Excuses, excuses

If there’s one thing that I’ve found a talent for, it’s coming up with excuses. I’m not even that good at lying. My talent lies in adjusting the truth to suit my needs.

The reason I think of excuses, is initially the one for not writing for two or (hell-fire) three (or is it four) days. Yes, there’s been a lack of internet, but I’ve also been distracted by: 1) reading; 2)my new guitar and 3) Christmas shopping. Two out of three ain’t bad. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.

The way I see it: “If I’m not writing, I’m reading”, is a pretty good rule to be working by. I don’t own a television. I have no internet access. My apartment is technologically stuck in the 1970s. Barring the laptop that I work on, nothing predates the Rolling Stones. We don’t even have a microwave! Where was I? Oh yes, there’s little to distract me from my pursuit of becoming a better wordsmith. Admittedly, I’m not taking in any hardcore literature at the minute (I’m waiting on Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince), but while I m awaiting Rowling’s sixth installation, I am slowly ploughing through Norman Davies’ Europe: A History. It’s not because it’s a tough read, that I liken it to agricultural fieldwork, but the size of the subject (and literally the book!) is pretty flipping huge.

Anyway, a massive excuse later… Over the past couple of days I’ve been trying to get myself off the cigarettes. I can’t remember the last time I tried to quit smoking. In the past I’ve been able to go for months and months without smoking, before collapsing into a “If I’m going to smoke weed, I might as well smoke cigarettes,” type excuse. Lucky for me, I’m too busy (with work) and too lazy with my spare time to source out some greenery. It looks like I might be able to stick to it this time.

It must have been two or more years ago that I last tried to give up smoking. I can distinctly remember not wanting to give up smoking at any point last year, as I was in the final year of university. Way too stressed to take on anymore stress, I thought too myself. I believe, the idea ran a similar vein in the first and second years of college also.

It looks like I’ll make it to the end of today without smoking. Since this afternoon that is. I had a few sneaky pulls earlier, but the reduction in nicotine intake is mind blowing. Literally. This morning after having breakfast and doing some remedial house work, I thought I felt like having a smoke. After the second drag my head felt like it was filling with helium. I stubbed the rest out. Later on today, as we crossed the Old Town, I knew there was no logic in taking a few pulls, but I needed to. And found out to my relief that, no, I didn’t need to.

It seems there’s always a perfect excuse for not quitting smoking (and yes you clever readers, there are equally just as many excuses for starting again). I always seem to forget how exciting it is when I stop smoking. Now I don’t know if this happens with anyone else, but when I stop smoking I seem to have about ten million times more energy than I did before. This usually finds its escape route through me talking twice as much bollocks as I usually do. In fact, I’ve found it very useful in competing with my girlfriend in games of Who Can Be The Most Annoying In a Public Place? I can realise why, when I was a child, I ran everywhere. When you can get somewhere quickly, why not get there quickly? My pace on the pavement is reaching Oxford Street standards.

How long this will all last? Only time will tell. It’ll be interesting to see how the quitting cigs hunger kicks in, as I never have any food in my kitchen. Perhaps I’ll just start drinking more tea. I can’t see any harm in that.

As I was bouncing along the pavement, at around 20km/h, I wondered why I ever started in the first place. The simple reason is that at 15 years old I was addicted to slot machines. The only source of entertainment in my home town was apparently compulsive gambling and video games. But that’s a different story. I honestly started smoking so I wouldn’t waste my money on the machines. I also started smoking for the same reason everyone else does: because it’s cool.

Now the logic of cool people smoking is a subject that requires more than a few minutes thought at 3am on a cold Monday morning. So maybe when I’m bored, I’ll look this up and take it further. But here’s what I got tonight:

The cool girls smoke. If I smoke, we have something in common. One might ask me for a light, and as a 16 year old kid, that’s all I need as a shoe in to get myself some action (unfortunately that line is drenched in sarcasm. Smoking only ever got me bronchitis ).

But this is the main one I think: “James Dean smoked and he was cool”, I’ve thought this one myself a million times. Yeah, James Dean was cool. He also acted. There’s a fuck load more people in the world who have got famous for doing shit other than smoking. Jim Morrisson, John Lennon, Kurt Cobain, Jack White, in fact pretty much any musician (or actor) of the last 50 years has been seen with a cigarette in their mouths. And they’re cool.

You know who also had a cigarette constantly hanging out of their mouth? My Grandmother. She didn’t however make any impact on the cultural scene. Like the millions of people who do smoke, but don’t produce cool shit, she was a pretty average smoker. I don’t really remember being 18 years old, sitting out the back of my house, playing my acoustic, smoking a roll up and thinking to myself, Hey I’m just like my old Grandma! It never happened. But all this time I’ve been dreaming of one day finding myself on a respectably large stage in front of a respectfully large crowd of people, playing the guitar and singing, because I have the same addictions as all that have been before me? It’s crazy. I’ve always been a fan of David Bowie, but I’m not going to go and shoot up, cos Ziggy and Iggy did.

So I need to keep myself distracted from thinking about smoking. That’s the hardest part. And also, keep an eye on myself that I don’t let myself have a sneaky cigarette. In fact, somewhere between those two points, is the hardest part of giving up. But if I do fail and start again? I can always have a go at quitting again. I’ve forgotten how much of a head rush it is.

Polish Customer Satisfaction

One of the first things that strikes you in Poland is the customer service. Or the total lack there-of.
We stood at the delicatessen counter, while one assistant chatted to another member of staff diligently cleaning the display fridge, ignoring our presence. ‘They are discussing what day St Nikolas day is on.’ Explained Olivia, my girlfriend. I thought might have something to do with the chicken breast we were yet to order.
‘Only in Poland could you have a public holiday that nobody knows exactly when it is,’ she followed. Only in Poland would you be stood waiting for some attention, I thought to myself. Myself accustomed to the apparently high level of customer care in the UK.
It’s understandable that people earning around £2 an hour don’t give a shit about the customers that pay their wages. Before landing in Warsaw to pursue my temporary English teaching career, I myself had been in the same position. Minimum wage, minimum effort. But even then, the spectre of service with a smile had seeped into the sector of shelf-stacking.
As I wondered whether a smiley service would have any effect in this country (I think you’d have trouble selling the concept, people seem impassively pissed off) someone passed, mopping the floor. ‘How stupid a manager do you have to be to get your staff to mop the floors before the shop’s even closed?’ noticed Olivia. One not stupid enough to try getting their staff to be civil to their customers, I thought.

New(ish) pastures, new blog

I’ve been in Poland for about two months now. I thought it was about time that put some time and space aside for writing properly. So far, I believe I’ve managed to put a few posts on my blog Tramspotting. It’s time for a new site (which will kill a few minutes that I don’t really have to spare) and for those who really care, a new folder on my computer. It appears that internet connections in this country are about as reliable as public transport.

This new venture has been brought on by a sudden desire to use my brain to produce more than the occasional ditherings about my occasional ditherings. Hence, if I am to produce a regular report on my life in this strange foreign country, I’m going to need to write more often than I have the chance to upload said writing.

So what have I been up to? While I’d like to say that I’ve been abusing the cheap alcohol and the Polish ladies’ affections for British men, I’m afraid that I haven’t so much. The number of times I’ve spent at the hands of the vodka gods have been minimal. And I have one Polish lady to contend with. That I’m contented with. To be honest, I’ve been doing what most people who move to a foreign country do. That’s spending an awful lot of time looking for work and accommodation. An awful amount of time working. And a fair share of time dealing with immigration (and I’m not even technically immigrating!).

Work wise, I’ve found myself a very cushy job at a language school in the city. There are more of these than I could want to count, as I went to more interviews than I’d want to count. After a fortnight saying pretty much exactly the same thing to school directors around town I settled on the one that looked like the best option. Regular hours (to the extent that I know there will be some for me), a central location (providing I’m teaching at the school) and a very interesting approach to teaching English as a foreign language. Will you all please dough your caps to Mr Callan.

Having never seen (or heard of, in all honesty) the Callan method, I was instantly taken by its (somewhat quirky) direct method. For those, like me a few months ago, who don’t know: the Callan Method teaches English by getting students to use the language without thinking about their native language. The teacher asks the student a question in English, then repeats it (in English), before prompting the student into answering the question. That’s right, in English. As opposed to conversation classes, which I presumed I’d be working in when I arrived in the country, the teacher does all the work in terms of thinking and performing, allowing the student to understand the question posed. Not only is it more entertaining for me, but I’m finding it very beneficial to my abilities to talk in public to groups of people (bring on the media career when I get back to England) and it’s improving my use of English no end!

The first class I observed as an outsider was nothing like I’d ever seen before. Klementina (who I later found out to be her name) showed me through the motions of a class for all of twenty minutes before throwing me to the lions. My first attempt was rather embarrassing, but then, that’s something I’ve learned so far from the work. Never be embarrassed when you’re paid to be in embarrassing situations. The second class I viewed (in which I was to teach for 50 minutes and reviewed) was a completely different experience again. Whereas Klementina was relaxed and friendly with the students, the teacher in this class (of whom I haven’t found out her name) was like a primary school headmistress. From the 1900s! The students looked like rabbits in the proverbial headlights. However, when they couldn’t understand the questions she asked (fired at a rate similar to that of a minigun), she translated into Polish. Hmm… I can’t do that, I thought. I won’t go as fast. And so, in my review lesson I tried to be the good cop to the bad cop in the interrogation. It seemed to work. The students seemed to like me. I was told to speed up.

Now after six weeks on the job I’ve found myself at relative ease firing questions at unsuspecting students. I’ve been reaching the 20 pages of material I have been asked to. And guess what? I’ve been taken aside by my director, who said that I’ve been going too fast for the students. Typical.

So this week, I have pledged to myself to work at an average rate (one that the other teachers seem to go at, as opposed to the rate that was originally asked of me). I’m also promising to myself to get to every single lesson on time. It’s a problem that I face on a number of counts. 1) I’m new in town. I don’t know the best ways (or in some cases the right way) to get to destinations on time, and; 2) I’m British. I still haven’t acclimatised to the Polish approach of pushing past every man, woman and small child to get a square 30 centimetres to stand in on the bus/metro/tram. But I’m sure that after last week’s debacle I’m never going to go drinking on a school night again.

I’m sure in the weeks and months to come that I’m here in God’s Playground, I’ll have plenty to write about. If not the regular chance to stick it online. My work schedule is scattered between 7.00am and 8.00pm, so providing I’ve got the energy to cart my laptop around in my bag and a few złoty to spend on a coffee, I’ll try and get this posted. Either way, I’m saving it on my computer, so if your prying eyes don’t get hold of it, I’ll have a chance to remember my stay in this strange, strange land.