In case my recent lack of interesting posts has given anyone the impression that my life has become boring, NOT SO! You may think that we spend every evening working in the house, along with all day Saturday and Sunday afternoon (after a luxury lie in), but you would be SLIGHTLY WRONG! If you really have the party spirit the way the Bruno and I do, a simple thing like twelve hour days six days a week won't slow you down!
Take this weekend for example. [Stop reading now if you are likely to be filled with jealousy at the sheer volume of fun that can be packed into 48 hours]. On Friday evening, we kicked started the weekend by leaving the house at SEVEN O'CLOCK. That's right! We just downed tools and went home, just like that! Not for nothing though, as we later on we watched not one, but TWO episodes from the 'Lost: Series 3' DVD. "Can we handle two?" wondered Bruno, "Hell yes!" came the swift reply "It's Friday night! Time to let our hair down!"
It wasn't until Saturday that thing went really off the deep end, however. After a works-do at Bruno's company that went on until ELEVEN, we just kept on going, and like the Duracell Bunny pushed on through to ANOTHER DRINK with some of Bruno's colleagues. After that I'd reached my limit and handed in the towel, but Bruno stayed on for A SECOND ROUND! He's hardcore.
It will come as no surprise then, that on Sunday morning we were both shattered. Literally. It felt like the day after a three day bender when I was a student. Bruno was just as badly off. So drained was I, that I didn't even do any work on the house. But then, everyone's life is like this at twenty seven. Isn't it?
Really it's not. I don't think I've ever seen a picture of myself looking more miserable. It's not funny.
I can now categorically inform you all that there are no down sides to visiting Florence in November. Except one.
Cold enough to snuggle under the sheets but warm enough for mosquitoes = 22 bites ON YOUR FACE = Quasimodo.
Fascino.
Our friend Blocher here, while not the president of my favourite party the SVP, is the front man for its right wing agenda. The Swiss have been responding to the election results with their usual passioante zeal, and I was beginning to think no one had noticed that anything of importance had happened.
Then yesterday, as we got into the lift to my parent's flat, out stepped an old German man and his very old wife. We stepped aside to let them out, and exchanged the usual friendly formalities of "Grüetzi" and "Grüetzi mitenand" - the done thing for people you don't know.
Just as we thought they were going to walk away, Old German Man turned back, and with a broad smile that said "Ha ha, I may be on the way out, but at least I'll miss the world going to shit", cried,
Watch out though, soon enough there'll be no more of your Grüetzis, we'll all be saying "Heil Blocher!
Watch out Blocher, Old German Man is on the case.
My latest downward spiral into the heady world of traditional Swiss farming was agreeing to help out at the alpechilbi. This is an event which celebrates coming down from the alp after the summer. Apparently unchanged for the last several hundred years, I can imagine it was once a pretty big deal, as without cars, the farmers basically would have disappeared up the mountain for months at a time. They still do, pretty much.
It's all traditional costume and singing and drinking, and goes on over several days. There's the 'Trinklers', a group of lads about Bruno's age, who start drinking the night before, and basically carry on for the next few days, while marching to each new drinking stop carrying giant cow bells. Bruno couldn't do it last year, and this year he was annoyed because being married, he's now missed his chance. Then there's the 'Maierfierer', or something to that effect, Made up of couples who dress in their best traditional costume, and after a hearty breakfast, parade in pairs to church. I think it's pretty much a form of matchmaking for the young people of the village. Actually, some of the women's costumes are the stuff of a V&A exhibit, each one wearing the particular dress of their region. The Trinklers are not allowed to march around ringing their bells during the church service, which they didn't really seem to mind as it meant sitting around drinking. Finally, there's the 'Wilde', who are just an anthropological treasure. Two more young lads dress up, one in a sort of bear suit, and one in a traditional women's dress, and don some really scary wooden masks. They are now Mr and Mrs Wildi, who represent some sort of societal "Other" who have come down from the furthest reaches of the mountain. They lead the Maierwhatsits to church.
In the afternoon and evening, the whole village turns out for a party. If you've ever read Grapes of Wrath, it reminds me of the bit in one of the Hoovervilles in which they have a dance. At the party, the two Wilde read a lengthy poem which recounts the ups and downs of the past year in VillageBruno. So that's the run down, not as interesting without the photos, but I'll try and get some up soon. In the meantime, the highs and lows:
Not amusing:
We'd agreed to help out with the breakfast. According to my mother in law, we wouldn't have to get up too early, and we could even have a lie in. According to Bruno, we had to be there at half past four, which meant getting up at half past three. Now, even farmer's wives don't consider half past three to be a lie in, but up we got, and headed off to VillageBruno, to find the house in darkness and everyone still asleep.
Amusing:
The breakfast was at House Bruno, as Bruno's younger brother was officially the host of the breakfast part of the alpechilbi. This meant that he was supposed to stay asleep until the Trinklers turned up and fired a shot into the air to get him out of bed (they didn't arrive until a quarter to six). According to tradition, Brother Bruno then opens the window and "remembers" that he has to give them all breakfast. He'd also brought his new girlfriend with him the night before, who would be his partner in the parade of couples down to the church.
Later that morning, discussing Bruno's "hilarious" timing error:
Bruno: It's alright though, we just went up to my old room and had a nap for another hour.
Bruno's father: But, wasn't it occupied, that bed? There was no one in it?
Bruno: Of course not! Who was supposed to be in the spare bed?
Family Bruno (missing only the young couple): Silence. A tumbleweed crosses the kitchen floor.
Who said modern life isn't what it used to be.
Who's the most surprising rookie in the NFL this year?
Oh that'd have to be whatshisname, you know, the one with the helmet and all the padding. Jumped out at me from behind a tree brandishing a rugby ball. It was quite a surprise, I can tell you.
Secretly, I thought that the awful Swiss sheep advert from the SVP was a good thing. It has caused controversy here as well as blackening the reputation of Switzerland abroad (even more). The SVP based their campaign for the parliamentary elections (which were held yesterday) almost entirely on "Working for a safer Switzerland by throwing out all the Criminal Foreigners" (sic). This would no doubt prompt the notoriously lazy left and centre left voters (such as the SP) to get off their arses. I was quite excited about the upcoming results, when the SVP would realise that they had gone too far, alienating the centre right voters and angering the centre left. The SVP would be exposed for the fascists that they are, and suffer a huge defeat in the face of outraged Swiss people. I'd even planned a cheer that I was going to do from the balcony.
In reaction the the huge gains made by the SVP yesterday (which, in a representational government, means that they now hold more seats than any party since 1919), the Swiss headlines are talking about an "SP Debacle".
Good one Switzerland.
And as if that wasn't enough, Sunday's newspaper also had an interview with the first black woman to come third in the Miss Switzerland contest, Claudia Wambululu. Leaving aside a conversation about the ethics of a Miss Switzerland contest in general, and of course remembering that our friend Claudia has been primed not to say anything controversial or antagonistic at all, it was still nice to find out that Switzerland isn't racist and xenophobic at all, despite the elections.
According to Miss-not-quite-Switzerland, she has never experienced any racism in Switzerland ever. In the village where she grew up, her neighbours lovingly referred to her and her sister as "die herzigen Negerli".
To be fair, the translation of this is not the word that you might think. The best cultural translation would probably be "The sweet little coloureds". So that's alright then.
Sighs of bloody relief all round.
Unlike Do-It-&-Garden Man, my husband is so manly he puts other men to shame.
Yesterday we went to Hornbach, the shop for the more discerning DIYer, and filled Bruno's work van with fabulous new doors and a fabulous new floor for our house. Bruno started loading the parquet planks, shrink wrapped in packs of five or so. Lift and Woosh, in goes a pack, Woosh, in goes another, one handed this time.
'Let me give you a hand!' I say, and slowly pull on the end of one pack, enough to lift one side of it up and get my other arm underneath. Hhhhhnnnnrrrrrr, and up comes the other end of the pack. I now stagger in a drunkard fashion towards the side door of the van, my legs actually buckling under the weight.
Woosh. Woosh. A few more packs go in from Bruno's side.
Managing to balance one end of the pack against the side of the van, using my knee as a surface, I reach forward to pull open the door. Hhhhhnnnnnrrrrrrr. The Door is open, we have progress.
Woosh. Woosh. Woosh.
Elegantly I manouver around the door, and rest one end of my pack on the substantial pile already in the van. Hhhhnnnrrrr, a good strong push and I slide it into place along side the others.
Woosh. Woosh. "Well that's all twelve of them then. And the four doors and frames."
"What? All of them? I've only loaded one. And I'm nearly dead....You know when we get to the house to unload...Should I just go home and start cooking supper, and leave you to it?"
"Probably."
Update: It has been brought to my attention that this post is apparently heavy with euphemism. I would like to say that this is a family friendly blog and Bruno actually is very good at hurling heavy objects into vans. You dirty minded people you. Tsch!
Some countries are famous for their subtle and sophisticated advertising. Some are not.
Leaving aside racist sheep who breach international human rights laws, this is the latest advert for a major DIY shop in Switzerland:
Man attempts to hammer nail into wall. He misses the nail, and quite a bit of blood is seen to splat against the wall as the hammer meets his thumb. His wife enters and bandages his thumb, which is still bleeding profusely enough to soak the bandage before she has finished securing it. Then, in a sudden and near anarchic reversal of Swiss gender roles, the wife picks up a paintbrush, considers the blood spattered wall for a few moments, and then with a few strokes of the brush, transforms the spatter into abstract art. She covers the artwork with a frame (without injury), and the couple stand back to admire a bad situation turned good, possibly considering an entry into the Turner prize.
Did this seem like a better idea on the story board? Did the advertisers probe the Swiss subliminal psyche and come up with this? Did a load of Swiss people watch this last night and jump up shouting "Get your coat love, we're going to Do-It&Garden!"?
And yes, the same people brought us the name, "Do-It&Garden".
I grew up in a very tight-knit extended family that was made up of friends and neighbours. We were brought up by a group of mothers who were all strong women, and fiercely maternal, only marginally less so towards each other's children than to their own. They provided comforting bosoms to cry on over a scraped knee or being dumped by the latest boyfriend, and when they sat down together at a kitchen table, we learnt what real laughter sounded like.
They also showed their daughters what women could be, and all of them had careers which made them who they were, their support of each other allowing them to live out both roles. For the family of different siblings, there was always at least one mother around. They studied for MAs while making supper for their children, or sat working at drawing tables at midnight, because that was when the house was quiet.
And now their daughters are women, and we're finding out what kind of women we are, secure in the knowledge that all our mothers love us and are proud of us. We look forward to the day when we 'turn into our mothers'.
Thanks Eastbury Road Women.
