Bra-less and barfing

I hope that he doesn't smell the vomit on my breath as I open the door.  One thing about Swiss tradesmen: when they say they'll be arriving at 8am, they arrive at 8am.

"Je suis desolee," I apologise, gesturing at my pyjamas and sticky hair.



















"Balcon?"  he points and I walk him through the kitchen to the outdoor area, often called 'the pool' due to its tendency to fill with water when it rains.  Two years of the neighbours below complaining and our landlord has finally decided to get our balcony repaired.   Asking them to make an appointment for another day is too risky: relations with our under-floor friends would not withstand waiting until Qatar hosts the World Cup.

Bzzzzt goes the door again, followed by Milly's barking.  Two more guys for the balcony; two less that speak English.  Our apartment is small enough for them to figure out where their workspace for today is, and I resume my position at the dining table: head propped up in one hand while reaching down to ruffle my puzzled dog's ears with the other.



















A helluva time for Mr Migraine to come visiting.  Just when it seemed that twelve months' of acupuncture sessions had done the trick he decides to make up for lost time by staying for three days in a row.  Lying down in my room while strange men whose language I don't speak come in and out of my apartment doesn't seem like a particularly smart idea despite the painful messages my skull, bowel and gut are sending me.

Might as well put the laptop on and blog.  Either that or vomit again.

Bzzzzzzt!  "No Milly, it's OK."  A couple more fellas, this time for the heating cupboard removal.  This is an expected bonus; another two year-old request that has been granted.  An original installation from 1970, we only once turned it on out of curiosity before it left the apartment choking in dust bunnies and what sounded like The Mother Ship about to land in our living room.

"Er, sorry, monsieur?"  Thank Choc for Google translate: one wants to disconnect the electrics and the other needs a smoke outside before needing to go back downstairs to fetch a trolley...

The radio is now on, French Fogey FM featuring mid-nineties 'classics' and the skull-thumping sounds of tiles and cement being split apart.  The phone is ringing, but it'll just have to be ignored as there's a press need to run into the bathroom and -------

Bzzzzzzt!  I prop open the door, looking even paler but now with minty-fresh breath.

Who'd like a coffee?  They all would, of course.  The Burp Burp Burp sound of the DeLonghi machine just adds another percussive layer to the chisels, chat and chart-toppers.  Edging my way around the six outdoor chairs, wooden table, pot plants and watering cans haphazardly stacked in the kitchen, I feel a sense of gratitude that all of them only wanted espresso and there's no need for any physical feats in reaching for the milk frothing nozzle.

Bzzzzzzt!  "You're a good dog, Milly.  You can trot over and sniff them as they're sticking down floor protector tape, taking out boxes of smashed tiles and bringing up new ones but make sure that they know that you're there and that they don't step on your tail.  But oh geez, the smell of that adhesive is not doing nice things to my system-----

Sod the toothpaste.  They've seen what I look like, who cares about my breath?

Bzzzzzzt!  "The door's open - if you have tiles or cement or a trolley or a spirit level or forms to sign or a beverage request, just come on in already!"  The gut is behaving itself, but Mr Migraine has painted a broad-brush of pain across my eyes, cheekbones and back of my head.  Of course, why not get the upstairs guy to start drilling as well?

Sitting at the dining table, I finally start to see the funny side.  London, Copenhagen,Vienna one day; bra-less and barfing the next.

Milly's already lost interest in the Tradie Traffic occurring inside her home and is instead making the most of my left arm. Why not lie back and enjoy a belly scratch?

Why not indeed. There's a lot to learn from a ten year old dog who willingly lets herself get bitten by bumble bees in order for a good, long and satisfying sniff in the garden bed...

There is so much that I am grateful for.

Slackarse Sunday Selection

....It's nearly 5pm here in Switzerland, so it's already Monday in Oz, but with a year of ideas and photos and learnings, my brain has instead decided to stay in Sleeping in on Sunday-mode and not do much in the area of work, words or creativity.

It's been a while, but I remember loving the Sunday Selections weekly meme that is hosted by the living legend that is 'River' over at Drifting Through Life. 

Her rules are very simple:-

1. Post photos of your choice, old or new, under the Sunday Selections title

2. Link back to River somewhere in your post3. Leave a comment on River's post and visit some of the others who have posted and commented: for example:    Elephant's Child    Keep working through it    Kit Conn

Here are my iPhone orphans:

A bathroom mirror from IKEA.  Purchased to let me keep my elderly eyes on any stray facial hair.  I only noticed that it was called 'frack' when I got home and thought it rather neatly summed up what my reaction is at seeing my face first thing every morning.

At Milly's Meadow (officially known as Parc de Trembley), we found this rather clean sofa plonked right in the middle of the beautifully manicured lawns one Sunday morning.  It may not have been my preferred style but it was eagerly leapt upon by Milly.  Having a sofa of her own plus a long walk meant that all she needed to complete the ecstasy trifecta was a few slices of bacon.

I've revealed the Jovial Douche shower gel, Douche Parking, the Chateau d'Ouchy and Vadge Fresh to you before, but why not have some extra brain cells for those clever comebacks in addition to minty fresh breath?

Other brand favourites include our current shower gel - Douche Sensations (although I get enough of those 'sensations' just driving Sapphire to school amongst the never-ending road works, impatient horn honkers and the French Suisse's allergy to using indicators); Grande Cracks (biscuits for cheese) and 'extra dick' pizza bases.....

Parking perpendicularly is a selfish annoyance in the communal garage under our apartment building as it prevents not only the car directly being blocked from getting out but also the car opposite, as the space is too narrow to back out from.  If this car wasn't so adorable, it might - just might - have had a bag of Milly's butt nuggets placed under the windscreen wipers.

Last summer, the building's residential owners committee decided to invest in a robot mower.  Shallow channels were dug, wires inserted and carefully defined paths laid out for the green machine.  All went swimmingly until autumn, when the beast simply could not recognise or cope with wet leaves.  To the mower's mind, they were flat stickers on the floor, but to the aggrieved concierge, they were nature's litter and an unbearable offence to all who lived there.

However, just before they retired the mower for the winter season, Milly entertained the neighbours at the eastern end of the building with her never-fail, highly outraged lunch time reaction:

Yes, I guess that this is cheating a little as it's a video and not a photo, but imagine this performance occurring Every. Single. Day.....

.....within a fortnight she had several retired couples deliberately timing their balcony sandwiches and cuppas so that they could be entertained by our insane little orange dog.

The mower is back in business again, and so is Milly's pursuit of it.

Sapphire and I went zip lining with our gregariously gorgeous friend Gianna and her nephew Malachy in a forest just near Nyon.  It was then that my suspicion that French Suisse concerns for Health and Safety were nowhere near as stringent as that in Australia or the UK were indeed confirmed. 

Call it the Gallic shrug, or perhaps the fact that Gianna and I were the only people older than fifteen years old participating, but clearly the wooden platforms at each end of the lines were merely serving suggestions and not rigorously tested or secured.

Then factor in my 72 kilogram frame (easily being the largest of the four of us), a downward wire and momentum building to a level that saw my cheeks flapping back like a beagle's ears and my bulky bod was smacked directly into the trunk of an ancient oak tree and swiftly flung halfway back up the wire and smacked back into the tree again. And again.  Despite this - and the inability to walk home later or lift my arms up higher than my shoulders - we had a hoot.

The Swiss love a referendum.  Some of the topics can be incredibly controversial and have serious ramifications, such as the recent 'aye' to restrict international immigration; but others can be rather flighty.

This poster is advocating a 'yes' vote for extending the hours of road houses.  Yes, they want petrol stations to be able to sell sausages and other hot foods for longer hours.  

Not to be outdone, an opposition party went straight for the lowest common denominator - sex.  As in make love; not a trip to the servo for a sarnie!

Sapphire and I visited the Musee Ariana which features a huge collection of porcelain in a beautiful 18th C mansion by the edge of Lac Leman.  Part of the attraction was that it was a nice walk from our apartment and it was free: two winners for Geneva.  Luckily, it was easy to while away a pleasant couple of hours there, but this little triple gold lion-legged sugar pot with what appeared to be a rogue bagpipe painted on it left us pretty confused.

I'll leave you with these final two photos. The first is of Love Chunks' Big silver Bad Boy barbecue that he had in Australia compared to the tray of charcoal he has now. Both do meat brilliantly well. 

.....although the chef has a fair bit to do with it!

To use the already-tired vocabulary favoured by football commentators

......what a year it has been!

Mistakes were made, arguments were held, travel was undertaken and spare cash spent, but as I sit back in the dusty spare room (currently holding a weeks’ worth of washing, two un-renovated 1950s armchairs and paperwork covered in Milly’s fur), some lessons have been learned.  Allow me to share my collected twelve months' worth of wisdom with you, dear reader.

Geographic location is everything. So is desperation.

I scored a terrific gig at – not sure if they should be mentioned or if rhyming words should be used, so we’ll play it safe – 'Bureauvision.'  I had dropped in my CV a month earlier and the lady who received it looked about as interested as a Kardashian not in front of a camera, but I only live one kilometre away.  Four weeks later, when the dust had settled on some redundancies and an additional staffer was forcibly ejected for completely misunderstanding what ‘work’ meant, I was called in.  Yes, I could be there by lunchtime; I could be there right now if they liked

Cheapness is seized.

With the car not even warm after the 1km drive, they asked for my hourly rate.  Not one for thinking quickly on my feet, I blurted out the one I use as an English tutor. This was accepted before I’d fully closed my mouth, so it was easy to figure out that a Swiss street sweeper with special needs rakes in more (and most of that from the gutters in the nightclub district).  Even so, I bet they didn't have as much fun as I did trying to publicise, coordinate and report on an awards ceremony that featured drunk Belgian comedians (yes, they do exist. Belgian comedians I mean, not drunks), a stage hogging Dutch host, a scene-stealing Aussie producer, Freddy Mercury fans, a modern interpretative dance routine during dessert and a huffy royal wrangler.  The gig is mine for this year too!

First impressions are usually right.  Second ones just confirm the first.

Lyon in France was visited again and still failed to give me the ‘oh wow’ reaction that everyone else seems to get.  Lingering smell of stale piss that seeps into your own clothes and lingers for a week? Check.  A run-down riverfront that is praised to the skies online but was a dusty obstacle course of bottles and beggars?  Check.   Overrated ‘gusto’ restaurants with 2074 price lists and 1974 decor? Check.  

Swiss cows aren’t happy; they’re deaf!

Those enormous bells that your least favourite Aunt brings you back from her big bus tour around Europe? Usually festooned with vomit-swirls of hand-painted edelweiss and alps?  Switzerland’s beloved bovines really do wear those brass bongers around their necks.  Even when casually standing in a field and doing nothing other than flicking away summer flies and considering which charming native flower to chew on next, the sound is a cacophonous chorus that renders ramblers strolling by temporarily deaf, let alone the poor creatures themselves.

Here’s proof:

Life is full of pricks.

In my case, it was time to try another method to persuade Mr Migraine to favour me less: acupuncture.  My GP referred me to his own acupuncturist; a German guy on the wrong side of town: next door to the soup kitchen and the car park entrance favoured by pick pockets counting their loot from the Plain Palais flea market.  My nerves were hidden by my immaturity: the doctor’s initials were PP.  Doctor PeePee... tee hee.  After sitting down and asking about my symptoms, how often, how long and where, I was asked to strip down to my knickers so that he could place his pins in parts of my body that included....  To be honest, I forgot where he stuck them; the tiny sensation of them being inserted was immediately forgotten and it was only when I sneezed and felt some wobble on my forehead and shoulders that I remembered.

Don't save your nice undies for date night.

My weekly sessions with Dr PeePee (see above) were making a significant difference.  Three weeks into a six-week schedule had shown only one sign of Mr Migraine and he was surprisingly easy to send packing.  In a now-familiar routine, I stripped off, lay on the bed and received my various pricks before being placed under a foil space blanket to keep warm.  Dr PeePee left the room and I decided to use the time to remember how to meditate..... WOO WOO WOO!

I sat up in shock; pins catching on the blanket and the ones on my ears pinching my hair. WOO WOO WOO!  The alarms were sounding all over the city.  Had it finally happened?  Was today the day that the rest of the warring world decided that Switzerland had been neutral for far too long and it was high time that they were forced to use their bomb shelters? 

WOO WOO WOO!  And here I was, alone, in nothing but knickers, studded with pins....!  

“Dr PeePee...?  DR PEEPEE????”   Sliding off the table with a partly-stuck on silver blanket and pins that waggled as I walked uncertainly towards the door to call out ‘Dr PeePee’ for the third time was not particularly comfortable, especially when some were at the top of my ankle that folded in a bit with each tentative step. “Dr PeePee...?!”

“It’s okay Madam Lockett,” he said, eventually squeaking up the passage in blue Crocs.  “Today is the day when all of the alarms have to be tested in Geneva.  It’s the law.”

My sigh of relief caused a pin in my neck to fall out.  “In that case, wouldn’t today would be the ideal time to bomb Geneva, as nobody would think it was anything except a drill, would they?”

Dr PeePee smiled.  “Well it’s a good thing that your clothes are within arm’s reach then, isn’t it?”

You can teach an old dog new tricks.

Steph’s friend Anne is a pharmacist by trade, but a dog trainer by passion.  As with alarm testing and cow bells, they take it very seriously here in Switzerland.  She was required to video lessons she’d undertaken with various dogs and needed to run a class with a young dog and an old dog.  Harley, at two, fulfilled the first criterion and Milly, at ten, amply provided the old. 

The aim was to get both dogs to walk left and round around four orange traffic cones, sticking closely to the sides of their owners and then sitting down at each end.  Harley was eager and up for it and walked alongside Steph willingly, but decided that manoeuvring through the cones was a waste of his time. 

Milly, on the other hand, followed my every move, left and right, onwards and upwards, sitting proudly on her backside (always careful to protect her arthritic back legs) at the end.  The same result was achieved over and over again, encouraging idle fantasies of Milly-n-me putting Pudsey and her human chick Ashleigh firmly into second place and snatching the half-million UK pound prize from under their noses.....  “Milly, you’re a natural at this,” Anne said, walking towards us, hands in her bum bag.  “Although if she eats any more of my treats her stomach’s in danger of dragging along the ground.

Hmmm, an old dog learning new tricks.  Could this old dog, in her forty sixth year, train for a marathon; her own stomach trailing dangerously close to the ground after years of Lindt inhalation?

All is still well. VERY well.

...... but I'm just wondering if I dare return to blogland after leaving it so suddenly?

Do I give you the reason(s) why I left, what occurred during that year and why I'm thinking about returning?

That in spite of the unforeseen hurts and bitter disappointment, saw my small family of Love Chunks, Sapphire, Milly the dog and myself have the happiest year ever?

An unknown and certainly un-chart-busting pop song that I ran to had a very telling lyric: "May my enemies live long, so they can see me progress."

Like a sequin on a stripper's g-string, I've got nothing to hide.......

It's all good

....but busy.  A fantastic work contract for one hectic month, two very long weekends and a bucketload of stuff shoved in between.

Blog visiting and commenting will resume soon.

In the meantime, go and visit RedNomadOz's blog and you'll see something familiar:

Douche Bonnet

Regular readers will already know this, but habitual lurkers (you know who you are; my counter's been collecting stats about you) or newbies looking for 'my left boob' (still the most-searched for item on this site) may not yet know that my sense of humour really is rather juvenile.

Whilst my French is limited to hello, goodbye, thank you and an ever-increasing range of charades that I'm prepared to act out in front of perplexed strangers, it is still the word 'douche' that never fails to amuse.

It was 'Jovial Douche' shower gel last year that saw me giving it to all of our house guests and, of late, it's been the Bonnet de Douches that's been snaffled from every hotel we've stayed in.

Shower caps, yes; but Douche Bonnets....?!  How can I not snigger at that and then, pondering my recent whinge about feeling grumpy and stumped, not take up PlasMan's idea to "Tell me - and the world - what YOU think is rubbish - and why."

Sapphire regularly accuses me of being overly judgmental of teenagers and of laughing too loudly at drunk uncles falling over in 'You've Been Framed' wedding clips, so it seems right to have myself feature as the first Douche Bonnet in the hopes that on a semi-regular basis my knickers will get twisted up enough to write about other people/trends/issues/behaviours that also require a public session under the scornful shower cap.

As such, I'm telling the world that I'm rubbish (or slightly, as even my bruised ego is aware that some good points are to be found) at being ........ not jealous.

This is a tough one to admit to, but jealousy is only ever evident to me after I've had a rant, been a bit bitchy, made a snarky comment (usually to Love Chunks or Sapphire) and then, seeing their slightly disapproving reaction(s), realise that it's all down to being more than just a tad envious.

Blogging is the issue that highlights my worthiness to be the first to don the Douche Bonnet.  A bugbear of mine concerns comments.  I'll admit that my knowledge of blog etiquette is minimal, but if someone is generous enough to take the time to read and then add a comment to my blog, I'll click on their link to see if they also have a blog and comment on one of their recent articles as an acknowledgement.  Then, if their blog is one that appeals to me, I'll add them to my regular reading list and keep on visiting and commenting.  After all, what blogger/writer, doesn't enjoy feedback?  Comments are, in my minuscule, jealous mind, the way of spreading the love back and forth and is the reason why I feel mightily pissed off when my comments are either never returned or even responded to, especially if the blogger is directly answering other commenters. My inner Douche Bonnet begins to inflate with annoyance.  Bloggers want comments, so surely they should do the same for others...?

So, when a blogger (and friend) recently announced via another form of media that they've revamped their long-forgotten blog and now want everyone to 'like' them and recommend their site to all their friends so that they can attach some advertising and make some money, my Douche Bonnet fogged up even further with an unattractive combination of 'who the hell do they think they are' and 'what do you think I've been trying to do for seven years' with a side order of 'so you think you can achieve what three billion of us already out there can't?'

The bonnet blew up bigger still when my elephant memory reminded me that the revamped blogger hadn't left a comment on mine in years....!

"You read far too much into things," says Love Chunks, not looking up from his iPad.

"It's hardly a life or death situation, is it, Mum," snorts Sapphire, packing her school things.

They're both right.  I deserve to be publicly exposed as the inaugural designated Douche Bonnet and learn to get over it and not blame my irrational envy on being in week three of a six week self-imposed no-sugar detox un-fun abstinence experience.  Either that or find out the hard way how difficult it is to remove both my head - and the now-desecrated Douche Bonnet - from out of my arse.

Home made oysters

The angry red bloodshot splodge changes from one eye to the other in the matter of hours, reminding me that whilst Spring has sprung in Switzerland, I am allergic to all of it.

Hayfever never troubled me in Australia, except for the three years that nasal polyps blocked each and every sinus drainage point.  This occurred during the bad old workaholic days, and my team reckoned that they knew when I was in my office (not directly visible to them) because of the window-rattling, endlessly honking nose blows.  Managerial mucus, if you will.  Thankfully, surgery occurred, scraping the inside of my face clean and then feeling the sheer relief of being able to speak without the other person looking at me with pity and inevitably asking, "Do you have a cold?"

Here, however, I'm chalking it down to a different hemisphere, different time zone, different season and different flora (and possibly fauna. Who knows what those pesky woodpeckers and squirrels do up in the trees when we're not looking).  It still seems incredible to me that bulbs can emerge when covered in thick snow and ice only six weeks earlier and trees switch from bare to bursting with blossom when my back is turned for a mere moment.

Nasal spray and tablets do help slightly and are well-earned after my attempts to act out 'hayfever' to the non-English speaking girl at the chemist.  However my walk with Milly in the mornings still results in sneezing a dozen times in a row with the air suction generated then causing every third one to be punctuated by a robust fart, pushing and shoving my body around like a disoriented set of blonde bagpipes.  Three steps back and a big one forward, thanks to the butt trumpet fighting the good fight on behalf of my itchy throat, streaming eyes and torturously tickly nose.

Milly also sneezes more than usual, but hers occur out in front of our apartment door in the marble-lined foyer by the lift doors.  "Ah-yeeeee!  Ah-yeeeeee!  Ah-yeeeeee!" reverberates down the hallway, in direct contravention of the Swiss-enforced 'no unnecessary noise before 8am on weekdays' rule.  If either of our neighbours opened their door to complain, they'd be presented with Milly's first real stretch of the day - head resting on her front paws as the rump is lifted towards them to expose a pencil sharpener arse already dilated and ready to discharge a poo in the park.

Outside and soon unencumbered by excrement exertion, she's as happy as the unknown-but-obviously-always-joyous-and-oft-referred-to Larry, scooting madly between the rows of daffodils, her paws flicking dew drops up against her belly.

This time last year she scooted in the rows of daffs, mouth open like a mobile hungry hippo as she avidly devoured the yellow petals.  This year she's either forgotten the joys of wanton destruction or has outgrown the taste.  I dawdle along behind, pausing every now and then to honk into my hanky, rub the reddest eye and do an exaggerated swallow in order to ease my throat.

It's all worth it.

Accidentally trading up

On our last skiing outing for the season, we headed to La Clusaz.  We might have been on the French side of the border, but like the Swiss, they too revere their dairy cows and idyllic alpine scenery.  Picture a hotel room completely done in carved in knotty pine with floral curtains and you'll see why the lift door here was one of the more understated bits of decor.

Out on the slopes, I managed to get on and off the ski lifts without incident and stay upright for the entire morning session.  After three hours, my body was screaming for a break and my gut was groaning for some grub. The highlight was the break for lunch at a restaurant on the slope itself.  Diners are greeted by the dog, 1664 (yes, named after the beer) who is seen here trying to grab one of Simon's poles.

To gain entry, you literally ski up to the entrance, unclick your skis, jam 'em into the snow and drape your poles by their straps over the pointy ends.  Then there's a few metres of stiff walking like robots in unwieldy boots with a grunt after each step due to protesting muscles starting to untwist themselves and throb angrily at the treatment they've just been subjected to.

With helmet-hair and red marks from the goggles still on my face, I peeled off my gloves and gratefully slurped my bowl of hot chocolate.  Bowls make sense here as they warm up the fingers.

We all enjoyed lunches of BBQed steaks, tuna, quiche gruyere, chunky chips, smoked pork and a bit of red wine to wash it down with.  Conversation was bright, the sun even brighter and I shared my finding that farting in your ski pants (salopettes) isn't a good idea because the gas travels up your body and poofs out at the top of your jacket, resultant stench sailing straight up the snout.

Love Chunks, now a confirmed addict for alpine activities, inevitably looked at his watch. "We'd better make the most of it before the lift closes," he said, clicking the strap of his helmet under his chin, his eyes looking not unlike Milly's when the word 'walk' is uttered out loud.

Clunking our awkward disjointed way back to 1664 (who was busy chasing a slow learner around the other side of the building and not interested in patrons who were leaving), we reached for our skis.

"These aren't mine," I said, noting that the stocks were white and not brown.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

It was then that Simon recalled seeing a woman fumble about in the general vicinity of our skis as he ate.  "As we were diving into the creme brulee, I remember noticing that the clumsy way she tried to put on her skis made it pretty clear that she wasn't a natural and was still most definitely in the Beginner category."

"Like me, you mean...?"

"Well, now that you mention it......"

We stood around the alien skis, wondering what to do.  Gianna, the fluent French-speaker among us, went back into the restaurant and left our contact details should the woman realise her mistake and return.  There were no 'hire' barcodes on them, so they were privately owned.  Stealing didn't seem likely. "And of course the stocks would be my size or she wouldn't have been able to slip into mine if they didn't fit," I concluded. "She'll probably get home and one of her teenage kids will say, 'Er derr Mum, they're not your skis!" 

There was really nothing for it but to put them on, keep an eye out for a woman with largish hooves on white skis with brown stocks (and bent ski poles) and see if things couldn't be set to rights.  Not so easy in practice when on a steeply sloping field hosting a couple of thousand skiers, none of whom stayed still long enough to let my eyes focus.

Over dinner, I again pondered the fate of my still very brand new skis.  "She's left me a pair that have a few scratches on them, but at least her poles are straight." 

Simon got his iPad out and did a bit of research.  "You're in luck, Kath. Her skis might be slightly broken in, but they're a current brand and model that's still available.  How much were your Rossignols again...?" Tappita tappita tappita he went, beer temporarily forgotten as he delved deeper into the details.

It was time for a glass of champers: the value and quality of my skis had doubled in a day.

Seconds

Apart from a brand new kitchen tap that was installed last week to prevent the cupboard underneath from rotting away and contributing to the outdoor pool that is our balcony, our rented accommodation has been largely untouched and unrenovated since it was built in 1970.

Despite this, I've discovered from the occasional chat with other building dwellers that our place is the largest size they have.  Every third floor (second, fifth, eighth and eleventh levels) has one our size that stretches across the entire length and allows pretty decent views of the Saleve and Jura mountains from both sides. "Plus, you have a maids' door," Anne said to me.

A maid's door?

She's right.  Taking care to snap this photo with keys safely in my hand, I'd almost forgotten about our second door.  It's the one on the right - closest to the gorgeous matchy-matchy lift door. Nothing but the best of burnt seventies' brown sugar for our external furnishings.

"And don't forget what was constructed for the housekeeper inside," she said, pointing to the tiny room next to the guest toilet.  This windowless, power point-less room measures 1.5 by 2.5 metres.  

We use it as our indoor storage space. My two nanna carts, LC's and Sapphire's scooters, unused winter quilts, art supplies and a dodgy IKEA desk chair have been shoved there out of the way.  "Well, if you had a live-in housekeeper, that's where she would have to sleep."

No wonder Milly and I see so many nervous and tired-looking Philippino and Malaysian women entering the foyer as we're exiting for Milly's first whizzer of the day at 7:00am.  They all stop and greet Milly, who rushes up to greet them with a wildly wagging tail.  "I miss dogs," one said wistfully the other day. "My kids look after mine in Manila for me."

It seems that these days no-one has live-in domestics; or not that I'd noticed anyway.  Then again, Guillaime upstairs has a cleaner visit every single week day.  Considering that it's just him and his wife in their two bedroom/one bathroom apartment (ours is 3br/2 br), it's a genuine struggle to imagine just what kind of detailed tidying up is required so regularly.  From the hoovering, scraping and clanging sounds overhead, Guillaime's debris keeps her occupied for least three hours.  Is he a messy eater who then defecates on the floor?  Does the always-stunning Mrs G let everything hang out once the front door's closed behind her, grinding dropped blobs of her Chanel Double Perfection Lumiere foundation into the gaps in the parquetry...?   Are they against wardrobes and discard clothes like dead skin cells?  Are dishes frisbees?  If so, they keep pretty quiet when it's not anyone's birthday.....

Our 'Maids' Entry' door has been permanently locked ever since we moved in, and is usually hidden by a rack full of damp washing, a handful of doggy doo bags dangling from the handle and the three designated recycling containers lined up in a row.  Lotto win fantasies see this door get removed forever and a decent pantry installed instead.

If we were the type of people who had a maid, then she'd apparently only be given a key to the side door and this is what she'd be greeted with: laundry and kitchen.  After all, why look at the comfortable bedrooms or living areas (with spectacular views) unless you're in there to spruce, dust and polish?

"Our cleaner is very good," Guilliame once remarked to me as we shared the lift. "Only twenty five francs an hour."  Waiting for the internet to rev up to normal speed and upload these photos, my mathematics-averse brain struggled with a calculation.  That'd be three hours, at 75 francs a day, totalling 375 for the week.  The Aussie dollar and the Swiss franc are pretty close these days, so it was no small biccies he was shelling out for managing a tiny living space.  It's also, it has to be said, a lot more than I charge per hour for my writing gigs.

If you've made it this far, you're probably wondering what the point of this entry is, apart from showing you how hideous our doors, floors and tiled walls are and that it might prove best not to visit Guillaime's place until after the cleaner's worked her magic.

Well, I was walking Milly in the Parc de Trembley this morning when I spied what initially looked like a rather cute scene.  Mum, dressed in a power suit with a sleek leather briefcase slung across her chest, was sharing a ride on a scooter with her toddler.  Bent nearly double, she was gripping the handlebars tight, calling out, "Wheee! Wheeeeee!", using one leg to propel them faster and faster forward.  The child was giggling with glee.  Sweet, right?

For the first few seconds, yes, until their companion was revealed, coming up behind, huffing and puffing to keep up the pace.  Dressed not in workout gear but a rather formal uniform was (presumably) the nanny, forced to run alongside until Mum had reached the enormous UIT building and handed her both the scooter and the child.

The nanny was not giggling with glee, and I sincerely hoped that she was at least paid enough to afford to live in a place of her own.

Scenes from a Genevan restaurant

"No wonder Simon and Gianna wanted to meet us here. It's actually modern," exclaimed Sapphire as we asked for a table to seat 'cinq' people and waited for the other two to arrive.

"I'll order a bottle of Rose. Everyone likes Rose and it'll go with pretty well any sort of Italian food."

Love Chunks surveyed the scene and then the menu, wincing as he did so. "Well, each dish is helping them pay for the renovations."

Sapphire, looking beautiful in her own chosen ensemble of skirt, boots and cute top, rolled her eyes. "Dad, that's Geneva for you."

He smiled. "You're right.  I'll try a glass of Cotes du Rhone red----"

"-----And I'll have a glass of that orange Aperol stuff, see?" Pointing wildly at a couple in the corner, "Remember me drinking it all the time last year in Germany...?  They've just ordered the same drink, which is the first time I've seen it here. I love that stuff!"

"Yes Kath/Mum," my two favourite humans chorused.

Gianna and Simon arrived, glad to see that we'd snaffled a table. "There's already a queue outside and it's only a quarter to seven," she said, sipping on the Rose. "What the....?" she swallowed only because it would be impolite to spit inside. "I'm sorry but this is awful!"

Simon and LC agreed.  "Never fear, I'll drink it," I said, worrying more about the cost of the wine and inwardly cringing at it going to waste.

"Peach iced tea for me, please," said Sapphire.  "Hey Mum," she whispered, tapping my arm. "Don't look now - I said DON'T LOOK - but one of the chefs over there has the Colosseum tattooed on his arm."

"So he has. No prizes for guessing where he's from." The completed half litre orange Aperol and first glass of Rose were working their magic. "So. Pretend that your life depended on getting a tattoo - on your upper arm, so it's mostly visible - of a landmark or living thing to represent yourself, what would it be?"

"Certainly not the Opera House," Sapphire said before turning to place her order.

"A flower of some kind," said Gianna. "Seeing as this year my birthday has a zero in it, I have been giving it some thought but haven't got as far as decided what flower."

"My girls," Love Chunks said, "but how awful would that look?"

"The Southern Cross for me," was my contribution. "It's time we took it back from the brain-dead bogans."  Sapphire shook her head in disapproval. "Mum, they'd just think you were their big white nanna."

"A British Bulldog," Simon said decisively. "But to overturn the racist element of it, I'd have him smiling, sitting on top of the Tower of London and wearing a Shamrock around his collar. My mum would like the shamrock."

It was then that we noticed the two real dogs in the restaurant.  The one closest to me was still a puppy and resembled our Milly crossed with a kelpie and a whippet and a whimsical dash of shrunken golden retriever.  Glass number three had me lean back and slur slightly, "Love your dog. What is she?"

"We're not really sure as she was a rescue dog from Austria," the man replied in a strong German accent.

At the table on the other side of us was a full-sized Boxer, his back almost the same level as the table.  Arse facing us, we were treated to an eyeful of his baked potato-sized bollocks.  Turning to face us (which we were all relieved about), he presented a very handsome but slightly huffy face.  His nose inevitably found her:  the cute Blonde Bitzer I was currently enchanted with.  His paws scrabbled on the shiny floor to reach her, knocking against the legs of his owners' table. A sixty-something man, clearly the owner, grabbed the dog and roughly shoved his head under the table, cursing loudly.

"That seems a bit harsh," observed Simon. "The dog's only doing what is natural..."

I leaned back to my Austrian friend and pointed to a spot just behind Simon's left elbow.  "There's a boxer over there who is very keen to meet your dog."

"But he mustn't," he whispered, "As she is on heat."

A fourth glass was swirling inside me yet even I queried the wisdom of bringing a dog on heat to the most popular restaurant in our postcode, with tables almost touching and overloaded with stemmed glasses and bread baskets.  "Oh," I said, turning back to my friends.

By the fifth glass, Gianna had had enough.  The Italian fire in her soul - and inborn knowledge of the language - saw her plonk down her calamari and square up to the Boxer's bully.  Never a shy petal, Gianna was obviously giving the bloke a goodly piece of her mind in her mother's native tongue, gesticulating at the dog and pointing towards the Blonde Bitzer behind me.  The waiters quickly intervened and magically found the Boxer family a table against the counter, presumably so that the dog could be hidden underneath and only have one side to escape from.

Things now settled, we enjoyed the meal. The food was indeed superb and the increasingly loud conversation, yelled orders to the pizza chefs and clacking heels on parquetry were adding to the chaos.  A downed sixth glass made me brave enough to lean back on my chair - now being steadied ever-so-subtlely by LC - and ask the question. "Why is your dog on heat?"

"She was supposed to be neutered on Tuesday but started bleeding, so the vet says he can't do it until next week-----"

The Boxer was there!  He'd broken out of his pizza and pasta-prescribed prison and was about to........."NO!"  Despite the imminence of a violent sexual scene and three separate groups of diners in distress, the packed restaurant remained oblivious, carrying on their own chats over carpaccio platters and wood fired focaccias.  Admittedly, things were fairly hazy in my Rose-saturated state, but pizza crusts and prosciutto may have been proffered to encourage the besotted Boxer to forgo his attempts at rooting in a restaurant and crouch back under his table.

"I'm not sure that food would normally dissuade a determined guy that easily," Simon muttered.

Our meal was all over by a tame 9:30 pm and Sapphire kindly held my elbow to add an element of safety to my sterling impression of a toddler walking down a flight of stairs for the first time.  "I'm sorry love, but I haven't set a very good example for you tonight, have I?"

She paused for a moment before smiling. "A drunk Mum, Gianna gettin' game and dirty dogs - remind me not to get so dressed up next time."

The chaos of chairs

Much like marriage, apartment living is a continual exercise in consideration and compromise.

We apparently have multi-storey living arrangements a far lot easier than the average Swiss person in that we have our own washing machine and therefore escape the dreaded laundry room timetable.  Friends on much higher salaries than ours are unable to go out on Monday nights because it is when their allotted two hours are given to use the washer and dryers.  The judges' decision is final and no further correspondence will be entered into, such is the difficulty in trying to nab a Saturday afternoon slot.  Someone has to die and have their next-of-kin tracked down, bribed and shagged to have any chance of being able to change the time you have been given.  (While we were in Spain, our house and dog-sitter said the highlight for her was being able to wash her clothes when she felt like it - such small pleasures)

For those of us with washing machines, life is relatively carefree as long as we don't use them before 8 am or after 9 pm and never on Sundays.  The Sunday restriction is regularly flouted by me - surely it's OK to do something other than stay utterly still and silent from, say, 10 am to 4 pm?  Doesn't that allow sufficient time for a sleep in or pre-work wind down? So far, no neighbour to the left, right, up or below has taken offence at my rest day rejection.

With our dog now fully embraced by our concierge, The Fratman, and able to leap into the lift doors and accompany elderly couples to their floor (and back down to me) with joy and safety, we figure that the block is pretty used to the noisy Australians who like to yell 'Tea is READY' instead of walk the fifteen metre dog leg to the bedroom area.

However, there is a big booger still dangling from the symbolic nostril that is upper-level etiquette: our balcony.

When it rains, the water simply gathers into small pools, eventually turning into one rather shallow swimming area when they join up.  The drain may be set in the far corner but the undulating slope of the tiles means that it rarely gets wet.  Instead, the water is eventually dried up by the sun or soaked up by my ugg boots; whatever happens first.

Unfortunately, it is not just worn woollen footwear and solar power that is removing the water - it is also seeping through the balcony and starting to stain the ceiling and upper walls of the apartment directly below us.  The neighbours (to be referred to as the Seventh Floor Fusspots from hereon) are understandably annoyed by this and have asked the land agent to contact the owner of our apartment to fix the problem.

With Swiss efficiency meaning that the plumber rings to apologise if he's going to be ten minutes late, I assumed that the balcony repair work would be relatively easy.

But no. In the past eight weeks, I've had no less than ten separate visits of men arriving with clipboards to
a) have a smoke and fling the butt over the edge of the flower boxes down into the garden that no human is allowed to enter;
b) point to the drainage hole and hold some intense discussions about it;
c) jump up and down on the tiles; and
d) tell me 'We fix. Later. Fratman will call you.'

TEN TIMES.  Unless they somehow scrape off a thick layer of cement and slope the entire balcony surface towards the drain or knock the entire edifice off and build a new one from scratch, it is not clear what quick job they can do to prevent the Seventh Floor Fusspots from continuing to complain.  Put in a blue pool liner perhaps?

Mrs Fusspot has usually been friendly to me whenever we've crossed paths by the mailboxes or in the lift, but the frustration of no action and her presumably still-ugly brown-stained walls are starting to fester beyond  annoyance at the owner and towards the renter.  Me, in other words.

Witnessing her pretending not to see me as she struggled into the four person lift with myself as the only other person present was a little too much, so I applied my cheery 'Hello' that often gets unfriendly dog walkers to respond when we pass by every single day.

She grunted.  I tried again. "Look, I'm sorry that there seems to be no improvement on the balcony for you.  I've had ten lots of men come up to look at it, but not one of them has returned to do anything.  Is there anything I can do to help it happen quicker for you?"

"Yes," she hissed, causing me to step back a little in surprise.  Even her drop pearl earrings were swinging erratically. "You can stop scraping your chairs on the floor."

"Oh, sorry.  We have those felt dot things on the bottom of the legs---"

"It's NOT ENOUGH. You scrape them all the time and we need you to stop."

We had arrived at her floor and she swept out to my, "Sure, I'll speak to my family about it...."

Arriving back upstairs, I realised that our six dining chairs are all on carpet.  An IKEA job that has soaked up a few of Milly's left-inside-too-long butt nuggets, an infinity of dropped bread crumbs and more spilled wine than what had remained in the glasses they were originally poured into.  The rug now had several extra layers that not only prevented the chairs from scraping, but also provided recording studio-quality sound-proofing and a large, aromatic area for the dog to ram her nose into for a lick and a sniff if the kitchen floor is too clean.

It was hard not to laugh.  If this complex was in Australia (say, Flemington), housing this many people it would be a madhouse of noise.  Two hundred residents would mean that simple Aussie-related maths would see at least two out-of-control parties, several domestic incidents, a visit from the ambos, stolen wheelie bins, hard rubbish put out seven months too early, hills hoists pulled over, cars being keyed and Eminem on level eleven during work hours.  And we'd be pretty accepting of all that....

I saw The Chair Scraping Shrew again the following day.  "Good morning Mrs Fusspot.  We've had a think about what you told us and realise that it's not us who are scraping the floors.  It must be people on either side or on the ninth floor, as we have carpet under our chairs."

She stopped unlocking her mailbox and gave me a skeptical look. "No, you are wrong, it is you.  You have chairs in your kitchen."

"No, we don't, actually.  Our kitchen has a fixed bench in it and no chairs."

The fact that I dared to question her statement and profess knowledge of my own kitchen still did not convince her.  She shook her head. "I think you are mistaken. Your kitchen chairs scrape all day."

All day....?  When I'm home, I'm usually in the study - with a different apartment underneath me - blobbed out in a rollerball office chair and never on the dining setting. I felt my mouth form into the universal sign of increased annoyance - the cat's arse pucker.  "Look, Mrs Fusspot, you're more than welcome to come on up and see for yourself."

"That won't be necessary. All you need to do is stop the scraping."

It was then that I decided forget about visiting the bootmaker's in Petit Saconnex.  Not because he doesn't do a good job in re-heeling my beloved black boots, but because I was going to ask him to apply a layer of special rubbery stuff that would stop the 'clop clop clop' sound of my brand new boots (black again, of course) when I walked across the parquetry floor boards not covered by rugs.

Sod her.  Milly's nails can get longer AND the double spin cycle will be selected on Sunday.