The Brazil Chronicles Vol II: The Richest Dog in Brazil

Hello All

Manson. Biding. Earings not withstanding

So, a quick catch up before we head off to Camburi (Literally: A hell of a long way to the beach to spend most of your holiday in the rain). 180 km although it being a Sunday, we should have a smooth ride.

So, to back up a little and keep you informed of SP goings on, I think my last e-mail ended on Wednesday.

Thursday went for a very nice lunch in a local "health" restaurant" (ha ha haaaaaaaaaa – it is called a "natural" restaurant because ONE of the trays had soya mince on it otherwise it was the usual sweet tooth fest of sugar, sugared fruit and sugared pastries) with Number Two Mother and TLS. Nevertheless, the food was excellent - as it is almost everywhere I went. I can't remember the last time I had naartjie juice. After lunch, TLS and I cabbed to the optometrist. Appointments, Brazil style, go something like this.

1.     Book your appointment some weeks in advance for 15h40

2.     Arrive somewhere between 15h30 and 16h00, maybe later if the mood takes you

3.     Find four people waiting to be seen ahead of you.

4.     Go to receptionist who cannot find your appointment.

5.     Be seen sometime that afternoon

After the test, we went to meet Papimoxa, aka Number Two Father, aka Papivara because of his ability to eat entire lengths of bamboo without pause.

He has an office in Bom Retiro where they used to live and goes through for afternoons where he has an accounting practice. This used to be a predominantly Jewish neighbourhood, but is now occupied almost exclusively by Koreans and gringo bloggers. We stopped at his local coffee shop before catching a taxi home. Most taxi drivers in SP used to work for the Japanese air force in their one-way flight department. Managed to make it back to the flat and threw myself out of the car and kissed the ground in thanks before losing a foot to a passing taxi driver. On the pavement!

Got back to the flat to find that Charles Manso... Phoebe had eaten 50 Reals which she found on Number Two Mother’s bed. We were all too afraid to punish her.

Had a very early supper before going to the shopping centre to buy tickets for Black Swan. We were told the previous day that if you paid for your tickets on Amex, they were half price as part of a promotion. As is the case with everything sales-related in Brazil, this was only half the story. The other half went something like this: only one person buying the ticket on an Amex card gets the discount, not all the tickets purchased and then only if your Amex card is from Bradesco, a local bank and then only if your surname is Da Silva and you were born on a Thursday. We paid full price.

The movie was annoying – it was like watching a movie in England. One chap sending a text message and each time he pressed a key, his phone beeped and would then take his phone out every ten minutes to check it for a reply and the light would catch your eye. Two ladies behind us would talk every time there was no dialogue and a granny on the opposite side of the aisle would fight with her grandkids about taking them home every time there was a sex scene. I don’t know how the kids got in as it was a 16 age restriction film. At the end of it I said to TLS we had to leave quickly before I killed someone.

Friday morning I had a lie in while TLS went shopping. After that we walked up the hill to Praça Villa Boheme. Or so I thought; it is actually Praça Villa Bum according to the signs. Pronunciation is not easy here. Fortunately I heard TLS say the name before reading it otherwise it would have been embarrassing telling the parents where we were going.

This is a lovely little strip of shops and restaurants – all very expensive – where all the mommies what lunch visit when they have picked up the kids from school. We stopped at what is the best fresh fruit juice shop in Sao Paulo according to Vejinha magazine (Literally: Little vagina magazine) special edition on Comidas e Bibidas. I had a fresh tangerine drink (the waiter kindly brought a tray full of sugar and sweetener – fresh fruit juice Brazilian style. God forbid you should enjoy something healthy without sugar) and TLS had an Açai which is a berry that tastes of (and looks like) earth but in sorbet form. I could not quite make up my mind if I liked it or if I wanted to rinse my mouth out afterwards.

Then we popped across the road to FAAP (Foundation Armando Alvares Penteado) which is a university with a museum in it to look at some Brazilian art. I asked TLS to ask the security guard if we could take photos and he said no so I asked her to ask if I could go for a ride on his Segway instead. He said no and then kept a strict eye on us for the duration of our visit.

We then went to Kopenhagen for coffee; this is one of the oldest chocolatiers in Sao Paulo – and one of the most expensive. They had a 5 kg Easter egg in the window for R$860 which is roughly £330. We promised them a life of servitude and gave them all our money to pay for two espressos.

On the way back it started to pour, tropical storm style, so we had to stop in at one of the restaurants to re-mortgage and buy two beers until the rain stopped.

Made it back in time to have a quick shower before dinner. Number Two Mother’s cousins came and brought us diet chocolates. I asked if they thought I was fat. Husband Jacques (pronounces Jacque-ease), his wife Thelma (pronounced Telma like the soup) and their son Daniel (pronounced Daniel).

P was there and Foffi arrived late after playing clarinet in the local shul band. They play a mix of classical Jewish songs and blues – the band is called Bad Luck and Tsorris. Apparently his orchestra is going to be playing at a Sepulcher concert. In case you don’t know them, they are a very dark, heavy metal band. T was supposed to come but it rained and after an hour and a half in the traffic, she called it a day and went home. Very nice evening of cold cuts and salads and we even found a bottle of Frangelico in the cupboard to have with coffee.

No one I have spoken to has managed to explain why traffic backs up / stops every time it rains.

Saturday we left 45 minutes late (early if you are Brazilian) and I drove to meet TLS’s friend D and her husband C and their two children before going to a local churrascaria, a meat feast carvery where the waiters arrive with meat on swords and cut off slices onto your plate.

We started off with sushi (apparently a popular starter in Brazilian steak houses) and salads and chips and pies and pastels and cheese and prawns and risotto and beans and bean soup before hitting the meat. Ate until a standstill and then we left for the local “Shopping Bourbon” for coffee. All shopping centres are called “Shopping Something” and usually named after places or the local neighbourhood such as Shopping Higienopolis, Shopping Morumbi, Shopping Santa Cruz or Shopping Iguatami although possibly the latter was named after how the local women wear their trousers?

Shopping Bourbon was, quite frankly, terrifying. To get into the car park, you have to drive up what looks like an external fire escape staircase alongside the shopping centre and which has to be at least ten stories high before entering the main building. Honestly, I would not chance this with Betti driving. We went to Havana, oddly, an Argentinean shop for coffee where C had a giant slice of cake with a centimetre thick layer of marshmallow on top. He says he was taking it easy as he is also watching his sugar levels. Havana was set up to sell a traditional Argie type of biscuit (Alfajor) but, being in Brazil, they were obliged to add coffee and sugared sugar to their menu.

Health and Safety. Brazil Style. Actually, not worth writing about - it doesn't exist. People just ignored the fire alarms and continued shopping and using the elevators. Moving on...

Saturday we went to pizzas with the girls. TLS’s friends L, Renee (pronounced Henneh, who we are planning to marry off to Tony, and for the record, I was not drunk on caiparinhas), Bettina (pronounced Bechina) and V who does talk quite a bit. Breathe in, talk out; she became increasingly desperate to finish her story before we dropped her off after dinner and volume and speed increased until my hearing range and basic Portuguese proved to be insufficient to follow her.

We ate at Pizza Camelo, not to be confused with Pizza Dromedaria around the corner which has only got one hump. Brazilians have a strange way of eating pizza that would not suit South Africans, particularly if you are Jewish (you cannot make your own or add or change ingredients - anathema) and does not really suit me (you have to share.) People order largish pizzas which the waiter brings to your table, serves each person a slice and then takes the pizza away until you are ready for your second slice. How long can it take to eat a slice of pizza? This does not sound like an efficient use of staff time. I am not sure why this way of eating has developed. What one can be sure about is that the pizza is going to have a LOT of cheese.

Just like Eskimos have 30 different words for snow, Brazilians have 300 different words for cheese however the words "speed limit" don't exist in Portuguese.

Apparently Brazilians are prone to colour blindness. This can be the only reason why we drove past a block of flats called Casa Verdi, which was painted red.

And now we are off to the beach so TTFN and (for a nominal fee) I will send you The Brazil Chronicles Vol III when we get back.

Fat Al

The Brazil Chronicles Vol I: Brazil Uber Alles

Capivara. Papivara? Feed Me!

Hello

Sorry not had a moment to write since arriving – been on the run since arrival. The police are still looking for me…

Left the flat in good time after collection by an “it’s my first day” taxi driver – he was wearing a tie and carried our bags. Unfortunately, excellence stopped there. He could not drive; lots of poor clutch work, a limited ability to read the road and no ability whatsoever when it came to staying in his lane (Perhaps he is Brazilian?). I hoped the pilots would do a better job keeping to their flight paths otherwise we were going to be in trouble.

We had to book a people carrier as I had my 9 kilograms of luggage and my little backpack as hand luggage and a pair of shoes and my toiletry bag in a shared tog bag. The remaining cubic feet of the tog bag were taken up with an Imelda Marcos-like collection of TLS's shoes. TLS also had her handbag, wheelie bag hand luggage and a small caravan or large wheeled suitcase, depending on your perspective with the rest of her clothes. Apparently, if you are Brazilian, a 46 kg luggage allowance is viewed as the amount you MUST take with you, not the maximum permitted amount you MAY take with you.

Arrived at the check in counter to be greeted by a thin-lipped member of the Gestapo with the personality of a Rottweiler. IS THIS YOUR BAG? IS THIS YOUR ONLY BAG? PASSPORT NOWWWWWW! FASTER! FASTER! AT THIS COUNTER YOU ARE MY BITCH! RAUS RAUS RAUS. JUDENNNNNNNNNNN RAUS!

Fortunately the short haul flight to Frankfurt, Luftwaffe flight LH509 was like flying business class – enormous seats with plenty of leg room. I thought if this is what German airlines are like, how on earth did they lose the war. I started to whistle the theme to the Dambusters. Unfortunately, it was not to last…

We arrived at Frankfurt and got the bus to the terminal. Then we walked. And walked, And walked some more to the international departures terminal. We checked our hand luggage through security and were half way to the departure lounge when TLS realized that her left hand was empty. We walked some more all the way back to security to fetch her hand luggage. But first they had to scan if for signs of explosives as they were suspicious of the collection of charger cables seen on the X-ray machine. Fortunately, they did not check my collection of Kindle, cell phone, iPod, toothbrush, razor, PDA and other assorted cables and chargers and the like.

Rushed to get to the departure lounge which was absolutely packed. They announced in German, English and apparently pidgin Portuguese that the flight was so full that anyone with more than one piece of hand luggage had to check in the extra pieces. The Germans immediately followed orders and went to the counter while the Brazilians continued eating their cheese, sugar, fried banana, pastry and condensed milk sandwiches.

They eventually called people in seat row order which was completely ignored by everyone except a few outraged Germans all holding a single piece of hand luggage. Much like the Iberia disaster flight of two years ago, the plane was old; the trusty Luftwaffe workhorse without any frills. I didn’t know that the Junkers-88 was still in service. Actually, it was an old Boeing 747 which still had the big box TVs stuck to the ceiling every ten rows. So much for movies and games on demand! And no pouch with toothbrush, travel socks and ear plugs!

Having eaten a burger at Giraffe (not a giraffe burger) at Heathrow, I wasn’t planning on eating on the flight, but it smelled so nice I ordered the chicken curry which is a very strange thing to server to 480 people when there are only four toilets on board. Fortunately, I tend to get backed up when I fly; perhaps it is the fear that causes a tightening of the required moving parts?

The “entertainment” started with a news broadcast, and then football, possibly in German, possibly in Portuguese. Possibly I did not know as I was listening to my iPod and reading Heart of Darkness on my new Kindle. Nice.  Then the pre-movie sit-com started. Was it cutting edge comedy by the likes of Jack Whitehall? The self-deprecating humour of a miserable Jack Dee? The sheer horror of Frankie Boyle? No, it was an episode of The Golden Girls with Bea Arthur. I had forgotten how much she looked like a man. I think the plane was made in the same year as the show. I tried listening to the on-board music but they only had two channels; one playing thrash metal and the other on a loop endlessly playing the Horst Wessel song.

We landed pretty much on time at the same time as another flight so the three passport control people on duty certainly had their hands full dealing with a 900 strong, 48 turn, snake queue of people trying to get through immigration.

Fortunately, Mr Perreira, the preferred taxi driver, was still waiting for us at the exit and we made our way through to Higienopolis to meet the parents. In Sao Paulo rush hour traffic. It took just over an hour so not bad at all. Got in, said our hellos, especially to the much-mellowed racing pig that is Phoebe who has put on a bit of weight since I last saw her. In case you do not know, Phoebe has something of a reputation and is known as the Charles Manson of the canine world. She hardly barked at all and was even pleased to see me, but that may be down to Number Two Mother having the foresight to meet us downstairs with a dog biscuit.

A quick shower, unpack and off to buy the phone cards which we could not get because of the massive queues at all the phone shops. Had a coffee and marvelled at how expensive everything is. I bought a small pair of travel speakers at Dixon’s duty free at Heathrow for my iPod – 40 quid – the same set in SP – 85 quid and our coffee machine, for which I paid the princely sum of 179 pounds including a 30 pound voucher for free coffee is about 450 pounds in Brazil; these people are crazy!

Then I went to the bank to draw cash. Nothing worked and even the very nice bank manager who unlocked his bank to come out and help us could not resolve the cash withdrawal problem after spending an hour on the phone to customer support. (Imagine an English bank manager doing this after quitting time? “Sorry mate, can’t help you now, I need to count my taxpayer funded bonus). I spent half an hour trying to make reverse charge calls to my local bank and when I finally got through, it was after 11 pm local time and they were closed.

Fortunately the evening was saved by Number Two Mother cooking a whole cow for Shabbat which made everything seem much better.

Tried again Saturday morning and they thought it may have had something to do with the earthquake as my cards were absolutely fine; just not working here. Apparently, they had received other calls from overseas customers with similar problems. I have not been to a bank since so still not sure if things are back to normal; one only goes to a bank here as a last stop before going directly home. One does not make a withdrawal and then hang around to spend it. One may not live to spend it. A little bit like South Africa then?

Saturday morning rushed to the phone man with borrowed cash and got the SIM cards before heading straight to Aguas de Lindoia (Literally: the place where the giants are watered). While only 170 kilometres, it took about five or six hours to get there as we stopped for two lunches. Brazilians are a lot like Hobbits in that they also like to double up on their meal times. The journey was pretty much without incident apart from one brief moment when Number Two Mother decided to bend the laws of science by attempting to occupy the same space and time as a light delivery vehicle in the next lane and another when we went through the single lane closure because of rock falls and the collapse and subsequent absence of the oncoming lane on a mountain pass.

We arrived in the resort/spa town at about 4 pm and met P (TLS’s sister’s son) and N (TLS’s sister’s husband’s mother - apologies; Jewish geography lesson.) Unpacked and mooched around the hotel before taking dinner. A very old hotel, currently undergoing renovations (renovations being an ongoing theme wherever I stayed and whenever I attempted to sleep) but was obviously quite grand in its day. Probably why it is called the Grande Hotel Gloria. Still, it was very nice and relaxing with very friendly staff and all inclusive three meals a day. Lunch and dinner always had at least two types of meat from the ‘eat as much as you can’ buffet. We did pretty much nothing for three whole days with no phones, no computers and no TV. Actually, there was TV, but it is so bad that it is classed as ‘no TV’.

Unlike Sao Paulo (and London) you can drink the water from all the taps as it comes from the local aquifer. Across the road, and accessed by a secret tunnel (although not that secret as everyone in the hotel knew about it) was the Balneiro or spa baths where people go to ‘take the waters’. After a preliminary examination, they sit around with measuring cups and, depending on their ailment, return every 30 minutes to drink a pre-determined, measured amount of water.

It was a little bit tired and run down, presumably having not been repainted since opening in 1951. The gardens and ponds (now empty) were designed by the famous landscape designer Burle Marxe (Literally: Capability Brown) and were in need of weeding. For all that, you could see that it must have been quite something when it opened.

A typical hotel day went something like this:

07h00. Woken by the goddamn rooster that lives in the back yard of the hotel.

07h00 – 08h00. Try (unsuccessfully) to get back to sleep.

08h00. Have a shower. The showers in The Place where the Giants are Watered are huge. The shower nozzles are set so high in the bathroom that most of the water has evaporated by the time it lands on you. This makes it extremely difficult to wash the soap from your body which is obviously a problem as the last thing you want is for bubbles to start frothing out of your shorts as you walk into the dining room. Short people are obviously unable to bathe as, at their height, it is not possible to wash in such a fine mist.

08h30. Go to breakfast in the football pitch sized dining room (making sure no bubbles are being released from waistband). Steer clear of the pastry table struggling to support weight of sugar and sweetened pastry. They even had pao de sucar con asucar (Literally: sugar bread with added sugar and forget the insulin – nothing can help you now). It is a wonder the entire nation is not diabetic. Number Two Father, who has a number of health issues, is fortunate in that diabetes is not one of them and he makes an interesting sight as he slowly and methodically works his way through a plate of 480 pastries each morning. I have never seen anything quite like it. Each dessert table had a huge bowl of doce de leite which is like heavily sweetened condensed milk but with added sugar. They also had doce de banana which is much the same thing, but is considered a health food by Brazilians as it has fruit in it. This then would explain the doce de laranja (ditto orange), doce de abobora (ditto pumpkin), goiabada (ditto guava) and pudim de liete which is like a crème caramel made with sugar, sweetener, condensed milk, cane sugar, pure sugar, brown sugar, white sugar, saccharine, Sweetex and Candarel.

09h45. Go to the pool, lie around, read, pass the time until lunch. Wonder what meat will be served.

12h00. Lunch. Eat meat. Avoid pastry table.

14h00. Back to the pool or take a drive into town.

14h01. Narrowly avoid killing a motorcyclist as Number Two Mother negotiates the vaguely acknowledged stop street at the end of our road.

14h07. Drink medicinal beer with shaking hands.

14h09. Notice in reflection of mirror behind bar that beard is now almost entirely white. Remaining hair appears to have fallen out.

14h45. Go back to hotel and have a lie down, bide time until tea.

16h00. Tea and cake served in downstairs bar.

16h30 – 19h00. Contemplate dinner.

19h00. Dinner with two types of meat. Cross room to avoid pastry table which is now calling you by your first name.

21h00. Retire to lounge and thrash the in-laws in only your second game of Canaster. Gratifyingly freak out mother in law with only card trick you know.

To break this magnificent monotony, we did go for a walk with a Monitor. This is not a giant lizard, but what they call the entertainment staff. She took us on a six km walk down the mountain and around the lake in the middle of the village. On our way we saw a posse of capivara (Literally: Big teeth, no eyes). We stopped to feed them, or rather Stella did; I took photos from a distance (available on request at a nominal fee). Watching these seemingly tame but savage beasts relentlessly chew their way up a six foot long piece of bamboo reminded me of Number Two Father and his breakfast pastries. Capivara are the largest members of the family Rodentia, roughly the size of Labradors, with thick coats, four massive teeth and (apparently) no eyes and which spend much of their time swimming and the rest of the time lying in the shade waiting for tourists to pass them bamboo shoots. This posse had babies with them so I did not want to get too close although they did look very pat-able. I would leave such foolishness to other gringo tourists.

That was pretty much the way we spent three marvellously relaxing days before we took the advice of a fellow holiday maker and took an alternate route home through Sao Paulo state’s second largest city. Right through the traffic-ridden middle. Short cut? My ar....

I don’t understand Portuguese that well, but I am fairly sure that both sets of advice we were given by separate garage attendants were ignored. We got home at about 6 pm which gave us just enough time to shower and change before heading out to a sushi carvery to meet TLS’s sister T, husband Foffi and their son, P. Very nice evening despite T’s run in with the staff who would not serve her the same carvery as us but without rice. With a massive carbohydrate aversion equalled only by a fondness for protein, she has been known to eat the tops off pizzas and pour gravy on her salad. I managed to eat about 8 of everything so felt the money was well spent. Went home via T to pick up Phoebe who had been lodging with them while we were away. I made sure I had a dog biscuit in my pocket.

Wednesday was fairly relaxed. Skipped breakfast out of respect for my waistline and went with TLS to the opposite end of town. She dropped me at Morumbi, a large shopping centre – the food hall alone is probably bigger than The Cape Quarter – while she went to the doctor. I spent a very relaxing two hours with my book and a large cappuccino which cost the equivalent of a small hatchback.

Got home via the Supermercardo (Literally: Massive bill, tiny trolley) and bought groceries and two bunches of flowers for Number Two Mother as a thank you for paying for our holiday in Lindoia. It was very unexpected and very much appreciated. We shall have to take them out for dinner one of these pleasantly warm nights. Did I mention that at 5 pm in Lindoia, it was 28 degrees. Nice.

Finally managed to draw cash from the bank this evening and got home with cash and innards intact at about 8 pm for a light dinner of rolls and cold cuts. I think I ate beyond my capabilities at the hotel.

Fat Al

PS On the way home, listening to a pleasant Café de Paris CD, TLS recognized the “Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf” theme and asked if I was familiar with the story “Little Red Hiding Rood”? This will only amuse those of you familiar with Portuguese pronunciation. (Lessons available on request for a nominal fee.) 

Manchester Movement: January 2005

Wow, what a rush! I have just finished six and a half weeks work at my temp job. Chief Leg-Breaker to the Credit Control Manager. At least this time I have received some recognition. According to the manager, a commendation from the third floor librarian should be on its way quite soon.

But let's get back to the beginning of this story. Hope you've got time to read it, because I had all the time in the world to write it.

Since leaving a wintry Cape Town way back in September on a Sunday night after a very brief holiday to celebrate New Year with the folks, (Jews celebrate New Year off-peak so we can visit our families without paying premium airfares) I arrived in London on Monday morning, sprained my wrist carrying my luggage home (I had sister G’s excess baggage) and started work on Tuesday. My first day at the office was quite productive. I managed to make three telephone calls the whole day, one of which went unanswered.

It picked up a bit after that, and in fact after two weeks I was given my own portfolio to work on. Basically, this meant I could direct the threat of broken legs at a specific group of people as opposed to a fairly random series of threats to people based all around the country.

I met some interesting people there, including another temp, who by some fluke managed to negotiate a package equivalent to about £50000 per annum on a long term contract. This is probably on a par with the directors and for those not based in England, this is a pretty damn fantastic rate. He has a house in Florence, and is in the process of purchasing a house in Cape Town.

Cash.

The bastard!

Another chap, a permanent member of staff, is something of a legend, although most of the other staff would prefer him be a legend in some other office. Preferably the Iraqi branch. Baghdad. Just before George Dubya gives the go-ahead. He does have some entertainment value, though. Not only has he sent bailiffs in to tenants to attach goods after they had already paid their rent, (in fact he did it twice to the same person) but also threatened to do the same to a landlord, the guy who owned the property. Still, it is nice working in a place where it is impossible to get fired. Unlike Harrods, where you can get Al-Fayed. Another advantage of having him around is that he has been banned from working on so many portfolios that my job is pretty well secured as the other member of the team cannot cope with the all remaining work.

The problem with working such long hours (in fact, working generally) is that I don't feel much like writing or sitting on the computer when I get home. A typical day is as follows:

06h30
Alarm detonates

06h30 to 06h40
Try not to fall off my couch while finding the off button, yet still remaining asleep. An advanced Jedi skill, so far mastered only by Darth Gillian.

06h40
Quietly get up and tiptoe into G’s room to open her windows before closing her door so she doesn't suffocate while sleeping, pausing only to remove 22 pairs of shoes, 8 pairs of stockings, a hair dryer and a dictionary from between my toes, and an exercise bike disguised as a clothes horse from my shin.

06h43
Find window is already open.

06h44 to 06h50
Recover from commando mission to G’s room. Gently massage feeling back into feet and shin.

06h50 to 07h10
Wash, dress and leave.

07h12
Rush back home to fetch travel card.

07h20
On platform waiting for a train. This could be anything from minus 7 seconds (the train I watched pulling away as I stepped on the platform because I went back to fetch the rail card) to 30 minutes if the wrong kind of snow or leaves fall on the tracks. Indeed, sometimes trains don't come at all because the drivers are on strike.

Let us spare a thought for these poor, hard-done by, overworked drivers who work seven hours a day, five days a week, never more than three and a half hours in a shift, get 30 working days leave, pensions, medical aid, and all this for a trifling £31000 a year. For what? For sitting at the front of a train holding a lever that sticks out of the floor, which, in the event of them having a heart attack, stroke, or tea break, they release causing the train to come to a grinding halt. The railway network is grinding to a halt quite nicely thank you, without having to wait for one of them to have a stroke.

On two of the lines, the trains are actually programmed to run by themselves, but because of those bleeding heart, communist, lefty, pinko, abolitionist, liberal, anti-abortion scum, (I am talking about the unions this time) these trains still have to have drivers. Considering the industrial revolution started in this country, they haven't exactly taken it to heart. Each driver costs a base of £31 000 but when bus drivers work 40 hour weeks, face daily abuse from passengers and get £400 a week, and fireman start at £16 000 a year, something is definitely wrong.

But enough about them. Let's talk about me and head back to my daily routine.

07h50
Arrive at work, be greeted by Johnny Greet (really!), the man at security and start work. My work is dull, meaningless and repetitive. But on the other hand, it doesn't stress me. My rule is: "It isn't my money." This makes it much easier to deal with the odd obnoxious person. In fact, in all my time there I have never had to be rude to anyone, except one lady to whom I gave a brief lecture on common courtesy and good manners. Some people… About every 50^th call is to a South African. One of them even answered my enquiry with: "Nooit broe. Don't tell me we haven't paid our rent?" Definitely Durban.

But the best part of work is that since I have been there for so long, I have been given my own, personal e-mail address. The reason I am so pleased about this is I now get the mail circulated by the building manager that alerts all the staff to an impending fire alarm test. In the past, I would be happily working away at my desk immediately below a 60 inch diameter horn that, upon detonation, would cause me either to issue a very un-masculine shriek at the person on the other end of the phone, or cause me to cut the conversation short so I could rush to the bathroom to change my socks. Indeed, all clothing below the waist.

13h00 to 13h10
Lunch. Baked potato with tuna, sweetcorn or chilli con carne. OK, and a brownie.

17h30
Leave work.

17h33
Get into Oxford Circus tube station. Conveniently close although prone to unannounced closing because someone spotted an unattended bag. My advice under these circumstances, is go up and talk to her.

18h00
Finally get on to the 27^th train where there is hopefully:

1. Room to stand (and most importantly, still be able to breathe in and out.)
2. No one who has spent the last three days in the same clothes, works in a sewage outlet, had eleven pints of lager before closing time the night before and ate a garlic kebab on the way home.
3. No old man with one shoe and BO that the Americans just wish they could have bottled in time for Vietnam, screaming at the top of his voice that he will "Farg anyone oop who come within three feckin' feet of me feckin' toes!" Three feet may be a bit optimistic, as these people will usually leave you unconscious and dropping onto the tracks while they are still a good twenty feet away.

18h55
Arrive back in Finchley Central


19h01
Tell the Romanian illegal immigrant at the door that "No, I do not have an old ticket for him."

19h10
Get home, assuming I don't stop at Tesco for some offal for supper. I don't think it actually is offal, but after seven pm, this is what the fresh fruit and veg usually looks like. Next time I go to work, I shall do my shopping in the morning.

So, on to the real reason for this missive.

I finished work last week, just in time to head to Earthquake Central (Manchester) for cousin S's Barmitzvah (Bar-mits-vah~. Hebr. Literally "My first fundraiser")

I went up on Friday night. Initial plans were to fly as travel companion didn't fancy spending four hours in the car. I said it wouldn't take four hours, and promised to drive. I was right, it didn't take four hours. It took six. Still, it was a pleasant drive and I was most impressed that the car returned such superb fuel consumption figures; considering most of the journey was done on a five lane highway. In first gear. At 8 mph.

I know the world's longest traffic jam had something like five million cars and stretched from Paris to Lyon, but I think we were pretty damn close. The only time I managed to get over 40 mph was in the forecourt of the service station where we stopped for something to eat. I say 'something' as it certainly wasn't food. We shared a plate of crumbed mushrooms (still frozen) as a starter and then had the 'Clanger', its very name proving to be something of an omen. I quote: "A delicious, meat and vegetable filling in a soft, puff-pastry with chips and gravy."

Part of the contents may well have started life as an ungulate, but it had obviously suffered some sort of horrible transformation en route to our table. A burnt surround of pastry with a brown, mucous-like substance pitted with bits of orange and green. Obviously the only dish in history to be modelled on vomit. Still, the Appletiser was delicious, so one mustn't complain.

We arrived in Manchester shortly after eleven, had a cup of tea with our hosts, H, D and their month old kitten Pooka, and then retired as we had to be up early for the fundraiser, taking special care not to let the cat out of the lounge.

I was up bright and early. Very early. About 03h00 and VERY bright. The neighbour had affixed a 4 million watt Klieg light, with a motion sensor to his back wall, pointed at our bedroom window, which was activated by people using the path between the houses as a shortcut on their way home from the local club. I finally managed to drift off to sleep again happily dreaming that I was in charge and instituted a dusk to dawn curfew for whenever I visited Manchester.

Saturday morning dawned a second time at about nine. A quick shower and dress and last minute directions and we headed off to shul. A fine service. It was the first time I had heard anyone speak Hebrew with a Mancunian accent. The service was followed by light snacks (where I restrained myself admirably in preparation for the buffet lunch - 6 slices of cinnamon loaf only) and then we headed off to a lovely little hotel, I know not where, for pre-prandial drinks and a buffet. Sadly I could only manage two helpings and a single course of desert. Cousin S managed to eat three mouthfuls in this time.

We eventually headed back to our accommodation in south Manchester at about four pm, leaving cousin S half way through his main course. Life is too short to wait for him to finish eating before making one's departure.

Saturday night was a treat. Host D, a vegetarian musician but a nice guy nonetheless, prepared a special meal of crumbed, stuffed courgettes and risotto with wild mushrooms for dinner, and desert was pears stewed in vanilla and Amaretto with chocolate sauce. Unfortunately, the large, trough-like lunch, combined with the large dinner and the stewed fruit caused something of a revolution in the Midlands and I was forced to rush upstairs to the smallest room to deal with the insurgency.

Without wanting to go into too much detail, let me say it was very much a case of the furniture salesman with a wobbly chair - something of a loose stool. I was forced to grip the sides of the toilet bowl in order to prevent myself being rocketed ceilingward, but even then I did effect a small lift-off of at least three inches, into a straight-armed position (brushing my head against the potted fern) and with my legs stretched horizontally in front of me, before gently subsiding to seat level. It was certainly a heartfelt outpouring of emotion.

As it happens, I was grateful I made the effort I did to give the bowl a thorough cleaning afterwards, which required an additional two flushes, because of what was to happen later that evening.

After this faecal interlude, we retired to the lounge for the last of the summer wine and a listen to some music, including a very good CD of D and a couple of friends playing some old-style jazz-blues. It was when D opened the lounge door after his impromptu concert that Pooka made her break for freedom. Unfortunately she was in for two rather unpleasant surprises; the first was when Doug tried to slam the door to prevent her escape. The front half of Pooka made it safely through the door, but sadly, the latter half wasn't as lucky and the door closed amidships. I can only assume she survived undamaged as she managed to fly up the stairs too quickly for D to catch her. Well, certainly her front half did.

We weren't too concerned about her being upstairs as I had closed my bedroom door, so I knew I wouldn't have to deal with cat hair, or worse, on my pillow. The remnants of the wine were had and we began tidying up before heading to bed. H took this opportunity to check on Pooka, whereupon she discovered the second even more unpleasant event that had befallen her. In her exploration of the upstairs, she chanced upon the bathroom, and, either out of thirst, sheer curiosity, or a desire to eat the fern I had so recently encountered, managed to dive into the toilet. Fortunately she was able to claw her way out (I can only imagine the terror - I know how I would have felt if I had fallen into my recently used commode) and H found her pressed up against the wall outside the bathroom approximately 1/3 of her normal size, wet fur plastered down. Naturally I didn't feel it appropriate to mention my earlier activities to H, considering how she was cradling the cat.

Sunday morning arrived later than usual as the clocks went back an hour. A quick breakfast, a leisurely tea and then we hit the road. This time, we had it all planned. Departing well before the rush hour, a short cut to avoid the eternal roadworks and carpark graveyard surrounding Birmingham, and then directly onto the M1, not stopping for any "food" at a Little Chef. It was when we were about two hours into our shortcut (and travelling in a three mile tailback. In first gear. At 8 mph) that we got our first traffic report informing us that the M6 (our original route) through the Birmingham roadworks was free-flowing and no delays were expected. It took us six hours and 45 minutes to get home.

Still, a lovely weekend.

Now I am at home feeling a little poorly with the onset of my first winter cold. My runny nose would seem to indicate I have at least two previously unmined seams of phlegm.

Fat Al

French Letters: November 2002

Bonjour

Nothing like a weekend on the French Riviera enjoying the sun and eating like kings while the poor are at work.

I decided to pay a visit to France at pretty much the last minute as I was feeling a bit frustrated and not a little bit bored. I was starting to play paper-stone-scissors by myself.

After finding the cheapest direct flight to Nice (British Midlands, £93 return, including airport taxes) I left on a grey Friday afternoon. I arrived in Nice at about 19h30 (French time) and made for immigration. The nice thing about the French refusal to speak English to the Rosbifs, is that you don't get questioned much at immigration. I made my way to the arrivals hall and waited for M and F to collect me. I hadn’t seen M for four months and he still keeps me waiting.

M kindly delivered me to old Cape Town friends J and T who are staying in Cannes, about 15 minutes from Nice and a ten minute walk to the beach. We had an enormous supper, roast chicken and potatoes, followed by cheese and baguettes. Obviously legislation exists in France about the cheese-after-dinner story. We ate like pigs.

As T and J’s landlord does not permit overnight guests, I spent my first night sleeping above a restaurant across the road from their flat. It started out OK, but the next morning I was woken by what sounded like a truck being driven into the side of the building. I had visions of the building collapsing and me sliding across the floor into the road. It turned out to be the dustbin men emptying trash cans across the road. I learned that the French have a slightly distorted view of consideration. A theme that was to continue…

I had breakfast with T and J on Saturday morning and, after dropping their son A at the grandparents, we took a walk around town and looked at the yachts in the harbour. Huge four-story things with smaller boats on board and jet skis and I even saw a picture of one with a seaplane on the back. Aah. The idle rich.

I am half way there.

M and F arrived an hour late for the beach arrangements. We spent a very pleasant afternoon swimming in the warm and clear water of the Med. A bit different to Clifton. According to M, surfing is not big in the Med. A big swell usually measures about 8 inches. Although topless bathing is permitted in France, it really isn't that appealing. Before one can see a beautiful, firm pair of breasts, one has to pass ones eyes (quickly) across a whole lot of older women whose breasts are on a first name basis with their knees.

After the beach, we all went to the village square to play petanque. I think it is so called because that is the sound the balls, or boules, make when they knock together.  Usually, everyone gets three matching, patterned boules and plays an adult version of marbles. Because we played girls versus boys, we had a handicap system and the boys played with two boules each. I ended up playing with a rusty pair. Sounds like my sex life. There was a competition on that afternoon, and everyone was invited to enjoy some complimentary champagne and cassis. Very pleasant afternoon. As M says, petanque is just an organised way for people to do fuck all.

That night I went back to M and F’s flat in Vence (pronounced like France, but with a V and no R; actually, nothing like France at all then.) It is an old city on top of a mountain about 20 minutes from Cannes. It is absolutely magnificent. No cars allowed within the city walls. Lots of narrow streets filled with frommageries (cheese shops - very good), art galleries (not so good), boulangeries (bakeries - very good), charcuteries (cold meat delis - extremely good), dog shit (very bad) and hundreds of tiny restaurants. Very charming with a nice villagey feel. Everyone is friendly and there is a lot of bonjouring going on.

Saturday night M and F took me for a traditional French meal in Nice. We had Tex-Mex. It took about 20 minutes to drive there, and another twenty to find parking. Another example of French consideration was the guy who lit his cigar immediately before getting into a tiny crowded lift.

The unfortunate part of staying with M and F is their cat. Etta. As in Etta James. Very sweet and playful kitten. I wanted to play with her. Near a stream. With some rocks and a sack. The bloody thing would not leave me alone. Eventually, M locked it in the bathroom. It cried for about half an hour before M let it out. It went straight for me and sank its claws into my foot which was poking out below the sleeping bag.

M went to keep it company in the bathroom while I quietly bled to death. At about ten past twelve I experienced my third example of French consideration when we were woken by the screaming sound of a Vespa being revved at full throttle. M threw open the shutters and found a guy downstairs servicing his bike in the street, tools all neatly laid out. After a bit of to-ing and fro-ing and threats of police intervention, he eventually left.

Sunday. 07h00. The bastard fascist anti-Semite cat started crying in the bathroom. We decided to get up and have an early start anyway. The beauty of Vence is one can wake up, go downstairs to fetch fresh croissants and whatever for breakfast and be back in three minutes.

We met T and J and their children M and Al at a park for a picnic where we ate like pigs and played Frisbee. M managed to lose 5 neon coloured boules on the field in about 11 seconds. After a brief search, we all went back to Vence to play boules in the village square. We had quite a few people come and watch, but only because they had never seen petanque played the way we played it. A sort of “full contact” version. The children were getting a bit tetchy, so T and J left before infanticide set in. M, F and I went to a local bar for some Martini. In my best French accent, I said "Bonjour monsieur, trois Martini avec glacon, sil vous plais." The barman said in perfect English: "Red or white." Am I that obvious? We retired to chez M for a light supper and an early night, and a quick game with the cat which involved a ski pole, a box of matches and an open window.

Monday. 07h00. The goddamn Algerian terrorist pig cat started crying in the bathroom. We had to get up early to take F to work anyway. She works for an internet company in Sophia Antipolis. M and I met T and went to fetch M from school. Lunch break is two hours and parents are obliged to fetch the children for lunch if they are not at work. I bought lunch at a local café/deli. 50 Francs (about R50) bought a whole roast chicken, large piece of salami, two baguettes and some salad. Damn cheap, after being in London where the same thing would have cost double. And the food in France is SO good. Everything tastes great there. I didn't eat anything that was not fantastic.

After lunch we spent the rest of the afternoon on the beach and then collected F from work and rushed home to cook dinner for her and her best friend. M made roast pork. Anti-Semite. I made burger patties. I also chopped potatoes and the veggies for M ratatouille with his Carol Boyes carving knife which is very sharp. I realised this after I stuck the knife into the back of my hand. It is starting to heal nicely.

Tuesday 07h00. The cat. Had to get up early anyway as F was taking her friend to the airport for a nine o'clock flight. I had to go through at the same time. It took me a while to realise that she had dropped me at the wrong terminal building, but after that everything was fine. I am now back in Londres, and, have just eaten some revolting frozen fish and a baked potato.

I felt I had to have a Martini to remind me of my holiday.
Fat Al