the snow.  I can't tell you how many people have said to me (not as part of a conversation - just as a random question in itself): 'Ski or board?'  Just like that.  Out of the blue.  Even people that I have never spoken to before.  Is that like the only thing there is to talk about here in the winter?  Do I ski or do I snowboard?  errr, does Apres Ski count for nothing?  Yes I have skied, about 16 years ago, in Scotland, for a bit.  And it was ok, but the most appealing things about skiing for me, nowadays are the cosy chalet bars, the warm alcohol fumes, the furry hooded Chanel ski jacket, the oversized shades and the excuse to buy La Prairie skincare products to combat the cold weather effects.....  Skiing on a budget however - that's a different story.  If I am going to chuck myself down a mountain into the freezing snow, with my feet strapped into their own individual sleighs and my already-overly-mobile knees at risk of permanent relocation from my legs, then I am sure as shit going to look good while I am doing it.  And I'll be wearing enough of an alcohol-jacket to mask both the cold, and the inevitable pain.  Let's just be clear about that from the outset.  

As for 'boarding'... well, I am still trying to work out whether having my legs strapped to individual sledges, or keeping them firmly together is a better idea.  But the simple fact that to me most snowboarders look like something out of South Park might be enough to make me a skiier.  Ski or board?  I'll keep you posted....

I can't climb a mountain in my Louboutins....!

Yesterday I walked 14km - and part of it up a mountain....  Now - that in itself isn't a phenomenon - I'm used to hard exercise - usually in the form of a gruelling 1-hour hardcore session, 3 times a week with my personal trainer back in Streatham, who'd put me through my paces like a Royal Sergeant Major BUT in the comfort of my Virgin Gym, where there were no random deer staring at  me from the sidelines, or 80-year old men running (yes RUNNING) past me when I am half way up a steep mountain, thinking I'm on a par with Sir Ranulph Fiennes because I've managed to go a km without a snack.  Actually it was remarkably easy, and next time someone tells me they have climbed a mountain I'll be a lot less impressed than I used to be!

However, I am caught in something of a dilemma when it comes to 'dressing for the climb'..... I come from the school of thought that it doesn't do any harm to look the best you can when indulging in any activity - be it running, climing, bobsleigh, shot-put, sky diving, shopping or doing the housework... its ok to make an effort!!  One thing I have noticed since being here is that people (the women in particular) dress for comfort rather than fashion.  DON'T get me wrong - I know (now) that you can't climb a mountain in Louboutins (believe me though, if you could, I would...) and my wet-look leggings haven't made an appearance since I've been here.... but there is a happy medium and it is possible to be groomed, wear nice clothes and look feminine even if you are about to embark on a hike.  The men here manage to do it very well - they look great at all times, whether its in the office, in the pub, on the slopes or halfway up a mountain.  The Swiss Banker look (and salary) really does work - whatever the occasion, trend or season.  But the women just can't seem to get it right - you're either faced with BOBFOC (Body of Baywatch, Face of Crimewatch) when a tall, skinny chick with an amazing figure appears in front of you in a queue, and you're just starting to feel the heart-stabbing pangs of jealousy, and then they turn around and either have a face like Jimmy Saville on a bad day, or one that has been lifted so high that they must have had to get a 'hollywood' on their chin.... 

Either that or they just succumb to the housewife/frumpy/stay-at-home lifestyle and let themselves go to the point that when you do see them (albeit not very often) with the aforementioned banker husband, they look like they're the housekeeper allowed out on on a rare day away from scrubbing floors.  The funny thing is that I have never ever in my life seen so many hairdressers and beauty salons per square foot than I have here.... WHO GOES TO THEM?  Maybe the men?!  I finally realised why, (back in around 1990 when it was slightly popular among teenagers in the UK) there was suddenly a shortage of that awful 'cherry red' DIY hair dye which never really returned.  Did it die out forever?  Was it proven to be dangerously full of E numbers or chemicals?  Was it so unpopular that it couldn't sell (you'd think...)!  but no..... it was all being shipped over here!  To serve the women of Zurich for the next millennium....  and don't even get me started on the mullets.... .  I'd bet that you're as likely to see 'Red Mullet' here on a hairdresser's price list as you are in a seafood restaurant!

Luckily my impending unemployment has meant that I have avoided clothes shops for the most part, but a week or so ago (see previous post) it became prevalent that I was in dire need of a new black jumper so I had no choice but to venture out to find one.  I was aghast (but also relieved in the short term) to find that 'good quality affordable high street stores' do not exist here.  I had to choose between spending 2500 francs on a beautiful, perfectly cut, cashmere Chanel black polo neck, or going to BIG (yes this really is a clothes store - the male version being BIG BOYZ) for a misshapen equivalent that was made of a material that would have rendered me a fire hazard had I gone within a km of a naked flame.  It seems to be that the wealthy women of Switzerland (which is pretty much all of them) progress from wearing nothing but cheap tat and flammable acrylic until they hit 50 at which point they have so much botox that if they cracked a smile (not that many of them would) they'd split their face, and then make up for the years of not buying decent clothes by hitting the designer gear so hard that they adorn themselves in so much of it, all at once, at all times.....  It just is not attractive to see every possible logo, insignia and monogram draped on one person, all at the same time, who can barely walk because they are weighed down by the layers and lashings of gold, leather and fur, and whose husband has already run off with the secretary anyway - because even acrylic is more fetching than BOBFOC (as long as she's kept away from the fire)....

Now - don't get me wrong when I say the guys always get it right... Yes they seem to make more of an effort and generally know how to groom themselves to a higher standard, BUT white jeans, over-gelled hair, pastel over-the-shoulder sweaters and a serious air of arrogance and one-upmanship can be very off-putting.  Not to mention the fact that a Porsche here is as common as a red double decker bus in London and to be honest I'd rather be hopping onto a 133 bus in Streatham, knowing the only sacrifice would be £1 off my trusty Oyster card, rather than a mind numbingly boring journey to work with a mind numbingly boring, overly fragranced, hair-gelled-to-lego-head, pastel jumper wearing playboy whose only large appendage is his Gucci man-bag....

Needless to say, my initial fears that I'd arrive here, in my soon-to-be-unemployed status, to be the only female that can't afford to look good in a world of designer-dressed beauties, were short lived.  Beauty really is only skin deep, but moreso when the skin is one's own, and in the same (or thereabouts) part of the body that it was intended to be in......  Style on the other hand, is something that needs a bit more work in these parts of the world.  Anon...!

Highs (heels) and Lows (income)...

I promised myself when I started this blog that I'd write about the lows as well as the highs.  When I decided to pack up and start a new life, the one thing that I knew was inevitable was that there would be some really fantastic times, but that there would be some really low points too.

So, yesterday I hit a low. 4 weeks in, and the honeymoon is over!  The impending unemployment, the inability to understand a word that people are saying, the strange surroundings, the remoteness from friends and family, and the total and utter isolation have all finally hit me, like a giant slap in the face - all at once!  No gradual slide  / slow burn / easy entry into it - just a great big rude awakening all at once!

My (probably unrealistic) positivity that I'd arrive in Switzerland, descend the steps of my learjet (never mind that we drove) - hair blowing in the (non-frizz-inducing) Swiss air, all glitz and glamour, and make such a great impression that the first person I met would fall at their feet to offer me a fantastic, high-flying job with an amazing salary and a sports car to go with it.....hasn't quite panned out the way it did in my (clearly over-active) imagination.  Add to that the fact that my 'I'll pick it up in an instant' attitude towards the German (not to mention Swiss German?!) language was totally unfounded... and I'm amazed I lasted this long without falling hard and fast into the pit of 'why? how? when? what?!' questions that I am now starting to ask myself. 

'Its only natural' I keep telling myself (as do my friends) but that doesn't really ease the mental pain when I find myself desperately longing for a hooded, limping gangster of St. Reatham to slam into me in the street, spit at my feet and mug the nearest pensioner just to give me a glimmering taste of home...

4 weeks in an office where the most I've spoken is to myself, in the loo when I had to give myself a talking to after bursting into tears at my desk when I received a parcel from friends in London filled with all of my favourite things - gossip magazines (with D list celebrities I've actually heard of in them), books (in English!), M&S Bucks Fizz (I know, I know...) etc. I think the lowest point came after a day at work in the silent office, having been rejected for a job I could have done standing on my head (and would have, given half the chance), walking home in the pouring rain (because the buses only go every 30 mins after 4pm and I can't afford a cab)... to find myself watching 3 hours of German TV (seriously - 'enders in German?!), wearing a jumper with holes in it (because I can't afford a new jumper), drinking cheap beer out of a can (ditto champagne), eating the Swiss version of Peperami (because they don't have real Peperami here),  and wondering where the fairytale life was that I'd given MY fairytale life up for.... maybe I'll find it tomorrow....

Fon-due excuse me while I just go and puke....

Ok, so I wanted to embrace the Swiss way of life, and what better way than to have a bunch of people round for fondue?!.....  Especially for a cheese lover like me.  Sounded like the perfect plan.  4 people, a kilo of cheese (yes this is the correct amount for 4 apparently), and a few bottles of wine.  What could possibly go wrong?

Well - first and foremost I discover that fondue is (contrary to what I initially thought) not just a block of cheddar whacked in a pan and melted with a bucketload of plonk to water it down and liven it up and get you pissed enough to stop caring that you're eating enough fat to literally increase your bum size from TopShop to Evans in one meal sitting.  There is actually a special cheese blend (the 40 Swiss Francs blend as I now know it..) and a special 'art' to this creation of bubbling gooey heart-attack in a pan.

The initial taste of a roasted mushroom dipped into the heavenly mixture rendered me speechless (not least because my throat was filled with a viscous liquid that was rapidly solidifying and blocking my airway), with a taste that was simply divine.  So much so that once I'd resucitated myself with a hybrid move combining a self administered Heimlich maneoevre with a bird-like regurgitation reflex (which I felt I managed to do quite stealthily in the company of guests!), I went straight in for the next dip, and the next and the next and the next....all washed down with a giant glass of red, thank you very much...

When I finally managed to get up from my seat, I thought someone had put rocks into my pockets - it took me a while to realise that actually I'd probably just eaten my own bodyweight in cheese-soaked snacks, and hence had to readjust to my new stomach which was clearly growing a cheese baby, (obviously named Baby-Bel) who was going to be born encased in an easy-to-remove red wax sheath and pop out singing that Ba-ba-ba-ba-Babybel song from the advert whilst wearing a cheesy grin..............aaaaaargh!!!!!  Oh, it's ok - its just a horrendous, torturous hallucination of a nightmare, brought on by an overdose of cheese.... phew.

Needless to say - I won't be having fondue for a while......
Raclette anyone?