An invite from the neighbours!

No, not those neighbours, THOSE neighbours!

The Windsors wearing smart/casual?

As a pair of fairly staunch republicans, this has come as a surprise but, apparently, TH has been “recognised” no, not from that time where HM the Q and Prince Phil nearly mowed us down as we were out for a Sunday stroll, but apparently for services to building a cable car over the Thames, which certainly expedited the transit of spectators from the Exel Centre to the O2 (AKA the Millennium Dome) during the Olympics.

I have just been e-mailed by a shell-shocked TH, who copied me in on the e-mail he had in turn received from the Grand Fromage at TfL, telling him to advise The Powers That Be of the name of his nominated guest. I am taking it that the guest in question will be me, largely because he sent me the e-mail.  Yes, we are to keep a date in May free, as we’re invited to take tea in the garden at the neighbours’ pied a terre in London. Provided we pass the security vetting….

So, it looks like I shall have to press a frock and Google the hat protocol, as well as studying the art of the curtsey and forms of address. 

I’ve joked for such a long time that they’re really miserable neighbours, having never invited us over for drinks in the twenty-plus years we’ve lived practically next door. The big concern now, if course, is whether they'll expect to be invited back?

I’ll be nice. It’s only polite.

Dear Sir Minister Cameron.....

It’s been one of my various jobs, over the past ten years, to teach English as a Foreign Language at a local college, not far from N-o-T.

When I first began, the Government of the Day, in its wisdom, had decreed that EU nationals, asylum seekers and those in receipt of benefits could avail themselves of free English lessons. It was also a time which hailed the start of an impressive influx of people from Poland into the UK. I had started teaching in February, and the following September, at the start of the academic year, my new class numbered some 48 students, of which 60% were Polish. Not so much teaching as crowd control! A number of additional teachers were swiftly recruited, as lessons had turned into a huge game of musical chairs as the number of students increased exponentially week-on-week, whilst the number of chairs and table remained at the same level.

Now, some ten years on, many of the Polish students I knew in those days have returned to Poland, although I still bump into a few from the early days, very settled in the local area.

My classes today are a much more multinational affair. This term, I have 14 students (the numbers now are much more manageable, and have been since the Government stopped free lessons: they were “too successful”). The mix of nationalities mirrors much of what we hear in the media. Of my 14 souls, four are Spanish, two Greek, two Portuguese, one Russian, one Pole, one Slovak, two Indians and a Colombian. The last two years have seen a significant increase in the numbers of students from southern Europe, whilst there are very few Poles these days.

In my local area, which may not be representative of the demographic elsewhere, most of these people are either au pairs, or work in catering and hospitality. A surprisingly large number also work as carers for the elderly or in care homes. I read (when I can’t avoid it) with some confusion and dismay the reports of immigrants being in receipt of benefits, housing, handouts and support, and wonder where these people live. Because I’ve never met any migrants who conform to that profile. 

Not only do they all work, but they give up 5 hours a week after work to attend English lessons. And they work hard at that, too. They attend regularly, they ask for the work they’ve missed if they can’t come, they do homework and they work their socks off in class.  And they pay for the privilege.

Last week, we had a lesson about the EU, the UK and the latter’s current approach (or that of the current Government of the Day) to the former. Mr Cameron’s current pronouncements on the EU and immigration have most of them flummoxed. 

“So”, they asked “if we go home, will English people want to do our jobs?”

“I have never seen an English person apply for a job where I work” said one “until this year. This year we took on three English people. They lasted just 3 weeks”

“ We pay tax and National Insurance” they said “And we don’t use the NHS”

“I expected to come here and be a waitress” said one Spanish girl – she and her partner are in my class “but we both found jobs in IT, which is what we’re qualified in, and they were really pleased to have us”

“ We are contributing to the cultural mix in the UK” they said “And it’s what we love about being here: the diversity”

So I asked them, for homework, to write a letter to Mr Cameron, telling him how they felt and what they thought.

All of them did a great job. They expressed themselves, within the limitations of their command of English, with eloquence and clarity.  At a time when I’ve been questioning whether I want to continue doing this job at all, they made me remember why I love it.

Here’s a letter from a lady who is a grandmother, and whose grandchildren and children are back in Poland. I’d like David Cameron AND Nigel Farage to read lots more letters like this:

Dear Sir Minster Cameron (OK, a bit of work to do here…)
I writing to you, a Polish immigrant, living alone in the UK almost 7 years.

Last time you said that “Migrant jobseekers who don’t bother to learn English will be stripped of benefits”

So I’m learning English, I’m watching only English TV and I’m reading newspapers every day.
I’m working all the time and don’t use the benefits. I’m working in English company, I have a contract for work. My employers are happy of me because I respect my work and carry out their/my diutes well. All this time I pay tax and insurance.

I have many of English Friends at work. We often meet after work. We cook together and talk about English and Polish culture, history, music and literature.

Sometimes we go out to a restaurant, to the cinema or a pup.

I live in this country, sought to make something good for him..And therefore I don’t understand why you don’t like Polish immigrants.

Sometimes, when I’m out and about in Nowhere-in-France, I have the misfortune to come across people, British people, who wax lyrical about “(*)(*^&%^! Immigrants  in the UK” and how it’s “one of the reasons we left”

For me, they’re one of the reasons I stay. And why I don’t think there’s anywhere else I’d rather be. Unless some idiot in Westminster decides to spoil it all.

Animal = Hospital

When I dragged you into my personal hell with the tale of the two cats, some of your (very welcome, as ever) comments mentioned dogs, and the very kind Pixie Mum mindful of my welfare, asked if my tetanus jabs were up to date, which all reminded me of another animal story. This is both dog and neighbour related.

Regular readers may recall that relations with one of my neighbours in France, Herman the German, have been soured, and I’m pleased to report that here in Nowhere-on-Thames, we have neighbours with whom we enjoy quite a happy relationship.

If you’re sensing a “but” at this point, you’re quite right to do so. Let me tell you about Horace the hellhound.

Horace is not a Rottweiler, nor indeed a Pit Bull or any other supposedly dangerous or evil brand of dog. Horace is a small white Westie. To all intents and purposes, Horace is supposed to fall into the category of “cute”.  When our neighbours first moved in next door, I was prepared to believe that he was exactly that. However, Horace did not take long to demonstrate that he was about as cute as a sack of vipers.

                                                   Cute? It's a matter of opinion and experience

It all started off fairly innocuously. Whenever we were outside in our garden, Horace would run up and down the fence on the other side, barking and growling. This left our own Labrador, who was still with us at the time, singularly unimpressed. He would just look at us balefully, as if to say “What’s his problem?” before dropping to the ground and going to sleep in the sun.

After some months, it became apparent that Horace did not feel the barking was enough. He began to attempt to eat his way into our garden through the wooden fence, so he could have it out with us face to face. The neighbours’ half-hearted attempts to control him were having no effect, and they called some sort of dog-whisperer in to help. As part of this, we were asked if we’d mind walking up and down our own garden whilst Horace demonstrated his disgust from his own side of the fence, so that the dog-whisperer could witness his behaviour first hand. The dog-whisperer came, did some stuff and left, and for a week or so Horace was disciplined for his behaviour and we could enjoy the liberty of wandering about our garden without the accompaniment of Horace’s vocal displeasure.

Shortly after this, the neighbours decided to re-landscape their garden. As part of this, they added an extra layer of fencing on their side of the existing fence between our gardens, apparently so that Horace would not be so easily able to see or sense us wandering about our own garden. Whatever improvement had been made in his behaviour by the dog-whisperer was already a thing of the past, largely, I think, because the neighbours weren’t really putting much effort into the discipline stuff.

It was at about this time that I opined to TH that if Horace was mine, I would have a serious think about my priorities. Having to go to this kind of expense to placate a highly-strung small dog seemed to me to be a big ask.

Then it was Christmas. I should say that, up to this point, we had been relatively frequent visitors to the neighbours’ house, and they to ours. No problems. Confronted with our actual presence, Horace seemed to be able to behave quite normally and just like any other dog. Then they invited us to join them for a party on New Year’s Eve. 

At the appointed time, we walked out of our front door, strode the few steps across to the neighbours’ door and rang the bell. It was answered and, amid the cheerful “Hello’s” and welcomes, I became aware that TH had suddenly doubled over and said quite a rude word. It’s not like him to do that in company, so to say I was surprised is an understatement. It was then that I noticed that he had a small white Westie hanging from his upper thigh by its teeth. Cue much embarrassment all round, multiple apologies, offers of assistance, and OH, trying to make light of the situation, popping back home to examine his wounds and apply dressings. He returned shortly thereafter and we both enjoyed a pleasant, if subdued,  evening. The dog didn’t try for a repeat performance and the neighbours were, of course, mortified.

Months went by. Many months. No further Horace-related incidents occurred and the memory had more or less faded. Then, one summer afternoon, my neighbour knocked on the door and asked to borrow the garden shredder. TH had hidden it somewhere so I offered to phone him for details of its whereabouts and then pop back to her with it. Having done as I promised, I popped next door and rang the bell. No answer. She’d gone out. However, a friend of theirs was working in their garden, so I called to him over the fence and he came to the gate to talk to me. He opened the gate, and I was relaying my message when all of a sudden a searing pain shot up my leg. You’ve guessed it. Horace was hanging from the top of my leg. No warning, no reason, no provocation.

It HURT! A LOT! And it swelled up and it bled and I swore and drove myself to the NHS walk-in centre, where they were particularly impressed to learn that a wound at the very top of my thigh had been inflicted by such a small dog. It was here that I got the tetanus jab. And a course of antibiotics, and a big dressing. They don’t stitch dog bites in case they get infected, apparently, which is why I still bear a small scar.

Not long after my return, the neighbour appeared, in tears, clutching a bouquet. I think she feared the worst. Believe me, both TH and I have (and still do, for reasons which will soon become clear) agonised over what to say and do. If it wasn’t the neighbours, I’d report it without question, and happily. But it IS our immediate neighbour, and we have a normally good relationship, it seems the only solution is to leave the decision as to what to do to their good sense. They have chosen the ostrich approach.

In June, during the Jubilee celebrations, I went to France. TH stayed behind, and took up the invitation to the neighbours’ garden barbecue. They now have two dogs, of whom Horrible Horace is one. Given TH’s acceptance of their kind invitation, they were taking the dogs to be looked after by a dog-minder for the afternoon. 

Some time before the party, TH was outside tinkering with son#2’s car. He was lying under the vehicle, with only his legs sticking out, as the neighbour came out of the house with both dogs on leads. At this point, Horace slipped his collar, did two laps of son#2’s car before sinking his teeth in TH’s calf.  I gather from son#2 that TH let his feelings be known in no uncertain terms.

                                                         More like the real Horace.....?

Apparently, Horace is showing signs of old age and ill health. I cannot bring myself to feel sorry about these developments, despite my general fondness for animals. 

Thank You

To one of my very favourite bloggers Venomous Bead, for passing to me the Versatile Blogger Award. I'm grateful and touched that my somewhat stream-of-consciousness ramblings have found an audience, even a small one. The last thing I properly won was a ten shilling postal order in a crossword competition in my comic, which gives you several clues as to how often something like this comes along for me.

The very best thing about these awards is the fact that they open up loads of new blogs to me, and as a relative newcomer to the blogosphere, that's great.

The very worst thing about these awards is that, as a relative newcomer to the blogosphere, I haven't yet accumulated enough of a blog list of my own to be able to pass on the honour. I feel bad about this, but hope you'll understand.

My other guide to the world of blogs, Perpetua, has provided a helpful solution for my embarrassing situation, and on this occasion I am going to use it. I promise to do better in the future, as my blogging experience increases along with my reading list.

Meantime, thanks again for the mention, and congratulations to all the other bloggers mentioned, whose blogs I will certainly be visiting!

Catastrophe

I don’t know if you’re a pet lover or not, and the ownership of a domestic animal tends to polarise people. There are cat lovers and cat haters, the same for dogs. The latter often form breed-related splinter groups, too.

The N-o-T family are a bit more laid back. We like dogs AND cats, and fish, and gerbils, and all the other animals we’ve owned since the offspring were small. We don’t go all gooey over them, but we genuinely like them, and they always contribute something to our daily lives. The “something” can, of course, be a good or a bad “something”…

A series of cats and dogs, the demise of our faithful Labrador cross, and a small black kitten came into our lives. He was the only animal we’ve ever owned who managed to acquire three names: George (the one he came with), Lebowski (the one son#2 thought we should give him) and Cat (because TH didn’t like the other two).

A loving and lovable little soul, his short life was ended by a car whilst I was in Nowhere-in-France over the summer. He left a big hole, and when TH had to call and break the news to me, his voice was quavering. Now, TH is a singularly undemonstrative person, so to hear him so emotional was a surprise. He’d formed a real bond with the small boy, and the loss hit him hard.

                               The late lamented and not very big) Lebowski, keeping watch from the bathroom washbasin

By the time I returned, TH’s birthday was imminent. As he’s what is popularly termed “difficult to buy for”, I thought he might like to have another cat to fill the void left by the late Cat. A small ad online found a litter of kittens not far from us. I arranged a visit.

Son #2 drove me to the house. On the way, I clearly remember saying “Under no circumstances let me get carried away and come back with more than one kitten”. Upon our arrival, and upon seeing the two small boys that were available, I couldn’t decide what to do. “Oh, I think they’re both adorable” I said “Mum, remember what you said in the car” said son#2, wisely. “Shut up, I’ll take them both” I said. And before I realised quite what I’d done, we were in the car with a brace of kittens.

OH was initially delighted, and was given the honour of naming them, largely because they were supposed to be his birthday present. Bill and Ben. Bill is entirely black, Ben has small splashes of white on his back paws. All our animals tend to be black, although we made an exception for the gerbils.

It started badly, and got worse. Ben quickly turned out to have psychopathic tendencies. He bit through my nail bed when I tried to pick him up (after, of course, having observed the settling-in period where I left them both to acclimatise and settle down). I only tried once more in the early days, and was left looking as if I’d been self-harming. It’s fear, not aggression, but three months down the line, he’s only a tiny bit better.  Luckily, Bill is The Good Cat, and has none of his brother’s murderous tendencies. Nevertheless, there’s something about walking into a room and finding two sets of eyes boring into your soul that can be disconcerting. I think we should have called them Ronnie and Reggie…

                                                              Psycho Ben, sticking his tongue out at the world

                                                                      Bill: Did I tell you he was laid back?

                                                          Evidence of one of Ben's early victories

There have, to date, been two vet visits, for their jabs, and on both occasions, catching Ben has been an experience I would prefer not to repeat. But repeat I must, and have had to this week. The Time Had Come for the boys to lose a small but intimate part of their anatomy. 

I made the vet appointment and spent a week in psychological preparation for what I knew was to come. Maybe it was this preparation that worked in my favour, but at 7.30 a.m. I was locked in mental combat with Ben, him sporting a look that spelled “bloodshed” and me sporting a thick jumper, sheepskin gloves and a bath sheet. The training paid off, and I managed to get him into the cat carrier with less fuss than usual. Bill was most compliant and took no time at all. We were off!

I deposited the boys at the vet, and went off with a lighter heart. A short while later, they called to say that the two operations had gone well, and that I should present myself at the surgery after luch to pick them up. You may get a feel for the magnitude of the Ben Problem if I explain that I’d asked them to put his collar on whilst he was under the anaesthetic.

I presented myself at the appointed time, and was handed the two boys, complete with lampshades to stop them from licking their wounds. This Spelled T R O U B L E. I could feel it in my water.

We got home safely, and Bill exited his carrier looking decidedly piqued. Ben, meanwhile, sulked at the back of his, and refused to leave. I left them to sort themselves out. Minutes later, Bill appeared, sans lampshade, and I had to find it, find him and reunite them, which was clearly not something he had had in mind. Still, he’s not the psychopath, so it was OK. A spot of wrestling and I’d secured it back on.

I thought I’d better clean and prepare their litter tray, so off I went to sort that out, and I was just leaving the utility room when I spotted Ben, the lampshade flapping from his neck and a murderous expression on his face, trying to run away before I could see him. I’d seen him. He knew.

His fatal mistake was to make a run for the kitchen, a room with no hiding place. I followed and shut the door. There we were…me with heart pounding and no backup, him with collar flapping and no place to run. Standoff. I knew he was frightened, but something had to be done. I grabbed him. He demonstrated, by the use of his bowels, that he was scared and angry. Great. Still, I could only feel a bit of blood dripping from my chin, and the loose flap of skin on my hand wasn’t too much. I’ve suffered worse. Don’t ask me how I managed, but I succeeded in detaching the hand towel from its holder and in bandaging it around the cat, who had frozen in my arms. I slid to the kitchen floor, heart banging like a kettle drum, and tried to sound calm and soothing. Who was I trying to kid? There we sat, on the kitchen floor for several minutes, until we reached a silent understanding. I reattached the collar and gently let go, and Ben shot off into hiding in the only enclosed place in the entire kitchen area….the litter tray. Oh, great!

I left him to it. The litter tray was clean, and my nerves were shot. Bill was fine, his collar was still in place, and…oh, fantastic…he was lying on the floor licking his stitches in spite of the collar. I knew The Samaritans would be useless in this situation, so I rang the Vet. “We can give you a bigger collar” they suggested, and then I remembered I had one that I’d kept from Cat. Cue another wrestling session as poor Bill, wearing his best “What did I ever do to you?” expression, was parcelled into a second lampshade.

Brief pause. Then I realised that Bill seemed to want to use the bathroom, only his brother was in residence and showing no signs of leaving. “No problem” I thought, and made up another litter tray. Then I made a cup of tea, and sat down to gather my wits, and nerves and apply a spot of ointment to my wounds.

Bill, much refreshed from his visit to the facilities, appeared in the doorway. And with him came a rather unpleasant odour. He’d managed to use the second litter tray, but somehow, as he wasn’t quite used to his new neckwear, he’d scraped up half the tray’s contents, along with what he’d deposited in there, and was now wearing them around his neck.

All this was two days ago. Things have settled down a bit. Ben is being almost friendly, Bill is looking miserable but resigned, and I have to take both of them back to the vet tomorrow for their post-op checkup. 

I really miss those gerbils.