Draculette

Ceasescu's legacy

Being Romanian, I took particular interest in this. Every year, the death of Romania's former dictator, Nicolae Ceaucescu's death is mourned by his former supporters. He and his wife were executed by firing squad in Christmas day 1989 following the so-called revolution.

Maybe they were blind to the perverse destruction he caused and the lives he ruined. Maybe they have no idea that some of his extended family are allegedly living in mansions in LA somewhere and large amounts are hidden away in some convenient account in Switzerland in a bank run by a rotund man with an immaculately cut suit and a glint in his eye.

Maybe they did not realise the extent of corruption created during those 40 years of Communism that severly interfered with the economy and people's lives. On a daily basis, everyone from doctors to train ticket sellers had to be bribed in order to provide an adequate service.

The dwelling of a self-obsessed megalomaniac

An image of revolution    

Ceausescu's Government were the people who decided what sort of equality was to go to whom. His non-sensical Stalinist       ideals only applied to people he didn't know. His friends, family and party members lived in the palaces, villas, ate and drank  the very Western products they prohibited for the people. It is hard for me to comprehend this mourning, when my parents lived such hard lives and fled with great difficulty with a small child and worked as soon as they arrived in the UK.

The Paris of the East   and remnants   

Fifteen years after his death, some people still miss the days when the state was your God, things were in place and very little had to be done. Things are slowly changing and independance is a strange concept to people who were dependant for so long. In any sort of period of change, there will always be people who wish it hadn't.

To those, may I recommend a summer holiday to Cuba or a short city break to Pyonyang?

Coffee crisis

I found this fantastic picture here. This shows a coffee house that dates from about 1700.The coffee houses declined in popularity toward the end of the 18th century as coffee itself was largely superseded by the new fashion for tea.

I am a great lover of coffee and yet I find that most places serve a variant of bitter mud. Those expensive and sensitive coffee machines need trained and loving hands to handle the various knobs and buttons. It seems that you hand over (what will be at the end of the day, week, year) a small fortune for liquidised dog turd (I've never tasted dog turd, but having come into proximity of it, I can hazard a guess).

I will never learn, I keep having hope that one day, yes one day, I will actually enjoy a coffee I buy at a stall in some station. There is a very satisfying thing and getting up and just before entering the numb, soulless world of the commuter: your last remaining pleasure for several hours will be that warming, delicious coffee that you can lose yourself in, forget where and who you are for just one moment. But no. The sickening burnt bitterness hits your palate like rotten almonds, pure poison. Then I remember it's bad for me and don't drink it. Then I do exactly the same thing the next day, it's like groundhog day before 8:30.

Sometimes I feel like going back and making them drink it. The places that more often than not do nice coffee is Carluccios and AMT although Illy coffee is by far the winner. I am quite happy to find out more.

Having lived in in France, I am a great fan of the café culture in general. I like to sit on my own or with friends, unashamedly watching passers by, reading, maybe a small jeer here or there. I was distraught to hear that within the last few months, the first coffee shop of a very well known chain was opened in Paris (rhymes with sucks) where there are so many cafés, all different, with great cheap food and wine (although French coffee is notoriously undrinkable). This coffee chain will cast its evil spell over the Parisian landscape and spread like syphilis. Now that doesn't sound very nice.

 

London Underground scene

So I see tube workers were on the verge of striking. We were also told that the service would be able to run without the 330 workers that threatened travellers with misery... and this is the capital city that wants to host the Olympics. No amount of pretty posters and fine words pleading us to support our city in its bid, will ever change the fact that the oldest subway system in the world is not doing very well.

Everyday, somewhere, there will be the inevitable 'signal failure', the generic term used to cover a multitude of sins. Rumour has it, that some electricians (that can earn in excess of £2,000 a week) actively sabotage equipment in order get called out. Just as we'd rather not know how sausages are made, we might be better of not knowing what goes on below surface.

A few weeks ago, I left Canary Wharf for Earls Court and the 30 minute journey took me 1h30, then had to wait 30 mns for the Wimbledon train. Then I had to go back out and waited 20 Mns outside Earls Court. On the way back, the train at Westminster was evacuated due to a fire (I smelt the rubber burning a few minutes prior to the evacuation). At that point, I wanted to insert a fire extinguisher up the orifice of anyone wearing a London Underground uniform. As I furiously stormed out of Westminster, I suddenly felt the overwhelming and feverish desire to violently vandalise the public phones. I resisted.

I walked to Waterloo and anyone who crossed my path, had the misfortune to do so. Some foreign student approached outside the Saatchi Gallery and inquired as to whether I would be interesting in going in and getting a discounted T-shirt. I incredulously barked back "certainly not". I did not proceed to explain that I would not waste my my time in an establishment that is, in effect, a showcase for someone else's bad taste when I have my own to contend with. I was too busy barging past the smug tourists. It's on days like these that I wish I was a better person.

Once upon a time...

This is but a distant memory of my work placement in Paris 2001 that was subsequently published in the Evening Standard - far from the London Underground and the stealthy yet deadly armpits of my fellow travellers. I had more money then as a student earning very little, I then had the wondrous student loan, the magic money that impregnated my bank account every few months.

The student loan now hangs over me like the stench of cheap perfume emanating from the Spectator boudoir (I imagine heart shaped silk cushions, fluffers, fluffy leopard skin handcuffs, not a computer in sight and secretaries with tight tops wearing glasses they don't need and copies of House and Garden tastefully scattered on the floor and a battery powered toy in a bullet proof case with a plaque beneath it engraved with the immortal words BORIS’S JOHNSON).

Meanwhile … in Paris

So, here I am in Paris, the city of amour, an English university student on work experience for six months — a "stagiaire" with a law firm. It didn't take long for the novelty of the Eiffel Tower to wear off.

A law firm!  I was expecting the opportunity to come out with brilliant one-liners, the missing link that would instantly solve the case, making these lawyers realise that all their years of experience are nothing compared to my instant genius. Helas, no. I am the only bilingual intern and for some reason am isolated from the others.

Among the partners, it is embarrassingly obvious that some are very competitive. I heard a couple of them talk about their exploits as if they were two muscle-bound men in the gym wearing purple Lycra shorts trying to surpass each other with the weights they can lift with one hand in the lotus position.

It must be difficult, all that stress and all that money.

Ah money, the fuel, the incentive, the reward. Lucky for me that I hate chic clothes, gorgeous restaurants, the opera, jazz clubs — because what they pay me a month — 2,500 francs — is roughly what a translator gets a day. They have asked me to keep a record of the work I'm doing "for financial reasons".

Like a fool, at first I thought I was going to get some extra money. Mais non. They actually want to charge the client around £250 for every hour's work that I do for the firm! What a nerve.

I am at the disposal of the entire firm for around ten hours a day. I proof-read, translate, translate, proof-read. They give me long, technical texts which they expect to be done In a few hours. I have asserted myself enough now to be able to refuse things, for which I'm rewarded with a look of disbelief.

A couple of months ago I was all smiles, asking people for work when I didn't have any. Now I keep my head down and think about how I'm missing Richard and Judy. British TV really is the best around. Here, it's just a plethora of panel shows with participants feigning great knowledge on subjects ranging from the almond in French cuisine to sex with a large mammal.

It's not all doom and gloom. There are some convivial associates (collaborateurs) who work as a team supervised by a partner (associé). I can be myself with a handful of the secretaries. They are the ones that really know what's going on and who put up with all the hassle when the partners get stressed.

But must dash. Just got a big translation from French to English. All about IT. Merde.

Hello world

My first tentative wordsss from Brian's partttyy

Test

These are testing times... these people built my blog.

At the top of Peter Jones

My friend Brian, who introduced me to blogging says some really nice things about me:

Yesterday afternoon I went there with my friend Elena (who I hope may one day become a blogger – she'd be an excellent one, I think).

So I'd better start blogging real soon. Welcome to my new weblog.