EDUCATION, EDUCATION, EDUCATION!

For days now I have been laughing at the story about Elaine Carmody from Cardiff who was banned from wearing her pyjamas when shopping at Tesco. And it’s not just because she went on public radio and loudly, in an English totally void of any knowledge of grammar, broadcast that she is a slob who sits around in her pyjamas all day while chain-smoking — probably in front of her asthmatic toddlers. But also because the way she expresses herself is a wonderful linguistic study. I’ve often regretted that I did not study variations on British accents while at uni. Elaine Carmody has made it all up to me and given me a good, hearty laugh in the process.

I hope universities around the world add this sound-bite to their British accents and dialects courses. It’s miles better than being taught RP by a prudent English virgin who has you repeating sentences such as “It’s a jolly nice raincoat you have there, John!” while expecting you to take it seriously.

Here’s a picture of the elegant lady, in her very best pyjamas so as to appear tidy, like.

It turns out she is not the first and probably won’t be the last to wear inappropriate supermarket-wear:

Pyjama-wearing ban spread from Cardiff to Shanghai

Tesco bans shopping for bananas in pyjamas… or bare feet

**

And thanks to Sarah for this:

China’s pyjamas police fight Shanghai’s daytime love of nightwear

Mischa AND Knickers. Proving too much for an old man.

I went over to Karin’s to pick Knickers up on the 20 January. Karin is in Abu Dhabi for a couple of weeks to be with Alex, Livia and the kids. And I offered to have Knickers in the meantime.

Knickers is a Border Collie. And she grew up with Mischa as a sort of surrogate mother and father, so they know each other really well. And their personalities are such opposites they almost come full circle. Mischa is slow and lazy, Knickers is on some as yet unknown energy source. A kryptonite version. Mixed with speed. In short, she is the Austrian version of Coco.

Thursday was fine. Thomas had her in the morning and somehow managed to wear her out and then delivered her to my office at about 2pm. And she was sooooo good and slept and didn’t bother anyone. She did go crazy on the way home and when I let her off the lead on the church square the did about twenty laps around a tree so fast she was just a blur and Mischa took position near the tree and occasionally lunged at her as she passed just for the sake of it.

They both slept soundly all night and all was well.

But Friday was another story. Her main energy outlet was Mischa who rapidly turned into a grumpy old man who regularly lost his rag with her and not just snarled, but snapped at her and sometimes hit the mark. This usually happened when I was in the other room and I just heard a loud yelp followed by Mischa coming out looking a little guilty while Knickers took all of a nanosecond to recover and was getting ready to badger him again.

Since her arrival she has demolished two if his toys, she gets to his bed before him and plonks herself down with all the abandon of a teenager. He just sighs and looks for somewhere else to lie. When he does he can be sure she will be sneaking up on him to nibble his neck, bite his ears, do all the things to him that puppies do to their mums. He screws up his face in an angry snarl and snaps. But rarely gets her as she’s just too fast.

Knickers doing a great job of tearing Mischa's rubber stick to pieces.

On a walk along the Danube she set several world sprint records, some of them enthusiastically in the wrong direction, while Mischa gave up trying to keep up. She ate a few sticks before we were able to get them from her and seemed to have an absolute ball. At one point Thomas felt so sorry for Mischa he sent her off chasing a stick and then threw another to Mischa, in an easy arch towards him. It landed on his head, but only after he managed to accidentally move his head right into the path of the stick.

After this he took to staring at me whenever Knickers was bugging him, followed by a sigh so loud and laboured he was shaking with the effort.

Funnily enough, it is not a problem feeding the two together. Knickers braces herself for his interference by placing her paws firmly on the floor and fluffing herself up like a cat to look bigger and he doesn’t even dare sniff her bowl while she eats. But as soon as she is done, marked by her racing off in search of something to tear to pieces (she has been good, she has only torn his toys apart, not mine), Mischa dives into her already empty bowl and gives it a thorough polish while sneaking me accusatory glances to make it clear that SHE GOT MORE THAN HIM and I’m probably trying to starve him to death. And then he waddles around miserably again, looking as if Knickers and I have totally ruined his life.

Thomas and I decided over the first weekend that it was better for both dogs if Knickers stayed with him as his shift schedule allows her to have company all the time and my colleagues can relax with the knowledge that I am not about to open a dog rescue centre. And Monday, when we met for lunch, Mischa actually looked happy to see not only Thomas, but Knickers. And she was ecstatic, of course, but not as irritating as she can be. And in the pub (Gasthaus) they were extremely well behaved both of them and quiet and loved by all, just as it should be.

By now Thomas is not looking forward to returning the bundle of energy and I must admit that even though she has spent more time with him than with me, I will miss her too. And I think even Mischa will miss her even if he does elbow her out of the way and clings to my legs when she is around if she gets too cuddly with me. Well, at least that is the emotion I ascribe to him. As so many ’single-women-dog-owners’ I allow myself to think of him as capable of human thoughts and feelings. Yes, I do know better. No, I don’t want to hear about how dogs really work. He is my baby, and I decide what he thinks. Thank you.

She’ll be returned Thursday evening. And then all will be back to normal. I guess. Until next time. Mischa — that was a warning. *grin*

Mischa and the other dogs in the playground

Mischa and I have just returned from our lunchtime walk to the dog-zone next to Naschmarkt. He loves that place and is deeply disappointed if he is not allowed a walk there each day for whatever reason. He is particularly excited if there are puppies there. He luuurves puppies!

Today there were two of them. And they luuurved him right back so they all had a really good time.

It’s fun watching him and how he relates to the other dogs and how they react to him. He’s a real coward and generally prefers the ones that are smaller than him. Most of them are, so that’s fine. Then, if a puppy proves too much of a pawful he can just swing his butt into action and gently nudge the wee thing aside. No harm done.

But when the younger and more agile dogs start sprinting in circles, that’s when he loses out. He tries to keep up — today there were also two young dogs there, so there were in all four dogs sprinting around — but he tends to fail. He sort of thunders after them in slow motion, then has to give up, stops and waits for them to come back. Then, as they pass, he latches on and tries again. And again. Occasionally he waddles over to me for a short break, leans against me while he pants, and once he’s caught his breath he’s off again. All cudos to him for not giving up!

But I think I really owe it to him and his ageing bones to get him slimmed down. It’s really hard to resist his ever-hungry face and he is never cuter than when he is begging for just a tiny little taste of whatever I am eating, just a tinsy taste-I-will-not-even-know-he-tasted-it!! PROMISE. But I have to be strict, for his sake. Of course it is for his sake! So now he is on a diet. Again. A real one this time. For the rest of his life type of diet. Consisting of — wait for it — less food.

Revolutionary, isn’t it?

At least give me and E for effort

I tried. I really tried, and it turned into two weeks of hell. Then I caved, went to my doctor, cried, and am now back on full dosage of anti-depressants with an agreed time frame and fully supported slow cutting down and cutting out over the summer months.

I’m not going to go into the details of how I felt and blahblah, there are enough people around who already do that and it’s not all THAT fascinating. And I don’t feel all that sorry for myself. I just feel a little silly. And that’s not the world’s best feeling either but it’s better than being dead. (Insert melodramatic music here.)

Christmas was good. Had a quiet dinner with Thomas on the 24th, and on the 25th we joined forces with his kids, the oldest boy’s girlfriend, and Louise with partner and had a thoroughly enjoyable evening which ended in a somewhat painful to the ears evening of karaoke. And two dogs that did their best to ignore each other once they’d established their hierarchy. Mischa is not hugely taken with Louise’s partner’s little West Highland terrier. Sorry — that got complicated just because I tried not to use names so from now on I’ll call him Robert. Louise’s partner, that is. Not the Westie. His name is Mickey.

A few days later we (Thomas, kids Mischa and I) went to visit Thomas’ parents. Mischa adores them because they are so easy to train. They have a small house with a garden, and when he goes to the door and barks once one of them immediately opens the door so he can go out. When he a few minutes later wants to come in again he only has to bark once more and the door is opened by his obedient servant. Again. He finds this highly convenient and wanders in and out as much as is doggumly possible. I think Mischa would have liked a house with a garden — or possibly a forest — and lots of snow for Christmas. And his own butler. Instead he got a load of doggie dental sticks because his breath smells. The snow we got came and went within a week and only left a mess on the roads and salt in his paws. He looks truly miserable when that happens, limps sadly up to me and looks helpless.

Of course I managed to get a bladder infection while in Carinthia. One evening we decided to check out the local watering hole which was a short walk away. Thomas and I being photo-nuts have similar cameras, and suddenly we decided that we had to take pictures of the same thing using various long exposures and we fiddled around with this for so long I must have gotten much colder than I realised. By the next evening I was in such agony a visit to the nearest hospital was needed to get some antibiotics. This is one time I thank my lucky stars I’m a European and that medical service is available to all. Still not the most exciting way to start the new year unless you count the fun of mixing antibiotics, pain killers and Champagne as a good way to celebrate. I do. I could of course have stayed off the booze. Hah! Got you! I’d never do such a silly thing.

Now, to my enormous surprise we’re already in 2010 and I am still rubbing my eyes with disbelief at how time flies. So before it disappears altogether I am going to take His Hairiness for a walk and think about the world and the many people out there that are far worse off than me — that always cheers me up immensely — and see if the homeless guy who sleeps between the recycle bins is still alive.

Happy 2010!

PS My hair is still ugly. But longer, and now back to that desperate red that some of us middle aged women resort to when we can’t afford surgery.

Trying to cut down on the anti-depressants

In agreement with my doctor I have lowered the dose from 75mg to 50mg. It’s proving a real pain in the head, to be honest. So while I grapple with the new state of feeling shit in the morning with hellish tinnitus and fireworks going off all over my brain until the “morning dose” kicks in I am unable to think and unable to do much of anything, really.

And that’s why I’ve been so quiet lately. I loved Bettina’s comment to my previous post and started writing a slightly-more-considered-response-than-the-post-itself, but that too has been put on hold. Still can’t get over the image of that headmaster doing the Hitler salute and saying “I am the Führer” to her on her first day of work… how juvenile can you get? How totally lacking in judgement?

Sorry. No coherent thought pattern here. That’s just the state of affairs I’m afraid.

At least I can take Mischa to work with me again. We went through a period of a colleague reacting allergically to him. After two months of intense grooming and a couple of baths I’ve managed to rid his fur of the allergens and he can come with me again. And right now I am alone in the office trying to catch up with e-mails (success!) while I wait for Ms Brain to relax a little and listen to Mischa snoring. Oddly enough one of my favourite sounds.

Keep passing the open windows! Love to all.

Chilling blast from the past

So there we were, Mischa and I. Out on that long walk I had promised him for ever so long. And we’d reached that field by Margareten Gürtel between the Burger King and the U4 station. Mischa was having fun biting holes in his latest toy, greeting other dogs and wrestling with me. Along the path running next to the field a group of rather loud teenage boys made their rowdy way towards the Burger King.

Nothing unusual there.

But suddenly the rowdiness broke into a loud chant. A chant I have only heard in films, TV news, read about in history books.

“SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL!”

And without hesitating, in total agreement, the group changed the chant to

“HEIL HITLER — DEUTSCHLAND — DEUTSCHLAND — DEUTSCHLAND!”

Back and forth, back and forth until they disappeared into the Burger King.

I doubt they knew the full implications of the chant. But by their age — by the time a boy’s voice breaks — he should know the history of WWII, be thoroughly informed of the horrors of Hitler and his Dritte Reich and the Final Solution, whatever country he is from.

Someone has neglected their duty in teaching those kids history. I don’t know who — I don’t know why. I only know that today, I seriously doubted my choice of new homecountry.

Monday morning and all is well

It’s a national holiday in Austria. I’m still in bed, Mischa is pacing the flat being bored (I should of course be sensible and jump into my running gear and run around the neighbourhood with him, but…) and I’m having a cup of tea and listening to Radio Wien. Mostly music, not too much of a strain on my German. And yes, I am sitting in bed with my little notebook on my lap Skyping with Thomas who is on a crazy 72-hour call for his job and there has been lots of problems the last 36 hours. Poor man. He’s totally exhausted.

Went to a jazzclub with Kevin last night. Porgy & Bess in the 1st district, where we heard Christian McBride Trio. It was great! And of course when we have to listen we can’t talk too much about things that might be sore… still hurting, both of us.

I can hear Mischa complaining about lack of attention. I guess I should finish my cup of tea, get into that running gear and pretend to be young and fit. And then… The day beckons with a flat that still wants me to pay attention to its ugly walls that desperately need a lick of paint and some pictures. Perhaps I should just paint the whole place white and chuck all my pictures up all over the place? I had great plans to paint the living room blue and make it truly stylish, but I can’t find the EXACT blue I want — except on a Toyota Prius and that’s damned hard to bring to the DIY place as a colour sample especially since I’ve only seen one parked in the neighbourhood and… sorry. I’m rambling.

Perhaps I will at least paint the toilet.

Boys and their toys

Today, Thomas and I and his boys (who are thirteen and sixteen, respectively) went to a model-fair or whateverthey’recalled. Lots of model railways, little mountains and houses and mini cities with mini people and tracks and wheels and plastic bits and smaller and bigger engines and things that were remote controlled to go either on tracks, freely drift here and there or fly. And of course your usual staple diet of various length sausages, beer and apfelsaft. And lots of men who take this sort of thing seriously.

I am now the happy owner of a small helicopter I am totally unable to control and which I have had bouncing off walls and ceilings, Thomas, Mischa and some friends which dropped by. It’s supposed to be shatter proof. So far it has been. They watched my useless attempt at trying to get the helicopter to stop spinning wildly and eventually Howard commented drily that he could hardly wait for my YouTube clips to come out and I should try to film the wee chopper before I smash it completely to smithereens.

Mischa was clearly fed up with being alone all day (dogs not allowed at these fairs — just as well with all those little bits flying around), so he’s spent a fair amount of time trying to get my attention away from the chopper and over to his pink rubber pig which he eventually decapitated and pulled the stuffing out of. So now he needs a new rubber pig. Why are dogs so like kids in that sense? Oh, I nearly ruined Thomas’ new toy when he lent it to me. It’s a remote controlled car and on my slippery floors it really skids around like mad. Great fun. I had it run into Mischa’s tummy which he was not too pleased about but then I also ran it through the pig-stuffing on the floor and nearly ruined it with stuffing getting stuck around one of the wheel bearings.

And from this you can gather that there has been a certain amount of chaos here since our return home. From time to time I did play with Mischa and the rubber pig. After all, how could I not when he turned up under my desk like this?

What's fun about a helicopter when you can have Mischa and a rubber pig?

Romania and its dogs

I had great plans to write this post AGES ago. Just about the time I came back from our board meeting in Romania. Which now seems a lifetime away. September. Last month. When it was still summer. Sigh.

Anyway: our board meeting took place in Cetate in Romania, on the farm of Mircea Dinescu. He’s nuts. And I say that with not a small amount of admiration. It was amazing and wonderful and I want to live there! If it wasn’t for one thing.

Farm staff with puppies. The puppies were thrown the odd tidbit which they then fought over.

The dogs.

Romania is drowning in stray dogs. Belonging to the farm itself were around fifteen dogs (it was hard to count them to be honest), and in addition there were several strays that roamed the area in search of food.

I am fairly convinced there are more dogs in Romania than people. Neutering is an exception, and I can guarantee there is not a dog anywhere in Romania as spoilt as your average working dog in Austria.

My personal little favourite with a sore eye

I fell in love with several of the farm dogs. My favourite among the adult dogs was a quiet male Border Collie cross with an eye infection. The Dr. Doolittle/Florence Nightingale in me burst forth and I spent my entire time there trying to nurse its eye better using Chamomile tea to gently wash it several times a day. He was understandably sceptical, not being used to that sort of attention, but it didn’t take him long to accept it.

The other love was for seven puppies, especially the runt of the litter who may well be dead by now… I know, that’s not a cheerful outlook. But it is very, very likely. She simply could not compete with the others for food and was already too weak to fight for it if the other puppies decided they wanted what she had. Yes, I fought valiantly on her behalf while there (i.e. hand feeding her while keeping the others at bay). I am fairly sure I only managed to put her death by starvation off with a day or two.

The little brown one at the back was much smaller than the rest

I still couldn’t be angry with the other puppies. They merely did what’s natural, and they were all incredibly sweet. If poorly fed, full of vermin of all sorts and mucky as hell. I couldn’t stop cuddling them and playing with them and… if it had been at all possible I would have put them all in my suitcase and taken them home with me. I would have loved to see Louise’s face.

As it were, I took to my senses. It takes about 5-6 months to clear one dog for the trip, with all the papers, inoculation, blahblah. A weekend is just not enough. Funnily enough. But at least now I know why there are so many Romanians in Austria who sell puppies out of the back of cars — totally illegally; no paperwork, ill, traumatised and sad. At least the dogs on Dinescu’s farm received food and a minimum of care. And to his credit — when the Danube one year flooded the farm and Dinescu and his wife had to evacuate, he returned with a boat to rescue the dogs. Widely broadcast in the country’s media as eccentric and unheard of behaviour.

Ready for play

On our return journey via Bucharest I saw a badly injured dog outside the offices of our host. She had been hit by a car, survived, but now lived with two broken, incorrectly healed legs on one side, limping painfully and slowly between the shade and a bowl of water the parking attendants had given her. The number one road-kill in the country is, of course, dogs. I lost count of the carcasses on the side of the road, and no one brought them to my attention knowing just how sentimental I am about dogs.

On the morning we left the farm I was a little late coming down to the waiting bus. The others were already seated in the silence of the misty pre-sunrise morning, but the moment I arrived so did two of the dogs. My sore-eyed Border Collie friend whose eye had finally cleared up, and one of the puppies flipping herself over on her back in enthusiastic submission.

You have no idea how close I came to scooping them both up in my arms to take them with me. Damned close.

Romanian wiring. Apropos of nothing.

[you can click on the images to see a bigger version]

The face of hypocrisy

I take pictures all the time, but mostly totally harmless, somewhat uninteresting and, well, it stays on my computer. Mostly.

Lately, however, the need to use the power of the image, the power of photography, has reared its ugly head. And I mean ugly. Because I want to use it against some people I am unable to respect or empathise with in any way.

A bunch of Viennese “pro-lifers”.

The only good thing one can say about them is that they are not violent, at least not physically violent. But they hang around outside an abortion clinic near my house, rock back and forth and pray (that rocking… like watching someone brain-damaged banging his head against the wall in frustration). They each display a large colour picture of a featus at eleven weeks. And they all have that shut-off look, the look that tells you that they have had the thoughts they are going to have in this life and nothing, NOTHING is going to change that. Their world is purely black and white.

Oh, if only. If only life was that simple. One right and one wrong and nothing in between.

I’d love to be more open minded than them. I would love to say that I’d be willing to walk that mile in their shoes, that mile they are unwilling to walk in the shoes of the women forced to make that termination decision. But I don’t understand them at all. I don’t understand that need to force their beliefs on someone in an extremely vulnerable position.

If only one could sentence them to work for the people who are already here. For orphans. For homeless people. For battered women. For organisations trying to help those traumatised from sexual and other forms of violence from childhood.

Adding further misery to the life of someone whose already in a miserable situation is nothing short of evil.

Forgive them for they know not what they do. Or do they?