News from the country

THE FRONT OF OUR HOUSE

In Kaufland nobody can hear you scream
Let me take you on a journey to a place so remote that there isn’t even a signpost to it. A place so out-of-the-way, that it is unreachable by car. A place so far from everything, that the only way to get there is on foot. A place so distant from anything else that you wouldn’t know it were there had you not been told of its existence. But when you arrive, you will be so overwhelmingly rewarded that the extensive time spent looking for it will be instantaneously forgotten. No, I am not talking about the Grand Canyon or Stonehenge: for one thing there are enough signposts to the former to almost block it out and there is very little reward when arriving at the latter. I am in fact talking about the fruit juice section at Kaufland supermarket in Konz.

Boy, do they know how to make you work for your reward. You need to trudge a very long way to find the fruit juice section, which is only slightly smaller than the VAT office in Luxembourg. In all honesty, Kaufland is simply a million miles away from anything remotely associated with the average Belgian supermarket. The word “supermarket” in Belgium is a bit misleading. For one thing, it is hardly a market. And it is by no means super. It is more like a cartel of bad quality consumer products giving you a choice of one, and if that happens to be bad or out of stock, well, you’ll just have to wait for the next delivery. In Kaufland, there is everything. You want a barbecue? It’s near the front. You want milk? There is a four-metre-long fridge containing a dozen sorts, all stocked up. You want a satellite dish? It’s on the right just next to the customer services department. Orchids, did you say? They’re next to the fresh yoghurt and the milk, just by the fruit and veg.

THE HORSE PADDOCK
A little salute to Luxembourg
Most people when thinking of Luxembourg either comment on it as a tax haven, a banking paradise and a money launderer’s boudoir. Having spent some time there, I can certainly see this is but an urban myth. It is a triumph of small government over burdensome red tape with added anti-corruption airbags equipped as standard. It is very hard to fool the system there although I am sure some do. But this is not my reason to salute Luxembourg.
I wish to tell you about the most picturesque country in continental Europe. Luxembourg is God’s own country, and probably the reason why a little flat in the middle of nowhere costs 250,000 euro. I understand why: there is no place on earth which has been blessed with such an aesthetic landscape; sanctified with such lush greenness and consecrated with herds of such exquisite cows, all mooing in perfect harmony. The fact is, even the urban areas of Luxembourg are pleasant places. Grevenmacher reminds me of a typical Mediterranean village, bordered by wine groves on steep hillsides, even though it is on the Mosel facing Germany. Roodt sur Syre is a splendid town encircled by hills, forests and farms. The industrial zones near Münsbach and Wasserbillig have an cleanliness about them which makes you want to spend a day cycling over there to see them in more detail.
All-in-all, a marvellous country to live in. Except....
Well, you know that joke where God is asked by the angels why Canada seems to have been granted too many good things by God, and they ask him why, whereby he replies “wait until you see their neighbours”, well that seems to be little Luxembourg’s lot too, although even worse, because the country is overrun by them too, bringing all their bad habits with them. This is one of the reasons why the Luxembourgish language has taken off in a big way recently: they need to keep secrets from the French, who seem to have imposed themselves heavily on the place. Bad driving, sloppy customer service and a hierarchical system only found in the Hexagon are highly prevalent. They even force the language on the people. Where there are a hundred Germans, fifty Brits, twenty Dutch and one French person, the language of Dumas and Descartes will take precedence, in order to, as the official line goes, preserve the French tongue. Rubbish! If there was any danger of French dying out, imagine poor Luxembourgish: a couple of hundred thousand speakers and it still has only semi-official status in its own country.

A RIVER RUNS UNDER MY TERRACE
There be dragons...
Although I live in the most marvellous of places, there are a couple of things which get on my nerves, and following the theme of the previous section, it’s the neighbours too, which are causing great chagrin on this side of the stream flowing past our house. On our farm complex there are nine or ten families, all living in this little corner of paradise amongst the fruit trees, the vineyards, the horses and the forests. The people immediately next door, the Weingut Schmitz-Simon, are prone to holding parties on their property. I wouldn’t mind, considering I lived in Paris, Prague, Moscow and London, but now that there is a smoking ban, people come outside for a puff, end up taking their drinks with them and produce a lot of noise through incessant laughter and loud chatter. Some even keep the doors open so they can listen to the music.
One weekend a camper van with Luxembourg plates pulled up in our parking area and remained overnight, taking up three parking spaces. The next morning the occupiers poked their heads out and announced they had been at the wedding – wasn’t she so sweet in that gown? I hadn’t noticed, because this has nothing to do with next door – oh, said he, whereby he said I should have come and found him. How could I when I didn’t know who or what he was doing in the area. Yes, but the flowers on the wing mirrors, said he, should have made me realise he was with the wedding. To which I replied “yes, but lots of gypsies have flowers on their camper vans”. I think I upset him a bit...
This weekend was the worst of the lot. They not only kept the doors open, but they started group singing at midnight. I witnessed one guy throwing an empty bottle into the river. I told some guy I would call the police if they didn’t calm down and it did some good... for a while. A lot of disco music and empty bottles later, and one of my co-inhabitants went over to complain. It was half past four. No apology ever comes from them, no solution is ever suggested. So I have decided to call them at 2 in the morning to see if they like being disturbed at that hour. I intend to tell them that I will call the police to come round and close their parties down. I will also ask the police to stand guard at the end of the street and breath-test everyone exiting that property: I think they will get a lot of money in fines. Finally I intend bothering them as much as I can, because it is obvious that their only interest is money, to the detriment of the neighbours.
They should also be aware that I am filming them and recording the noise at different times and days. In any case, this lack of neighbourly behaviour is very rare here, and all the other people in the area are so civilised, so practical and so community-minded, that it puts the Schmitz-Simon firm to shame. If anyone is reading this, and they want to book a stay at Schmitz-Simon, may I recommend they look around first, because their wines are at least a euro over the price of other winemakers in the area, and that’s just their take-away produce.

MY TERRACE
Perfect cycling territory
This year I will not be going to my usual haunts, Venice and Prague, because there is just too much to see and do around here. So I bought a bike. Here are some tips:

TRIER
In the valley of the Mosel, surrounded by forests and streams, lies the oldest city in Germany and a beauty. Roman ruins, a hilltop monument and UNESCO World Heritage sites all over the place, Trier is outstanding. It has a unique atmosphere and an area offering a more enjoyable shopping trip than the average town. One thing I love about Trier is its mix of old and new. Kaufhof sits in the street to the Roman-built Porta Nigra. The open air museum at the site of the Roman ruins has been subtly modernised to make the experience more pleasurable without destroying the ancient structure.
For walking and eating, I can recommend two areas of the city: firstly work up your appetite by taking a walk from the Roman ruins to the embankment and following the path along the side of the river under the trees. When you arrive at the river cruiser area just past the bridge towards the motorway, there is a line of restaurants all offering good, wholesome local food with a smile. If you were to cross the bridge and head up towards the city forest, there is the Gillenbach stream, also a delightful walk. Just in there is also a well-hidden restaurant with an excellent atmosphere and decently priced menu. The other area of the city is the centre itself. Full of all kinds of eateries, it is difficult to choose, but if you are there in winter, go to the Frankenturm restaurant. The produce comes from a butcher in the Hunsrück National Park and it is all freshly delivered.

NITTEL, GREVENMACHER AND WINCHERINGEN
Just a 25-minute ride from Trier is the natural amphitheatre housing the delightful villages of Nittel, Grevenmacher and Wincheringen, with a Mediterranean feeling all of its own. The views are spectacular from any angle and the places to stop off on the way numerous. In fact, this part of the Mosel is without rival. Temmels, Oberbillig, Nennig and Perl are all worth a visit. I recommend cycling – there are cycle paths everywhere and you get really up close to the environment. I suggest stopping off at the Mühlenbach in Nittel, a palatial guesthouse with a tremendous front veranda for eating amongst the pot plants and a cosy back garden for relaxing with a glass of Spätlese and a book.

THE LOWER MOSEL
Bernkastel-Kues, Piesport, Longuich, Traben-Trarbach, Koblenz... So many places to visit. Again, bike is the best way but I could imagine doing it in a convertible MG sports car. Just do a search on these places and you’ll see why they deserve a visit.

THE RHINE VALLEY: KOBLENZ TO BINGEN
This is where I intend spending at least a week of my summer holiday – cycling and boat trips along the UNESCO-listed valley of the Rhine. More castles than villages, more history, more nature and more dramatic scenery than anywhere else I can think of.

SAARBURG TO KONZ
Saarburg: if you like castles on craggy hilltops and villages nestling in perfect harmony with the surrounding nature, this is where you should come. With a delightful waterfall in the centre of town and a cable car to the top of the largest hill, you are going to enjoy yourself whatever. In fact, as I live six minutes away by train, I spend far too little time in this delightful town.
Schoden: a perfectly situated village on the junction of the Saar river bend and the straight Saar canal. In the village you will find some little streets and alleys making you wonder if you had just made it to a Tuscan mountaintop hamlet until you see the German street signs. There is more atmosphere in this little village than in all the villages in Flanders.
Ockfen: find a T-shaped valley, hone it until it curves like a bobsleigh course, put a village at the point the two lines of the T meet with chocolate box houses and that is Ockfen.
Wiltingen: the village where I live is the jewel in the winemakers’ crown. The wine made in this area is some of Germany’s finest. Although the railway line runs straight through the middle of town, there is a certain rural charm about Wiltingen. Rosi’s Weinstube is a good place to sit admiring the valley opposite, or take a walk along the riverbank. The vineyards rising up at the back of the village lead up to the majestic monument at the Galgenberg, a place you can see for miles. I often go up there to watch the birds of prey swoop down upon their victims; to listen to the unmistakable sound of the cuckoo; to catch sight of the reclusive rabbits and the majestic deer, the animal I hold most in esteem. One night I accidentally ran into one, frightening it, and me, almost to the point we both ran off in different directions.
Kanzem: is this the real location for The Wind in the Willows? Set on the most rapid part of the stately Saar, this village has won numerous in-bloom prizes. At the river bank is a pleasant eatery, stocked up with local food. It contains a few streets of the most desirable houses in the region. I wish to retire here!
Konz: although heavily criticised for its nondescript centre and charmless urban features, there are pockets of Konz which are underestimated. Roscheid, straddling the top of the hill, is full of the most imaginative architecture in the region. Every house is different. Further down, the Russian shop Julchen sells some fine Russian food and drink. The town hall square is always full of parents with their kids playing in the fountains and the town hall itself has a wine cellar and restaurant whose terrace occupies the front of the building.

THE SUNSET OVER OUR VALLEY

A million miles from reality

After a rather traumatic period in my adventurous life,

I have reappeared in Germany.

Vineyards at the edge of the property

Wiltingen village from the other side of the river

Greetings from Wiltingen!
I send you all my most charismatic greetings from the Saar valley in south western Germany! What a difference from the previous place, whose name I shall avoid writing for fear of a Pavlovian attack of depression and angst...
Moving was a real ordeal: I asked a friend to drive a hire van with all the stuff in it and got some neighbours’ youngsters to help me load up. However, on closing up the back, it was noticeable that there were three flat tyres. On going to the hire company, they accused us of driving over stones or some other objects and refused to co-operate because we had signed the contract. When I pointed out that their contract was not totally legal due to the overuse of small writing, and that the truck had not been properly checked when they gave it to us, he got on the phone to his boss and had a ten-minute complaining session about us using expressions like “yeah, I know...” and “but they just don’t want to”. At the end of his rant, he handed us some more keys to a different truck, checked it over properly and shook our hands as if to capitulate to a higher psychological power. It helps when the person accompanying you to the hire shop used to be one of the leading experts in European consumer rights, often appearing on television channels all over Europe...

In any case, the last person I spoke to in Belgium (there, I finally got the courage to write it) really confirmed my decision to leave: in the petrol station on the E40 just before Liège, we pulled in to fill up. A stupid argument ensued because the cashier didn’t want to accept that my card was rejected by his machine. I told him he was a first class imbecile and asked him if the glass screen was to protect him from gunmen or the wrath of his clients. He told me from gunmen, who come from time to time, upon which I told him they had my full support and next time if I were there I’d tell them to wait in the car while I did the ******* job myself.
This lack of community spirit and utter contempt for one’s fellow human being went into total reverse upon crossing the frontier into Germany. What a total irony, verging on the paradoxical. When we arrived at my new place, we were just wearily bringing in the last few items when a neighbour came to greet us and immediately offered his assistance. He even offered to cook us a meal. The weekend after, some other neighbours invited us to join their barbecue having only said hello once before. Her husband works in the same area of Luxembourg and offered me a lift to work.

View of the Saar valley from Saarburg castle

Where did all the energy come from?
I get up at 5.45am to go to work, although I only work Monday to Wednesday. However, on my days off I get up relatively early and 8.00am is positively a lie-in for me. I do so much more in one day that I’m starting to wonder how I could have wasted seven years of my life shut away in that other place. The difference is overpowering: I step out of the door and I am immediately confronted with nature – hills with vineyards rise up in a stately fashion for miles around, interspersed with woods, meadows and rivers. Villages with local shops, guesthouses and inns play a major part in the local fabric of life. Events are often looked forward to as they don’t bombard people’s lives each week with something new. The village May fair takes place this weekend, and I have already been invited to participate by setting up my own stall. I politely declined, as I am not ready with the new photos for this year, but it really made me feel like I belong, something which took over a year in Belgium. Who wouldn’t want to get up early to squeeze every last drop of enjoyment out of the place?!

Our paddock
Nobody wants my money
People here are so civilised and trusting. On Tuesday evening I went to one of the local vintners and asked to buy a few bottles of wine. I said I only had a fifty euro note and she couldn’t change it but when I was passing next time I could drop it off. How refreshing, I thought.
It didn’t end there: the next morning I arrived at the station with the aforementioned fifty euro note and tried to purchase a €2.25 ticket with it. The stationmaster said not to worry as he couldn’t give change but if I were to meet with a ticket inspector I should just mention the fifty euro note. Remarkable, I thought. Then a lady sitting on the bench said she had seen me before and she said she could lend me a couple of euro until next time and so I could buy my ticket. Extraordinary, I thought.
When I arrived in Konz, the town where my bus to Luxembourg leaves from, I walked with the lady who lent me some money to the bakery, concluding our chat, and I got a coffee and a cherry Streusel (Germany’s best kept secret is the cakes) for breakfast. I proffered the fifty euro note and the lady behind the counter said she couldn’t change it but I could pop in over the next few days and give her the cash. Not to worry, she said, these things happen. Quite amazing, I thought.
I went over to the bus stop and awaited the bus to the Luxembourg border where I had to change buses. My German colleague was there and we exchanged early summer salutations before the bus’s arrival. When I offered to driver the same note, he told me tongue-in-cheek that he was not an exchange bureau and told me I’d have to unfortunately go free of charge to the Luxembourg border that morning. Fortunately my German colleague came over to me and lent me three euro or I would have suffered the ignominy of repeating the conversation with the driver of the bus to the European Quarter in Luxembourg. Utterly astonishing, I thought.
And then I thought No, it’s actually quite normal. It’s just that I haven’t had that kind of experience since I left the UK.

Saarburg waterfalls
Becoming a local
Signing into a local community is sometimes quite a hassle. Having lived in a lot of places I think one of the worst countries to legalise your status is Belgium although France comes out top of that ignominious list. The Czech Republic is also not particularly good. I remember going to register in Leuven for the first time at the foreign nationals desk, which was one of the most visited council services and yet the least staffed. I arrived first thing in the morning at 8.45 and along with thirty other people from Congo, Japan, the USA, Ivory Coast, Algeria, Sudan and Indonesia, ran forward as fast as possible to grab the queuing tickets, being threatened with a fatal stabbing by one menacing brute. I waited three hours and at the end was told to come back because I didn’t have all the required documents.
In France, I had to get my landlady to come to the local town hall to register me because in France you can’t get a job without the residence permit and you can’t get a residence permit without a job. No wonder why there are such a lot of people who feel disenfranchised from the French way of life there. In Prague it was a similar story, but fortunately that seems to have changed now they are part of the EU.
On the contrary, upon going to the local council building in Konz, I walked into a virtually empty room with more staff than visitors, I signed two pieces of paper (address) and put two crosses on the questions of my religion (church subsidies) and my tax status. I didn’t have to show any proof of contract, I didn’t have to show any proof of address, I didn’t even have to bring a photo. Nope, I don’t have any ridiculous carte de séjour like in France and I didn’t have to humiliate myself by showing my private affairs like in Belgium.
As I walked out of the council building, I felt quite overwhelmed by the whole experience. I became a little lightheaded by the simplicity of everything in Germany; that nothing was too difficult for people; that things which take forever elsewhere only take a few minutes here; that you can keep your dignity in the local government offices; but most of all, that you feel part of the community from the moment you arrive.

View from hillside towards my house on the right
Getting used to the new surroundings
Some of the changes, though, have been more difficult to come to terms with. I live in a village with no buses and a train an hour in both directions and I don’t have a driving licence. You are probably asking yourself why on earth I chose to come here in the first place. I start work at 8.30am in another country, for Pete’s sake: I must be off my tree. But no, I just have to get up that bit earlier. 5.45am as I said. But it’s worth it: I get the train at 6.29am to Konz, arriving at 6.35am, where I walk seven minutes to the bakery at the bus stop, have a coffee and a cake or two, get the 7.00am bus to Grevenmacher, change to the bus to Luxembourg, arriving at 7.50 in the European Quarter of the city. I have my second coffee, make my photocopies, chat to a few colleagues and await the arrival of my participants. But considering the place I live in, it is a sacrifice worth making.
Another disadvantage is that the baker and the butcher’s shops in the village are only open in the morning from 6.45am to 12.30pm. They only sell basic provisions apart from their usual fare so I need to get food on my way home of an evening. Even that is no trouble really, because I buy my food in Knospe in Konz, a typically German shop, selling organic food from local producers. I could also visit Kaufhof, Lidl, dm or Rewe in Konz depending on the amount of time I have before the train. If it took my fancy, I could stop off at the Ratskeller restaurant for a giant Schnitzel or a truly filling salad. I could hop off the train at the next stop in Kanzem and head for the Saarterrasse, a delightful riverside eatery. However, the greatest pleasure is arriving in Wiltingen where I live and heading for Rosi’s Weinstube for a glass or two of their grape juice. No, I mean it. It’s not a euphemism for wine, it’s really juice although not out of a carton but straight from the grapes. It is the taste equivalent of being caught in a vineyard in a sudden heavy shower.

Galgenberg
Walking in the hills
There are tracks everywhere through the vineyards along the Saar valley. You can walk for a whole day without ever standing aside for a car. I like to go up to the top of the Galgenberg, our local prominent hill and scene of witch executions in the Middle Ages, and watching the sun go down and the moon rise. I am so fortunate that I am the only person for at least a kilometre to be up there after dark. You can admire the three rivers, wonder at the shape of the sheer valleys and listen to the trains, cars and pedestrians going by below without them ever knowing you were there. You can hear a lot more up there than down on the ground level. There is a spot, through a grove of trees that obviously very rarely gets visited, where you feel like you are hovering above the earth. The only sounds are of local birds, and after dark the sky is covered with stars as though the Almighty has dropped a glass on the floor, shattering into millions of pieces. At the Galgenberg summit itself, there is a statue of some steps leading to nowhere, a symbol of the executions, and a lookout parapet with railings and a telescope. I often go up there to feel totally at one with my surroundings and look down upon the wonders of Mother Earth.

Home, the Kochsmühle
To conclude
With all these possibilities, there is not even a stampede of wild buffalo or a plague of dung beetles that could force me to leave this corner of earthly paradise. I came here to restart my own business in a less stressful environment and to work at the European Institutions in Luxembourg, giving up a more high profile career amongst the politicians and powerbrokers of the EU in Brussels for a statelier pace of life albeit not such an intriguing, exciting and vibrant place to work. And I don’t regret it for one minute.

Bye Bye Belgium

I have had to make a very difficult decision these last months. I have become less and less at ease with the country I live in. So for that reason, I have decided to leave Belgium on 15th April. There are a number of reasons, the main one being that I am being priced out of it.

On a recent trip to the UK, I also realised Belgium is not alone in its high property prices, but at least in the UK there are other ways of paying off larger mortgages. In Belgium you just have to make do with what you're given, which in many cases is a well-decorated garage; a place where you store yourself and your possessions; a sort of Menschenschrank. Well I don't really feel like that to be honest. I also do not believe in paying vast amounts of money to an overburdened and - dare I say unfair - welfare system which promotes unemployment and discourages people from seeking further than their "qualifications" will allow.

There is little or no proper infrastructure (it reminds me of the provincial architecture in the old Soviet Union in a town like Kaluga, Tula or Kazan) due to there being no university qualifications for town planner in Belgium. It is the local community politicians who decide what goes where, so you can find all kinds of "interesting" (in the Chinese sense) tram lines where one community doesn't allow them to pass through. Result? Lines which go nowhere. At least they get you nowhere fast. This lack of interest in having town planners also meant that when the politicians finally came around to designating green belt land and the like, nearly all of Flanders had been built on already. Walking through northern Belgium you can rarely find a place to feel utterly alone. This may explain why Flemish people are so uncommunicative - they have nowhere to go.
Let us dissect, little by little, what exactly the problem is with Belgium. I have done it in civil servant bureaucratic style to make it easier for any Belgians who may be reading this. The rest may need to read this two or three times:

1. WORK ETHICS
1.A. The mentality
In Belgium, when applying effort or imagination into work and explaining it mathematically, 2 + 2 = 3.6 and no more. This means nothing is ever done to its conclusion, lest it be seen as an invitation to be given more work.

For that reason, if you try to get ahead like you were taught to in your home country you will:
a. be taxed more heavily for it
b. be told that it will not be possible as a crucial part of your initiative will not be completed until the following year/month/season (delete as appropriate)
c. find that a law was passed while parts a. and b. were going on which makes your project either i) illegal or
ii) in need of some rigorous changes

SOLUTION:
Send all Belgians on a month-long training course with Polish people, where they will see how a proper entrepreneur works. They will learn that
a. Having a pain in the eyebrow is NOT an excuse for not going to work;
b. Charging 200 euro to fix a leaking tap is unacceptable;
c. They are not more important than everyone else;
d. It is necessary REMOVE THE POLITICIANS who caused this in the first place!

1.B. The cost of slow service
Considering the mathematical formula above, it makes it very important to look at workspeed - or lack of it. When going into a shop, for example to buy shoes, there will be only one person, maybe two if it is a Saturday, running the whole place - putting the shoes out, giving advice, stocking, working the checkout. Simply because it costs too much to take on staff in Belgium. Large enterprises are OK, but it is the small and medium enterprises which suffer. Belgium is already in an unemployment crisis. Charging small and medium enterprises over double the employee's net salary is not going to bring more people back to work.


SOLUTIONS:
a. It is remarkable that nobody has noticed. REDUCE EMPLOYMENT TAXES FOR SMEs, STUPID!
b. And while you're at it, REMOVE THE POLITICIANS!

1.C. Helpdesk or No-help-desk?
When you require some technical assistance in Germany or the UK for example, you call up the desk and they do everything physically possible to put the problem right. So you sit in a queue for a while - there are 60 million people in the UK, 25 million more in Germany - big deal. In Belgium if you are not in possession of all of your faculties, you may find your life here intolerable. You need to realise that you bought their product, therefore they fundamentally still own that product. Therefore they believe they own you too.

Having a contract with one of Belgium's leading (or should I say, one of Belgium's only) mobile phone companies should mean that you get the same privileges enjoyed in all countries in the EU. Nope, sorry. You need to buy your phone for its cost price in Belgium, because - and here's the punchline - it's anti-competition. Well if it wasn't so damn sad, it would be hilarious. And on top of that your phone is not locked to the SIM card, meaning if it gets stolen, there's no way of stopping the thieves from using the phone again unless you know the unique code of your phone. They just remove your SIM card and re-sell your phone in another place.

It wouldn't be anti-competition, in fact it would be pro-competition, if they gave you a choice, but that's not the Belgian way. It's all laid on for you. Nobody is allowed to use their imagination to such an extent. Let's not forget that this is the land where autism is an art form, not a sickness.

And the postal system leads the way in the race. Two examples:

One of my neighbours bought the terraced house directly attached to his about 20 years ago. The number on his house, 24, also counts for 26, which after all these years, has become amalgamated with his. There is only one post box and his name, and that of his wife, are both written clearly above the post box. Despite this, several letters, including some important bills, were re-routed back to the post office sorting office as the post deliverer couldn't find the number of the house and didn't take the names on the door into consideration. I saw him yesterday morning painting numbers on his house. In red, just in case.

An Australian friend coming to live in Belgium from China asked for her boxes to be delivered to my place as she had no address yet. The post deliverer asked me for an extra 140 euro for delivering them to my house, despite there being no toll to pay. I called the post office and told them to re-route the boxes to her new address, but to call 10 minutes before arrival, as she had no bell and she would be waiting outside by the time the deliverer arrived. The boxes never came and we received a letter telling us they had been sent back to China as nobody claimed them. I called to complain and I was called a liar and a charlatan by the guy on the other end, who refused to believe that I had called three times to tell the post what to do with the boxes. The person in question is trying to sue the postal service, but her lawyer, rather optimistic for a Belgian, said she should give up all hope. She has paid 600 euro extra for the non-delivery and the post refuses to acknowledge any mistake.

Easy money in a land of monopolies.

I had a problem with payment of my internet bill once (who am I kidding? I have this problem EVERY month!), because I am paid not on the first but about the 10th of the month. When I call to tell them, the job-student on the line says it is unacceptable and I am told I would receive a nasty reminder. I often have to pay small fines because the service provider puts the debit through too early, even though I have constantly told them I am paid later. I suppose it is their way of earning more money.

Nobody can do anything here, you see, because Belgium is still a land of monopolies. They are in control. They are a lot richer than you, they have more than one lawyer and would rather spend hundreds of thousands of euro on recuping unpaid debts rather than asking the question of themselves, "are we being fair to the customer?" In Belgium, there are no investigative TV programmes, there are very few rather weak, amateurish customer protection organisations but it takes ages to get anything done, by which time you're sitting in debt up to the second floor of your house.

1.D. Qualifications count for very little but don't tell them that...
One thing the Belgians are able to tell you is what they are qualified to do. You can find Belgians qualified in Physics who are working as admin staff. You can find Belgians qualified in logistics who are shifting furniture. In Belgium, most people have a job far below their qualifications. The job system works differently to other countries in that many people are unemployed because the employment offices are run by highly qualified, yet demotivated civil servants who aren't really able to work the software and in any case, theirs is a job for life so why should they do too much? They get about a week's training in PeopleSoft and the rest they do on their own. That is, if the office has the software yet...

Furthermore, there are real problems concerning qualifications for independent workers. In the UK, I know people who work constructing gardens, building pools, lakes and ponds, knowing which plants go where, setting the ground even, etc... Anyone can do work like plumbing, gardening, landscaping or decorating if they are properly shown the techniques and given long enough to learn the trade as an apprentice. But these people, who have built their own houses and have a flair for this type of thing despite leaving school as early as 16, would not be accepted in Belgium. My cousin earned £10 million in one year working on the Stock Exchange despite leaving school at 15. Qualifications mean nothing if you are good enough.

When I went to the Chamber of Commerce in Leuven to fill in my details in 2001 and open my business, I filled in the codes for the jobs I wished to do: translation, interpretation, language training and photography. The CoC wrote back and told me I couldn't put in photography because I didn't have a qualification in it. I only wanted to have a couple of exhibitions a year and earn some extra cash, but they said that was impossible.

And an even more extreme case:
A friend of a friend, who used to work for L'Oréal in Paris as their on-site hairdresser for the models for ten years decided to open up a hairdressing salon in Brussels. He was refused because he didn't have the right qualifications!!!! So he took his business to Budapest, where they didn't mind too much. So would I. Anyone see a link between Belgium and unemployment?

Belgians seem not to understand that just because you're qualified, it doesn't mean you're any good. Indeed, in my experience, those language trainers I have come into contact with who have no qualifications in the field are more enthusiastic than those who have them. Main reason? Those with qualifications are generally more complacent and feel less of a need to work for their title, as they feel they have earned it. Therefore the non-qualified are more passionate about it. Don't tell that to a Belgian Ministry of Employment officer, they'll investigate the entire language training market!

In Belgium, those with qualifications really take themselves far too seriously. Authors can't write ordinary stories, they need something eye-catching to hide their appalling storylines, like whole paragraphs without punctuation. Some sponging art-bozo without a real job called Herman Brusselmans, for example, thinks so damn highly of himself that he seems to think he's a comic strip figure brought to life. I don't even know what the narcissistic little creep does. All I know is he has appalling taste in everything from haircuts to music, from sport to literature and he thinks he's always right. He can't even put a sentence together without looking in the mirror. Still, this is the same everywhere. You have a qualification, you're OK.

Oh yes, and if you're Flemish you're OK. In fact no matter how wrong you are, as long as you're Flemish you're right. Flemish with a qualification? Priceless.

SOLUTIONS:
a. Job applicants should be vetted according to ABILITY and willingness to WORK, not QUALIFICATIONS. Honestly, you'd have thought they'd have realised this by now, but when you pick up the job ads, you realise just why this country has 10% unemployed. Everyone is doing a job below their own qualifications. This is no joke, but in Belgium, you need a DEGREE in COMMUNICATION or PUBLIC RELATIONS to be a RECEPTIONIST in a small company. In Belgium, you need a DIPLOMA in LANDSCAPING to be a GARDENER. I am telling you the truth. No joke. I mean, at least you don't need any qualifications in catering to work in a bar, but very often, there are mind-boggling rules which make you sit up and stare ahead silently, thinking Kafkaesque thoughts.

b. Oh yes, and REMOVE THE POLITICIANS!

1.D. Paying for someone else's incompetence
As is tradition in Belgium, you have to pay a very high amount of tax. This is due to previous governments' decadence and pandering to the electorate through grandiose and benevolent schemes which were destined to fail. Many of these are still in place, relics from the Cold War, aggravating the annual budget, and feeding the workshy population. You think I'm making generalisations? I challenge you to go to any café on the Ring around Leuven and count the number of fruit machine gamblers, beer drinkers and barside preachers there are at any time of the day or night.

In Belgium, in order to alleviate the tax burden, your income tax, hospitalisation fund and social security are all separate. And everyone has to pay all three whether they like it or not. You can take them off your taxes, but not all. Let me give you an idea of the breathtaking futility and mind-boggling ridiculousness of a tax bill in Belgium:

As a freelance plumber, for example, let's take one from round here. He came to look at a blocked sink this time last year. His first visit was made driving a silver BMW (new). His second visit of twenty minutes, when he carried out the works, he was in his US-size megatruck totally decorated with his logo, details and activities in his chosen colours. Three weeks later, he arrived in a minivan decorated in his colours and a bill for 140 euro. For no more than 15 minutes' work and 5 minutes' chat. He poured some liquid down my drain, which did the trick for 2 days before it got blocked up once more and I had to pay him 140 euro. No wonder why freelancers are charged a scandalous amount of tax. They think we're ALL able to name our own prices!

Let me tell you about another person I know who was a freelance day centre "hostess" for children in Leuven. She opened up her house for about 6 children, let them play in her garden, made them lunch, assured them of toys and crayons (risking the re-decoration of her house), changed the younger ones' nappies and stayed imprisoned in her own house until the last parent came to take his/her child away. She received about 45 euro per week from each parent, meaning she got about 1000 a month. She had to pay 200 euro a month social security, 650 euro mortgage (still fairly cheap for Belgium), 100 euro electricity costs, and not forgetting water, TV/internet, local tax, hospitalisation fund, food, etc... Putting it another way, she had more outgoings than income so she now works for the local electricity distribution firm.

SOLUTIONS:
a) Reduce the costs for hiring people for a start.
b) Introduce a scheme making it more unattractive to stay at home and the money you save plough it into training job centre staff to find jobs for unemployed people.
c) Stop generalising that people with diplomas know better. Very often they don't - they just think they do because they can form any opinion they like now they have a qualification.
d)In a country where you are punished for working, I think it's only right that you REMOVE THE POLITICIANS!

2.A. Getting ground down in the system
Belgians will defend their own country's little backwardnesses to the last drop of energy. And they will legitimise it, find reasons for it, or flatly reject any alternative as being incompatible for Belgians. It wouldn't be so bad if there were only a couple of these little anomalies, but there are quite a lot, and the main retort you are likely to hear is: "if you don't like it, go somewhere else!"
Well "WE WOULD IF WE COULD!" is my reply, but often we are stranded here because of the jobs we do. There are many European HQs in Belgium, both political ones and enterprises. It would be madness to leave without an anchor in another country, so often people end up here for years. And years and years.

2.B. What effect has this had on the people?
You don't need to go far to experience this knock-on effect created by years and years of political compromise, sourced in the federalisation of the country, bottled by the unyielding politicians.
You will notice that Flemish people are different to French-speaking Walloons. For one thing, they speak a different language which the people like to call Dutch. Each side tries so hard to be Germanic-acting or Latin-acting, but they just can't do it, however hard they try.

A Flemish person, trying to act Germanic, will for example stand in a supermarket aisle waiting for you to move out of the way without saying anything. They think this is being patient like a German or a Brit. Actually it is mainly because they daren't speak to the person blocking the aisle. The Flemish in public really don't like contact with strangers and try to avoid conflict at all times, even this type of conflict.

A Flemish person, trying to act Germanic, will tell you those are the rules without question to be obeyed at all times without right of reply. Well, that's what they think Germanics do... For example, I was carrying some heavy luggage last week back from a business trip and wanted to get the bus home. When it came in, I decided to enter where the mothers do, with their baby carriers once the passengers had got off, so I didn't have to carry the two wheeliebags any further. I then went to the driver and showed him my bus pass. He was furious. That wasn't the way it had to be done! So in an act of sarcasm I got off the bus with my bags and came in the front entrance. "Is it OK now honey?" I said to him. This is one of many examples I have come across over the years where Flemish people want to act decisive and Germanic but they simply cannot.

An average Belgian, trying to be avant-garde, rebellious or anti-establishment (in the 1968 way) will find reasons to say slogans like "down with the monarchy" or "ransack the parliament", but they just have no idea why. They often want to do things against the state, but they really don't dare go too far. For example, the average Belgian will show his/her rebellious nature through:

• Crossing the road while the red light is still on (woah there, you'll get a reputation!)


• Cycling on the opposite side of the cycle path, or even more daring, cycling on the pavement


• Using English words or phrases when a Dutch one would do the job just as well


• Voting blank and telling everyone as though it was the most exciting thing you ever did (probably was...)


• Not using the indicator whilst driving (ooh, you daredevils!)


• Standing outside of the established queue in a shop (insurrection!)


• Putting their feet, still with shoes, or bags on opposite seats on public transport


• Going to live in another town


• Sitting in a first class carriage on a train with a second class ticket and then claiming they didn't see the huge "1" sign on the carriage door when the inspector comes (the worst kind of sponger)
  

They just can't do it. They don't have the willpower or the guts to do something truly outlandish. And if they do it is TRULY weird. Guess where the cream pie-thrower comes from who once got Bill Gates? Furthermore, you will rarely find a Belgian who wants to stand out from the crowd. Most Belgian public places are scenes of conventional clothes, hushed voices and underused smile muscles.

2.C. Being Germanic on public transport
This wish to try to be Germanic has also found a support base in public transport, where in the UK, Scandinavia and Germany one can find all sorts of stickers, signs and posters telling you what is and is not acceptable. "No smoking - penalty £40" for example, or this sign below from a German bus. It says plainly, "Don't make such a row with your own noise".

However in Belgian buses there is a horizontal poster no bigger than this one above which says "On which side are you?" And then it lists on one side the things you shouldn't do on a bus and on the other what you should so on a bus with an illustration in the middle. It is as big as this one above but with a whole load of guff on it that even patient readers with aircraft pilots' eyesight would find tough to read. Those with social problems need to have the rules laid out in front of them. What message are you sending out to people when even the bus company doesn't take it seriously? Furthermore, De Lijn, the Flemish bus company only brought out their "reizigerscode", or travellers' code in April 2007. Before then, anything was possible.

Germanic Ostriches

According to the book, if another passenger is getting on your nerves, you should firstly report it to the driver. So when there was a group of Neanderthals playing music through speakers on the bus, I told the driver. He replied, "what can I do about it? It's bothering nobody, is it? So I can't do anything until it does." I told him it was bothering me. The others were too cowardly to say anything. He told me to sit down. How, in the name of sanity, are you going to tell these "people" right from wrong if those in authority don't even want to deal with it?

2.D. Excuses as reasons?
A Belgian has an excuse for everything. The more you allow the average common or garden Belgian, the more liberties he/she will take. And they will try.

Never let a Belgian out of your sight for thirty seconds in these places:

• Shops where queuing is necessary. If you do, you may find that Belgian has found a shortcut to the front. And the excuse will be "I didn't notice you when I first came in". A good one is, "does it matter who is next?" Yeah, right... So remember, wherever there be a gap, the Belgian will fill it.


• In cafés or on trains alone. If you need to go to the toilet and you have nobody to look after your seat, put as much stuff on it as possible or you may find it taken when you come back. Excuses in this category range from "I saw this coat on the floor but I thought someone had gone off without taking their book with them" to "a person has to sit somewhere, eh?"


• Working on the commodities in your house. Never, ever, ever, ever, ever, EVER allow a Belgian into your home to fix the plumbing or the electricity. Firstly, it will take ages, be very costly and most importantly will need constant repair and maintenance. But secondly there will be forever interruptions. Belgians have habits of saying "I'm just off to get something for your radiator", and not reappearing for days. Excuses here could be, "they didn't have it in stock in the end so I ordered it and it only came yesterday but I've had the flu and my wife's got bronchitis, so I've been looking after her and then the holiday period started and blablabla..." or they could be, "it was fixed in the end, wasn't it?"


• Working on the street infrastructure. They have habits of going home for the weekend leaving paving stones where they were when they began the works, or leaving up diversion signs until someone realises that the works have actually finished. Last week they were working on the roads not far from my front door. They went home early on Friday leaving their no-entry barriers still in place and the buses had to continue on their diversion the whole weekend. Traffic on Monday morning was horrendous. Excuses here will be uninterpretable and generally menacing. This may include threatening to strike or not to connect your house/street properly to the infrastructure.


• Working in your office. Hiring Belgians is a serious threat to your business. For although I said earlier that there is little work going, those who have got it are seriously out to make sure they don't have their day disrupted by extra work. You see, this is why chocolate and beer are Belgium's greatest products. The average Belgian will go to hell and back naked to prepare for their free time and holidays, but woe betide anyone who puts a bit of hard work between them and a relaxing day at the office. Excuses in this category can be varied, but "I've still got to find a wallpaper for my desktop yet" is a popular excuse, as is "Can that wait until I've finished paying for this online concert ticket?" But the one heard the most is "Can a person not get any peace around here?" That covers all bases and people think you're REALLY busy, even when you're just reading the news!
  

2.E. Making sense of the more bizarre excuses
In Belgium, you will find people have:

a. No idea how to queue:

People walking into a shop, even a long, narrow one, will find ways of standing aloof so as to look like they're waiting - the problem is that the person serving does not keep an eye on the arrivals, so often these people get served first. When you try to say that you were in fact next, you are stared at by several others in the room who wonder how you dare to confront anyone in such an aggressive manner.

Getting on a train can be hell as many of the less cultured ones will barge in front, even trying to get on before the others have got off.

b. No idea how to start a conversation with a stranger:

You could stand at the same bus stop for years and years, and see the same people every day of your working life and still have never even exchanged looks.

There's a joke told by the expats in Brussels: what's the definition of eye contact on Belgian public transport? Answer: A married couple.

c. No sense of orientation on the pavements and also in buildings, lifts and cars:

Belgians spend most of their lives not only wondering why they exist, but also where they are. However one of the most infuriating aspects of not being a Belgian is having to accept their inability to walk in straight lines on pavements and their knack of blocking the pathways without realising it. On a recent trip to Saarbrücken, I came across a group of Belgians blocking the pathway in and out of Kaufhof. Telling them didn't help, they didn't understand what was wrong about standing there!

I once tried to move the moped of a teenager away from the enclosed area leading from the car park to the supermarket. I didn't notice he was behind me. He tried to hit me with his helmet and asked me why I was stealing his bike. When I pointed out that it was blocking the safe passage to the shop, he took a swing at me with his helmet. So I grabbed him and twisted him round in self defence, paying particular attention to his helmet hand. Along came some guy who told me to leave the kid alone.

Spatial awareness is a sign of empathy, understanding and community spirit. Which leads me on to section d...

d. No idea of charity or community spirit:

They don't tip for a start. They also don't thank people a lot for opening doors or giving passage in cars. But there is something darker here: charities are nuisances here who ambush you on pedestrian street crossroads or bombard your houses with adverts to send money. Nobody does any actual other charity work. In the seven years I have been here, not a single person has done anything sponsored.

In central Flanders there is the "Dodentocht", a yearly 24 hour walking event. People have to walk 100 kilometres in 24 hours in a circle. I know several people who did this. Now, in the UK or Poland for that matter people would use this opportunity to raise money for a local charity. When I asked one of my friends who was doing this what charity he was doing it for, he said "no charity - do you think I'm crazy?" Another one said "I'm doing it because you get free beer at the brewery". And yes, to answer your question, I really, sincerely do think you are crazy. Imagine walking 100 km and not bothering to collect cash for it!

2.F. However when there is a benevolent event:
A car-free day in Brussels is usually a sign that hypocrisy has finally reached new depths and the politicians think they should do something "green". But what if you need to take your spouse back to the airport? That was one thing a friend had to deal with. He walks to work every day, but uses his car only for travelling home to Germany or large assignments. Like collecting your wife and her things and putting her on a flight home to Berlin. So when he came out of his parking spot and reached the end of the street, he was mobbed by a group of part-time cyclists. You know, the type that has a car per family member, and thinks it's fun to get on a bike on car-free day.

Oh yes, and he lives in a flat below a woman who likes to vacuum her sofa in the middle of the night, have telephone arguments and walk around noisily in stiletto heels. But you see, nothing can be done by the police in Belgium, because she's not contravening the maximum decibels ruling. Quatsch!

3.A. Language and its uses
It is entirely possible that the Flemish have an exaggerated sense of importance of their language. And it is even more possible that the French-speaking Walloons are uninterested in learning their little lingo when they could be learning Spanish or English. The Flemish need to realise that even the Hollanders see the Flemish version of Dutch in the same way as the French look upon Créole. Get over it.

One little problem though: the Flemish think it's such a good idea to only allow people to join their civil service if they speak good enough Dutch and pass a language ability test. So what is happening in schools, colleges, universities and training facilities run by the Flemish government is that many Chinese, English, German and Spanish teaching jobs are going to Flemish people because the real native speakers have not mastered Dutch well enough. You need to pass a Dutch language test before you are allowed to work for them. OK, but what good is that to a Chinese teacher???

SOLUTION: The Flemish have a thing against the Walloons because they don't really try to learn Dutch, but they are missing the point. Nobody else does really, either. What use will Flemish Dutch be to anyone? I don't think the NATO translation unit will fall into chaos because nobody speaks it. So they need to be a little less exaggerative of people's needs to speak their rather sparsely used language.

3.B. Enjoying yourself the Belgian way

I remember the parties I used to organise in London and down in Kent. I would invite ten people and forty would show up. We had dancing on the tables; folk-style circles, lines and arches; we ran about in our underwear; we had midnight guitar sessions in the forest; we had blindfolded "guess the person" competitions, etc... Here in Belgium, I can't rustle up enough enthusiasm for a game of snooker once a month. I've been to "parties" where the host told me it was going to be a raucous affair with lots of drink and music, and we'd be finished at 5 and if you weren't tired yet we'd head off to the bar and blablabla... All lies. A Belgian "party" is as follows:

1. Come in, hand over bottles to fridgekeeper
2. Get a drink
3. Stand in the middle and choose which group of semi-hypnotised emoes you want to speak to
4. Notice how good the music is (usually unrecognisable café/lift stuff)
5. Stand there, wait for snacks to arrive
6. Pretend you're enjoying it
7. Talk about something intellectual or something totally meaningless like your shopping bill
8. After a few drinks, either go home or to a bar
9. Once out of the door, wonder who those people were
10. Go into a library to soak up a little more atmosphere
    

3.C. You will like what you are given
Go into any British or German supermarket and you will find four or five different sorts of everything to choose from. In a Belgian one you get what you are given. And if it goes off before you get home or it doesn't work properly, the following scenarios are possible:
"please fill in this forty page document and send it to this address. Oh hold on, your package has been opened. Sorry, that means you accepted this thing and it's not our responsibility any more. So go away please, I have to finish this crossword" or maybe, "I'll have to ask twenty other people and by the time I've finished you might be tired of waiting and have already lost the will to live."

3.D. What the Belgians do right
Not all of it is bad. Just what I listed above. Their TV is quite good (when it's on schedule - not the kind of country where a DVD recorder is of much use) and their food isn't bad (when served with a smile anyway). There is an expat joke: what's the best thing to come out of Belgium? Answer: The E40 motorway in either direction.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I could go on, but I will stop here. I don't care what any Belgian thinks when reading this: I don't value their opinion very highly anyway. Not many Belgians have good judgement. In fact, ask directions to a group of them and they'd all have a different opinion of the way you should go, even to their own front door. One last thing: I often get told by Belgians: "if you don't like it, why don't you get out?" Well that is precisely what I'm going to do. So in the words of Filip De Winter, it's time for the three Bs: Bye Bye Belgium!

Travelling is good for you: Czech cuisine

Wild boar in a sweet honey and wine sauce with bacon and herb dumplings




Apricot dumplings in fresh cheese, chocolate sauce and a light coating of fine sugar




Cordon Bleu chicken with home made potato croquettes in a mushroom sauce, with red cabbage and pepper side salad


The Czech Republic is a country incomparable with any other. It is God's Own Land. A hidden treasure, protected by mountains around its entire borders, it has more than just Prague to offer to its visitors. Any visit to this land means going to Prague, but like any capital city, it is different to the rest of the country. Paris is not an example of the rest of France, London is certainly not representative of the rest of the UK and Brussels is the oddest thing you'll ever find in a country like Belgium. Thus Prague is an anomaly in the Czech Republic.

But it is a beautiful, mystical city worthy of the land it presides over. For Prague is by far the most awe-inspiring, breathtaking and humbling urban area you will ever see. For one, its acoustics are unique. In most cities you always feel the bustle of daily life, the noise, the traffic and the need to hurry. Not so in Prague. You can walk along the streets and talk to your partner as though you were in the middle of the country. The pace of life is also much more relaxed and yet serious business goes on there all the time.

But this detracts from what makes Prague the city that it is: the Czech answer to Disney - just as commercialised, sometimes too gawdy, often in-your-face, but it's certainly not fake. And it has more history in its shortest back alleyway than Disney will ever have. This is leading away from where I want to set the scene - the Czech Republic itself.

You can determine the borders of the country from any satellite maps: it is surrounded by mountains, pure, green, tree-strewn, formed by rivers, waterfalls and lakes of the clearest highland water. The villages are spread around the hills and mountains, where Czechs come to spend their weekends and summer holidays in their second home outside the town, known as a chalupa or a chata. The quality of life is far better than most other countries in Europe - people are more contented, more active, and they eat locally produced, natural fruits, vegetables and meats.

The provincial towns themselves are often Baroque leftovers from times when the city's gentry wanted to create their piece of Vienna or Prague in the country. So if you visited Jihlava, Ceske Budejovice, Pardubice, Olomouc, Brno or Ostrava, you would find the estheticness of capital cities in much smaller, less populated areas. Arriving in Liberec in northern Bohemia, I was surprised to find a Tesco supermarket smack in the middle of some 18th century architecture.

Furthermore, you can be guaranteed that your stomach will not be neglected... Czech food is not yet on the map of world cuisines, but soon enough you will find its status rising so long that the tourists come back homa and pass on their messages. Going into a restaurant in a small village near Telc called "Na Kocande" with some friends, we ordered roast duck, rabbit, boar, pheasant and plain old chicken. What arrived will forever be ingrained on the memory. French cuisine is noted for its art but you'll discreetly pop out for a bag of chips because it's not necessarily filling. By contrast, Czech food is extremely tasty and has the added benefit of filling you up.

The photos above are of the food served in Na Kocande and although everyone could do with free advertising, I recommend going into most Czech restaurants and awaiting the surprise upon your plate.

Proper speech or class snobbery?

Something has been playing on my mind recently, and that is the lack of English mother tongue speakers who really make an effort to speak properly, or at least articulate. Another thing which has got me pondering the future of our language is the amount who don't bother about basic grammar. Put these two together and in fact the future of the English language in its native country is very bleak unless someone does something pretty soon.


There are several problems. One of those is that it is not fashionable in the south east of England to sound in any way intelligent, because you can seriously lose friends. I mean it. It has gone so far that often those who articulate are seen as untrustworthy and even corrupt. Take Hollywood. In their films all the bad guys are played by either New Englanders or Brits: the crew on the Titanic was split between the loveable Irish rogues and the unscrupulous British gentry. Cruella De Ville in 101 Dalmatians was played by a well-spoken dame and Alexis Colby of Dynasty fame was Joan Collins, the TV character being forever associated with the tag "bitch". It just wouldn't have been the same if they were Californian, Welsh or Australian.


You have been warned...


I noticed how easy it is for people to look down upon those who speak clearly, and there are other perception problems surrounding this. Many dialects and accents are just as valuable, adding to the richness of the language but the most accepted way to speak is with a lazy slur and an attitude of nonchalance. So as long as you don't sound out of place you'll never have to fear rejection. It's not a case of class any more, because so many people of different backgrounds are training themselves to speak that way. If it were, it would be easier to draw the line somewhere.

Recent research by a linguistic institute found that the lower the class (linguistic, not economic), the more mistrusting of clear speakers one is, yet the lower the class (economic, not linguistic) the better one gets on with those at the top, because both sections of society know who they are and are content with their place in the world. A true working class person would not have it any other way and neither would the aristoes! So the problems lie with the middle class - never content with their position they always seem to want to aim higher. They are the driving force behind this new obsession with grammarless English and they are too proud to speak to common folk and too starstruck to hold a civilised conversation with the privileged classes. Their version of the upper class is in fact being led by people like footballers, television personalities and pop stars.

It is due to these new 21st century "icons" that our language is being taken out of our hands. That and a very naïve government policy which thinks all English and Welsh school students are stupid and can't understand the principles behind grammar. I tell my own students (I have about 80 of them at the moment) that their version of English is the correct one. They should not copy anyone else's English because they can also be wrong. They should firstly write it down or make a mental note of it and ask one of the translators, interpreters or language trainers in the Institutions.

I don't care what people say about the way I speak English. I love my language, I am in awe at its humble beginnings and survival and I wish to speak it properly. It has a truly global influence, but it's such a shame that the people who started it off are now moving to some other, more user-unfriendly version which will be, in 100 years' time, an offshoot of the main version, a little like Latin and its offshoots.

Who exactly are the victims here?

It's strange how life works out.

We go through periods of misery, panic, poverty, grief or self-doubt, but as long as you have a strong head and thick skin, you can pass through the other side with ease and confidence. In my job, I also act as some kind of "therapist" for others and I've had to deal with some tough situations.

IS IT WORTH IT?
One of the hardest was being the first person at the bedside of someone who had attempted suicide. Having been called by a member of his family who was in another town, I dropped everything and got to the hospital within fifteen minutes. On the way, several emotions occurred - I was in a fit of panic that he would die alone; I was terrified about what state I would find him in and how it would affect his future physical health, but most of all I was devastated that he had taken this avenue to escape his demons.

I don't know anything so grizzly that it is worth contemplating the ultimate act.

He had been dropped by his girlfriend and as a person who gets attached easily he had decided to press his own self-destruct button. When I arrived he was attached to all kinds of tubes, wires and monitors. His heart rate was weak and his colour could only be described as grey. I feared the worse. The doctor arrived and told me to talk to him and I asked why. He explained that the tests had come through that he had taken sleeping pills but having rejected most of them he was simply in a deep sleep. I was so damned angry that he had used this method to find a solution that the only thing I could think of to say was that I hoped he did wake up so I could knock him all round the hospital grounds.

A very short while later his mother walked in in a blind panic and I quickly informed her of the situation. She sat holding his hand and talking about the episode. This was her son and there must be nothing worse than outliving your offspring unless you survive to an abnormally old age. Even then. So it was with great relief that we witnessed the first movement of his arms and head - until that moment he had been snoring like a lion...

A good few hours later he made some eye-opening gesture and his first words were "oh no", which we took to be a sign that he was still depressed and was unhappy to be alive. How can anyone be unhappy to be alive?! In any case, he spent a short week in there and we came to pick him up. We took his things and went to the centre for a celebratory meal. It was a really happy occasion although emotional nonetheless.

The question I need to ask here is, how do people get into such a state? Do they spent too long thinking? Do they just not understand that we only get one chance at this, and they think they'll be reborn if they die? Since then he has become more fatalistic in life and is a lot happier in himself. In a strange way, it was a gruesome privilege to be involved in that incident and it certainly made all of us several years more mature in the experience.
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THE GREEN EYED MONSTER
Another incident in my life which occurred recently was a student confided in me that one of her colleagues had started bullying her. It didn't stop there - her colleague had also lost her ability to handle her emotions in the same office as her. She would be all goodness and light and suddenly get nasty. One time she even got the attention of the entire department, including her boss, and showed them all a mistake my student had made. Probably the only one. At the very same time she blamed her for the recent downturn in fortunes in the department. Her colleague had for weeks been "advertising" her good work by doing "extra activities", like reserving car parking spaces for her bosses, getting lunch for everyone and running around looking busy. She had then started comparing herself to my student through defaming hints and comments. Fortunately their head of department could spot a potential maniac from a kilometre away and gave her a good lesson in dignity.

My student told me that as a well-respected and almost indispensible member of the department, her colleague had become jealous of her to the point of obsession. In their private moments, she had told her colleague all sorts of secrets, not knowing that she would hold them against her later. We were quite shocked that this sort of behaviour could go on between adults. Then again, we realised that none of us can be safe from certain individuals and it is just a matter of keeping your head held high, backing out of potentially volatile scenarios, but most of all, not letting them win. According to De Standaard a while ago, this type of person gets angrier when one of four things occurs:

1. The victim has a better life, family or job than the perpetrator
2. The victim is more capable, calmer or better organised than the perpetrator
3. The victim has more allies, friends or contacts than the perpetrator
4. The victim doesn't get upset by the perpetrator's devious actions

A person not content with his/her life will show certain signs too:
1. They don't take so much care of their appearance or body weight
2. They don't do much in their spare time, and have few or no hobbies
3. They don't display signs of familiarity or even affection to their nearest and dearest
4. They can be extremely materialistic to make up for their misery: bigger car, house extension, grander holidays, even going as far as buying expensive pets!

I told her that experiences within my own family proved that this seemed like a pretty accurate assumption. I made one mistake when it occurred in my family - I went to apologise (to make the peace, goodness knows why!) when I really should have just walked away with my head high while I could. Still, there won't be a next time because I decided recently not to maintain contact with this part of my family. I just found it to be a shame that people become so undignified when jealous. They also try to drag those with self respect down with them - I guess that's how they try and hide it.
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A final example of how extreme people can be took place last year when one of my students was unhappy at failing the end-of-semester examination. Well, "unhappy" is not the word: hysterical seems like the better description... In order to get a promotion, those who pass through our classes need to attain a certain level in another language, in many cases English. She had been in class a lot, but had showed signs of panic in class when it was her time to speak. She had also not really worked very hard on her theory and had an awful accent. Needless to say, I knew she was going to fail from quite early on, but I still maintained hope that she would at least do as well as she could.

When the exam took place, she failed abysmally.

Of course, it was all my fault according to her! I had not done this and not done that, despite her being the only failure in the class. In fact, it was more serious than that - she actually lost her job! I received phone calls and emails from her that I had ruined her life. She even came to my workplace one day and told all my students that I was responsible for her demise. I quietly took her to one side, showed her the statistics of the rest of her group in that period, and laid the facts bare in front of her. She looked through them and suddenly turned a shade of red. After several profuse apologies she went back into the class and told them that she had made a terrible mistake. She got another job in a different area and is doing much better now.

If we look at these three scenarios, we wonder who is the victim really. For me in the first one, there is no other than the parents. No parent should have to face such a situation. In the second it is more unclear. If someone has trouble keeping anger under control, it is time to seek a therapist and look more closely at what makes you happy. In the last, it is also unclear, but for me anyone who puts such an unbearable amount of pressure on herself needs to take care.

A final goodbye to my dear mum

Sorry I haven't written much for quite a while until this week. I am afraid my dear mother passed away at the beginning of the month. She had been suffering for quite a while so it came as a relief when we knew she was finally at peace. However nothing can prepare you for the time it happens. It's a strange sensation and makes you feel lonelier than you would normally be. The one thing I can be glad about is that we had a strong relationship before she faded away.

I have received several requests for the eulogy I wrote to read at her funeral. For quickness and ease I thought I would publish a large part of it here rather than post copies off. My mum was such a robust woman but she had a chocolate heart and I wanted those who attended her final journey to hear of my pride at being her son:

There’s a difference between a mother and a mum.
A mother is someone who makes you look tidy and scrapes the food off your face before school. But a mum makes sure that when you come back, the house is heated, the dinner is on and the greeting is cheerful and sincere.

There’s a difference between an aunt and an auntie.
An aunt will stop to have a chat with you on the street when you haven’t met for a while. An auntie will drive you home safely afterwards and wait for one of your parents to arrive.

There’s a difference between a grandmother and a nan.
A grandmother looks after you while your parents are still at work. A nan feeds you, provides you with toys and games, and clears up when you’ve gone. Day after day, for several years.

There’s a difference between a friend and a mate.
A friend will lend you money. A mate won’t cash the cheque when you return it.

And my mum was all of these and more. She loved to have company. From embarrassing us by striking up a conversation with diners at a restaurant on another table close by, to keeping the pools collector occupied on the front step, to peering out of the front window at the slightest noise to see if someone was coming to visit, she was in her element when she was with people, whether one person or a crowd.

She had the most cunning advice too, if you listened carefully enough. The greatest piece of advice anyone ever gave to me was when looking for employment, never start at the bottom and await promotion, but start at the top and work down until someone takes you. I took this to heart too, and although I spent over a year out of work, it ended with my dream job and I wouldn’t be there without her.

I think my mum would have made a great diplomat. The perpetual big occasion dinners inevitably brought out the worst in us, and the arguments over a certain vegetable are legendary. And although there would be enough potatoes to feed a platoon, goodness knows how the oven coped, we never failed to squabble. But mum found a solution – she gave me a smaller plate but piled up all my potatoes under the other veg. That negated any complaints from others. So sorry to my brother John, but I truly did have more potatoes on my plate than you!

But underlying all this was a vulnerability that only surfaced in private moments. She was in great pain a lot of the time with her back or her legs. She cursed her pain but she never complained or sought sympathy. She also felt quite alone, especially in her later years as her neighbours slowly moved away and those that remained or moved in barely trod upon the driveway. Company was the only thing which drove her aches and pains away – they were the remedy, but unfortunately company didn’t always visit her. And nobody filled the space her own mother vacated.

There is a difference between a task and a duty.
A task is clearing up the mess left behind. A duty is clearing up the mess left behind a dying brother-in-law. For nearly a decade. A task is bringing home the coal to put on the fire. A duty is where you do it when you’re not yet ten years old.

Born in 1937, her earliest memories would likely have been the disturbing sights and terrifying sounds of the Second World War. From a very young age, she was brought up by her grandmother in a family where her mother and aunt were more like sisters. Surrounded by this strong matriarchal circle, she received strong lessons in responsibility and obligation.
Living in wartime and post-war Britain was arduous enough for an adult, but for a child it must have been daunting, grim and unimaginably harsh. So for my mum any hope of a normal childhood was cancelled. Happier times occurred later in life and sisterhood with her mother confirmed when she and my dad got together. A mother and daughter marrying two brothers. It’s a complicated story and I’ll tell you after if you’ve got a spare hour.
With such a youth, duty was instinct.

Once again, there’s a difference between a mother and a mum.
A mother reads you a story. But a mum teaches you to read the story for yourself. And a mum gets you the right material to suit your interests. And a mum harvests and nurtures those interests and seeks advice from teachers. And a mum sends you to the right school. And a mum goes mad when you say you’re not going to college, you’re going to get a job in McDonald’s. And a mum packs you off to university with a cupboardful of food. And a mum tells you to go out into the wilderness and do your own thing even if she’ll be lonelier without you. And a mum will call you once a week to see how you’re doing. And a mum will get you out of hole after hole, time and time again.

And through all this, a mum gets taken for granted. Is criticised for silly meaningless things. Is nagged at when she’s forgotten something. Is brushed off with a post-teenage grunt or even ignored when all she wants is a chat. Takes every trivial complaint on the chin until she’s so frustrated and annoyed that she finally gets her coat and goes out for a drive. Looking back now I wish she had stuck up for herself more and set us more often in our place. But that was mum. She tried to prove herself through what she did rather than through what she could ever have said. She owned the motto that "actions speak louder than words".

And finally, a mum is someone who deserves our most heartfelt, sincerest, if well and truly belated, thanks for all she did for us without so much as a prompt for thanks. An empty dinner plate, a smile, a sigh of relief, were all the thanks she required.

May she rest in deserved peace.