And how rapidly the unfamiliar becomes almost normal. We probably won’t feel in reach of true settledness until we move into our permanent apartment in Horgen in January, but nevertheless, despite being here in Zurich for only 10 days, already we seem to have found, or created for ourselves, a surprisingly comfortable groove. That said, we are leading quite different lives from each other. I’m working; M isn’t. Every day I get to travel 35 kilometres beyond the city, and spend my day 2,600 feet (800 metres) above sea level, in a modern office in a small town at the far end of the long and winding Lake Zurich. High above the lake, surrounded by green hills and distant mountains, … …
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Someone asked me today how my German was getting on. Here is the answer: This evening, at the end of my long commute back to Zurich, I called in at a Shell station to fill up with petrol. Despite the 5 empty spots available, I waited until I could fill up at pump number 1, 2, or 3, as otherwise, I wouldn’t have known what to say if I was asked which one I’d used. I’ve been making use of the lengthy drive (an hour or so each way) to listen to Teach Yourself German tapes, but we haven’t reached anything as useful as numbers yet. Tuesday was my first work day. After a 700 mile road trip from Blighty, … …
We’re here, in Zurich. One of my new-start resolutions is to post quick and short messages here, rather than always feel the need to write epic entries — a bad habit that gradually appeared a couple of years ago. I would rather write more frequent messages than agonise over spinning out some dense, meandering narrative. We left England yesterday morning at 8:30. We’d planned to spend the previous evening in leisurely fashion, chortling at Spamalot in Oxford. Instead we opted for a chaotic evening of ‘packing’. This began as a civilised and orderly process of selecting things we would need for the next two months (until our furniture and other possessions join us). As the hours trickled away, it turned … …
A man shouldn’t have this much trouble writing a blog post. As most likely readers of this will now know, I have some major news to impart, but I’m like a small-time actor who’s finally been trusted to deliver a key speech, and keeps fluffing his lines. As previously disseminated to many people, something genuinely life-changing has happened: the sort of thing that blogs dream about. Yet I’m struggling to give this piece an appropriate gravitas, or explosiveness, or sense of electricity. You see, I can’t even decide on the wrapper. Bah! Let’s just get on with the news. If you’ve not heard it, here it is: in a few weeks time, we are moving to Switzerland. For the last … …
Claiming that we would be hot yoga-ing 4 times last week was a magnificent example of giving a hostage to fortune. I knew it as I wrote it. It’s why I wrote it. The sentence was tapped out meticulously, and slowly, with my left hand. I was using my right to hold that gun to my own head. Bang! We had already missed one scheduled session when M had to visit her parents at short notice, and since she returned, she’s been squirming in agony with acute lower back pain, scuppering plans to return to the studio over the weekend. She’s not in a good way: barely able to move, and being hit by a spasm of pain every few … …
Everything about the Hot Yoga studio is small and neat, even the receptionist’s sales pitch, after which she asked: “Do you have any questions?” “Just one — why is Hot Yoga always spelt with capital initial letters?” “Oh. ” M and I finally made it to a session last night, after a hesitant week or two. It was good to rope her in. The presence of another newbie added a small sprinking of reassurance to the experience. What is Hot Yoga? Pretty much what the label says it is: yoga, practised in a room heated to 41 0r 42 degrees Celsius (105-108F). The idea of the heat is to loosen the muscles and encourage the cleansing qualities of profuse sweating.… …
It’s at least 3 months since I quoted this Twainism, so it must be time for a reprise: If you always do what you always did, you’ll always get what you always got. It dropped into my head again early Monday evening, as I pulled up sharply, clutching my left calf. The annoyingly whiney voice that accompanies hindsight tells me that this was an ill-advised jaunt. At the time, I spied no danger; just a pleasing excess of enthusiasm. After another strenuous spin class early in the morning, I must have been feeling a bit too self-congratulatory, and lined myself up for a further 4 mile plod later in the day. And a lovely evening it was too, with an … …
Considering this blog bears the strapline: Running is the answer, it seems like a long time since it reported an instance of this purportedly miracle activity. Barring my Connemara stroll, the Almeria Medio Maraton, at the end of January, was the last time I heard the slap of rubber on tarmac — and even that one ended in calf tears. Six months. That might sound like a running career that’s dead and buried, but it isn’t. Buried? Maybe. But it’s a shallow grave, and a premature burial. The dead man breathes. He breathed very heavily three days ago, and again yesterday. Just 7 miles in total, but a journey of a thousand miles… and all that. Added to … …
BALLACK WINDS UP ENGLISH I read this headline the other day, and for a moment, misunderstood it. I thought it was saying that Michael Ballack, of Chelsea and Germany, the owner of the most punchable face in football, had ended up being English. Perhaps he’d married an English woman and applied for British citizenship? But no, it meant something else: that he was cheekily prodding the old enemy in advance of the Crash of the Titans. So what did he say? Well, something quite incisive in my view: that “England are intimidated by their past”. He was talking about the football team, and needlessly self-imposed pressure. With third person singular verbs, the sentiment could equally apply to the country as … …