Cemeteries, castles and cows' stomachs

Munching in front of a Monument again: this time it's Edinburgh Castle.  Yes, I've used shortbread but, true-to-my-nature, it has a thick layer of chocolate on the top.

After all, why not pop over there on a cheap flight for a few days during Sapphire's half-term break. And don't get me started on why kids need a week off after only six weeks of school and then a pupil-free day the following Monday...  Love Chunks was left at work (with a couple of days to go skiing too, so don't feel too sorry for him).

The above photo was taken by a rather hungover young gentleman who was heading home to bed after a big Saturday night out just as we were heading up to the castle for an early Sunday morning start.

Sapphire beside a tiny window inside the St Margaret's chapel in the rocky grounds of Edinburgh castle. It's the oldest still-standing building there dating back to the 11th century.  It was surprising to discover that the castle is still used for army training and large areas were blocked off. A few Chinese tourists didn't read the 'Private Residence - No Entry' signs and opened the front door and wandered inside a rather lovely looking terraced house, no doubt surprising (or annoying) the occupants.

My observation to Sapph: "It must be terrific to live in such historical buildings and locations, but - whatever you do - always remember to have clothes on when you fling open your window or need to dash outside to whip a dry towel off the clothesline."

It was hurtful to receive only a eye roll for my sharing of wisdom.

Greyfriars church, in the heart of the Old Town at the base of the castle, was a spot that was regularly dug up by body snatchers keen to earn eight quid (half a years' wage) for each fresh(ish) one found.  Therefore, grim-looking headstones such as this one (see the two coffin and shovel icons left and right between the skull and crossbones?) were designed to warn potential carcass criminals to bog off and try somewhere else. Richer graves even had locked gates to prevent being disturbed whilst poorer-but-determined families sometimes forced a relative to sit on a new grave for at least a fortnight. After that, the bone burglars knew that the contents inside would be too decayed to interest the nearby medical school.

With an atmospherically gloomy day to help us, we tried (in vain) to find the Thomas Riddle gravestone that JK Rowling borrowed for her books.  We did, however, see a few other key character names amongst the tombs - McGonagal etc, and had lunch at the cafe she still credits for being kind enough to let her nurse a cup of coffee all day to stay warm and write the first Harry Potter.

The waiting staff there were keeping sharp eyes on any lingerers though, having suffered through a few other billionaire-wannabes trying to get a sniff of the inspiration JK found in their cafe.  The cappuccino cake was nice though, and Sapph thought her lamb and mint pie was pretty decent too.

 
Great achievement - Encyclopaedia Brittanica - but a very, very unfortunate name.  William Smellie......  In Australia, the cheaper and local version was 'Funk and Wagnalls.'  Adverts at the time would feature a kid asking something improbable like, 'Where do sesame seeds come from?' and a voice-over would gleefully say, "Look it up in your Funk and Wagnalls!"  Best not to say that phrase too fast or with a mouth full of toffee.

A unicorn, resting a hoof on the Scottish coat of arms whilst also holding up the St Andrews flag along the Royal Mile.  It's tempting to now write, 'your argument is invalid' ala the popular meme or 'enough said' but he sits proudly at the top of a small stone tower used to make (yell, presumably) announcements to the local populace.  

On the ground were wooden doors that were used to punish shop lifters caught red-handed at the nearby market. If captured, the thief had their ear nailed to the door and had a terrible choice to make:

A) To remain there for twenty four hours without touching their ear and endure the encouraged likelihood of locals kicking, spitting or emptying their night jars on you as well as enduring hunger, cold and wet pants; or

B) Leave the post at any time within that twenty four hours by tearing your ear off the nail.

Unfortunately the first case would undoubtedly cause you to perish in the night or endure a terrible, deathly infection and the second resulted in a missing chunk of ear that instantly identified you as a thief and therefore likely to be refused jobs, food or even permission to live in the town.  I wonder if that's where the term 'ear marked' comes from?

Bobby the dog was owned by a local policeman, John Grey, and always accompanied him on his rounds in the very dodgy areas of Edinburgh.  Several years later, John contracted TB and died and Bobby stayed by his grave, living for at least a decade afterwards.  He became rather famous and was looked after by the Greyfriars rector and locals, who regularly left him food and treats.  It is now a tradition to leave sticks for him to chase at his grave.

What I forgot to take photographs of:

• Sapphire trying and enjoying Haggis.
• "Aye, but ye canna go roond that whey," said the taxi driver and Sapphire whispering, "Can you actually understand what he's saying, Mum?"
• Bag pipe players. EVERYWHERE. In fact, the above pictures are rare for NOT containing any of them, but their strangled beagle sounds were always heard.
• Our deliciously hearty English full cooked breakfast but with Scottish extras of haggis and oatcake. Sapphire was primed to tell the waitress that she wanted a 'full English breakfast' but came out with, "I want the FULL SAUSAGE."  I'm still wondering if I'm a suitable role model because we laughed and joked about it for the rest of the trip.
• Nits. Again.  "No, I don't want to do it monkey style," said my younger Foghorn Leghorn when I suggested a quick check.  More immature giggling ensued; mostly from me.
• Me and cider. Local brews and a gorgeous strawberry one from Sweden. Why hasn't it travelled across the channel to mainland Europe...?
• Cadbury Creme eggs all over the place and for half the price they'd be in Australia.
• A tray of beef lasagne abandoned in the crisp packet aisle in Sainsburys.  Obviously bought out of habit before the brain started to ask, "But is it really beef, or is Phar Lap's descendent in there too?"

...and heading back to our cosy room to flop on the bed, enjoy a cup of tea and read all the broadsheet weekend newspapers with my darling travel companion.  

Pees Orff

Geneva is like a pimple on the face of Europe in that it is almost entirely surrounded by France.

Swiss flags might be everywhere but the lifestyle and attitudes are mostly French. Croissants instead of Bircher muesli; 'La Poste' on the sides of yellow delivery trucks instead of the rather forbidding 'Die Post' further north; and Fashion over Sensible Footwear.

The official branch of the bank that is used by Love Chunks' UN agency closes down over lunch, so any workers who want to pay bills or open an account have to sneak over before midday or after 2:00pm.  Everything is closed on Sunday, so if you haven't done your weekly shop or wish to visit a restaurant that:

* has decor later than 1978
* is vaguely affordable; and/or
* serves food that isn't Kath's One Pot At Home-standard of pasta or pizza

..... you'll starve.  It is the official Day of Rest and judging from the silence of our enormous apartment complex, residents are either attending church or lying mutely in the dark for the entire day.

Despite this, there's enough Swiss influence to ensure that public transport runs precisely on time; recycling depots are on every street corner and just moving to a different suburb requires you to notify and register with the local commune (council).  Cafes stay open "non stop" which is not 24/7 but means that they don't close for their own lunch break.

This is not the case a mere five kilometres away.  Where the edge of CERN's enormous underground Hadron Collider borders France, things change.  Prices of food, shoes, clothing, pharmaceuticals, gifts and furniture are markedly cheaper.  Same goes for meals at restaurants and bistros.

Kate and her daughter Imogen took Sapphire and myself out for a little excursion to Val Thoiry; a well known shopping destination for frustrated Genevan Meat Tourists* and for those tiring of only being able to buy their clothes from H&M and therefore match the 99% of the population who are not Rolex-wearing multi-millionaires.  I can spot a striped H&M t-shirt, one-pocket stud jeans and funky trousers a mile away these days.

Trudging through the snowy car park, we found ourselves in a northern hemisphere version of a Melbourne 'Home Maker' centre: enormous shop fronts, oodles of free (outdoor) parking and all manner of things for sale.  We'd been living in Geneva too long and had forgotten just how much choice is on offer if you're permitted to purchase items that aren't necessarily grown, invented or manufactured by the Swiss. 

Prices had me gobsmacked. "Kate, look at THIS! It's only ONE EURO! How on earth.....?"  A fellow shopper looked over at me in a kindly manner. She recognised a new recruit; a Meat Tourist now given the keys to purchases and choices beyond beef mince and deodorant.  "WHY is this two Euros here but eleven in Geneva, Kate? WHY?"

With shoes, birthday presents, Vag Fresh mints, kitchenware and chocolate purchased, our rumbling stomachs informed us that it was high time for lunch.

A cafe beckoned; its winking lights, front bar filled with warm-looking patrons and an extensive blackboard menu bragging about daily specials, two course deals and burgers cementing our decision. "Let's go here. Look how cheap the food is!"

Not so fast, the waiter seemed to say as I pointed to a large, empty booth inside the restaurant and he instead grabbed my elbow to steer me away. "Your table eeez outside."

Er, what?  

Admittedly, it was undercover and warm, but the cafe itself was empty except for the front bar.  Perhaps they were cleaning all the table tops?

The waiter returned. Sapphire asked in tentative French for the advertised burger, salad and fries.  My language skills were limited to understanding only his "Non."  She then tried wood oven pizza. "Non," he said again, pointing (with some force) at the laminated menus that also served as place mats on the outdoor table. "Just zeeeze," he said in English.

Kate nodded, finally understanding the waiter's lack of enthusiasm. "It's 1:45," she said, pointing to her watch. "We're too late for lunch and they wanted to close the kitchen."

Ohhhhh. The front section was full, but not of eaters. They were all busy chatting and slurping coffees, beers and wines, pausing only to flick their cigarette ash out behind them into our section.

All four of us dutifully pointed to the least offensive items on the menu. He nodded, relieved that these tardy clowns had got the message.  "Four lasagnes, eh?"

"Er, Oui. Please."

When our meals arrived - and they were good - the waiter sidled past every couple of minutes or so, meaningfully staring at our table in a very clear Hurry the Hell Up manner.

This, of course, had the opposite effect. We took our time and, somewhat ironically, had an interesting conversation about how often we must offend other cultures/countries/people unthinkingly.  

* Meat Tourists:  Frustrated expats who drive to France to buy cheaper meat and groceries.  Border control can stop your car and ask you how much meat you have. Maximum permitted is 500 grams of red meat per passenger in the car. I've been stopped twice in two years and have only ever had two kilograms of chicken breasts which they weren't even remotely interested in.

Dafuq?

Milly and I were doing our usual morning walk in Parc de Trembley.

I nodded and said "Bonjour" to the old guy who is seemingly welded to a smokers' seat at Urban Sand, the tiny coffee shop next to our building that has recently revealed that it contains the city's best baked cheesecake.

We greeted our friends the two lovely gardeners, busy emptying the bins. Milly rushed over for a pat and they wanted to chat about the tennis. "Andy Murray he, er, yells at himself too much. Pfffth! Too much self love. One more for our Roger, eh."

We steered past the tiny 'Off lead' dog paddock so that Milly and her foe the Alsatian weren't close enough to act out their angry dance of snapping at each others' noses through the chicken wire and I idly wondered again just why the Swiss Crapaud Crew chose fireworks and iced tea as their night time activities.

But today, on top of the hill with the best view of the St Pierre cathedral, Mont Blanc and Jet D'Eau, was a man with his chin pointing to the sky. He was oblivious to the scenery spread out before him as he was busy shaving. 

Dry shaving. No water, no towel, no cream. I could hear the scritch-scritch-scritch of rasping skin and stiff bristles as we passed.

Not sure if he got lucky and was doing a few quick ablutions on the way home as he was too neatly dressed to be homeless. Then again, how many blokes would carry a disposable razor in their back pocket before hitting the dance floor....?

Further down the hill, next to the nude lady missing a hand as she busily fished in the primary school pond was a man lying next to her.



Nothing overtly untoward was happening. On his back, a sports bag was shoved under his head for a pillow and his eyes were closed in the morning sun that was already bright and warm. Like our brave shaver, he was also well clothed, but not in night time threads. Posh campers, neat chinos and checked shirt indicated that he was ready for a day of sightseeing, starting with getting on the Number Three bus whose stop was close by.

Milly didn't deem him worthy of a closer inspection; not when a Jack Russell was approaching from the opposite direction. She knew from past experience that I am a sucker for a cute dog and she therefore had to emit a few fierce growls to get the other dog's owner to pass by giving a wide berth and removing all opportunities for conversation or contact. On no account whatsoever am I to touch or utter any endearments to any other dog, especially if they're on a lead. To date, no explanation has been forthcoming as to why the lead is such a red rag to anger and jealousy.

Around the corner, Milly's fears immediately dissolved as she scampered over to investigate the swathe of soft green grass that was now weirdly pock-marked all over with perfect black squares.

On closer inspection, we saw that they had been caused by coals from portable grills.

My two gardening and tennis fan friends would not be pleased to see that the sunny weather meant that their gorgeously manicured lawns would now be impersonating a chess board, but Milly was thrilled. Discarded drum sticks and pork ribs were everywhere and she set to rolling in what appeared to be a puddle of BBQ sauce and olive oil. "NO!"

Luckily, whenever I make to move away, she immediately follows and we walked up the Petit Saconnex hill path towards home.

I didn't see her but Milly sure did.

An eager sun baker, already in her bikini was laid out on her towel was soaking up the rays, her gorgeously slender body coated in coconut oil that was a siren song to my dog's nose. And tongue.

Before I could comprehend what was happening, Milly had shot over like an orange flame, slurped the girl across her stomach and hooned back before I could scold her.

The girl sat up in shock but Milly was already by my side a hundred metres away, goofy grin on her face. I wheeled around 180 degrees so that we were too far and at the wrong angle to be given the blame.

"You funny little dog," I said, patting her before realising that my hand now touched yesterday's oily BBQ lunch leftovers rubbed deep into her coat. "Good thing she just got a lick and not a full back roll from you!" 

Five franc special

Feeling more fragile since the death of my friends' eighteen year old son on Monday from meningococcal disease, I confess to feeling more annoyed than concerned when Sapphire came home from school with her lingering stomach pains in full flight. Again.

She'd had four days off school last week with our doctor confident that it was just a minor bout of gastro. What for me might have been an uneasy, queasy night would be a week of recovery for Sapphire in light of her almost-indestructible stomach infection she was forced to endure for months late last year.

But she woke up on Tuesday in tears. "Mum, it still hurts."

A dilemma was duking it out within me - was she not able to buck up and tough it out, or was there really something wrong, a week after a meal of slightly-dodgy prawns? Her temperature - taken thrice daily on doctors' orders - in parts of the body that caused my child to smile bravely and say, "Hey, now I know how Milly feels when she goes to the vet," - was normal. Her glands were no longer swollen. Bowel functions were fine.

Her stomach, however, was painful to touch. Again. Blood was taken for testing and we were sent home with two specimen jars that signified their preferred contents via their brown-coloured lids.

These were dropped off this morning before Milly and I set off for a walk. Brown stuff doesn't get analysed locally but gets transported to Zurich. World centre of banking and body waste.

Today she is still in pain, especially when she eats. It is cruel to watch. She's a beautiful thirteen year old girl who is starving but immediately after eating has to fold herself up for a while in a futile attempt to squash the gut stabbings away.

She is bored, too. The sun is blazing outside but she is inside feeling achey, tired and getting paler by the day. Music, reading, DVDs and a few cuddles from Milly before her friends get on the phone and ring her for an update after school.

With a diet so bland that even the lusted-after food before the flaming pain isn't exciting enough, I headed off to Migros to seek some alternatives to plain pasta and potato products. Sapphire was sleeping, so a hand-written note and smiley face was left on the table.

Climbing into the car - left side you idiot, not the right; how long have you lived here for now? - I somehow managed to scrape the key across the bulbous flesh at the end of my nose. Boy that hurt. A glance through teary eyes in the rear vision mirror showed no blood, just an angry glow.

My grocery unloading and packing skills have improved a great deal over the past twelve months. Hands a-blur as each item is laid onto the moving belt and I'm already out the other end flinging the heavy stuff into eco bags faster than the cheerless checkout chick can fling them. Before this improvement consciously moved from being noticed to smug satisfaction, she stopped catapulting cans and asked me a question. In French.

I shrugged and mentioned (in French) that I couldn't speak French. She lifted up my Bargain Brand bag holding four kilograms of small, second-grade oranges. "Sorry, I don't know the price." She phoned up some poor sap in the fruit section and, as she manually keyed in the correct amount, the bag split open and thirty citrus balls malevolently made a roll for it along the counter, under the floor by the baskets and over towards the oldies bench.

Check out chick's face remained utterly unmoved by my plight, her arms clamped to their sides in loyal adherence to the unwritten code of Care-Less Customer Service. 

One orange was left where it landed because even my ET-length fingers couldn't reach it beneath the 'Action' shelf fronting Aisle Five, 'Les produits de nettoyage.'

Dust bunnies were now on both knees, my face was red - geez my nose was stinging, probably got some dirt rubbed in it - and she held out her hand, wordlessly. Ah yes - the dumb English speaker was now required to hand over her store card. This dumb English speaker did so and even though I dearly wished to swish off with a smidge of self righteousness the lino floor nearly came up to meet me - my stupid shoelace had become caught in the back wheel of the trolley.

Hoppity hoppity hopping over to the oldies bench, the trolley had to be rolled back and forth like a tired parent with a new-born in a pram until the filthy circle was rotated enough to release my now-black shoe lace. 

Back in the underground car park of our building pushing two fully-laden nanna carts towards the lift, I saw an elderly neighbour from the sixth floor slowly and creakily emerge from his old beamer. I lingered so that the door could be held open for him and wondered how he'd usually manage on his own with a bag of shopping and a cane.

"Merci Madame!"

He's a nice old bloke. Whenever he sees Milly in the foyer, he always makes a big deal of her; ruffling her ears and showering her with lovely-sounding French sweet nothings as her tail thonks adoringly against the fake wood-lined walls.  A rebel too, as he’s the only person in our building with a novelty door mat. A basset hound wearing sneakers.

I pressed Number Six for him and Number Eight for me. He doesn't speak English so we both smiled politely and pointed at our respective purchases. "Supermarche?" "Oui."

When we reached six, he hobbled towards the three-segment silver door that slid open to reveal another saloon-style door. This is very heavy and cumbersome to open at the best of times and must feel like a fortified drawbridge during a siege for this old man. I instinctively leaned out from behind Nanna Cart One to push it open with my leg, but what emerged with the movement of the door was a short sharp and loud duck-quack fart.

“AU REVOIR!” Here’s hoping that my enthusiastic farewell disguised the flatulence faux pas.

After unpacking the groceries, taking Milly downstairs for a wee and checking emails, I showed Sapphire what I hoped would tempt her for lunch.

A measly packet of spring rolls. Stingy sized, vegetarian and on sale. Five francs. Asian-style food is not particularly well done here, but they’re savoury: not bread or poxy potato.

“Thanks Mum,” she said, hugging me. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

Guilt, love, concern, frustration, tears, annoyance, worry, affection, amazement, tiredness, irritation, anxiety, warmth and utterly sick of waiting for results. I hugged her right back.

Dough dodgers

 We might be living in Switzerland, but as Geneva is a tiny pimple that is pretty-well poked into by France, most of the foods, customs and lifestyle here is indisputably French.

Nothing more so than the bread. Long, thin baguettes comprise 99% of all bread sold and consumed in this part of the world. Crusty, fresh and flavoursome, it is designed to be bought and devoured on the same day. No preservatives are added, so twenty fours later your forgotten Pain Genovese would function better as a sturdy fence post than a breakfast option.

For those who prefer their bread in sandwiches, sliced white is usually in miserable, over-priced, over-packed and over-looked bottom floor shelves of the supermarket. It is often labelled 'American Toast,' and apparently lasts longer than a starlet's post-Disney career. We've learned the hard way that this stuff is to be avoided - anything made by the Swiss to cater for a populace they're unfamiliar with tastes like, well, it's been made by a country that hasn't a clue. See peanut butter and anything labelled 'Asiatique' for other sad examples.

Back to bread. If you're not prepared to spend fifteen francs on a filled baguette for lunch, then do what most of the locals do - buy it fresh from the boulangerie and eat it plain and straight out of the bag. Simple but delicious and all the crumbs are left on the pavement behind you.

So what do people do with the bread that's as rigid as Robin Hood's arrow stash the next day? They dispose of it, of course, but not usually in the rubbish.

Because it's winter here, they're more likely to festoon the gardens of their apartment complexes, public parks and green footpaths with their doughy remnants, roughly torn into chunks and scattered at the base of bushes and tree trunks. Birds and squirrels no doubt owe their survival to the bakers' collective aversion to preservatives.

So do domestic dogs. Milly's and my morning walks are often interrupted with many stops. Not just to wee over the signatures of other canines or to sniff for squirrels and the leavings of Crapauds, but to scoff the bread that's spread out like a stale smorgasbord seemingly every step of our journey.

And if it's not baguettes, we've also discovered vol-au-vent cases, Jewish matzo bread, paninis, pain de beurres and croissants. Milly returns home looking like a furry orange barrel with flecks of flour adoring her satisfied whiskery chin.

In our own garden, what we lovingly and gratefully refer to as The Dog Forest has an abundance of trees and very little usage by the other apartment dwellers. It is mostly Milly's private playland to run, parade, sniff and dump in as she desires. 

Recently however, someone has been sneaking into our pet paradise and leaving not just bread, but also apples and nuts for the Dog Forest fauna. Seeing Milly munch on almonds that were intended for the squirrels had me wondering not who the person was who was kind enough to leave them, but how on earth they a) could afford almonds and b) use them merely for fauna food. The apple quarters are usually only left by Milly because they're frozen solid, but on our next visit they've already been nibbled clean, leaving just the translucent peel behind.

The resident fox has also been in action, managing to snaffle a slow moving pigeon every other day. She leaves just the wings behind with feathers still on and a smear of blood in the snow. Yet again, this is frozen solid by the time we get to the scene and I'm relieved again that my furry companion is far too cold to contemplate rolling in these leftovers.

Back upstairs, Milly's coat is unzipped, her lead put away and my various layers are removed. She stares up at me, eyes asking for breakfast. "You've GOT to be kidding me, dog - you've just eaten a bakery display case followed by several nut clusters!"

Colin, crumbed

Revered South Aussie blogger River has recently shared photos of the cheeses she found (and is contemplating tasting) at Adelaide's Central Market.

Now, without wanting to come all Annie Get Your Gun over you and sing the entire song of 'Anything you can do I can do better,' she got me thinking about cheese available here, as well as other foods.

Cheesus.....! The variety here is mind boggling. Even modest old Migros, home to everything made in Switzerland with Swiss ingredients by only certified Swiss-nation-loving, national interest folk, has a fridge section that's a hundred metres long and full of cheese. If that's not good enough you can also visit their deli and have someone cut off a specific chunk of something different for you or get the unrefrigerated long-life soapy stuff next to the eggs.

In France, a mere 5 kilometres away, LeClerc has three aisles dedicated to cheese + the separate deli section but our newest discovery, Carrefour, outranks them both.

People with lactose intolerances start to double over in abdominal pain the moment they pull into the car park because this place sells not only televisions, champagne and bullock tongues but cheese. It's easily the largest supermarket I've ever been inside and roughly 40% of it is devoted to all things cheesey. Think goat, sheep, cow, buffalo and also ash, fig, garlic, vine leaf, straw, cloth and a ten thousand moulds and you might be partway there.

But cheese is the tip of the culinary iceberg (lettuce). Australia, Switzerland and France may all be commonly considered as well-off western nations with similar cultural concerns but foods found here still surprise me.



Take the humble yoghurt, for example. Plain, Greek or fruit is about all you get at Coles, but here we can freely grab pots of hazelnut, maple leaf, coconut and chocolate (nowhere near as nice as you'd think), mocha (ditto), prune and pineapple, rhubarb, cranberry, orange and ginger, caramel, winter chestnut.

The Christmas selection not only included Apple Strudel and Marzipan flavours but also caramelised pear and coffee bean. There might be a couple of reasons why these are only placed on the shelves for a couple of weeks per year: you only want to try them once and you either have locals with bad memories or trustful new UN arrivals who like the sound of them.

My utter favourite (apart from all and every permutation of berry) was fig and honey in Greek-style yoghurt. Sweet, creamy and delectable, so why-oh-why did I go and ruin it all by turning around to the back to read the nutritional (read: depressional) panel? Thirty grams of fat. Oh. Might as well be scoffing mascarpone...



The French-Suisse don't shy away from fats (see cheese above) or the origins of their foods. Some birds still have their heads, beaks and feet on not just in rustic market stalls but also in the supermarket meat section and nine times out of ten LC and I look at a tray of meat and, once the usual suspects of chicken, beef, pork, veal, duck, horse and rabbit are eliminated, are still none the wiser. Lambs' brains are vacuum packed in groups of three and were right alongside sheep hearts; inexplicably glad-wrapped in fours. (Did the butcher feel peckish and have the fourth brain on a baguette during his lunch break?)

Frogs (grenoille) started appearing just before the Silly Season all stacked up on kebab sticks like pink scallops, and snail cooking kits were lining the shelves next to the fondue kits. Yes, fondue is truly honestly eaten here by the locals, with Gruyere and Emmental (prepared ready for the pot) outselling the other million varieties of cheeses by ten to one.

Frozen fish comes from Alaska and Iceland and one particular brand caught my eye: Colin. Colin comes crumbed, but I've yet to find out what they did to Trevor or Dennis.

Yesterday, as we dawdled up and down the immense aisles of Carrefour in the afternoon***, at the end of each one, like Australia, there featured a small display of a special (or 'action') for the week. Packets of chips on one, bottles of pear cider on another and the obligatory stale Christmas cakes further along. However, seeing rabbit set up at aisle five was a bit confronting. They may have been mercifully stripped of their fur, but the butcher had displayed them agonisingly stretched out and left their eyes in, so we had an meaty mix of painfully nude and melted-wax-like pink bugs bunny displayed to win over our stomachs (nope) and our wallets (double nope).

I vowed to Sapphire that I would never eat rabbit. We owned and loved the adorable mini-lop bunny Skipper for three years before tearfully seeing him head off in Taka's car to the fertile, green organic garden of their home in Murrumbeena. The little bugger's apparently having a better time there than he ever had with us, with free reign to eat all the spinach he can handle, dig wherever he likes and stroll inside to take his place in front of the flatscreen in the evenings.

So when Love Chunks was peering at some pots of terrine to try, I hissed, "NO! Not that one! Try this one instead!" Not having Google Translate with us meant that we didn't know that the other flavours were, so he said, "Oh, she won't know," and popped it into our trolley. 

My heart sank with shame: I had promised our child that no relative of Skipper's would end up in my stomach and I'd stick with that to the very end.



..... My heart sank again later in the same day when I took the time to read the peel-back foil lid from Milly's dinner. Lapin !

They say things happen in threes, so I'm reading every single label before inserting whatever's inside into my mouth. Perhaps I'll stick to chocolate; it's a much safer option.

Ah Skipper - I miss the little guy.



*** The best time to go shopping is after 3pm when the rush is over. Peaceful and quick to the checkouts even if the crazy day's specials have all been snapped up and you're left with buying the 'Razzle Dazzle' scented laundry detergent based only on price and not knowledge of what the hell 'razzle dazzle' smells like.....

Wildlife

For several weeks I've been wondering if some Aussie litter bugs had taken residence in Geneva because the local park has been festooned with McDonald's bags, coke cups and burger wrappers.

To make matters worse, the rubbish has all been dumped right next to the bins in a rude 'up yours' to the SCRASA* employees who dutifully sweep the streets and tidy the parks first thing every morning.

However, today I found out who the filthy fools were - black crows. Milly was off sniffing the side of the road that is dotted with tiny rabbit burrows and as I enjoyed the view of the city, several of the blighters landed on the edge of the bin and proceeded to remove every item they could carry, drop it on the ground and have a good old peck and feed. Who knew that our feathered friends had a thing for stone cold fries and abandoned pickles?

Returning from my run this morning, I stood out on our eighth floor balcony to cool off. It's been a rare day because the fog had lifted and, despite predictions, there was still no snow on top of the Jura mountain range.

My attention therefore turned to the garden below where, if I'm patient, the quivering leaves reveal squirrels leaping athletically from tree to tree. Apparently they're scientifically known as 'Sciurus Vulgaris' which seems a little bit uncharitable. Any creature who can tell off my dog in a sharp little wittering tone and still hold a couple of acorns in its cheeks whilst jumping to safety deserves a nomenclature considerably more flattering in my opinion.

On the grass; that acreage of pristine green growing velvet that no dog or human is allowed to sit or walk on, a shadowy shape emerged, stretching itself with a lazy confidence that only a frequent visitor can pull off.

At first glance, I thought it was a ginger tabby cat, but as it scratched its ears with a hind leg and faced the rising sun, the fluffy tail revealed that it was a fox.

I'd never seen one during the day, let alone here, of all places. A huge apartment building housing several hundred people on one side of the narrow garden and a senior high school on the other, and it seemingly in no hurry or overtly alert to any dangers.

What did it eat? Lazy, ground-bound squirrels? The ginger cat normally seen but not today? Leftovers thrown over the fence by fussy teens? Kidnapped sparrows offered as food alternatives by nervous Sciurus Vulgarii keen to avoid becoming the meal of choice themselves?

No matter; I had to get ready for a brocante with three friends. 'Brocante' sounds better than a flea market and the one in Plainpalais often features more trash than treasure but it is exerting a strange power over me. My visits have become weekly and what initially seemed like a heap of junk that turned me into a female Darryl Kernigan muttering 'They're dreamin' when the price tags were shown has now become an opportunity to leisurely rummage and spot a bargain.

A tiny tin caught my eye. "Combien, monsieur?"

Twenty francs. No way Jose. I shook my head and was about to move onto the next stall.

He called out something to me, but I didn't understand and didn't particularly care as my attention was now on a box of dusty old art books.

He tried again, this time commenting to his friend and they both laughed. Now I may spend a goodly part of my life here in a bubble of ignorant bliss when it comes to the language spoken around me, but I know a ribald snigger when I hear it.

I tapped Monique's shoulder. She's French Canadian and despite being in the company of three Aussie women would have understood every single word. "What did he---" I thumbed back to the man now holding up a fox fur stole for a customer "----say about me just then?"

She took her time answering, which can't have been a good thing. "Um he said he'd shave for you."

My eyebrows are blonde and therefore invisible, but even she could see that I had one raised in that 'oh come off it' expression. "Monique, I can handle it."

Her cheeks flushed red. "Um he said he'd um, have a shave and then um, be ready to, ahh, do a few rude things to you if you'd buy the tin for twenty francs."

Not sure if I was supposed to be insulted or complimented, I called out, "Dix."

He nodded. My offer of ten francs was accepted and I gently placed the tin in my pocket. Maybe he'd eaten the goodies inside which was why he'd so cheaply offered his sexual services?

* No, I have no idea what SCRASA stands for either. They are efficient and friendly blokes but the acronym reminds me of something you'd want the doctor to remove.

Temptation

Genevans are daily shoppers it seems. With little bench space and mostly tiny kitchens, they like their bread fresh every day and purchase what they need for dinner that evening so that it fits into one shopping bag that can be carried on board the tram with minimum hassle.

Except for toilet paper, that is. These same small shoppers seem to like buying their bog rolls by the gross and I've often seen a passenger struggle to fit through the bus doors when tugging a plastic-wrapped multi-pack larger than our sofa.

Perhaps it's to reduce the public shame of flaunting one's personal brand of bathroom butt wipes to a once-a-year event.

Whatever the reason, on most occasions when I'm at Migros with my nanna cart and fold up bags I'll be standing behind someone purchasing a single croissant, two courgettes and - Whallumph! - the strength to lift and bung 144 toilet rolls on the conveyor belt.

My own method of shopping is proving to be rather difficult in this environment because I don't particularly want to spend every damn day at the supermarket and prefer to get it over and done with once a week. Or twice, if we're entertaining and want everything super-fresh.

The checkout staff aren't used to this. Nor are they used to using their arms beyond scanning each product and flinging it to their left. Don't be mistaken; I'm not expecting them to pack my bags but they're beeped through at such a rapid rate that it sees me panic slightly. An automated tennis ball machine operates more languidly than these Migros Mammas do.

I find myself bending over-and-up, over-and-up, over-and-up like an enormous pecking emu as I wildly fling everything into the nanna cart before the pile up falls over the edge. The checkout lady just sits there staring at me like I'm mildly entertaining but not actually a three-dimensional human being in front of her, sweating profusely and hearing several eggs crack in the carton when three tins of tomatoes are thrown in on top. As I'm trying to ignore the slow trickle of yolk over the half-price raspberry yoghurt six pack she'll address my arse: "Vous faire a une carte de migros?"

With sticky egg fingers I'll turn around, smile weakly at her disapproving face before wiping my hands on my jeans, rummaging around in my now pick-pocket (and Kath) unfriendly hand bag for the credit card.

Steak doesn't feature. At 60 francs a kilo and usually wrapped in single pieces we just can't justify buying it. Minced beef, I've sadly discovered, is not beef at all, but some form of hackfleisch that consists of three types of meat - one of which is usually horse. Pork gets a look-in when it's half price (26 francs a kilo) and chicken very regularly (22 francs). Proscuitto, at 9 francs per 100 grams, goes a very long way to adding flavour and interest to many meals - most of which feature a tin of tomatoes.

I'm aware that the prices are high in order to subsidise the non-sustainable swiss farming industry but can't comprehend why non-Swiss things such as shampoo, ball point pens, five-pack underpants and dog crunchies are eye-wateringly expensive as well.

And thus, this morning, I thought I'd bent-and-flung, bent-and-flung, bent-and-flung all of my groceries onto the conveyer belt before rushing to the other end to bend-and-fling, bend-and-fling, bend-and-fling them back into the nanna cart before Chuckle Trousers the Checkout Chook started catapulting the next customer's groceries into my pile when I noticed, nestled down in the dark depths of my fetching brown and pink flowery canvas cart a bottle of olive oil and three school lined writing pads.

The oil cost 6 francs and the pads 4 francs. For three very long seconds I contemplated leaving them there. Pretend I didn't see them. I'd never had my cart checked before, so why would it happen now?

But I didn't. "Je suis desolee madame," I wheezed and put them back on the conveyor belt to the annoyance of the woman behind me who'd already flopped down her vacuum sealed packet of rabbit kidneys and container of quark.

The temptation was there, though.

May the first and last time I steal anything be the last truffle left in the fridge*** and the second issue of the Official ABBA Magazine that I 'lost' after Barry H lent it to me in 1977. Sorry, Barry, but you'll be relieved to know that my evil ways are no more.

*** it doesn't count as stealing when:

a) it is chocolate or chocolate-related

b) it's in my own home; and

c) my family are aware of my addiction.

Sloppy Coffee and Clumsy Fumblings

Mrs Krups has let us down again.




















The first time it was my birthday and I naively thought that it'd be as easy as Maggie the magna's half-yearly service - a quick fiddle and back home again.

Alas no. Three weeks of to-ing and fro-ing from the Extended Warranty Wallahs and another couple to order the part in.

She returned home in good condition and was prepared to go back to work. Well, for a month. Our trip back from South Australia to Melbourne (yep, along with the three humans, the Christmas presents, a small rabbit and a dog, she also merited inclusion) must have literally rattled her, because when we plugged her back into the kitchen at Chateau Lockett, she defiantly whizzed all over the counter.

The second visit back to the Coffee Machine Centre took another four weeks; most of those spent liaising (or making many phone calls only to have none of them returned) with the Warranty Wimps.

The third visit was today, a mere two weeks after she returned. She initially seemed slightly quieter and a bit more defeated but had started dropping wet, sloppy pats of used coffee grounds in socially-unacceptable places which made the coffee weaker than a cup of hot water that was merely looking at an unopened jar of Nescafe.

The Warranty Wankers were unmoved. "Sorry Mrs Lockett," she said in that rushed and mumbled 'I couldn't care less' voice, "Your policy states that the product covered under our insurance needs to break down more than three times due to the same issue before you get a replacement model or your money back."

This time I didn't give Mrs Krups a small pat before they took her behind closed doors. I was dismissive and cold, whirling on my heel towards the gourmet food part of their warehouse, seething at possibly another five weeks without a proper Six-AM eye-opener.

Still, I pride myself on trying to see the positive side of things and was soon immersed in attempting to read the back of Italian talc boxes, German toffee slabs and figuring out that the French jars weren't holding albino Twistie snacks but were a creative interpretation of dissolvable anti-acid tablets and was thirty bucks for a pretty box of nougat really worth it and if so, why....

CRASH! My humble shoulder bag had brought down a stacked display of jars. Broken glass and sludge was all over the floor as I turned around to take a closer look at the product I'd just destroyed. 'Choc Ezy Nut-free spread.'

Ah. Perhaps it could be something I could review for GoneChocco, but I really didn't want....

"Are you going to pay for zat?" The assistant was at my side, smiling grimly.

"Er, I wasn't because it wasn't something I was going to buy, and I'm so sorry about this mess, but I have got some tea bags here and I've just dropped off my machine over there..."

He stared steadily at me as my voice trailed away. My hand groped for one of the few jars still intact on the shelf. "I might get this one." The word 'one' ended on a high note; more of a question seeking his approval and my escape.

He nodded. Things looked right in the world again but I had to do it.

I had to.

It was a question that needed - in my view - to be asked. "Um, I have a discount card for here. Can you please swipe it?"

He didn't bother to look at me this time, instead choosing to sigh loudly. "Is my first day on ze job. How do I do eet?"

I had no idea. "Hey, don't worry about it. I shouldn't have asked and I'm sorry again for the mess."

"Is okay. Enjoy ze spread."

Back in the car, I read the label. First ingredient: cheese. In a nut-free, chocolate spread that I'd just seen globbing slowly across a polished cement floor like an ageing brown bathmat. Great.

At Woolworths, my attention was focused on finding and buying foods that were slightly more practical. "Here darl, have a go at this, um, Antee Pasto here." The name plate said Cheryl and the pink lipstick slashed unevenly across the mouth said I'd rather drink the pickle juice than eat what it's preserving.

ACK ACK AAAAACK! The green olive - roughly the size of my fist - wasn't stuffed with red capsicum but a birds' eye chilli and my sample ended up being unceremoniously catapulted out of my shocked, coughing mouth and splatting somewhere in the open cheese cabinet nearby. Eyes streaming, I weakly pushed my trolley onwards, with Cheryl saying, "You get ten percent off if you buy three deli products this week, darl!" Ten points for optimism.

At the check out counter, an elderly lady was struggling to load her groceries onto the conveyor belt and keep hold of her walking stick. "Let me help you," I said, flashing her my 'I'm a Nice Person and Not a Robber or Rapist' servant-of-the-people smile.

She hurriedly looked away, muttered "I'm okay thanks," and promptly dropped a 2 kilogram bag of baker's flour on her own foot. We narrowly avoided clanging heads as I beat her to the bag, miraculously intact. "Here."

"Ta." Her posture made it clear that she wasn't comfortable facing or making eye contact with me and my smile faded. Ah well, let her fend for own fussy self then.


















Fussy Flour Femme was forgotten a few minutes later when I was pushing my own trolley down the slope towards the car. It was spitting slightly and I'd forgotten my sunglasses. Damp and glare with a side order of unpredictable wind gusts made the trip dodging commuters just off the nearby train platform and impatient drivers looking for a carpark particularly challenging.

I cursed. Poo Bum Bugger Shit Fart; the stupid damn key wasn't working in the lock.

I tried again. Still no luck. Dumb, hopeless, poxy crappy key. If this was a sitcom I'd be tempted to let the trolley wheel away and start kicking at the bloody ...

Oh. It wasn't my car.

Mine was three parks away.

As the engine was warming up, the rear vision mirror showed that several angry red chunks of chilli were smeared across my teeth like leftover entrails. Instead of smiling, servant-of-the-people it was more akin to dead-baby-brains-for-breakfast. No wonder Flour Femme got across the carpark with such unusual speed.

It was time to slink off home and see if I was brave enough to open the jar of unwanted Choc Ezy.

Rita the non-ETA Eater

Brought to you once again by the collection of magazines hidden in my study

In 1976, nothing said creativity and sophistication like a Sunbeam electric frypan. Mum used ours to, well, fry everything she could lay her hands on which was lamb chops about 80% of the time. Even the Sunday roast lamb was done in it with the lid on and the potatoes and onions swimming around the outside in a pool of hot fat, their bottoms getting stuck to the element for me to pick off and eat hours later.

Here though we have a Masterfoods Three Bean Mix Egg Combo which is eerily ahead of its time in that it is designed as a huge cross, indicating "NO! Just don't try this at home if you wish your corduroy slacks to stay in one piece and your net curtains to remain white. NO!"




















Clearly too, such an artistic design is meant not just for the kitchen bench but to be brought directly to the table so that all eaters could see just what a treat - visual and oral - they were in for that night.




















Later that same year, Streets icecream brought out the Toffee, er, Log. This brown barrell featuring swirls of cream and light brown pretty well echoed the decor of a million kitchens around the country and if served in burnt orange melamine bowls (as ours were) the look was complete.

The taste, on the other hand, was significant only in that it was insignificant. Still, it did help get the Stainless Steel Sunbeam Three Bean Egg Mix combo to slide down.

In keeping with the fashions of the time, you could also opt for Brown done three ways with a pot of pus - sorry, sauce - to dip your meats into. Mmmm hmmm who needs any other colours when you can do like you did in kindergarten art class and mix them all together and arrive at wonderful, delicious and complete brown.




















In 1977, Coles had created a New World. No, not one involving the eradication of deadly diseases or the end to all war and conflicts, but the introduction of Farmland Meat. 'Farmland' presumably meant a factory location where animals were dragged in and killed, cut up and placed on styrofoam trays covered in gladwrap rather than a sunny shop filled with rolling paddocks, gently lowing cattle and milking sheds.




















And look at how excited Trevor-the-neckless is to be featured in this advertisement. It was either this or be handpicked for the Yorkshire Ripper police line up and at least here he was able to wield a knife without being violently thrown to the floor and read his rights.

Thankfully there were other options to beans, Brown and Trevor's rather slapdash and very fat-laced meat trays - Kentucky Fried Chicken.




















Colonel Sanders was still alive at the time and stuff such as raging obesity, sky-high cholesterol and heart disease were still faint enough to be ignored, as was trying to hide 'Fried' in an acronym. What could out-do beans for sophistication and refinement than a grease-spattered cardboard box of unrecognisable chicken pieces? Yep, that's "real goodness" for you!

We had to settle for that until 1982 brought about a revolution. No, not just the official end of Adam and the Ants as a viable form of music but - steady yourselves - the introduction of sliced cheese.




















When Mum bought these - Dad would turn his nose up and announce they tasted like flat soap - we kids would hoover them up like after dinner mints (same shape). The old one kilo block of Coon was left languishing, getting blue spotted and sweaty in its plastic coat as we pushed it to the back of the fridge and instead ate slice after slice of Kraft. I can't remember adding bread or anything else to it too often but yes, this changed the way we ate, thought, sang, worshipped, loved, grew, progressed ..... Heady times.




















A year later when wearing plastic maps of Australia for earrings was considered de-rigeur, McDonald's decided to tell us that meat potatoes and bread were healthy, especially when reconfigured as a Big Mac. "Have some wholesome McDonald's meals and you're well on your way to a balanced diet." Yeah, in HELL. Even reading this tripe the first time around as a fourteen-and-a-half year old in my mother's Womens' Weekly I knew that I'd rather eat another frypans' worth of three bean egg mix.

All was calm by 1988 when the humble Jatz Cracker was the Easy Entertainer.




















I've studied the photo for a while now and can't for the life of me work out what's on those easy entertainers - turkey kidneys? Cat tumours? Tree fungi? Hippo snot? In our day it was French Onion dip or some good old Kraft cheese cunningly ripped into four with a thin slice of gherkin on the top, ready for a raging night of Porky's II on beta video or some games of Pong on the black and white TV in the pool room.....

Rita here perhaps sums up the effects that such foods had on the bowels of those who willingly ate it.




















The poor love was out of routine. It was either her diet or her busy busy life. It sure as hell couldn't have been those 23 cheese slices and Kentucky Fried bucket, could it? Or three wholesome Big Macs and a bowl of three been mix?

Ford Pills would set her straight; help her back out a toffee log of her own one of these days. Then she'll be able to do a semi plie without frightening her students or shattering the mirrors.