tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8002273491600907792024-03-21T08:17:13.994-07:00A Londoner in Czech RepublicIt's just about how expats live in Brno. Better than anywhere else I can imagine right now!!Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-7886833230099814362010-09-08T05:47:00.000-07:002010-09-08T12:19:10.028-07:00Hrady a Zamky, Czech Castles and Big old Houses<span style="font-size: large;"></span><meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CFraser%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CFraser%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CFraser%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping"></link><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB">Here in the good old Czech Republic, there are a plethora of Castles and other Stately Homes that are open to the public. Visiting them can bring advantages. When it’s too hot outside, the big thick walls provide an escape from oppressive heat. The same when it’s raining I suppose, unless you’re visiting a ruin. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1cFqtyZAUEl_kHe10itidvYLP57VOqieDalYKDXJz4W6UD5eGbio56azp5NPDXk_8rtl2EEDz6T4Eh-yU-sWSBBysbzHfIGN0FEpaNgnyLDH7clZvUnPajfsyqDpb8GDKozY481_gI20/s1600/pern.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1cFqtyZAUEl_kHe10itidvYLP57VOqieDalYKDXJz4W6UD5eGbio56azp5NPDXk_8rtl2EEDz6T4Eh-yU-sWSBBysbzHfIGN0FEpaNgnyLDH7clZvUnPajfsyqDpb8GDKozY481_gI20/s320/pern.jpg" /></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB">There are 2 ways to look at a Castle, one’s from the outside, these buildings always seem to have wonderful settings, probably why they built them where they did. Let’s face it, if you were a mediaeval war lord with a huge gang on horseback, you just found somewhere nice and built a big castle. You didn’t have to evict anybody, just employed them as serfs. Pernstejn is my favourite, great setting, all funny little corridors and strange shaped rooms inside. Also they sell good beer and the usual food and sausages outside in the restaurant.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB">It’s the later built Zamky I have a slight problem with. But, don’t think I’m going to tell you which ones I didn’t like. I couldn’t handle the backlash of <b><i>how dare you’s</i></b> and accusations of being an uncultured yob. I will tell you however that my last visit to an unnamed Zamek did not bode well for me at all, in fact I was nearly on my knees by the end.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB">From the outside it looked ok, a bit big maybe. We bought tickets and waited 5 minutes for our guide. To her credit she wore the shortest skirt I’ve ever seen and all the males in the party followed closely as she led us up the wide staircase, closely followed by their respective partners trying to thump their menfolk on the arm. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB">What followed was all downhill from there. I’d been given the 1954 English typescript for the tour. I took time to notice that it was nicely yellowed, the b’s were at a jaunty angle and the s’s were a bit up in the air. I read the whole thing in the first big square room, so I knew all about the place and didn’t have to listen to the memorised monologue, given in a high pitch gatling gun monotone.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB">The whole place was full of big square rooms, through some double doors, leading to another big square room. There was the blue room, the pink room, the Chinese room, the green bedroom without a bed, the stripey room and so on. I didn’t get near the miniskirt again, the other male visitors had long forgotten their partners and jostled for pole position in each square room. By the time we got to the stuffed animals oblong shaped room, I’d taken to looking out of the dusty windows. It seemed like hours, I blinked in the daylight and freedom again.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDqc1ja0Y_riW9RpCJ7NzUf22yf1PdhT2JKYw77xYZjfgv5cX_Q4kbM7qbMsfNCCNI_xA3TsPEQPAyUn2rNMIvk4LpqVLIijv4Mclw1ZhiR2fMWcwUgUIzkXLXi4qlRgKx310LLy2Kj2k/s1600/parek.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDqc1ja0Y_riW9RpCJ7NzUf22yf1PdhT2JKYw77xYZjfgv5cX_Q4kbM7qbMsfNCCNI_xA3TsPEQPAyUn2rNMIvk4LpqVLIijv4Mclw1ZhiR2fMWcwUgUIzkXLXi4qlRgKx310LLy2Kj2k/s320/parek.jpg" /></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB">Dagmar came to the rescue again, taking me to the restaurant and filling me full of beer and a vepro, knedlo, zelo lunch. As she was driving me home, I was dreaming about long legs and gattling guns. All in all not a bad day, almost as good as watching snooker on Sky sports.</span></span></div><meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CFraser%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CFraser%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CFraser%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping"></link><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: large;">In the UK, it’s done a bit different. We visited Chartwell, Winston Churchill’s zamek. We could wander about at our own pace, they had volunteers positioned in some of the rooms. They were from the local villages around and usually OAP’s. and they answered questions. This confused my Mum, she wandered into a bedroom and saw this old lady sitting in a chair.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: large;"> Mum started asking her if she was ok and if her family knew where she was.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: large;">Time for a sharp exit!</span></div>Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com73tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-84659664552155285082010-09-07T12:36:00.000-07:002010-09-07T13:33:06.716-07:00Is Hypochondria Infectious?<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather since Dagmar’s Aunt and her husband visited us yesterday afternoon, but sometimes a hangover is worth it. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">Auntie Blanka is one of those people who’s never been young and carefree. She’s a troubled soul who, according to herself, in mock optimism, is just very lucky to be alive. She’s had every known ailment plus a few bewildering unknowns to boot. It’s like the old joke, she’s now been diagnosed with Hypochondria, (Not that too! we all exclaim in horror). </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2v9aI4BhtxIm5CX1JKp7XgtZ8x0djAAZkzEmyaz6_bzlbV_kLgstiq-riHtuAKz-xiQvULkOPVycu7UR-Bv8ZAtvCny3rJ_1q542tYUJWA343CVCDI9oXAXbIQageLTuMeE7dTtQEsHA/s1600/Emergency+v.+Hypochondria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2v9aI4BhtxIm5CX1JKp7XgtZ8x0djAAZkzEmyaz6_bzlbV_kLgstiq-riHtuAKz-xiQvULkOPVycu7UR-Bv8ZAtvCny3rJ_1q542tYUJWA343CVCDI9oXAXbIQageLTuMeE7dTtQEsHA/s320/Emergency+v.+Hypochondria.jpg" /></a></span></div><br />
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">Actually she has and she came along to tell Dagmar just how her ridiculous Doctor just doesn’t understand her special symptoms and the Psychiatrist she’s been referred to, can’t possibly be a real Doctor as he believes in 19<sup>th</sup> Century mumbo jumbo and unproved theories AND actually her herbalist is the only one who knows far more AND if only her husband would listen more AND try to be more understanding AND realise that he actually has a very ill wife. </span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"></div><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUPsDInZIKcsbkRv6oufgQy4iy4ulUHlCLb89y2fOxvTjg-ku2KfQdIWrxKFzGFaa5sHpZssaneIP07yHAXAxg5ozvrhZPSUFSnysHEzv-x2l6t_I9AAu2wicAgor3BuOC88OD2v22OzQ/s1600/hypo+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUPsDInZIKcsbkRv6oufgQy4iy4ulUHlCLb89y2fOxvTjg-ku2KfQdIWrxKFzGFaa5sHpZssaneIP07yHAXAxg5ozvrhZPSUFSnysHEzv-x2l6t_I9AAu2wicAgor3BuOC88OD2v22OzQ/s200/hypo+1.jpg" width="158" /></a></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">Dagmar was translating the difficult bits for me and I was practising my dead pan face although my mouth was desperate to disobey and let out a big smirk. I managed to escape to the kitchen and knocked back a quick Slivovice, only to be followed by Dagmar who did the same.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">We did a double entry back into the living room in time for episode 2, which was something about brain to eye connections, I suggested an infection of the optic fibres, which got a nod of approval. Back to the kitchen quickly with dirty plates and another snifter. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">The concluding episode was about retributions and how Grandmother never believed she was ill, forcing her to school when she was in great pain, and her husband, (the expressionless man looking at the floor), didn’t want to listen to her ordeals when he was driving round Europe in his truck and her 2 ungrateful children who live in Australia and Alaska and how Alaska is bad for your back and her grandson didn’t want to speak Czech, how could he ever understand the pain of his Grandmother. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">Anyway they left and Dagmar still looked a bit stressed, so we had yet another Slivovice, home made is always the best. The dark shadow of Auntie Blanka soon passed, to be replaced with giggles about her demanding her Doctor does a scan to check her optic fibre cables. </span></span></div>Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-70210346264779105672010-09-05T05:13:00.000-07:002010-09-05T05:16:27.407-07:00How to drive like a Czech , guest posterHere's a funny article written by a friend of mine last year. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwwcpNGAoJ6-Vpc5TM_1ewnYogD9YhdETo1r8Qjp9FL5_vs-HkBq999xNZEuCXLuesB0j9nNeBpiy2y6vR12QYdsPTAwd2Pdr-UireE1-8SheitGmnThK4fVJN-ETA4jxdKiRWnuGY5BE/s1600/skoda+tank.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwwcpNGAoJ6-Vpc5TM_1ewnYogD9YhdETo1r8Qjp9FL5_vs-HkBq999xNZEuCXLuesB0j9nNeBpiy2y6vR12QYdsPTAwd2Pdr-UireE1-8SheitGmnThK4fVJN-ETA4jxdKiRWnuGY5BE/s200/skoda+tank.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Whether you drive a car or even chance your luck as a pedestrian, you might have noticed way out here that our Czech friends drive in an ever so slightly different manner than we do.<br />
Ours is not to reason why, but to fit in nicely and keep a low profile, as we are the Johnny Foreigners here, so driving like a local will bring you lots of praise from your families, friends and of course other road users.<br />
Before you set off:<br />
Make sure that your exhaust pipe is trailing the ground.<br />
Essential also; check that one of your headlights doesn’t work and the other is constantly on full beam.<br />
Make sure your windows are nice and dirty (steamed up is ok too). Never ever scrape ice of your windows in the winter.<br />
Take a quick look to ensure that you have at least 4 weeks of mud on your number plates. If they’re clean, just take them off and leave them at home.<br />
No really, just take a look around if you don’t believe me.<br />
So we’re almost ready to set off, but before we do, hitch up that rusty old trailer, without electrics.<br />
Speed: well I should tell you now that speed limits are of no consequence whatsoever, just don’t look at them, they’re irrelevant. There are 2 types of driving speeds that are favoured here; breakneck and snails pace (with a very smoky exhaust).<br />
Traffic lights; they do the same colours here as anywhere, but never ever jump the lights, our friendly Police wait at junctions throughout town, watching for that old trick.<br />
When approaching a green light, stop, it’ll probably turn red very soon and people behind will thank you for your caution and foresight When waiting for the lights to turn green, take your time and when they do change, wait until they are just about to turn to amber again, then you can go, you don’t want to be followed, do you..<br />
Road direction signs: there aren’t any.<br />
If it looks like a direction sign, it’s probably something similar, but in the wrong place.<br />
Just take it for granted that all foreigners here get completely lost, Czechs never ever lose their way. When they’re travelling through unknown and signpostless towns, they use telepathy and mindlink with locals to navigate them through unhindered. It’s quite a hard skill to learn, but I’m attending a course next week, and it’s a darn sight cheaper than Satnav.<br />
Indicators; you may think you’re an expert with these, but here in Czech Republic, they have an entirely different purpose, of which I’m completely unsure.<br />
However, I’ve been observing closely and can give you a few pointers.<br />
When turning left or right, give no more than 10 centimetres warning before you start turning, better still, wait until you’ve turned and then indicate. A good tip is, ensure that your indicator bulbs are of very low wattage and blink very quickly (standard on older Skoda’s)<br />
Don’t forget that when you are driving round a gentle curve on the road, let the drivers behind know, by indicating which way the curve is going, they will copy this sign and pass it back. This is best practiced on a busy day with long queues, everyone will start indicating without actually knowing why.<br />
4 way flashers. These are used for double parking on a busy street, it’s amazing, they will render your vehicle completely invisible to the Police, you can park just about anywhere. Try it sometime!<br />
Overtaking; admittedly a strange one this. Here in Czech republic, when you overtake you must indicate left to pass a vehicle and then indicate right, this is to let other road users know that you do not intend to continue the remainder of your journey on the wrong side of the road.<br />
But forget about all that nonsense, just do as the locals do here and indicate right and then move out to the left and pass the pesky vehicle in front.<br />
But beware about overtaking, it’s an unpopular activity. Don’t be surprised if you overtake a Czech travelling very slowly, he then follows you at breakneck speed all the way home.<br />
Being overtaken. If you want to be part of the local scene, just don’t allow it (see above). When you see a car behind wishing to overtake, wait until he’s alongside, drop a gear and put the foot down until you are at a blind curve, better still, until cars are approaching on the other side.<br />
Don’t worry, it’s perfectly legal and everyone does it.<br />
Driving up and down hills. Czechs are caring people and they know that cars get tired driving up hills. Best advice is to be kind to your car and slow down going up that nasty steep hill. A good indication of kindness is when you have a queue of about 9 cars behind, don’t worry, they’re all taking your lead. When you get to the top, it’s pedal to metal, to stop those wicked evil perverted overtakers.<br />
Trams: I’ve just discovered the secret of tram traffic lights, with those funny dots and little lines, They’re in BRAILLE! Yes, you’ve guessed it, all Tram drivers are completely blind. Luckily they are on tracks.<br />
The D1. That wonderfully safe road, with a minimum speed of 300kph. More interesting is the rustic crazy paving laid all the way to just 3km short of Prague.<br />
When on the D1, you’ve probably noticed that the in-crowd never use the Service Stations, they advise us to just stop on the hard shoulder, you can pee and expose yourself to all the passers-by, much more fun.<br />
.<br />
Lastly however, if you do really need to fill up, make sure that you leave your car at the pump when paying for petrol, buying all those little necessities in the shop, having a nice long lunch and picking a few mushrooms in the adjoining forest. Czechs just love queuing and we have to keep the natives happy, don’t we.Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-28684423535433928342010-09-03T23:47:00.001-07:002010-09-05T00:00:34.350-07:00It's Raining again<div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I thought I'd change the look of my blog to reflect the weather outside. I've got a bit of a hangover today, such is the effect of drinking loads of wonderful czech beer. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXGREnRyLuD-52kgAubE6J5Vv20YywND4V4Rpcli8JAcI70ei91o6wptw2wr15F-jtfjBPtTfmd5D1_bcutzItRQMYZ220oiK6anSVVZ9fbdlaAGlcLtjBdyYToiv6zdTQRx3YAMnvzVs/s1600/tom+tuck.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXGREnRyLuD-52kgAubE6J5Vv20YywND4V4Rpcli8JAcI70ei91o6wptw2wr15F-jtfjBPtTfmd5D1_bcutzItRQMYZ220oiK6anSVVZ9fbdlaAGlcLtjBdyYToiv6zdTQRx3YAMnvzVs/s320/tom+tuck.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512948195228308642" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;">When I had just got to the pub,</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="EN-GB"> Mum called. She still calls Dagmar my girlfriend first to see where I am, then calls me.</span></span></div> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="EN-GB">“Why you in the pub again, you little Tommy Tucker?”</span></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="EN-GB">“Hello Mum”</span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="EN-GB">Poor old Mum, she’s a bit lonely these days, she’s mostly living with her boyfriend in Mayfair but she misses Kentish Town and the gossip and Gran died a while back. Now she’s waiting in a pub for Johnny to finish work, then they’re off to visit Johnny’s sister. Mum still works for Johnny, he’s a lawyer, senior partner in fact and Mum’s been a secretary there for ages.<span style=""> </span>She was due to retire, but only managed 2 weeks at home.</span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="EN-GB">Johnny’s family are a hoot, sort of like mine but with posh voices. This sister is a widow and lives in a really old, and I mean really old mansion in Hertfordshire.</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="EN-GB"> I like the place as much as Mum hates it, some of the bedrooms still have electrical sockets with round holes! All the floors creak like crazy and the whole place smells of Labrador (there’s 3), outside the only sound you hear is crows in the evening. We all went last year, Dagmar jumped at every creak and thud all night. The cooker wasn’t working so Johnny and I went out and bought fish and chips.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="EN-GB">As for the village pub, “everybody stares” Mum reckons.<span style=""> </span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEm7r5xClmT3hQJrISg_syXyTFB1B9CASj7mUGyAELK8oS4ZlR5-aj22WPbFzcoLO22MYqcpSCXg4k7xfiJcFxdaW5vwBx72GTgTgLCminN5xdKkNngxeku6xNK6UfLVUG5bLYQxmpH2Y/s1600/crazy+violinist.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 201px; height: 274px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEm7r5xClmT3hQJrISg_syXyTFB1B9CASj7mUGyAELK8oS4ZlR5-aj22WPbFzcoLO22MYqcpSCXg4k7xfiJcFxdaW5vwBx72GTgTgLCminN5xdKkNngxeku6xNK6UfLVUG5bLYQxmpH2Y/s320/crazy+violinist.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512949030323298402" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="EN-GB">Johnny’s other sister, the oldest, is completely bonkers, she’s never been married and played violin in an orchestra for a long time.</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="EN-GB"> She lives in a huge flat, all dusty, in Brighton. She spends her life playing Bridge and of course still playing violin. </span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >“Why can’t she play something we can all sing along to?” my Mum always asks “All that scratchy nonsense drives me barmy”</span><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></span></p>Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-21473219454303468192010-09-03T09:24:00.000-07:002010-09-03T09:29:13.903-07:00The In Laws and the Czech Police<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIBKjzGmjBU_chyphenhyphenRmGuxwckQ3W0tmMXOaLlh-9trmNsWrBSCKDn9dfql_17PUh61nQ5Klv1IlyjWd5RRg6tlQC1RTptC1yRGkXpI57LRHspptZaGqzQM1ibr2s2Z_hBFEhPO2w1XJ2VA8/s1600/stare_brno_vecer.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 227px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIBKjzGmjBU_chyphenhyphenRmGuxwckQ3W0tmMXOaLlh-9trmNsWrBSCKDn9dfql_17PUh61nQ5Klv1IlyjWd5RRg6tlQC1RTptC1yRGkXpI57LRHspptZaGqzQM1ibr2s2Z_hBFEhPO2w1XJ2VA8/s320/stare_brno_vecer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512724690566867570" border="0" /></a><br />Don’t you just love the in-laws? I always seem to have had a bad experience with them, first it was the wife’s parents, They were ok when I was married to the ex, terrible when I got divorced, and miraculously ok when the ex got married again, like I was responsible for the ex petting hitched or something. Well it did take the heat off a bit, they had someone new to find faults with.<br />I reckon I must be a coward, I never did get married again, but if you think you get it easier with a girlfriends parents, think again.<br /><br />The last girlfriend in London, Mags, had terrible parents, terrible because they looked down on me from a very, almost Himalayan height and their pedestals never wobbled once! It’s not that I’m particularly common, they just had huge aspirations for their daughter and I didn’t quite cut it. The good advantage of having Mags parents so high up the scale of humanity was, they couldn’t see what us low lives were doing crawling about underneath our stones.<br /><br />Now it’s completely different, Dagmar ( yeah, we’re still together!), is down to earth and her folks are ok, or so I think anyway. Yep, it’s the language problem. My Czech is coming along fine, but I have to admit, I pick and choose what to understand, especially if it’s something I don’t like the sound of. They don’t understand how I can live here and get by without being fluent, it’s even more complicated for them now that younger members of the family can speak English and they feel left out of it.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGdQls_0wSoBN2Y680WNowlDvHB-Wdy2oR2sNldjSmffayMRQf3GgAXlgfH92coGYDs5s0-R0CJGwzOkelvHo143YjztOldoLax3v17hVdFoswHIhbGPYTRcvRN8f1segSCkvJbckiIpI/s1600/czech-police-woman-largethumb7623609.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 257px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGdQls_0wSoBN2Y680WNowlDvHB-Wdy2oR2sNldjSmffayMRQf3GgAXlgfH92coGYDs5s0-R0CJGwzOkelvHo143YjztOldoLax3v17hVdFoswHIhbGPYTRcvRN8f1segSCkvJbckiIpI/s320/czech-police-woman-largethumb7623609.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512724919419628418" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I always try to speak Czech, even if it’s laughable. My bad Czech has got me off with a few driving misdemeanours with the police.Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-79895268537566479992010-01-25T02:33:00.001-08:002010-09-05T00:01:58.084-07:00rewind<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivRGEqEzv4tD4RMVz4_ESr2PeOlS0Aj_LcCYDe1-r2SG8iQWlXx_id1ZAjXGe9MJ4O8x1qk5IcdboTIheOTYzrJP896-Qn5nJyLfOoxMV-bmMukyMZ6Fx8t3es6Lk1Sa8ZgJQf3o_cti8/s1600-h/pickwick.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 246px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivRGEqEzv4tD4RMVz4_ESr2PeOlS0Aj_LcCYDe1-r2SG8iQWlXx_id1ZAjXGe9MJ4O8x1qk5IcdboTIheOTYzrJP896-Qn5nJyLfOoxMV-bmMukyMZ6Fx8t3es6Lk1Sa8ZgJQf3o_cti8/s320/pickwick.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430648157180284402" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" > </span><meta equiv="CONTENT-TYPE" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><title></title><meta name="GENERATOR" content="OpenOffice.org 3.1 (Win32)"><meta name="CREATED" content="0;0"><meta name="CHANGED" content="0;0"><style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 2cm } P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm } A:link { so-language: zxx } --> </style> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Not too much about Brno this week.
<br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nothing pleases me more than discovering the truth and not feeling even a little bit guilty any more. And I have to say that Johnny, Mums boyfriend, is nice to have on your side. He looks like a Mr. Pickwick type, a bit plumpish, good natured, but very very sharp. Always full of friendly and clever advice. </span> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Let's go back to about 3 – 4 years ago. My girlfriend then was Margaret, she was an HR Manager and I was the facilities manager, both working for a bank in the city. She usually came down to bollock the guys in the postroom for something or another, we had a drink after work once and that was it, before I knew, we were living together and then after 6 months we moved to new flat she had found. It was in a nice part of town near Farringdon station and it was big and expensive. I could hardly keep up with my part of the rent, yet she had no problems with money, thanks to her parents. </span> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">After a while, I noticed that if we went out , she had to foot the bill, and I even had to ask for money, just to go to the pub. Anyway, I got fed up and had a few wild nights out with the traders, which didn't go down well, as it was before I handed over my hard earned cash. I could never figure it out, I actually earned more than her. So, Mags got the hump, kicked me out and I kept this nice new car. </span> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Mags and her family went nuts, chasing and calling me, I left the company, then left the country. Fast forward to 3 months ago in London. This is when Johnny did a property search on Mags' flat and the owner turns out to be.... Mags. The cow was charging me rent and she paid nothing, her Dad had bought the flat for her. </span> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;">It gets better, Mags somehow heard I was in London, turned up in our local with her parents and confronted Mum and Johnny. Johnny's a strange guy, he looks like a big bald teddy bear, but can turn into a grizzly when required. I got a text, saying to come round to the pub sharpish and saw this affable character turn into a deadly serious top class lawyer and the drop of a hat. Mags' Dad, a civil servant turned a colour that was a light greyish white, almost translucent. And when Johnny mentioned about the flat and me paying rent, they left quietly and quickly. We really thought that was it, but Mags called me later to speak to me and wanted to meet up.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
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<br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The next day, she came to Kentish Town, so I met her in a cafe, she wanted me to go think about me and her getting back together. Just long enough for her to get the car back I thought and I was right, she asked me where it was. Just then my Mum and Dagmar walked in, on cue, I should add. So, that was that, outclassed in looks by Dagmar and outstared by Mum, she left. The cars not even new anymore, but her family didn't want some hoi polloi getting the better of them.
<br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Anyway, back to the present and we're back in Brno and happy, it might be -17 outside at night and it might go on for at least another week, but I like it here.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Dagmar's looking for a new car and a new job and I¨m back teaching, but I'm still not too busy. The last language school I worked for has gone bust, more through laziness than anything else. The owner was a big dreamer and also liked spending money.
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<br /></span> </p> Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-64993756234566769882010-01-18T01:38:00.000-08:002010-01-18T01:47:54.331-08:00Terry is back in Brno.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsYHdTYkQhmOaoJMnRpvu9NNWU5iBzOvThNyUdlle3q2h19mQx94r-RQVNpJCthxgTTF3jXHZoWH_5iVgArRLi0LZj17lvIqpNHW5KCsBK6EstyUATugi756_cxCrVUKq4MDwbCLiSlj4/s1600-h/185Falkland_Road.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 185px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsYHdTYkQhmOaoJMnRpvu9NNWU5iBzOvThNyUdlle3q2h19mQx94r-RQVNpJCthxgTTF3jXHZoWH_5iVgArRLi0LZj17lvIqpNHW5KCsBK6EstyUATugi756_cxCrVUKq4MDwbCLiSlj4/s320/185Falkland_Road.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428013866166820834" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Sorry folks, I've been away, back in Kentish Town, London actually. Well it didn't seem right to be writing about my experiences in Brno if I had scuttled back home. Well not alone actually, Dagmar came with with me and we lived at my Mums place. Honza, her son went to stay with his grandparents in village out of town, he hated it, no freedom, no girls, no internet and long bus journeys to school. We tried him in London over Christmas, but no, he wouldn't speak English, everyone just assumed we had a not very clever son, to the point that I got fed up disowning him. (He's actually just my stepson you know, I would say over and over again)<br /><br />Needless to say, Dagmar got pissed off with me and completely angry at Honza. Pity, we both managed to get get decent jobs, I found a job as a facilities manager again and Dagmar found work as a receptionist in the City, where she was far too popular with all the males in the building.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUsYk2m93IwvdjX-NUfm4e7hU8P2TRdvF5B_KIMePjo6ZXkz_zwJHd0R1yrnJJVWZRVmEMAXt7irbqSitPQgamlXcEnb7n43N9B0bRjbs7jEAVbq037HgFU8sjFFOBXcsJdk0cXceSvnI/s1600-h/brno+snow.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUsYk2m93IwvdjX-NUfm4e7hU8P2TRdvF5B_KIMePjo6ZXkz_zwJHd0R1yrnJJVWZRVmEMAXt7irbqSitPQgamlXcEnb7n43N9B0bRjbs7jEAVbq037HgFU8sjFFOBXcsJdk0cXceSvnI/s320/brno+snow.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428014167661243010" border="0" /></a>So, here we are, knee deep in snow, back in our flat. I dug the car out of her parents garage and it still goes vroom vroom. Apart from a half eaten sandwich that was a bit smelly after 6 months, the car is ok. We didn't dare take it to London. Just to recap, I love my car it's an Audi A4 estate, left hand drive. My ex girlfriends parents bought it, they're wealthy and bought a house in France just before my ex threw me out. They were too busy to buy the car, so they arranged for me to buy it for them. But the car went in my name, the next day the ex threw me out and I used the car to move my things and sort of kept it. More about that later, there's been a development and in my favour.<br /><br />More tomorrow!!Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-7976983725126711162009-06-15T04:20:00.000-07:002009-06-15T04:24:28.103-07:00Visit to London
<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkZuh_-tmvdHZQ_qrUHz1B3sFhy3bEIGCh6skOgfTMUFQoIUTkO4-MyAO6rvYoMkCIae2cFLmCPf-mb3aXyuS68uyhOB8vQlwgcBs_7DpQkeFqMRL0X8OnEAfdWC_-HIzZ2u4CTz_BQEY/s1600-h/blitzqueen.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 154px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkZuh_-tmvdHZQ_qrUHz1B3sFhy3bEIGCh6skOgfTMUFQoIUTkO4-MyAO6rvYoMkCIae2cFLmCPf-mb3aXyuS68uyhOB8vQlwgcBs_7DpQkeFqMRL0X8OnEAfdWC_-HIzZ2u4CTz_BQEY/s320/blitzqueen.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347513196051167474" border="0" /></a>
<br /><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CDavid%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="country-region"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:35.4pt; mso-footer-margin:35.4pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB"></span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">We just got back from </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">London</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="" lang="EN-GB">. Unexpected trip it was. I don’t really want to get sympathy from anyone, but my old Gran died. She was 86.<span style=""> </span>Most people think that Grans are nicer than Mums. Not in my case, Gran always thought I was undisciplined and spoilt, every visit as a child was always a lecture about modern living and of course the usual favourite for old Londoners, Yes, you’ve guessed it …. THE BLITZ!!!!!!!!!!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">I think everyone in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Great Britain</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="" lang="EN-GB"> knows about how </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">London</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="" lang="EN-GB"> fared during the Blitz. Same old clichés. Plucky firemen, Winston Churchill visiting ruined houses and fighting with Germans on the beaches, the Queen Mother singing songs to locals in her big fur coat, my gran making pots of tea for old ladies in the Tube stations, kids wearing big labels waiting to be evacuated and going to live with mysterious writers in big rambling country houses with ghosts. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I don’t want to be cycnical or anything , but there’s a kind of romance about it all now.<span style=""> </span>
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgylO3Ka7M-V2M90piQgy6c9V6mA1oG2EqE5rAH0YxEP9D6suGlHJP60T7WJxhRXnzF8Td0HlK21DBl1ekrdhayFnvxfJlbCT_dp64MPtP2yfi-2VtRTdwI4Kr0xp3hn8ApKBkT0IKKX64/s1600-h/hanging.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 254px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgylO3Ka7M-V2M90piQgy6c9V6mA1oG2EqE5rAH0YxEP9D6suGlHJP60T7WJxhRXnzF8Td0HlK21DBl1ekrdhayFnvxfJlbCT_dp64MPtP2yfi-2VtRTdwI4Kr0xp3hn8ApKBkT0IKKX64/s320/hanging.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347513367661669538" border="0" /></a><span style="" lang="EN-GB">This side of </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">London</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="" lang="EN-GB"> is all but gone now, but things have always moved on. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">For example , Gran was a bit too young too remember highwaymen getting a public hanging outside Newgate Prison or the hunt for Jack the Ripper, but what will be remembered about us?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">I think it’s strange that no-one has ever disguised the fact that </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">London</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="" lang="EN-GB"> has always been a tough place to live, for example Charles Dickiens wrote books about the poverty and inequality of living in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">London</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="" lang="EN-GB">. And what do we do, we romanticise it, don’t we. All those nice costume drama’s and interesting characters.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">So when future generation learn about a tough and unfair life in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">London</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="" lang="EN-GB"> during the early part of the 21<sup>st</sup> century, all the characters will be cute and funny and there’ll be lots of romantic snow lying all around.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Makes me glad to be in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Brno</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="" lang="EN-GB"> again, and the snow’s along way off.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzb84Ygtn5KeK2LMWt1F1xleYb-pdgY1btlmFlTskDo5MyzjAtJpmMRlv-4f4LeKQ7L0JXOLWc1x3u2xgSiQJ9hSs72gPmaJzI68ljI0jMD0dFD3AapwIhs-ansCetpfqX-UbXu2obZhA/s1600-h/budgie.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzb84Ygtn5KeK2LMWt1F1xleYb-pdgY1btlmFlTskDo5MyzjAtJpmMRlv-4f4LeKQ7L0JXOLWc1x3u2xgSiQJ9hSs72gPmaJzI68ljI0jMD0dFD3AapwIhs-ansCetpfqX-UbXu2obZhA/s320/budgie.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347513591418584898" border="0" /></a><span style="" lang="EN-GB">One last comment, about <b style="">Nutter of the Week</b>. One of Grans friends brought Grans budgie to the funeral, the cage even had a black ribbon round it. It chirped through the Vicar’s sermon and now we don’t know where it is. <o:p></o:p></span></p> Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-45642944058751508392009-06-04T07:12:00.000-07:002009-06-04T07:33:07.162-07:00Day at home and other ramblings<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAxuT5mPCv3vVC3CJdCbze0Vmcr-c6cEqGK_0p0W2KCeh2YGHCtdKeUuP-nyz7lBu7lF3z8PGf9a4KIb4vH9BJkuXeSbuEiuX4DUWPsv5_KU4ADcqhpPTg4Eyk9b7PXq80hLzSJPFgr1A/s1600-h/catweazle.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 302px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAxuT5mPCv3vVC3CJdCbze0Vmcr-c6cEqGK_0p0W2KCeh2YGHCtdKeUuP-nyz7lBu7lF3z8PGf9a4KIb4vH9BJkuXeSbuEiuX4DUWPsv5_KU4ADcqhpPTg4Eyk9b7PXq80hLzSJPFgr1A/s320/catweazle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343476303830217602" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I cancelled all my lessons today, just felt like it and stayed at home. Watched a few DVD’s. Some film and then Catweazle. Yeah, I know I was too young for Catweazle, but he was here in Czechoslovakia and readily approved by the Communists. Exactly why, defeats all reason, possibly because he opposed William the Conqueror. Maybe because he kept a frog called Touchwood and did magic.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Cv1SqYB4EbEJ24b9EWd_O-OZkLK4XXfZiirYq2iwmoEkcLldSvoktulaYn_F2dgWPUkcDw0VR_DjomXiVi5JRbCPpIpLloqEtYS65jPE8Rn0S4MsjPTzLI6DnQ5cPWHe69Vu32xsBSY/s1600-h/marlboroman.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 227px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Cv1SqYB4EbEJ24b9EWd_O-OZkLK4XXfZiirYq2iwmoEkcLldSvoktulaYn_F2dgWPUkcDw0VR_DjomXiVi5JRbCPpIpLloqEtYS65jPE8Rn0S4MsjPTzLI6DnQ5cPWHe69Vu32xsBSY/s320/marlboroman.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343478732779265410" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It’s sometimes strange to live in country that was until quite recently a communist dictatorship. When you look around, you’ll see much more advertising than in UK. In Britain it’s banned on motorways for example, here it’s everywhere on the roads. At least 30% of all cars have some kind of blatant advert it seems.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Dagmar, my girlfriend came home to make lunch, she’s fattening me up for Christmas I reckon. Down here in Brno, most people have a big lunch and then a light dinner. But for me it’s difficult to feel anything but sleepy after, so it’s loads of strong coffee and force myself out.<br /><br />Czechs have strange ideas about England. They think English food is the most boring in the world, but they don’t what we eat, apart from Fish & Chips. They think all English beer is warm and flat, mm.. ok some is. They even ask if I have a bowler hat! They are also fascinated with the USA and especially with the Wild West. They watch an old western TV show called Vinnetou and his friend Old Shatterhand. I watched an episode, amazing Stewart Granger was in it!! But, the original language was German and it was shot on location in Yugoslavia. How did Stewart Granger manage to pull it off?<br /><br /><br />Their country music is just as interesting, I didn’t know that Kenny Rodgers made Czech versions of all his hits. My mum would be horrified!! She’s actually an Eagles fan.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGH3-n1gpRyyfyzccOWctPpzSoSxlEREoDhitzQyvyUV9bjXUF5NIzeHBK7k-0Mw1plhlzN7panBMkq7QojGQK1lE4wHPBbRf7c2bPtjGdPH-F-ZYbKBs8Nnw-kktYV6LVErsF_u2w9jk/s1600-h/boy+guitarist.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 165px; height: 156px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGH3-n1gpRyyfyzccOWctPpzSoSxlEREoDhitzQyvyUV9bjXUF5NIzeHBK7k-0Mw1plhlzN7panBMkq7QojGQK1lE4wHPBbRf7c2bPtjGdPH-F-ZYbKBs8Nnw-kktYV6LVErsF_u2w9jk/s320/boy+guitarist.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343480121313977042" border="0" /></a>When I was a kid, she made me take guitar lessons so I could try and play all her favourite numbers, well I didn’t have much choice.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNyF6Jt6EJJk6-AZFvsHJEdx4g4_r_W2qMKO11PXYE83x8_E5W9-fgOoA8DpL-gDwZ9YAJQqMKI13y0mjcQtpsXaPE_nTQVWunCU-q9JIHUHqK7NqVGsQINB9MtsJqUf1dis2iGIQfRdY/s1600-h/eagles.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNyF6Jt6EJJk6-AZFvsHJEdx4g4_r_W2qMKO11PXYE83x8_E5W9-fgOoA8DpL-gDwZ9YAJQqMKI13y0mjcQtpsXaPE_nTQVWunCU-q9JIHUHqK7NqVGsQINB9MtsJqUf1dis2iGIQfRdY/s320/eagles.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343479125704482882" border="0" /></a>Now she usually listens to the Eagles after a few in the pub. She sings along out of tune, much to her boyfriend Johnnie’s delight. Then she gets a word or two completely wrong, which has Johnnie bursting out in a fit of giggles.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Mum texted me that she’d call tonight with a bit of news.Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-91818427895641981872009-05-28T02:52:00.001-07:002009-05-28T03:01:49.177-07:00No Internet for a week and weekend in Prague
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie2zn1w8YoFgTjBbodUc5x6o3kS5TGHJCPHKSTnoWddcfImfGEOT9xuAXcPBt2yhjlq902TZu01_suy-JkvPIISsqH0bZ_VrOEqk_jh_6gq1ZO9zH2Fgt1-IMlJSp4s5HfPjoVhk__haQ/s1600-h/no+internet.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 188px; height: 147px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie2zn1w8YoFgTjBbodUc5x6o3kS5TGHJCPHKSTnoWddcfImfGEOT9xuAXcPBt2yhjlq902TZu01_suy-JkvPIISsqH0bZ_VrOEqk_jh_6gq1ZO9zH2Fgt1-IMlJSp4s5HfPjoVhk__haQ/s320/no+internet.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340810770779546274" border="0" /></a>
<br /><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CDavid%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Well, life without connecting to the internet is strange these days. But, our router decided not to work. I think it died of overuse actually. The girls and Honza were fighting over the computer, my laptop is usually with me.
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<br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-dP-ScdTA4XePxuWczDk71zWQmg9F9obc2nd_8Fmz6ledageFUNq-V8vTUxf_XpS-NCGNwUFfrwSJtsJ7kNLtG2rql4baVj_KZUoyUND36mF6ylfxhEKmDKX3Asy26ZCyTMWn6buRVlg/s1600-h/russian+fed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 135px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-dP-ScdTA4XePxuWczDk71zWQmg9F9obc2nd_8Fmz6ledageFUNq-V8vTUxf_XpS-NCGNwUFfrwSJtsJ7kNLtG2rql4baVj_KZUoyUND36mF6ylfxhEKmDKX3Asy26ZCyTMWn6buRVlg/s320/russian+fed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340811307323987826" border="0" /></a>
<br /><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CDavid%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="country-region"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">But he was popular, he can download free music and films from Russian sites which the girls liked immensely. Blank CD’s were piled everywhere. My wish-list came true a long time ago now, I’ve got a music collection to die for. God bless the </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Russian Federation</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="" lang="EN-GB">!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
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<br /><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CDavid%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNvyl2iHe9LoKVBl0lUQNUbTLHzLNCoVZCvdpTHRjKzmox1rDJEgpxDbcE0FM3wEqwR87DORzWVJi8Xn7xHC22cmHXYDslTI1VYSUkyy_iYGSeKB-8ubEMv96BOEdrsMPSvyfRyCpGzrk/s1600-h/malastrana.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNvyl2iHe9LoKVBl0lUQNUbTLHzLNCoVZCvdpTHRjKzmox1rDJEgpxDbcE0FM3wEqwR87DORzWVJi8Xn7xHC22cmHXYDslTI1VYSUkyy_iYGSeKB-8ubEMv96BOEdrsMPSvyfRyCpGzrk/s320/malastrana.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340812157767706530" border="0" /></a><span style="" lang="EN-GB">The atmosphere is completely different to </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Brno</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="" lang="EN-GB">. </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Prague</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="" lang="EN-GB"> is like a huge West End of London. It just goes on and on. It seemed that only bar staff were Czechs.<span style=""> </span>Dagmar, my girlfriend, was knackered from speaking English all weekend. Am I the only foreigner ordering drinks in Czech?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">
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<br /></p><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CDavid%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Dagmar slept in the car all the way home. Everything seemed back to normal when my Mum called; Mags, my ex-girlfriend still wants the car back, she’s been calling.
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">But, no chance. No-one in their right mind gives up an almost new Audi A4. Mums boyfriend, who’s a lawyer, says it’s mine legally now, although I didn’t pay for it. But he’ll look into it further. I’ll just keep polishing it and hope for the best.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
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<br /><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CDavid%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="country-region"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]-->Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-52981707977534955282009-05-19T11:50:00.000-07:002009-05-19T12:53:44.498-07:00Wild Weekend. What is Kofola?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhgh4kQBn2MJaUbGZmffqjWCN57w8UB8gdlBGkmz9wFLI1IuvAnpReGepNv5AgKhX4Djg1ba9SgNb9mVH3J95MR2xlRMmCwcG3JiYLV0fvqsWFw7SlWsGlsyuQyyZ-HoBGil3QnS0t7FE/s1600-h/kofola_000top.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 446px; height: 87px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhgh4kQBn2MJaUbGZmffqjWCN57w8UB8gdlBGkmz9wFLI1IuvAnpReGepNv5AgKhX4Djg1ba9SgNb9mVH3J95MR2xlRMmCwcG3JiYLV0fvqsWFw7SlWsGlsyuQyyZ-HoBGil3QnS0t7FE/s320/kofola_000top.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337621564304201410" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Well, the weekend went quite quietly actually. My daughter Kate and her friend admitted they liked Honza, Dagmars son. Apart from 7 things.<br /><br />1-He's too young<br /><br />2-He doesn't speak English<br /><br />3-He doesn't actually speak<br /><br />4-Too much aftershave<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrFstf0O12R64jdDtXJou_1lfOvOf219wwjmWAU45qyaIRC-p2SBCSuJs8Y7uplYyBoxot-mhv7oLLNrDNDD4wmcZYhwrzjhKQb60drR0rRbQcrlOnsIR8IdXREjPVNgWPmA1oTNn6lnU/s1600-h/sbo0305l.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrFstf0O12R64jdDtXJou_1lfOvOf219wwjmWAU45qyaIRC-p2SBCSuJs8Y7uplYyBoxot-mhv7oLLNrDNDD4wmcZYhwrzjhKQb60drR0rRbQcrlOnsIR8IdXREjPVNgWPmA1oTNn6lnU/s320/sbo0305l.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337620389041568178" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />5-Spends too long in the bathroom (if they only knew why!)<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyc4FpyQ28UA4USWXuy0kW4cUBQDGI41ehHkj4TOLKXoT4-nE6-GU1sJ4TnHj9lfLEuZQECElyicg7MaMnxQ19Urn5BWf9Ye9LLeC8fTUwGrgnj5zeDN13GhG28mRONAzCgPWlhP622AI/s1600-h/dances+like+a+git.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 120px; height: 141px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyc4FpyQ28UA4USWXuy0kW4cUBQDGI41ehHkj4TOLKXoT4-nE6-GU1sJ4TnHj9lfLEuZQECElyicg7MaMnxQ19Urn5BWf9Ye9LLeC8fTUwGrgnj5zeDN13GhG28mRONAzCgPWlhP622AI/s320/dances+like+a+git.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337620842359003522" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />6-He dances like a git<br /><br />7-He doesn't drink ("we did since 14!" they boasted)<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiseXiRz-Sy9LWTITBjGR-n8YKyeWBHr-MEztDoh1TvtrBpqBB3l475Kj8LQ65ewIPXNyQnA1tdJ1EiminGJr4wcjZ5Bgfsa9NaR-AzeCZ13O_vEiQyzgRjhPrm5XWYEFYsARHaJRk5Gk/s1600-h/squeeze_spot_cartoon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 189px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiseXiRz-Sy9LWTITBjGR-n8YKyeWBHr-MEztDoh1TvtrBpqBB3l475Kj8LQ65ewIPXNyQnA1tdJ1EiminGJr4wcjZ5Bgfsa9NaR-AzeCZ13O_vEiQyzgRjhPrm5XWYEFYsARHaJRk5Gk/s320/squeeze_spot_cartoon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337621224019450034" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />But, he's good looking and doesn't have spots (HA HA HA!)<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKnhhEOATPQUayImjXLNIc1w8ORpV87wJZxeuHI4sG3M8Wu70z8-z-52Vm0N11L1wr_YwI9SKTt2tQQcJEJqfpQfovcwcZj_5ElW53lO4W0_fTvuUxEzHxN1csKKIhEChc93O8mWdYKDA/s1600-h/kofola_leto.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 159px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKnhhEOATPQUayImjXLNIc1w8ORpV87wJZxeuHI4sG3M8Wu70z8-z-52Vm0N11L1wr_YwI9SKTt2tQQcJEJqfpQfovcwcZj_5ElW53lO4W0_fTvuUxEzHxN1csKKIhEChc93O8mWdYKDA/s320/kofola_leto.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337621941413045874" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />"And what is this Kofola?" they asked "It's a bit flat and it's crap with Bacardi"<br />(Gawd, I thought, they're only 17. Even I like Kofola)<br /><br />Luckily they spoke too quickly for Honza to understand, poor boy.<br /><br />But it's not all been going their way, Jessica peed behind a taxi on a rank, Saturday night, and it drove away before she finished!Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-18158403531661057682009-05-15T13:01:00.000-07:002009-05-15T13:20:41.215-07:00Friday, the girls arrive from London<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie4nRR2JOlsacj1QOu11wuNA9cMb_5kyk0KaJ1FRYpOiKQd_4AgfSBeDC14CftB9uEDfPiiR6o04xjy9_qSnbUNkrFTX4R1Fc_PVZOyWnPMHuvkZFMuD302r0xqzjBnAQ3hF7TkiFIe6Y/s1600-h/1351670344_0c14221a1d.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 157px; height: 116px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie4nRR2JOlsacj1QOu11wuNA9cMb_5kyk0KaJ1FRYpOiKQd_4AgfSBeDC14CftB9uEDfPiiR6o04xjy9_qSnbUNkrFTX4R1Fc_PVZOyWnPMHuvkZFMuD302r0xqzjBnAQ3hF7TkiFIe6Y/s320/1351670344_0c14221a1d.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336144243580062146" border="0" /></a><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CDavid%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinGHCnXqLGmxqiXtcaRn73cYCcmI9O5_yDcUdVtIMQXum7MljMlsDP7T4Wv8Jac-Nd-iM0isni9upqW55CoH2_-3F3ZRuwS341D3c0wf3PZWfpbJk-who4s5GRn6lxWCG2iow9Zc4dWsw/s1600-h/brno_airport.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 167px; height: 113px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinGHCnXqLGmxqiXtcaRn73cYCcmI9O5_yDcUdVtIMQXum7MljMlsDP7T4Wv8Jac-Nd-iM0isni9upqW55CoH2_-3F3ZRuwS341D3c0wf3PZWfpbJk-who4s5GRn6lxWCG2iow9Zc4dWsw/s320/brno_airport.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336144662436699602" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;">
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<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;">Well it’s Friday evening and I picked up the girls from the airport this afternoon. What was all the fuss about I wonder.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;">
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;">The ex has been on the phone more times than I can remember. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;">“Are you sure the flat is big enough, it’s not a hostel?” ( A hostel, I ask you)<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;">“ Has it got hot water? “ (no, we wash in the river)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;">“ How old is this boy?” (he’s 23 and has 37 previous convictions)</span></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho1cD9u9YQ8YGv6s2-oVRwt34ABDrJjD7YIfS2-3M6Sat1bKuK0NO17ZSqVPVFdKqVRQzQcEUPyGXRvzmxhqPCa7abEy2powekdFwc1uCgUUSIKjfyygKzPMh1nbM4mzSqGUf2-2b6l8A/s1600-h/keaton-behind-bars-variety.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 312px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho1cD9u9YQ8YGv6s2-oVRwt34ABDrJjD7YIfS2-3M6Sat1bKuK0NO17ZSqVPVFdKqVRQzQcEUPyGXRvzmxhqPCa7abEy2powekdFwc1uCgUUSIKjfyygKzPMh1nbM4mzSqGUf2-2b6l8A/s320/keaton-behind-bars-variety.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336147958397181282" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;">She also phoned Mum loads of times, but Mum re-assured her. I was then warned of an incoming calls. Sod the re-assurance. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;">
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;">So, the ex drove them to Stansted and I picked them up today.</span>
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<br /><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;">It’s not just the ex who’s been acting up. Honza, Dagmars boy has been up in the air about this too. He spent ages in the bathroom, he’s shaved all the fluff off his chin, spent another 20 minutes in front of the mirror removing and hiding 2 spots from his forehead. He came out smelling a bit fragrant, he’d used the best part of a bottle of aftershave. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;">Teenagers will always be strange, they only speak to other teenagers, to anyone else it’s just Yeh or No or Dunno. When I picked up Katie and her friend it just like this. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;">Kate wanted to sit in the back of the car with her friend, who I now know is Jessica.<span style=""> </span>Dinner was quiet and a bit pungent with Honza’s aftershave. Now they’re out, Honza’s showing them round town.<span style=""> </span>He got a grunt of approval, when they saw him, and Honza spoke his first ever word in English today. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;">We couldn’t believe it, he said “Hello” amazingly followed by “How are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;">The answer was<span style=""> </span>“Yeh, ok”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<br />
<br />Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-23363279166476391732009-05-14T03:03:00.000-07:002009-05-14T13:46:05.471-07:00Interesting Cars & Strange Bikes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiM5qq9oB4xvikbhgJi8DB1JTxHkDckfey8oOEeC9Vg_Czzz_qyCNZKzEDgH9Hpcy5RkrgaEtcYWLfyGcteozyfRIzICH06v3xL-CX2xBMxpMewK1iJojAkvWbBxcQKQ7ay6y1euXjFDo/s1600-h/Image005.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 386px; height: 308px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiM5qq9oB4xvikbhgJi8DB1JTxHkDckfey8oOEeC9Vg_Czzz_qyCNZKzEDgH9Hpcy5RkrgaEtcYWLfyGcteozyfRIzICH06v3xL-CX2xBMxpMewK1iJojAkvWbBxcQKQ7ay6y1euXjFDo/s320/Image005.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335622659236397554" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Today started off nicely, sunny and promising, but now it's raining. I was just thinking back to the weekend, when we went to Telč. There was a kind of display of old and interesting cars and motorbikes. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit-7xoEFun5sfzL8A55gORjEL5VxKzw_-0QYcWxuqKSVK4D_2L7VI4xJ28MucazftrEQoFYGAM4in5xqYN8KE2QJvgXftnGmqsIIN8mdFC4Jwm14mRMu2YCySahy1NwSWcfsTixGGGug4/s1600-h/mobile+may+2009+007.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 182px; height: 146px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit-7xoEFun5sfzL8A55gORjEL5VxKzw_-0QYcWxuqKSVK4D_2L7VI4xJ28MucazftrEQoFYGAM4in5xqYN8KE2QJvgXftnGmqsIIN8mdFC4Jwm14mRMu2YCySahy1NwSWcfsTixGGGug4/s320/mobile+may+2009+007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335621795191615650" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9I64f5o0QcGPV-_9kxVpVHE9M8smuVqPUv7QupCTf3xEYHEbUG1ncS9GT-3AtjI7a6EB73geJydhzs5DBZmtc-6dCLc29X4ySXhgkD-JbQGvhPovzN1P0G7yGagZ3ib-Kic9329NQQcI/s1600-h/mobile+may+2009+008.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 182px; height: 143px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9I64f5o0QcGPV-_9kxVpVHE9M8smuVqPUv7QupCTf3xEYHEbUG1ncS9GT-3AtjI7a6EB73geJydhzs5DBZmtc-6dCLc29X4ySXhgkD-JbQGvhPovzN1P0G7yGagZ3ib-Kic9329NQQcI/s320/mobile+may+2009+008.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335623024636846098" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Also some kind of cycling club, where they all dress up in pre-war clothes and cycle round on old bicyles. They went twice round the square and then to the pub!! My kind of cycling trip!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii6a__Oxd-MvAALGc5ANye8pvToyBuKwaOYo7_G1-wOZVwA9coH4EIOBoLUgz0GjSsNf4jk4Sm5QWWfhoxNcWd-nqydvBkiRWCX_xzGIxMvyFdjhF6DmOOhotLQe4HvFcbMo9aDAVfKVA/s1600-h/mobile+may+2009+005.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 366px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii6a__Oxd-MvAALGc5ANye8pvToyBuKwaOYo7_G1-wOZVwA9coH4EIOBoLUgz0GjSsNf4jk4Sm5QWWfhoxNcWd-nqydvBkiRWCX_xzGIxMvyFdjhF6DmOOhotLQe4HvFcbMo9aDAVfKVA/s320/mobile+may+2009+005.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335624604225834514" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />And not one them locked up!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNCSOXyUkwijX036JBRknc_pQtztyoPP8xQb1CjIii6fxAMw3ntN9R_qE52C7JgXe96r7nOoq0i3VVFEB9f5fWC-cm7L2dB1HPgwzS48QALAK2BhIHGj76ZBYE29h0oXbLHK8HqFeCv8o/s1600-h/mobile+may+2009+006.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 379px; height: 302px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNCSOXyUkwijX036JBRknc_pQtztyoPP8xQb1CjIii6fxAMw3ntN9R_qE52C7JgXe96r7nOoq0i3VVFEB9f5fWC-cm7L2dB1HPgwzS48QALAK2BhIHGj76ZBYE29h0oXbLHK8HqFeCv8o/s320/mobile+may+2009+006.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335625453925622946" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Can someone tell me what this is? (not the picnic basket)<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyZBDczLBw-T-wTayA0Grtrt-NWV7kj91MBVIQ-lClufMC14O6Xatv94qL2kMOrxbPPJeXeTKnKaHAus-iKKpBwoz2N2WA0iLOCuS2WT538DXSETuLQIndnDkWqY-HqriJ8pQx64h1Xqo/s1600-h/mobile+may+2009+034.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyZBDczLBw-T-wTayA0Grtrt-NWV7kj91MBVIQ-lClufMC14O6Xatv94qL2kMOrxbPPJeXeTKnKaHAus-iKKpBwoz2N2WA0iLOCuS2WT538DXSETuLQIndnDkWqY-HqriJ8pQx64h1Xqo/s320/mobile+may+2009+034.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335626799415570514" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Is it a Jag? A Morgan? Help me out folks.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzOQ0UXaLHEGKM1T4TrE1rf51xNHMmeI6_qBCTyBaIhuJUH_VqbAmsAT1g0bHu-dQqr6BrZwE3bSxLiH_5sAbxKwri6NKqRNqEim1JntCIEFAs_ykaFTLN9xaRrbstHCPr9ZzcEWRwQYo/s1600-h/mobile+may+2009+047.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 169px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzOQ0UXaLHEGKM1T4TrE1rf51xNHMmeI6_qBCTyBaIhuJUH_VqbAmsAT1g0bHu-dQqr6BrZwE3bSxLiH_5sAbxKwri6NKqRNqEim1JntCIEFAs_ykaFTLN9xaRrbstHCPr9ZzcEWRwQYo/s320/mobile+may+2009+047.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335627335546634898" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7mbEbDz5a3AdFU0DMXR5zR1RD_1NAFGf3kpgygB_lCj27_h9VNERh_e9RgMVxesA95EY1U7XtBsQiwueu6cQ9OHtRTbbGGH-LFSh-mpJNPOgqpWzWpmD4WrQEgHbm0mm4C3reJfMOl6s/s1600-h/mobile+may+2009+046.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 172px; height: 138px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7mbEbDz5a3AdFU0DMXR5zR1RD_1NAFGf3kpgygB_lCj27_h9VNERh_e9RgMVxesA95EY1U7XtBsQiwueu6cQ9OHtRTbbGGH-LFSh-mpJNPOgqpWzWpmD4WrQEgHbm0mm4C3reJfMOl6s/s320/mobile+may+2009+046.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335627976087289522" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> Weird & Weirder still!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipTmneDP-T5MIhPUfYmxxieWzNM2p5yoBOGXrwNKE5EhIOfUdH2yK2UkjRw4kHupKAGLiZNXJkbqe1cxF90ZVks1xUqxoJmi7lhSvQdzFHSntXltd4dUHcLWCHRf8ooOwIRYb32gjI1nc/s1600-h/mobile+may+2009+044.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 376px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipTmneDP-T5MIhPUfYmxxieWzNM2p5yoBOGXrwNKE5EhIOfUdH2yK2UkjRw4kHupKAGLiZNXJkbqe1cxF90ZVks1xUqxoJmi7lhSvQdzFHSntXltd4dUHcLWCHRf8ooOwIRYb32gjI1nc/s320/mobile+may+2009+044.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335628624616555858" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />A prop from Where Eagles Dare? Complete with machine gun.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnC6xEfNZMgLoWXFc6M01OjsZp4ja2sQFrFbW9FRVBTFo_YFldbBG5SHfbgJGYR-pexq3MhbVat1_6O7KH6qDn_cQ-i_tN2DwMtrn0KZ2ijrhzc7b754efOpwVTnjlapEd1h6agWBHP34/s1600-h/mobile+may+2009+045.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnC6xEfNZMgLoWXFc6M01OjsZp4ja2sQFrFbW9FRVBTFo_YFldbBG5SHfbgJGYR-pexq3MhbVat1_6O7KH6qDn_cQ-i_tN2DwMtrn0KZ2ijrhzc7b754efOpwVTnjlapEd1h6agWBHP34/s320/mobile+may+2009+045.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335629181527750194" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQuMPPk57Unnf_wUcD281wS1foVo1rfrXqjRTNAweQVR50n5oTcSCn-QnedWpcnlDAIkLfYRSW5p1DzzJsc7Vv_wRW2iL0P8uMaUV9Xwa4c0hg-PXO4_TVMAeOYE8H6q4CPVS2tBXEy18/s1600-h/mobile+may+2009+043.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 154px; height: 125px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQuMPPk57Unnf_wUcD281wS1foVo1rfrXqjRTNAweQVR50n5oTcSCn-QnedWpcnlDAIkLfYRSW5p1DzzJsc7Vv_wRW2iL0P8uMaUV9Xwa4c0hg-PXO4_TVMAeOYE8H6q4CPVS2tBXEy18/s320/mobile+may+2009+043.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335629657132954146" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Mobile park bench! & a Nice old Royal Enfield<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfl4WlQsqCgSlkPAdw8Jw15BhwkjMli0YFprI-1F1eiSXR_zZ5jEF8H63Wd0yAlIIYV4O4V4anYYGH0IDExQTZ83G_gTgBvibW44hFbivcV6vvcRtIH1gifRqlD0495uZYfcEaXJXbeXY/s1600-h/mobile+may+2009+042.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 149px; height: 119px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfl4WlQsqCgSlkPAdw8Jw15BhwkjMli0YFprI-1F1eiSXR_zZ5jEF8H63Wd0yAlIIYV4O4V4anYYGH0IDExQTZ83G_gTgBvibW44hFbivcV6vvcRtIH1gifRqlD0495uZYfcEaXJXbeXY/s320/mobile+may+2009+042.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335630449804867762" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ASYESphSwibPOKZUjL3xr-wZSJRUQBeW4OhA2Ke0WTVlz_O06qkYE8Qor1H84gLMY6lE0ohIyzP1nSeXuZzyvYPhtSV9b3S-tm89e0tjp9h5KuJDMdylLVIlRkApKRTive-pd0Pw2FE/s1600-h/mobile+may+2009+009.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 118px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ASYESphSwibPOKZUjL3xr-wZSJRUQBeW4OhA2Ke0WTVlz_O06qkYE8Qor1H84gLMY6lE0ohIyzP1nSeXuZzyvYPhtSV9b3S-tm89e0tjp9h5KuJDMdylLVIlRkApKRTive-pd0Pw2FE/s320/mobile+may+2009+009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335630900531959666" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Another mystery. & Meet the locals!<br /><br />So, a great day and a great place, visit sometime.Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-26921100389710426682009-05-12T00:27:00.000-07:002009-05-12T03:21:50.181-07:00Four Letter words, Renault Badge<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR7WmEYAuN_pEdEhTOFFemj0OQX410s1FjBcFvL9Eq5ayR1VyQZuPxAm84c1OElzvHVZ70eyQmK-MwgzNCjdmRfKCEdJ6nKj0au__rSq6RHQKmFz3tyOjXnmITOPhbpxYBX_KgN6n5Br4/s1600-h/Renault.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR7WmEYAuN_pEdEhTOFFemj0OQX410s1FjBcFvL9Eq5ayR1VyQZuPxAm84c1OElzvHVZ70eyQmK-MwgzNCjdmRfKCEdJ6nKj0au__rSq6RHQKmFz3tyOjXnmITOPhbpxYBX_KgN6n5Br4/s320/Renault.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334838189604232514" border="0" /></a><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CDavid%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="PlaceName"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="PlaceType"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">I’ve been meaning to come back to you all about this, and it’s a tricky subject. Why did Dagmar take the Renault badge off her car?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><span style=""> </span>Well… Czechs don’t swear or use bad language like we do in English, they use pictures and there’s a funny shape that looks something like a Renault badge or something lozenge shaped that refers to a part of your anatomy. And if you’re a boy, don’t waste your time looking, it ain’t there! With me so far?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">You know, oh come on, surely I don’t have to spell it out do I?<span style=""> </span>Ok, it lives near the little starfish, are you getting close?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Personally, I’ve always been a bit strange about lozenges, even when I had a bad throat. I’m quite fussy what I put in my mouth. I’m talking about Strepsils, of course.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAtsbh18u0qLVejg16JIMfxmzwkHk2PtEVWGETpqph6dlr8c0gzAG3DOJ37FS8sjG7Fp0AFGhbgbT9OvI9ZfRHSwzVjeXsHo8SSnWxdnlG539J9h19J7RmZUos03JzL1PSVvkDDnIvJKY/s1600-h/3205070477_c7563a97c3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 343px; height: 255px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAtsbh18u0qLVejg16JIMfxmzwkHk2PtEVWGETpqph6dlr8c0gzAG3DOJ37FS8sjG7Fp0AFGhbgbT9OvI9ZfRHSwzVjeXsHo8SSnWxdnlG539J9h19J7RmZUos03JzL1PSVvkDDnIvJKY/s320/3205070477_c7563a97c3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334838466003595202" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">And there’s a rock group here in </span><st1:place><st1:placename><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Czech</span></st1:placename><span style="" lang="EN-GB"> </span><st1:placetype><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Republic</span></st1:placetype></st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB"> called </span>Tři Sestry (3 Sisters) and according to Czechs, they are pushing their luck, because they have a symbol like this:</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQJ7XdgXt96wObByPHo-Pzs25bswagAnKMhjt3afvRXg-aerYfbdPwsUd_nsNoEyMF2cRpPl_1GQAKl6iX1Xm5NwPihkl5nidMf4GSq_ocVmyvxKwF43Tw1lkU-bmYLMe4qBp_Q64GBS8/s1600-h/tri+sestry.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 135px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQJ7XdgXt96wObByPHo-Pzs25bswagAnKMhjt3afvRXg-aerYfbdPwsUd_nsNoEyMF2cRpPl_1GQAKl6iX1Xm5NwPihkl5nidMf4GSq_ocVmyvxKwF43Tw1lkU-bmYLMe4qBp_Q64GBS8/s320/tri+sestry.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334838865078679986" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">What a bunch of lozenges!!! </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The point is that Dagmar doesn’t want something on the front of her car that says</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"> “I am a Lozenge!”</p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal">I've just looked at my flag counter I've got 29 online, from round the world. Yahoooo!!
<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal">So, you like my blog?? Please leave a comment if you do.
<br /><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p> Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-91923944219361984732009-05-11T02:44:00.000-07:002009-05-11T03:03:30.137-07:00Early Start !!<p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFnmSR5q9JoEA_vc0KYDJNa__b_cgFdUpz8ga34kgy-eXMVwFPORA4FDEDksgQ-umeq2v10iqj726WMpKQh4ikgUtBKQVYtOS6WuV-_NxyODy6ilouWuc_T3-KbIst_nFmRJFJsfHJ3UU/s1600-h/franz.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 172px; height: 263px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFnmSR5q9JoEA_vc0KYDJNa__b_cgFdUpz8ga34kgy-eXMVwFPORA4FDEDksgQ-umeq2v10iqj726WMpKQh4ikgUtBKQVYtOS6WuV-_NxyODy6ilouWuc_T3-KbIst_nFmRJFJsfHJ3UU/s320/franz.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334500941816358658" border="0" /></a></p>
<br /><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CDavid%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="time"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Wingdings; panose-1:5 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-charset:2; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:0 268435456 0 0 -2147483648 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} /* List Definitions */ @list l0 {mso-list-id:963659625; mso-list-type:hybrid; mso-list-template-ids:-1601930264 67698689 67698691 67698693 67698689 67698691 67698693 67698689 67698691 67698693;} @list l0:level1 {mso-level-number-format:bullet; mso-level-text:; mso-level-tab-stop:36.0pt; mso-level-number-position:left; text-indent:-18.0pt; font-family:Symbol;} ol {margin-bottom:0cm;} ul {margin-bottom:0cm;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Early start today, </span><st1:time minute="0" hour="7"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">7.00 a.m.</span></st1:time><span style="" lang="EN-GB"> Czechs are nutters, they want classes in the middle of the night!
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">We went to bed early last night and I fell asleep before 10. Now I’m up dead early with a bit of time.
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">They have a habit here of starting early and finishing early, some start at 6!! It goes back to the Austrian Empire and the Emperor who couldn’t sleep, so everyone else felt obliged to get up at dark o’ clock.
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">When they finish at about 2 or 3 in </span><span style="" lang="EN-GB">the afternoon, they all seem to do the same things.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <ul style="margin-top: 0cm;" type="disc"><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Go to their 2<sup>nd</sup> job<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Work in the gardens<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Get sloshed<o:p></o:p></span></li></ul> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">I have to keep working, because a few of them want to do English after work. Dagmar works similar to me, she’s a manageress in a cleaning company, so her job is before and after normal working hours. But she can go home, she’s on call a lot though. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Teaching was good today, last lesson was 4 men who are production managers in a manufacturing company. We practiced doing guided tours of the firm in English.<span style=""> </span>
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">So, today, it’s home for lunch. What will we eat, I wonder?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">So home now, Yes, we’ll have Rabbit!!.
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<br /></span></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrpRG8GhT5jdDaZk6AbxF2rRa4YCiKgCRIlLbnIIfN-tYbLd7kBUmNxC-M5p9ecSLCrOTq0tPqXGE0kptUDU5dgatjz5RHMwj-KKxmvTnPuIIU-0Vd-eVcRbaies0W5qz28F9eWt7mxX4/s1600-h/rabbit.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 156px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrpRG8GhT5jdDaZk6AbxF2rRa4YCiKgCRIlLbnIIfN-tYbLd7kBUmNxC-M5p9ecSLCrOTq0tPqXGE0kptUDU5dgatjz5RHMwj-KKxmvTnPuIIU-0Vd-eVcRbaies0W5qz28F9eWt7mxX4/s320/rabbit.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334501347839647106" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Dagmars folks are from out of town in a small village and they are living the Good Life, just like on the old telly programme!! Except it’s quite normal here, not in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Brno</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="" lang="EN-GB"> maybe, but outside town, most people grow and breed their own produce for the table. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Mum and Johnny were out last year and we all visited them, and she saw the rabbits<span style=""> </span>in their cages “Oooh lovely” she said “you keep rabbits”<span style=""> </span>“For a while” said Dagmar with a little smirk.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">In fact we’ve never bought any veg, potatoes, pork and of course, rabbit, it all comes from her parents.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Lunch was great, it’s half an hours rest then back to work. I’ve had a cancellation for the first lesson tomorrow, so I might gown the pub tonight.<o:p></o:p></span></p> Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-53771865981183688102009-05-10T11:07:00.000-07:002009-05-10T11:32:58.037-07:00Dagmars driving experiences and her little car. She’s driving I’m drinking today (I’ll need one !!)<div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSgebYvYZfzu2jTyuoXFnVQjBqIGMjYuy7rKoYiDMyxruVnUyaBApAS7j1KjiSa_jxhlBiJKn4pPoWDGURTm5q4LS1JC2TRTAl7tLX3dMo8m8kPAtvID8t_ukZOBQi_ljkWTZVGkFbb50/s1600-h/Renault_Twingo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 483px; height: 295px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSgebYvYZfzu2jTyuoXFnVQjBqIGMjYuy7rKoYiDMyxruVnUyaBApAS7j1KjiSa_jxhlBiJKn4pPoWDGURTm5q4LS1JC2TRTAl7tLX3dMo8m8kPAtvID8t_ukZOBQi_ljkWTZVGkFbb50/s320/Renault_Twingo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334262326605370178" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br />Dagmars got a little Renault Twingo, you can’t buy them in England, they’re too easily confused with a Twingo biscuit , which is chocolaty and a bit less powerful then the Renault version.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEWNkpSZ4H3VI0zfkprvTlY7PcuXuic4oy5PSkScfkM5Pcqlrtb-JWQCbF5s7sLOJnW2kXH3QA1B2C2XoXt2v6bB06JiaqNEuPrmhBjZifS2vSDIX8uD3xi3cePQ78pBsUQHUOuxWLecI/s1600-h/twingo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 204px; height: 158px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEWNkpSZ4H3VI0zfkprvTlY7PcuXuic4oy5PSkScfkM5Pcqlrtb-JWQCbF5s7sLOJnW2kXH3QA1B2C2XoXt2v6bB06JiaqNEuPrmhBjZifS2vSDIX8uD3xi3cePQ78pBsUQHUOuxWLecI/s320/twingo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334262658535925730" border="0" /></a><br /><br />She loves this little car, always cleaning and polishing it. She has even special music that she’s recorded for playing in it. But!! She never plays music in the car, it would be too distracting in big, nasty, busy Brno, with it’s terrifying junctions and also other scary cars (that’s all of them) that come too close.<br /><br /><br /><br />She has a mental list of junctions that she’s petrified of, and it’s quite a long list, very long in fact. They come in 3 categories;<br /><br />1. Very scary<br />2. Even more scary, enough to give you bad dreams<br />3. So terrifying that you have to drive an extra 5km to avoid them<br /><br />But she drives everyday somehow as part of her job, usually quite slowly with her nice pointy nose almost touching the windscreen. Her knuckles are usually white with pressure, reminds me of an overboard sailor clutching a piece of driftwood.<br /><br />She zips along at 25 – 35 kph, with a long queue of admirers behind. Oh yes, the Renault badge, she took it off, just a blank space now. I’ll tell you about that tomorrow.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1JEJixvFRs8-FwXg_uvaPql26D_40aYhqjhrZJ4qiZbMcU_qkxZ8j-v2UvTN8cr1UnpGpr4qaGghUd62_NfhTyEZ8Iw295Bv15A5DYTma9y87Z0pDPpTmQU4W-eil_O9FeXPM71FzSn0/s1600-h/telc_pres_vodu.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 506px; height: 303px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1JEJixvFRs8-FwXg_uvaPql26D_40aYhqjhrZJ4qiZbMcU_qkxZ8j-v2UvTN8cr1UnpGpr4qaGghUd62_NfhTyEZ8Iw295Bv15A5DYTma9y87Z0pDPpTmQU4W-eil_O9FeXPM71FzSn0/s320/telc_pres_vodu.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334263274786033682" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Today we’re going to Telc, a small historical town. There’s going to be some historical cars parked on the square.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Rp2uTthMfsRBGTzsSQCX6L1ZOOXhSJBiNpp9npB74iUwrIgfmJ2oFm3Wn361GrVqFPRN6DJQ7jHgY7g6pVJs6rASLa58JPoOcUaj8KP_Ya0YLwO_er71EKDS_xEHUkYZ7EeJ_xTCEGo/s1600-h/telc_let.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 451px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Rp2uTthMfsRBGTzsSQCX6L1ZOOXhSJBiNpp9npB74iUwrIgfmJ2oFm3Wn361GrVqFPRN6DJQ7jHgY7g6pVJs6rASLa58JPoOcUaj8KP_Ya0YLwO_er71EKDS_xEHUkYZ7EeJ_xTCEGo/s320/telc_let.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334263711668693458" border="0" /></a>Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-35683548241947278232009-05-08T05:41:00.000-07:002009-05-08T05:42:39.189-07:00Teaching (Friday day off again)Teaching, well it’s been over a week and I haven’t talked about this yet. Let’s start with the English Teaching course first. It was tough for me, I’d never really learnt anything about English grammar, just used it but didn’t understand it. Now I can recognise loads of grammar forms, tenses, you name it, I’ve now taught it. The course was very intensive and more stressful than I could imagine. It was also quite weird being taught by a Czech about your own language. <br /><br />My first lesson was the worst. On the teaching course, you spend hours preparing a lesson. My first lesson I had 2 minutes to find the page and then I was off in front of students looking at me and hoping to learn something. <br /><br />When Czechs ask for a teacher from an English Speaking country, they are usually at a higher level. Beginners lessons are normally 75% in Czech, because of explanations. <br />Anything from Intermediate level upwards can be completely in English, but you have to slow down and keep it simple. I’ve taught Elementary students, but it’s tough explaining grammar. Quite often these students will tire of a native speaker and ask for a change. Don’t despair, it’s nothing personal, it’s tough for them at this level to speak nothing but English at this stage.<br /><br />Teaching can be very rewarding, a real ego boost when they laugh at your jokes, or better still when you can see they’ve picked something up. <br /><br />I gotta tell you now. Czech women are gorgeous, they’re taller, slimmer, dress better and prettier than anything you could dream about. Temptations are everywhere. Some are like filmstars, but beware, if you’ve got a class of both male and female, don’t fall into the trap of neglecting the guys. They’re the ones who’ll help you out, telling you the best places to get your car fixed, where the best pubs are etc. They’ll be your mates, the girls will go back home to their husbands and boyfriends. If you’re not professional about this, you’ll lose students, it’s as simple as that. But, the girls are nice to look at and tell jokesTerry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-50374393749957231882009-05-04T12:42:00.000-07:002009-05-04T12:46:56.938-07:00Monday, another week<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6YW7mqW8RsAzpVX8BNxOGqG6gzdHVxiBPWkljtdACtVpKR5QOmJKakyPSt7pJeuv6tUrI43wW7dPrftKn2lar8-QkxVZliCBaioXVc8ylKXN3dLz7P4ZPAiFzBsyiK4aRKKMWk3N1s54/s1600-h/brno-tram.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 201px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6YW7mqW8RsAzpVX8BNxOGqG6gzdHVxiBPWkljtdACtVpKR5QOmJKakyPSt7pJeuv6tUrI43wW7dPrftKn2lar8-QkxVZliCBaioXVc8ylKXN3dLz7P4ZPAiFzBsyiK4aRKKMWk3N1s54/s320/brno-tram.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332056793923393282" border="0" /></a>
<br /><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CDavid%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Start of another week. It’s a bit blowy and I’ll take the tram because it’s a nightmare parking right in the centre. I like trams, they have nice faces, sort of happy. They have newer ones that don’t look so happy with their downturned mouths. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">It took me a while to get used to travelling this way and I thought the trams were really cheap, until someone told me that you have put your ticket into a little yellow mouth to get it time & date-stamped. I’d had the same ticket for 4 weeks.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">I also like the lady’s voice who announces the next stop, it’s easy to understand and a good way to learn Czech , in a limited sort of way. It’s the same voice in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Prague</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="" lang="EN-GB"> and </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Brno</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="" lang="EN-GB"> (she get’s about you know!)<span style=""> </span>Here in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Brno</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="" lang="EN-GB"> they call their trams “Shalina” or “Elektrika”, which is nuts but nice. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG3DW6zi8qC6r1XJAKLzAENopyAp5Zj1doCppih4lHduokjIjsMVZh4u7X8auGsylCFD27vynCRqLEaOLOz9fhkLqZqP8_JGZtREiyYP3An0uJfdZhYdUAXbxH40DnnFk4zSfR7cMAxxc/s1600-h/800px-tram_13t_brno1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 220px; height: 165px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG3DW6zi8qC6r1XJAKLzAENopyAp5Zj1doCppih4lHduokjIjsMVZh4u7X8auGsylCFD27vynCRqLEaOLOz9fhkLqZqP8_JGZtREiyYP3An0uJfdZhYdUAXbxH40DnnFk4zSfR7cMAxxc/s320/800px-tram_13t_brno1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332056968834341810" border="0" /></a><span style="" lang="EN-GB">
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Mum’s Grandad was a tram driver in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">London</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="" lang="EN-GB">, he was a big fat guy with a short temper, she said.<span style=""> </span>In those days drivers sat outside in all weathers, so he always wore a huge greatcoat buttoned up to the neck, even at home, they said. <span style=""> </span>Back then, trams didn’t have faces, just Great granddads beefy grumpy face aproaching at the front. No wonder they pulled up the tracks.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzQ8V2qZJs-Zmc8vcS20NdU1PFiWv51PlTnLNYsGF82rsxGPyjJW_xdbnGLyxGSOegg7ES8AvV4kTxOaW5Ha5aJqo0FDBtROSqwYywJ_VJGoWC3bPMRFdCrGRXTk7rfjyIHXKgrmxnOc0/s1600-h/London_tram_cars_332.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 194px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzQ8V2qZJs-Zmc8vcS20NdU1PFiWv51PlTnLNYsGF82rsxGPyjJW_xdbnGLyxGSOegg7ES8AvV4kTxOaW5Ha5aJqo0FDBtROSqwYywJ_VJGoWC3bPMRFdCrGRXTk7rfjyIHXKgrmxnOc0/s320/London_tram_cars_332.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332057282837153970" border="0" /></a><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Another Great Grandad was a London Bobby and when I visited my Gran, she used to always talk about him. “He had to shoot someone you know” she reminded me quite a few times. I always used to wonder why. Was it a compelling urge that he couldn’t control and just did it one day? Or did he get instructions; “Constable, go out and shoot someone today.” They never gave any other details.<o:p></o:p></span></p> Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-23848514984785328442009-05-04T12:27:00.000-07:002009-05-04T12:41:32.837-07:00Sunday Evening<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzN7GbBGPS63sXpGCHlnUs_xnM1NBuJR2d6mDB8WH0BiQiylJL9o24yWo-rJrfpIVsmbBzSdvz1oUHCwFSyRtj71eh5iJ4yr1etnOksX_0435N0bfhpTf5-H1H5ZLppPP-9EsvYaTr03Y/s1600-h/vysoc+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 272px; height: 205px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzN7GbBGPS63sXpGCHlnUs_xnM1NBuJR2d6mDB8WH0BiQiylJL9o24yWo-rJrfpIVsmbBzSdvz1oUHCwFSyRtj71eh5iJ4yr1etnOksX_0435N0bfhpTf5-H1H5ZLppPP-9EsvYaTr03Y/s320/vysoc+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332054038667993810" border="0" /></a><br />We went out for a nice lunch today, up in the Vysocina area. They call it Highlands, but it doesn’t look much like Scotland. Driving out in the countryside is ok here. They don’t believe in cats-eyes and there’s loads of potholes, but the traffic is very light and you can do your own speed most of the time.<br /><br />Honza’s gone to visit his mate and compare computer games, so we’re alone in the car, just listening to the radio.<br /><br />I like the radio here, it’s better than the UK. There’s far more channels and a much<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGOADCqW0I-9k1ldEdaTOAVNoOvnokS1sbaiM4Kboc1q21D0hrVgwFVxAE_PLarZ0gFgzXkwM3ZoAu_OUrS87AywtkuNv-kmJZ0INLSQlJMsh8BY-lqBddW9GM1R-1Mxh41REW6hD6BmU/s1600-h/vysoc.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 183px; height: 137px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGOADCqW0I-9k1ldEdaTOAVNoOvnokS1sbaiM4Kboc1q21D0hrVgwFVxAE_PLarZ0gFgzXkwM3ZoAu_OUrS87AywtkuNv-kmJZ0INLSQlJMsh8BY-lqBddW9GM1R-1Mxh41REW6hD6BmU/s320/vysoc.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332054361179082850" border="0" /></a> bigger range, in England it’s either the BBC or Rap, here you can get normal rock and pop. Most radio stations play 50- 50 Czech and British/American music. I was listening to something as we drove home and commented to Dagmar that I liked Czech music, “It’s Slovak” she said.<br /><br />We do get the BBC world service here, if you’re interested in the latest news from Africa, which is all it seems to pump out these days.<br /><br />It’s not very popular here now and according to most Czechs, pretty pointless unless you’re from Africa.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUgXXMLU_y2QjdSt7PiWwUUAV_jxwOYnENmSi4EbJ_HLKovKLf0B_2TvQt6E4FD7OtzKjC4vE0RBKxxqDrAMsvuVASAiWwZIoBNycMzK3s4bmnHtcqjgC0Md_Y0hNtlOnJi_YRiYeVBo/s1600-h/vysocinaOb.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 201px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUgXXMLU_y2QjdSt7PiWwUUAV_jxwOYnENmSi4EbJ_HLKovKLf0B_2TvQt6E4FD7OtzKjC4vE0RBKxxqDrAMsvuVASAiWwZIoBNycMzK3s4bmnHtcqjgC0Md_Y0hNtlOnJi_YRiYeVBo/s320/vysocinaOb.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332054715515514418" border="0" /></a><br /></div>Sunday evening’s a sleepy inactive time. Honza’s actually away from the computer and watching a dubbed American detective thingy on TV. Dagmar’s ironing some shirts and watching a pohadka (fairy tale) on the little telly in the kitchen.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I’ve just been sitting on the balcony having a fag and a beer and watching the world go by. I wonder about Mum and Johnny, and if they spoke today, they’re a long way away, but they seem to have taken over my life the whole weekend.Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-24838573287963076832009-05-04T12:12:00.000-07:002009-05-04T12:26:34.406-07:00Sunday Morning
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdDYCWW0-DvGzf0feFF8B3bWyK3OkeG0s2ZGpBSqSHM06-jxG2ZXHQCJSd_LzI6aoLop4iIxhvWcVm5qSuyOHudDSQ6Rvtn1bSHb909Y9mh6JCxDB8cdFdDXkLldX-FkBfcZQlky45ogY/s1600-h/traditional_English_breakfast.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 228px; height: 288px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdDYCWW0-DvGzf0feFF8B3bWyK3OkeG0s2ZGpBSqSHM06-jxG2ZXHQCJSd_LzI6aoLop4iIxhvWcVm5qSuyOHudDSQ6Rvtn1bSHb909Y9mh6JCxDB8cdFdDXkLldX-FkBfcZQlky45ogY/s320/traditional_English_breakfast.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332050091970620402" border="0" /></a>
<br /><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CDavid%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="country-region"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Johnny is panicking. I’ll tell you about Johnny first. He’s about the same age as Mum, he’s fancied her for ages, years and years. Johnny’s tall, bald and a bit portly these days. He talks posh and is always jovial and positive, even when Mum wears him out. He’s the senior partner in his firm of solicitors and he always wears a silk handkerchief in the breast pocket of his jacket <span style=""> </span>He’s really devoted to Mum and really tolerant, considering she’s sometimes made a fool of herself when they’ve been out together.<span style=""> </span>But, Mum still looks good for her age, her hairs dyed red at the moment and she pays a fortune for it to look good. They were in Mums local once, and when she was at the bar, some young geezer smacked her bottom, when she turned round and he saw this 59 year old face, he nearly died. Johnny saw it all and laughed and got a bollocking from Mum, but her friends told her to shut up and it was all quickly forgotten. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">I know that he wants her to live with him and get married even, but she won’t give up her house and definitely not her name. Johnnies surname is Godfellow and she’s not so sure about this. She was once out with him at some posh reception at the Law Society and after drinking a healthy amount of champagne, introduced him to someone as “John Bedfellow, my er…bedfellow,”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">I spoke to Johnny all the way from the pub, on to the tram, off the tram, up the stairs and at home for another 10 minutes before he seemed a bit reassured. He wants to marry Mum, but she’s laying down the law. She won’t move to </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Westminster</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="" lang="EN-GB">, she needs her neighbours and likes her little garden., blah blah, we’ve heard it all before. So he’s thinking about selling or renting out his flat and then he’ll live with her (which he’s almost doing now anyway). As for marriage, just do the engagement bit, I advised, she’ll go along with that.<span style=""> </span>I said I’d ring Mum the next day.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Sunday morning seemed a bit brighter when I got up.<span style=""> </span>I still have some frozen bacon from Sainsbury’s and little Nuremberger sausages from the shop down the road. Czechs have something called Anglictina Slanina, which they think is English Bacon, it’s not. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfm5QpFHihn0o9rqMus4ZlB30Th5ph0XynyMeuBKusuGbMIlzI4EwGAxZyzUuXXpPBUhinjCazpvTWv9BkwPhuCXwlsATOxAaCRnJ51bsEIqcNMXZB_QJ8IzuzIHO70QjyVMrf5hQllzc/s1600-h/cz+bangers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 121px; height: 98px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfm5QpFHihn0o9rqMus4ZlB30Th5ph0XynyMeuBKusuGbMIlzI4EwGAxZyzUuXXpPBUhinjCazpvTWv9BkwPhuCXwlsATOxAaCRnJ51bsEIqcNMXZB_QJ8IzuzIHO70QjyVMrf5hQllzc/s320/cz+bangers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332050761419010290" border="0" /></a><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Czech sausages aren’t really for frying for breakfast either. I showed Dagmar how to fry an egg sunny-side-up once and she was fascinated. So I made breakfast for us all, Honza staggered through, guided semi-consciously by the smell, sat down, had breakfast and went back to bed again. Dagmar was up early as usual, scrubbing and cleaning away at some imaginary cleanliness problem in the kitchen. The cooker always looks like it’s never ever been used.
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<br /><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">When it was about 9.30 </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">UK</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="" lang="EN-GB"> time, I called Mum. Sometimes it’s hard to believe that her and Johnny are almost 60. More like 16 going on 17.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj6VKciXL3Sn8n6AOauqgrSaP_DnnJJpcdC0M58AbR8ODv9q1u7e1Lv267WXq2YMBUgyTwTn4Z_8NC7LKIWfE3rxol318jztn9bXOp2pV2zAhQS-0KVUHmTjkKkEAQPAJj-BUqr-vsGjo/s1600-h/bickenhall.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 137px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj6VKciXL3Sn8n6AOauqgrSaP_DnnJJpcdC0M58AbR8ODv9q1u7e1Lv267WXq2YMBUgyTwTn4Z_8NC7LKIWfE3rxol318jztn9bXOp2pV2zAhQS-0KVUHmTjkKkEAQPAJj-BUqr-vsGjo/s320/bickenhall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332051396237204002" border="0" /></a><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Any way, she loves Johnny and she worries that she’ll do anything he wants and then be unhappy after. So she basically won’t agree to anything. She’s not even angry that he called me, she doesn’t want him to get rid of his flat or even rent it, she likes going there sometimes after a night in the </span><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">West End</span></st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">. The straight laced concierge on the front door makes her giggle and getting a taxi all the way up through </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Camden</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="" lang="EN-GB"> and Kentish town is depressing, she says.
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<br /><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlVuLct64_GUkdGqdujQ79gJHZbauJhZPyjtNflpcsDHHdq9LEySqJltVLpTuPA49UGN_H5ByCzSD71mDm_jbZv13DVU3wlqjRwspUq0sunZe-PQW66Eca0ZK9KVfvWtF59xC1Iu9JuI0/s1600-h/concierge.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 138px; height: 140px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlVuLct64_GUkdGqdujQ79gJHZbauJhZPyjtNflpcsDHHdq9LEySqJltVLpTuPA49UGN_H5ByCzSD71mDm_jbZv13DVU3wlqjRwspUq0sunZe-PQW66Eca0ZK9KVfvWtF59xC1Iu9JuI0/s320/concierge.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332051876519155234" border="0" /></a><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Money’s not too much of a problem for Johnny, but she’ll sack his cleaner and keep it tidy herself. I just know that she’ll enjoy staggering through the main entrance all dolled up after a Saturday night out and then <span style=""> </span>re-appearing on a Monday morning, wearing an apron and carrying a mop and bucket. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">She hasn’t a clue how much Johnny is worth and she’s not really interested. She doesn’t want to get married again, not 3 times, it’s unseemly you know!!<span style=""> </span>But it’s ok to have a live-in boyfriend she chuckles. I mention about getting engaged and that it could be fun choosing a whopping great diamond ring. That went down well.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">I sometimes wonder what they talk about all the time, but when I think about it, they never talk at work, they don’t even have lunch together, he goes out and she’s always brought sandwiches.<span style=""> </span>Mums completely different at work, always professional and low profile, she says that Johnny wants to chat sometimes, but has to wait until after.<span style=""> </span>To any visitor to his firm, you’d never know they were together, but I’m sure all the others who work there must gossip about them.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">When they’re in the pub after work, they don’t talk together so much, but to the other locals. At home I’m not so sure, I’ve never lived with them both. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">“Why couldn’t you come over with that nice girl you live with, sometime soon again,” she asks. She can’t ever remember Dagmar’s name, she thinks it’s Doug-something on a good day.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">My parting words were that she should speak to Johnny about what we’ve just talked about and then I sent an email to him with the same ideas. I’m such a nice boy sometimes!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Time for a cup of tea and then we’re going out for lunch today.<span style=""> </span>I’ll update you all later.<o:p></o:p></span></p> Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-54701283265597479332009-05-04T12:05:00.000-07:002009-05-04T12:11:34.237-07:00Saturday<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsFp3rTC0wj_Fgk1uoiEyhfZFVB3e49W_N-2BANy5svvV2fmB_lF6g-JxvwMb9oCb64oBgivL08FWpEYPG7cELlXi3FBIi0qOGRIf6hm4ImeUwKpDt5enfJ4LsphuF0P_mvta-A1QsQLI/s1600-h/ikea.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 114px; height: 41px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsFp3rTC0wj_Fgk1uoiEyhfZFVB3e49W_N-2BANy5svvV2fmB_lF6g-JxvwMb9oCb64oBgivL08FWpEYPG7cELlXi3FBIi0qOGRIf6hm4ImeUwKpDt5enfJ4LsphuF0P_mvta-A1QsQLI/s320/ikea.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332047624312642146" border="0" /></a><br />Dagmar doesn’t normally like shopping but she sort of danced round Ikea, which made her bottom wobble very nicely. We bought a big bed and a chest of drawers and put them into the car. Ikea is huge, but not as huge as the one on the north-circular in London, which is like going abroad for the day. We managed to just about get everything into the car.<br /><br />I gotta say, that I still smirk when I see my car in a car park and when I open it with the remote, it makes that nice clunky sound and the four ways flash at me nicely. It’s mine, mine, mine!!!<br /><br />We tried to call Honza as we were getting close to the flat, no reply, called again, no reply. We got home and started to struggle upstairs with the bed and chest. The lifts been out for 2 days now. Honza was engrossed on the computer again, but helped us in the end.<br /><br />Ikea furniture; already quite well known I reckon. It’s a bit frustrating at times, this time the bed went up easily but the chest was a nightmare. To top it all off, the instructions had half the pages missing and the other pages repeated twice. Honza looked for the instructions on the internet and Dagmar called Ikea, but in the end we put it together without their help. Then we all went down the pub.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheX9YqumyMBLYAXvn1bOkbF_kbusb4DTCnIGZqzQ1UEKvVgfrg93IMdkMcBGPkNoV11Zw4N3ADvTCnkedPQrfkehZn41cnSYt4lPH8hyphenhyphenYfm7NITw1CBSgGNeTIylajlEEiwL9e63tXSYI/s1600-h/pegas.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 264px; height: 202px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheX9YqumyMBLYAXvn1bOkbF_kbusb4DTCnIGZqzQ1UEKvVgfrg93IMdkMcBGPkNoV11Zw4N3ADvTCnkedPQrfkehZn41cnSYt4lPH8hyphenhyphenYfm7NITw1CBSgGNeTIylajlEEiwL9e63tXSYI/s320/pegas.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332048198862150402" border="0" /></a><br />Czech pubs are definitely ok. The beers cheap, at less than a quid a pint. The beer’s also very good. There’s normally a table service, they mark your bit of paper and you pay the end of the night. We went to this place in the centre near the main square, it brews the beer on the premises. When you stand at the bar you can see the big copper thingies where the next load of nectar is happily bubbling away for us happy, smiley, slightly flushed customers.<br /><br />We had dinner, something Czech, Honza went home.<br /><br />Dagmar’s a hoot to go out with, she gets pissed on one beer, after 2 she’s either giggling hysterically or weeping her head off. Tonight it’s shrieking giggles, something about Czech food and why don’t English people know more about it. Then it’s some gossip about a colleague of hers who’s got a hygiene problem. She’s been asked to tackle it, and she’s reluctant to take my direct approach, I suppose that calling someone a fat smelly c*** is a bit over the top, but Dagmar shrieked the place down and people looked.<br />We were just about to go home, when my phone rang, it was Johnny. Johnny never rings me.Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-37939639426783779992009-05-04T12:01:00.000-07:002009-05-04T12:05:13.587-07:00Friday nightHonza emptied the room into the corridor this afternoon, it’s mostly junk and an old wardrobe, then we emulsioned it Friday evening. We got done about 10.pm, knackered, all of us. I tried to watch a film but crashed out on the couch. <br /><br />My mobile woke me up, it was a text from Kate, “Can we come then ? K8”. <br /><br />I replied “ if yr good & no funny biz!!” <br /><br />A reply came back “Ok” with a sad face on the end. <br /><br />I went to bed.Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-71281381309528643282009-05-04T07:23:00.000-07:002009-05-04T08:05:43.664-07:00Friday, day off !! Trabants etc.<div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbZCcMPHH3Y1jb8za_s_toQvacmT-28Fwm9IExg3pJZQxxVzQwdgBFzqMbkFfgUdanXO5s-Alis595eyx5RSw2wdUhBqyFmKYbuDdt23Rc_u9746aAyuoDqwrNWvW5F1g_vO3Dx7lA86o/s1600-h/paper-mache-trabant-tree.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 256px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbZCcMPHH3Y1jb8za_s_toQvacmT-28Fwm9IExg3pJZQxxVzQwdgBFzqMbkFfgUdanXO5s-Alis595eyx5RSw2wdUhBqyFmKYbuDdt23Rc_u9746aAyuoDqwrNWvW5F1g_vO3Dx7lA86o/s320/paper-mache-trabant-tree.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331983358946258882" border="0" /></a>
<br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2J79-Yo9UsjIXThezTl25gCKu7_ZOkhMGcWxTdFxd4Rj5Kg8w6vv7IS5fDnfyVtX-f9xvDNCnw9mCCeRUCPkdGulyWYYyV797hUbUzBjFvndQ-lTEGPC8MijwpFXFd29c8vsEPVzpOyk/s1600-h/trabant+ha+ha.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2J79-Yo9UsjIXThezTl25gCKu7_ZOkhMGcWxTdFxd4Rj5Kg8w6vv7IS5fDnfyVtX-f9xvDNCnw9mCCeRUCPkdGulyWYYyV797hUbUzBjFvndQ-lTEGPC8MijwpFXFd29c8vsEPVzpOyk/s320/trabant+ha+ha.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331983137315027026" border="0" /></a>
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">It’s Friday and it’s a day off. So we’ll be indoors and clear out the spare room. I like this flat, when I first met Dagmar she lived on the 7<sup>th</sup> floor of a panelak a bit out of town. A panelak is the Czech version of an English tower block, but with one big difference, they keep them immaculate here! I think they call them this because they’re made of panels, even the inside walls are just bolted together. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">About 8 months ago her mum’s oldest brother died and Dagmar inherited this flat where we live now.<span style=""> </span>I only met this uncle once, he was in his mid 70’s and very very gay. He liked singing and had the kind of voice that would make my mum cry.<o:p>
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<br /><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">After he died, there was a bit of gossip about an ageing partner lurking around somewhere, but no-one seemed to have ever met him. Dagmar described her uncle the first time as an old poof, “ Dagmar” I<span style=""> </span>said, “you can’t call them that now”. Her English teacher from a few years back had given them a lesson or two in not-so-politically correct language. Anyway, she dug out the meticulous notes she’s kept on the lesson and we had a right giggle. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Czech students are really keen on learning all the bad language and quite a few teachers devote a bit of time to teaching pre-politically correct language. People here don’t have the same restrictions as we do in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">UK</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="" lang="EN-GB">, they call anything they want, what they want.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Anyway, I’m off at a tangent again. The flat, it had been obviously well kept. It has 3 bedrooms and a huge living room, the kitchen’s good and we spend a lot of time there.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">
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<br /><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXkV_a_3GK40Bn0D78miJqixAVbrhq-xf3kPhUXeOR-64af4mTtz5mvvBvWnN8jilQ8aYT4JpA3aF0PYhnylobV-V85BOGEC7OvFcqhyNDTuxZYVIN06b45ForIV7rZAdFwRcIDfGuqTQ/s1600-h/DeLTrabant7827.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXkV_a_3GK40Bn0D78miJqixAVbrhq-xf3kPhUXeOR-64af4mTtz5mvvBvWnN8jilQ8aYT4JpA3aF0PYhnylobV-V85BOGEC7OvFcqhyNDTuxZYVIN06b45ForIV7rZAdFwRcIDfGuqTQ/s320/DeLTrabant7827.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331982774702720946" border="0" /></a><span style="" lang="EN-GB">I can park my car in the backyard of the flats now. There was an abandoned old Trabant <!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_i1027" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'width:6in;height:297pt'"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\David\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image003.jpg" title="trabant"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]-->in our space, we discovered that it had been her uncles. For those of you who don’t know, a Trabant is a 2 stroke engined car made by the East Germans in communist times. I suppose it’s like a petrol mower that’s still in the cardboard box it came in.
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">They chuck out loads of blue smoke and the funny thing is that they are really little, but when you see them around </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Brno</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="" lang="EN-GB">, they always seem to be driven by huge guys with long hair and big beards.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_i1028" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'width:135pt;height:96.75pt'"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\David\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image005.jpg" title="trabant-optionalengine-734712"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]-->
<br /><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">We advertised the car for sale and strangley enough, along came this huge man with long shaggy thick hair and a big grey beard with bits of continental breakfast distributed evenly throughout. <!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_i1029" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'width:189pt;height:124.5pt'"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\David\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image007.jpg" title="trabant ha ha"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]-->He gave us 2000 crowns (about 70 quid) and after a bit of a struggle, we pushed it onto the street, annoying a ding-a-linging tram in the process. <!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_i1030" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'width:405pt;height:278.25pt'"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\David\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image009.jpg" title="5540_6-hood"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkFuj2gtvR9HrA55LL387vM9xX4XqIZne26RgZnjm8T6gJWtkzn8Ynv9rf8JsMHSUl35auogk45GmpXtvzGFUK6tJFToytcMsI0zQ3_zgc52MpV5cNc4BI3CcPJwP-pJxxgxvI2mi55mE/s1600-h/Burgas_trolleybus_and_old_trabant.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkFuj2gtvR9HrA55LL387vM9xX4XqIZne26RgZnjm8T6gJWtkzn8Ynv9rf8JsMHSUl35auogk45GmpXtvzGFUK6tJFToytcMsI0zQ3_zgc52MpV5cNc4BI3CcPJwP-pJxxgxvI2mi55mE/s320/Burgas_trolleybus_and_old_trabant.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331983844211841330" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Then he towed it away with his son (no beard this time), who was driving an identical Trabant, even down to the green mould on the windows.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Oh yeah, the spare room, we’ll paint it and we’ll need to buy a bed from Ikea. But now time’s getting on, See ya!</span></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHfcS0kYEX3lim7VrxQKcco9rEHu06YtUAmo-Id83Q6JWOuVmW1vjHLdpRgo6hyphenhyphen6aEpBot38BO1PsSQ5594cLr3iNMljQ4S1S4uYZXGv6Zg0ctE94HJ7BjnBeSlVFfsCFbT2Ej41m10DQ/s1600-h/5540_6-hood.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 505px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHfcS0kYEX3lim7VrxQKcco9rEHu06YtUAmo-Id83Q6JWOuVmW1vjHLdpRgo6hyphenhyphen6aEpBot38BO1PsSQ5594cLr3iNMljQ4S1S4uYZXGv6Zg0ctE94HJ7BjnBeSlVFfsCFbT2Ej41m10DQ/s320/5540_6-hood.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331983584372854594" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_i1026" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'width:423pt;height:208.5pt'"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\David\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image011.jpg" title="Trabant_Limousine_front_corner1"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]-->
<br /><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-55600764405317964872009-04-30T08:04:00.000-07:002009-04-30T08:20:20.782-07:00Thursday Tea, Kids<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7aosfolQxsHXihOcrcqC7_YNBNHuld4ks3hkIlLwsE_mFKhQ0aIEV0eF7o_AQmH4-jFAWg9HKCBfOy91LtQY5HIiN860TM-46CB00JwER-llnGJ1_D1rkK_bkvKRAFgE-eHuRZo-NuPQ/s1600-h/gold+label.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 70px; height: 99px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7aosfolQxsHXihOcrcqC7_YNBNHuld4ks3hkIlLwsE_mFKhQ0aIEV0eF7o_AQmH4-jFAWg9HKCBfOy91LtQY5HIiN860TM-46CB00JwER-llnGJ1_D1rkK_bkvKRAFgE-eHuRZo-NuPQ/s320/gold+label.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330504299907774914" border="0" /></a><br />Well, it’s a beautiful day outside, all sunny and nice, someone outside’s just annoyed a tram, it’s making a noise like a big doorbell. Honza, Dagmars son, is just leaving for school and she’s making a pot of tea. I’ve really got her converted to English tea with milk, she even buys normal fresh milk now, not the long life stuff that they seem to like here. You can’t buy normal tea here, it’s all that herbal stuff and they drink it with lemon and leave the teabag and the spoon in the cup when they drink it. Yes, weird tea drunk weirdly.<br /><br /><br /><br />I suppose you could say they eat a continental breakfast here, sounded exotic when I saw it on a hotel menu when I was a kid, but in reality it’s just cheese and bread and soggy ham. I normally have toast, and marmalade brought over from England, along with loads of Sainsbury’s Gold teabags.<br /><br />About Dagmars kid, Honza: He’s 15 now and a right randy little git. It all started about a year ago with wet dreams, she was moaning about why his pyjamas were always being deposited in the washing machine, I curled up! Then it seemed to stop and then one night we heard loud screams and moans coming from his room, he’d been watching something on the internet and in his excitement, pulled the headphones out of the socket. It sounded like he had a girl in his room, Dagmar said. Well he did, sort of, I thought.<br /><br />Then last week we went out, but came back a bit early, and when we got through the door he had some girl completely stripped off on the couch. Dagmar noticed she still had socks on, can’t say I was looking at her feet. The poor girl just whipped a big cushion over herself and said “Dobry Vecer!” (good evening)<br /><br />Yep, he’s a randy little git. And that’s just part of the problem. The other part is that our Kate is up to something similar. She went on holiday to Spain last summer, with her friend and friends parents, both girls wanted to go out and they ended up in a music pub. The parents went out a bit later for a wander around town, and saw the 2 girls through the pub window, completely sloshed and dancing topless on the tables. Talk about the shit hitting the fan! She’s got a boyfriend now and he’s apparently always sniffing round the front door.<br /><br />So now these girls want to come here and it’d be nice to have them over. But we’re worried that it’ll turn into a big teenage shagfest.<br /><br />Dagmar’s never met our Kate and she’s looking forward to meeting this voice on the phone, even though it only says, “Can I speak to my Dad please?”<br /><br />We’ve got 2 weeks and we’ll clear out the spare room for them I suppose.Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-800227349160090779.post-65932829994382203122009-04-30T08:00:00.000-07:002009-04-30T08:04:00.897-07:00Wednesday The worlds a small place<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirMxO2doMhwOV8nJ_xkNUCkxATxKeWazHBzX1tD9mTlpqcbybioe6V7PfDOC4GwIJ7xU73DwIRlNTjdUrkTvD2Zc4eCrDoMWgQiiaZF_9U3PKuNiwsyz6xY9ISsR9aiiGliaE61xP7GYo/s1600-h/Brno-Namesti+Svobody.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 217px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirMxO2doMhwOV8nJ_xkNUCkxATxKeWazHBzX1tD9mTlpqcbybioe6V7PfDOC4GwIJ7xU73DwIRlNTjdUrkTvD2Zc4eCrDoMWgQiiaZF_9U3PKuNiwsyz6xY9ISsR9aiiGliaE61xP7GYo/s320/Brno-Namesti+Svobody.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330500264673754834" /></a><br />My mum just phoned the flat. She always uses the same routine; she finishes work and gets off the tube, then she goes to a little pub near her house and downs a few glasses of wine, maybe a scotch or two, then she goes home and gets all nostalgic and sentimental and then she texts me: “Are u home babe? “ If I don’t want to talk to her I just reply; “No, in pub”. But she got used to that, so now she texts Dagmar and Dagmar always tells the truth. Bad idea, but I can’t convince her. <br /><br /><br /><br />Let me tell you a little about my mum first. She had me on her 20th Birthday, so she’s whinging about being almost 60. Birthdays were always great, we always spoiled ourselves a little, went shopping and had a meal somewhere. Mum got divorced when I was about 6, never saw much of my Dad after that. There was always some boyfriend around, I never got to meet them all. Then she met Bob, he was ok, a bit quiet maybe. She got married to Bob, 2 weeks before I got married, so she could bring a husband to my wedding. I’ve got a half-sister who’s now 24 and she lives with her boyfriend Steve. Poor old Bob went and died in 1993, just after 2 years of being married, they’d been together 11 years. Bob was always a bit sad that Martina, my sister, never took his name, but Mum loves being a Hawkins (my Dads name) and wouldn’t change it when they got married.<br /><br />I was only married for about 4 years, I was far too young for the whole thing, but I’ve got a daughter, Kate, now 17. She lives with the ex and her husband in West London.<br /><br />Mum’s worked most of her life doing the admin for a smallish firm of solicitors in the city and I really thought that was why she was calling me. Firstly, she’s due to retire and Johnny her latest boyfriend (for 3 years) who’s also her long term boss, wants to announce something at her retirement party. <br /><br />But no, that wasn’t why she called. No, she’d bumped into Mags my ex-girlfriend in Sainsbury’s and Mags was still chuntering about the car. Well Margaret, HA HA HA! you can’t have it. <br /><br />Mags parents are a bit well off, Daddie’s a big posh Doctor, a consultant of something or other and Mummy and Daddy also have a nice house in France. They bought a new left hand drive Audi A4 estate, for easier driving they said. However, I think they bought it so people would ask why they had a left hooker, and then they could boast about their house in France. But they were busy at that time doing something, so they arranged for me to help them out picking it up and effectively buying it. So the car ended up in my name and when Mags kicked me out shortly after, I borrowed it to move my gear and well, I just kept it. Now it’s got Czech number plates, HA HA again!!<br /><br />And now Johnny says, they can’t touch me, the cars mine, so HA HA HA once more, because Johnny’s a big clever lawyer and he’s my Mums boyfriend. <br /><br />Mags’ family never liked me much, I was never good enough for their daughter. I was just a lowly Facilities Manager, promoted from the post room They thought Mum was a drunk and Kate, my daughter was a cheeky little girl who never said please. As for Martina, they couldn’t stand the fact she didn’t take them seriously.<br /><br />Ok, so we grew up in a council house, but Mum did buy it a long time ago and she’s incredibly houseproud.<br /><br />Oh yeah, the phone call, it was the car, blah blah blah, normal gossipy stuff blah blah blah, and, Oh yes, Katie and her friend want to come out and visit!!! <br /><br />Well, I thought, this could be a big problem, but I’ve written enough today and you can only offload so much baggage in one session.<br /> <br />So you’ll have to wait for the next episode.Terry Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13629462208556547892noreply@blogger.com0