(Not as bad as) A Cow's Life

So winter has come early here in the Czech Republic and I feel weighed down just like this little bluebell-ish flower.  

(Is it one of those Spanish ones that have overtaken the English ones? I'm not very good at botany. As you may have guessed.)

The clever rescue plan of moving in with the Cowboy got me out of my flat and avoiding life on the streets or randomly on someone's sofa (actually I don't know anyone grown up enough here to have an actual sofa...)just in time to avoid financially overstretching myself into bankruptcy, but it has left me in a flat so inaccessible and so undesirable that no meet-ees really want to come here. Thus my income has remained so low I can barely save anything and now I feel utterly doomed to having to spend Christmas here. And I really didn't want that at all. But I'm rather used to being backed into corners forcing me to choose what I don't want. It's horribly familiar now.

Enough. I mustn't feel sorry for myself. This weekend I got to see beautiful countryside covered in snow. 

And by this morning there had been this much (see the level on the balcony ledge)!

And I must be grateful that I am not stuck sleeping out in the cold.  Unlike this cow.  

Chudák!

Autumnal grumblings and a nasty cold

Autumn has set in with a cloudy, mist-filled vengeance and gloom and darkness now seem to be the order of the day. Even here in Prague. Consequently, in my over-enthusiasm to workout harder in my aerobics sessions to develop strength and avoid colds, I miscalculated the difference in temperature in this flat and exercised without a jacket to begin with, and got a cold. Or was it just the stress of never knowing when I'll have time to myself these days and a lack of soothing candles and lights and things that make me go mmmm...?

This cold has been particularly nasty and I'm only just getting better, but in my slowness to recover, I've bought myself some time to do some much needed ground work in trying to build up meet-ee numbers again as well as get better paid writing work and improve my website to be more of a showcase of all my areas of work. So I guess I've been working hard without realising it. As usual. I even got out to a networking event. God forbid. Actually, I surprised myself and actually followed-up a couple of acting related contacts. Joining one more casting agency can't do any harm I suppose.

In the last few weeks, the cowboy and I have managed to get out for another couple of mushroom-picking trips, which has made me an above average foreigner when it comes to recognising edible varieties.  This, for example, is edible:

These, on the other hand, are not.

See, expert, right?

Well, not exactly. But at least I'm occasionally capable of picking the right ones so that not everything I gather has to be discarded. Although sometimes, the ensuing mushroom soup with potatoes that the cowboy has made, has given me the worst tummy ache ever. And you do not want to know the side effects of that. I shall not go in to such matters. Ugh. 

The gorgeous autumnal trees and colours of the leaves have been cheering me up though. 

And having a nasty cold has given me a good excuse to curl up in bed more and catch up on some old David Attenborough documentaries. Which is soothing, fascinating and in the case of the mole-rat things that live underground and gnaw away at soil to make their burrows, disgusting all at the same time. The platypus was just amazing though.

Politeness and the British Way

I just came across this article the other day, which came as quite a surprise actually. I didn't really think that Americans, much less New Yorkers, would think British English is either cool, or good to use to try to sound, 'posh'. Most of the time, it just sounds poncey to use such unfamiliar language. But then again, if you travel back and forth between the UK and US it could seep in and start to get all mixed up. I have had compliments lately from a couple of Americans that my British accent is lovely to listen to, but mostly because they were exposed to other kinds of regional British accents that they had found incomprehensible. I suppose the standard RP accent (what most people consider 'BBC English') is the preferred kind of British accent but it makes you wonder how others are perceived if they can't even be fully understood. I read in the Guardian, that had a whole round up of 'comedy news' yesterday (whatever that is) that the actor/comedian Rob Brydon will play a Welshman living in LA. How ever will Americans understand him? Will he purposely have to talk more slowly?

As an interesting follow-on discovery from this NYTimes article, I came across the blog 'Separated by a Common Language' where one of the latest articles deals with the issue of politeness. I'm quite interested in this because the word 'politeness' brings up all sorts of connotations for me. It reminds me of my childhood and having it drummed into me as though the world would collapse under a sea of despicable, immoral conduct if not used, that 'please' and 'thank you' were the most vital elements of any conversation at the dinner table. Quite rightly, my Mum wanted us to be grateful children, who always respected the people around them and would be polite at all times in either requesting or receiving something. On the other hand, this stretched to asking permission for all manner of things that perhaps went a bit too far. Was it really necessary to ask, "please could I leave the table now, as I've got homework to do?"  And worse still, was it necessary to decline kind offers from neighbours or family friends, when you really wanted to accept, just because it was the polite thing to do, not to take 'too much'?

This last point leads into the idea of self-worth. Too much politeness or an overly self-deprecating manner can cause its own problems. Perhaps these are not readily recognised in the UK, but I've noticed the differences I've experienced in both the US and here in the Czech Republic, not to mention comments from Russian and German friends. Elizabeth Gilbert in her book, 'Committed', (that I've been avidly reading and have just finished) explains the uncomfortableness of finding herself caught in a 'permission-seeking' situation with her own partner. She knew what she wanted to do, (go to Cambodia on her own without her partner) and she wanted to check that her partner would be ok with the idea, but she didn't want to put herself in the position of making her partner some kind of authority figure from whom she had to seek permission. As she puts it:

"When it came time to discuss with Felipe my idea of going off to Cambodia without him for a spell, I broached the topic with a degree of skittishness that surprised me. For a few days, I could not seem to find the right approach. I didn't want to feel as though I were asking his permission to go, since that placed him in the role of a master or a parent - and that wouldn't be fair to me. Nor, though, could I imagine sitting down with this nice, considerate man and bluntly informing him that I was heading off alone whether he liked it or not. This would place me in the role of wilful tyrant, which was obviously unfair to him."   

I recently struggled with learning the protocol of polite language usage here with some friends of friends who were Czech. First of all, there's the question of whether to use the 'Ty' or 'Vy' form, i.e a friendly form of 'you' or the polite, respectful one. And then, there's the question of how often to use the more polite conditional forms, such as 'could I help with something?' instead of a straightforward, 'can I help?' and you can forget about adding 'please' to any simple request to pass something over or ask where the loo is. That would just seem a typically apologetically British approach that has no place in this country. 

So it's something I'm still battling to learn. Having been accused of being too polite by ex-partner, who often said, "you don't need to apologise for breathing, you know!" about my tendency to say sorry too much, and yet at the same time being brought up to avoid asking for too much because that was rude, I'm in a bit of a pickle really. Maybe I just need to be British-ly polite in the UK and assume a certain sense of 'everything's ok' in places like the US and here in the Czech Republic and try very hard NEVER to get confused and mix them up.

Jimmy Savile and other revolting characters

Having read and researched the allegations about Jimmy Savile in the British press recently, it is hard to shake off the sense of disgust that I feel about him and the kind of uncomfortable, 'icky' feeling he elicits. I remember watching the Louis Theroux documentary about him and sensing that he was not an affable eccentric type at all, but rather someone who was mentally unstable and had only built up a greater defence of that dysfunctionality as he had got older. There was just something about him, a certain readiness to stand his ground and defend his strange behaviour as his right, that seemed somehow 'off-kilter'.

The sad truth is, that there are probably a lot of women who have come across someone in their lifetime who has been this kind of character - seemingly kind and gregarious, avuncular and well-liked by lots of people, but who underlyingly, sometimes imperceptibly to others, definitely has a problem. Most of the time, other people around them sense this odd quality about them and know to be careful or to monitor this kind of person more closely. Other times, young women or even girls are subjected to uncomfortable situations such as a hug that goes just that little bit too far or a congratulatory pat on the back that lingers too long and settles too low. Coleen Nolan describes this situation that she experienced with Jimmy Savile here. This is the type of thing that somehow goes on without anyone ever calling the perpetrator up on what they're doing because there's no outright crime to be accused of and, the worst thing in Jimmy Savile's case is the fact that he believed himself to be above recrimination. He would have laughed anything off as 'a bit of fun', no doubt, and nobody could argue with that. Until evidence emerges to the contrary. Which in that day and age, with no video-enabled mobile phones, would have been hard to produce. The fact that there were rumours, at the time, made little difference because Jimmy Savile had so much financial influence and because, as Janet Street Porter attests here, the rumours would have been laughed off in such a male-dominated industry if the only complaints emerging were from women.

In other cases, for women anywhere where there is no further act than a little 'over-enthusiasm' that physically manifests itself as an ambiguous touch or lingering hug, there is no way to take the matter any further, but the feeling a young woman has to deal with is at best, very unpleasant. It's a rite of passage that no-one would wish on a young woman but one that often takes place one way or another due to the nature of the confusion around new emotions and sensations experienced as a teenager and the lack of confidence in one's attractiveness or worth. A young woman unsure of herself but in need of affection is such an easy target for people like this.

And the other consequence is that these kind of sleaze-bags give the decent, kind, respectful guys a hard time figuring out how to negotiate the beginnings of a relationship when women have been subjected to so much deceit, so many instances of a 'smoke and mirrors' subterfuge of a sexual advance, that starting a relationship with someone becomes a frightening thing to do, where nothing feels safe. Add to that the humiliation involved in being a victim of someone like this when no-one will believe you or else they'll think it was your fault, and you've got the perfect breeding ground for a terrible wound to be carried by that young woman throughout her life.

This kind of experience, of the sort Coleen Nolan describes, is something that is hard enough to explain and describe as a fully fledged adult, let alone a young woman. The complexity of the confusion of conflicting emotions, such as 'Did I cause this?' to, 'how could I cause it - I'm not even attractive?', to, 'I feel violated but nothing happened' would give anyone pause in voicing their complaint about an isolated incident. All I can say is that my deepest sympathy goes to the victims who may not even consider themselves as such, because the word victim has such disenfranchising connotations, but who surely must feel that flood of conflicting and confusing, skin-crawling revulsion all over again just seeing his picture all over the media. The man had a screw loose and there's nothing anyone can do to compensate for that now, how ever it occurred, and how ever he chose to override or indulge that. Though Mark Lawson's beautifully written piece in the Guardian offers the poetic justice of the graveyard slot programme consigning Jimmy Savile's reputation to the scrapheap, it offers no real comfort for the women who know there was a nasty, horrible, screwed-up man who lived the high life, hurting and humiliating teenage girls along the way, who got off absolutely scot-free.

Forces beyond one's control and other existential crises

I've been reading the latest Elizabeth Gilbert book, "Committed", which is largely about her plight of having to get married in order to resolve an issue with immigration that sent her and her boyfriend into a horrible limbo of travelling and waiting for permission to marry in order to be accepted back into the US, despite the fact that she and her boyfriend had sworn off marriage for life after their painful divorces. I'm gripped by it, not only because of the similarity of opinion that she expresses throughout the book about how she sees marriage as something that has always benefited men, while robbing women of much of their previous strength and autonomy, but also because her situation of a kind of exile in a lifestyle she doesn't want reflects my current predicament so profoundly.

I admire her writing style in amongst what could otherwise be quite dry subject matter of statistics and research findings about marriage across various time periods and locations. I'm also humbled by the way in which her relationship endures this incredibly demanding challenge. In having to stay out of the US and keep travelling, and having to face doing the very thing they said they'd never do, just to be able to stay living together, I feel every bit of her struggle to comprehend how debilitating it is to be at the mercy of a power greater than you. In her case, the US immigration system. In my case, the recession, or maybe it's not the recession, it's just some outer force that has decided that for me to ever progress in my life, I have to be thrust back into the very surroundings and circumstances that not only I said I'd never want to be in, but also that reflect everything I have tried to avoid in my life since leaving home. I cannot understand how I have got to this age, travelled this far, (ok, not that far from the UK really) and ended up in a place that reminds me of everything I hated about my childhood.

I do not want to live in the suburbs, far away from connection with the vibrant city, but that is where I grew up, and where I am again now, albeit in another country. I do not want to be judged and held in shame for mistakes I've made or things I want but can't seem to get, yet that is what countless sarcastic comments and repeated stories jokingly retold in both my childhood and in my current relationship seem designed to do. I do not want to be dependent on someone else's income and unable to afford to buy the kind of healthy food I really long for, the kind of quality clothes I really desire because I want things that make me feel good and last a long time, the kind of books and magazines that keep me informed about the world, the kind of technology that enables me to pursue my creative projects freely and efficiently and yet, this is the position I am in. 

Whatever force is at play here, I am certainly aware of the irony, the amusement, the shame in all of this. I can hear the voice of my uncle poised to say, "She speaks all these foreign languages and studied so much and she still can't earn enough to live on her own!  Ha ha!" I also know that he is a pretty messed-up individual with 'issues' of his own that are none of my business, as mine should be none of his. I am willing to learn whatever it is I need to learn here, but it is painful. It is not easy to live with someone who gets angry with me for not being able to drive because, "that's what normal people do" and I don't fall into the category of 'normal' adequately enough for him. I am perfectly 'normal' for anyone living in a busy, capital city with an integrated public transport system, and what is more, I did drive, I got a licence when I could but I have since had little opportunity to practise seeing as I haven't needed a car, nor would it have made much sense to have one, central London parking costs being what they are. But I am being picked at for my failings as a suitable suburban housewife, with no compassion for the fact that the last thing I am or will ever be is a suburban housewife.

So I soldier on. One day at a time. One writing assignment at a time. One advertisement applied to at a time. I am counting every penny (or rather crown) and trying to keep 'going without' things, such as still not getting my hair cut since March, still not buying any new jumpers or leggings even though I need them, still not being able to afford a flat because I have to keep the money my sister lent me as emergency money for income loss, not as flat deposit money. I will not be able to afford to move into a new flat until I get some regular work that pays me enough to cover food, phone bill, travelcard and still have some left over for all the other costs and some left over to save up with because not only have rents gone up while my salary has plummeted, but I will soon have to pay healthcare, taxes and national insurance here in a bid to gamble on getting more work as a result of having the documentation clients need to get their bosses to release funds for their training, that as far as I can ascertain will cost me a third of what my rent will probably be, which means, not only do I need to earn more than I am earning now (clearly) but I need to be earning more than I was when I was working for lots of clients in order to cover higher rent and more charges on top of the usual stuff.

Hence, I need a miracle. A job offer that brings me a liveable wage, a series of high-paying clients and a regular writing job that pays a wage someone in London could actually buy their grocery shopping each week with (at least) or else I have to contemplate moving into a shared house, which totally defeats the object of being in Prague altogether, because that was the only thing I hoped to gain by coming here.  And I had it. That lovely central, really reasonably priced flat all to myself. I had it for two years and I am enormously grateful for it. I would dearly love to start making some gains now, instead of fielding more losses. I would love to have an opportunity to show how much better I am at living when I actually get to do it in my own private space. Whatever force is at play holding me here, I hope it will teach me whatever it is I have to learn as rapidly and solidly as it can because when I leave here, I do not want to have to come back. Ever.

Catching up, thoughts and "hard alcohol"

Thoughts on a day when I ran out of time to post this (26/09/12):

Voluntary ban? Pah! We've got the real deal here.

Having just read this article on the Guardian site this morning, I was quite surprised that it was about shops being asked to voluntarily stop selling the stronger alcoholic drinks mentioned. I myself, have failed to mention that here in the Czech Republic, (that's right - right here, right now in the 21st Century) there is an actual ban on all alcoholic drinks of 20% alcohol or higher (referred to as "hard alcohol" in Czech).  Some people died from the sale of alcohol that had metallic alcohol not the digestible type (I still don't know exactly what this means, not being a scientist myself and not having the advantage of being able to read this news story in English and I suspect the actual difference itself, when relayed in English, wouldn't mean a whole lot more to me anyway) so they've banned it from being sold in shops and supermarkets.  Though the ban is already lifting now, for any drinks manufacturers who can produce a certificate to confirm the date and method of production.  Or something.

So just as I finally have time to write about this (I'm sort of pleased to say that paid writing work has taken priority this week, though also disappointed to say that it really isn't paying more than half the minimum wage for how long it actually takes to write the articles I have to write and subtly include the links they want, ho-hum) it's a story that's almost over. Mind you, that doesn't stop the news here talking about it all the time. Still. After a grand total of about 21 people died. The fear is that more will follow from people who bought vodka or rum or that sort of drink months ago and might not open it to drink until a birthday or other celebration comes up, by which time they'll have forgotten the time they bought it and the ban that followed because it will then have slipped off the news agenda.

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After re-watching the film 'Stranger than Fiction' on Saturday night (while away with no internet access):

I think I would have loved an old style typewriter to write on, just like the novelist in 'Stranger Than Fiction'. The light of the room she writes in. The peace and quiet. I wish I could have that peace right now. It's beginning to get to me. To settle into my brain. The background noise of a constantly on TV spewing out Czech exclamations incessantly. Offering sometimes a welcome variety of vocabulary and a delicately accented Czech that I don't hear here in Prague. The gorgeously bristling sound of the 'ř', the carefully placed emphasis on the first syllable of a word or preposition that precedes it. But sometimes the TV merely replicates what I hear at what is for now my 'home'. A series of exclamations of disgust, despair and disappointment that become reduced to expetives and casual language that can sound even lazier and weighed down in apathy when given the right, Prague-style dull intonation.

I know I will need an exit strategy, no matter how grateful I am for the lessons I have learned here.

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I don't seem to be making much progress lately. After a wrangling with Barclays on the phone yesterday which ended when they put me on hold so long my £10 credit ran out, and a battle with a form I just cannot fill-in in Czech without help, losing meet-ees again and barely earning enough money to keep me fed and able to travel (and top-up my phone after talking to the people at Barclays) I'm in the heart of the recession I think. Just like everyone else. I really, really miss my flat now more than ever and the thought of going into the thick of autumn, possibly even winter without my own space to work and put up pictures and fairy lights and generally feel snuggly and at home, is just upsetting. I've got to find a way to be ok with the way things are though, because we all know - "what you resist, persists". I should know that one by now.

I must make, "it's ok, everything's fine, this is exactly what I want right now", my inner mantra and see if that shifts anything. It's worth a try. Everything else failed, so why not try a totally insane kind of 'self-help' practice and see if it works? Failing that , I'm simply going to get out the big Sesame Street book again and resort to singing the Cookie Monster version of 'Call Me Maybe' over and over: "Me just met you and this is crazy, but you got cookie, so share it maybe..."