Fully recovered*
tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah tah …
*Last Saturday, on the eve of Warsaw Marathon, a pair of legs representing Global Village covered the half marathon distance from Białystok to Supraśl through the forest. The run clocked in 1 hour 32 minutes.
The runner’s happy to have sacrificed three toenails.
(Repetitive motion injuries are wear-and-tear injuries that occur because of repetitive activities that we perform at work and at home or during sport acivities. These injuries are due to repeated strain to muscles, tendons and joints in the hands, wrists, elbows, shoulders, back and neck.)
Good bye, Horton (5)
Then … ONE DAY
The Circus Show happened to reach
A town way down south, not so far from Palm Beach.
And, dawdling along way up high in the sky,
Who (of all people!) should chance to fly by
But that old good-for-nothing bird, runaway Mayzie!
Still on vacation and still just as lazy.
And, spying the flags and the tents just below,
She sang out, “What fun! Why, I’ll go to the show!”
And she swooped from the clouds
Through an open tent door …
“Good gracious!” gasped Mayzie,
“I’ve seen YOU before!”
Poor Horton looked up with his face white as chalk!
He started to speak, but before he could talk …
There rang out the noisiest ear-splitting squeaks
From the egg that he’d sat on for fifty-one weeks!
A thumping! A bumping! A wild alive scratching!
“My egg!” shouted Horton. “My EGG! WHY, IT’S HATCHING!”
“But it’s MINE!” screamed the bird,
When she heard the egg crack.
(The work was all done. Now she wanted it back.)
“It’s MY egg!” she sputtered. “You stole it from me!
Get off of my nest and get out of my tree!”
Poor Horton backed down
With a sad, heavy heart …
But at that very instant, the egg burst apart!
And out of the pieces of red and white shell,
From the egg that he’d sat on so long and so well,
Horton the Elephant saw something whizz!
IT HAD EARS
AND A TAIL
AND A TRUNK JUST LIKE HIS!
And the people came shouting, “What’s all this about … ?”
They looked! And they stared with their eyes popping out!
Then they cheered and they cheered
And they CHEERED more and more.
They’d never seen anything like it before!
“MY goodness! My gracious!” they shouted. “MY WORD!
It’s something brand new!
IT’S AN ELEPHANT-BIRD!!
And it should be, it should be, it SHOULD be like that!
Because Horton was faithful! He sat and he sat!
He meant what he said
And he said what he meant … ”
… And they sent him home
Happy,
One hundred per cent!
Indian summer
No harsh sounds disturb this quiet Saturday afternoon drenched with the thick September light. The sultry air fills the room through the fully open balcony door. In the distance, ten massive hot-air balloons rise above the park and float in a slow motion just above the treetops. In the room, a dish of trifle lands on the half-cleared table.
Here’s how it’s made. Crumble about 200g of sponge fingers into thumb-sized pieces and place them at the bottom of a large dish. Pour enough muscat, or any sweet wine, to soak the sponge thoroughly. Slowly whisk 300ml of whipping cream to the consistency of, say, cotton wool. Fold half the cream into 250ml of custard. Crush four or five handfuls of perfectly ripe raspberries with a fork and drizzle the pulp over the sponge. Pour the cream-custard mixture over the raspberries and let it merge with the juice. Finally spoon the remaining whipped cream over the top and scatter a few whole raspberries over the snowy surface. Chill for a couple of hours.
Trifle’s short, voluptuous life ends before dusk, before the balloons have disappeared from the sky, and is all about unbridled self-indulgence.
Horton sold to a circus (4)
And the first thing he knew, they had built a big wagon
With ropes on the front for the pullers to drag on.
They dug up his tree and they put it inside,
With Horton so sad that he practically cried.
“We’re off!” the men shouted. And off they all went
With Horton unhappy, one hundred per cent.
Up out of the jungle! Up into the sky!
Up over the mountains ten thousand feet high!
Then down, down the mountains
And down to the sea
Went the cart with the elephant,
Egg, nest and tree …
Then out of the wagon
And onto a ship!
Out over the ocean …
And oooh, what a trip!
Rolling and tossing and splashed with the spray!
And Horton said, day after day after day,
“I meant what I said
And I said what I meant …
But oh, am I seasick!
One hundred per cent!
After bobbing around for two weeks like a cork,
They landed at last in the town of New York.
“All ashore!” the men shouted,
And down with a lurch
Went Horton the Elephant
Still on his perch,
Tied onto a board that could just scarcely hold him …
BUMP!
Horton landed!
And then the men sold him!
Sold to a circus! Then week after week
They showed him to people at ten cents a peek.
They took him to Boston, to Kalamazoo,
Chicago, Weehawken and Washington, too;
To Dayton, Ohio; St. Paul, Minnesota;
To Wichita, Kansas; to Drake, North Dakota.
And everywhere thousands of folks flocked to see
And laugh at the elephant up in a tree.
Poor Horton grew sadder the farther he went,
But he said as he sat in the hot noisy tent:
“I meant what I said, and I said what I meant
An elephant’s faithful – one hundred per cent!”
Horton Hatches the Egg (3)
So poor Horton sat there
The whole winter through …
And then came the springtime
With troubles anew!
His friends gathered round
And they shouted with glee.
“Look! Horton the Elephant’s
Up in a tree!”
They taunted. They teased him.
They yelled, “How absurd!”
“Old Horton the Elephant
Thinks he’s a bird!”
They laughed and they laughed. Then they all ran away.
And Horton was lonely. He wanted to play.
But he sat on the egg and continued to say:
“I meant what I said
And I said what I meant …
An elephant’s faithful
One hundred per cent!”
“No matter WHAT happens,
This egg must be tended!”
But poor Horton’s troubles
Were far, far from ended.
For, while Horton sat there
So faithful, so kind,
Three hunters came sneaking
Up softly behind!
He heard the men’s footsteps!
He turned with a start!
Three rifles were aiming
Right straight at his heart!
Did he run?
He did not!
HORTON STAYED ON THAT NEST!
He held his head high
And he threw out his chest
And he looked at the hunters
As much as to say:
“Shoot if you must
But I won’t run away!
I meant what I said
And I said what I meant …
An elephant’s faithful
One hundred per cent!”
But the men didn’t shoot!
Much to Horton’s surprise,
They dropped their three guns
And they stared with wide eyes!
“Look!” they all shouted,
“Can such a thing be?
An elephant sitting on top of a tree … ”
“It’s strange! It’s amazing! It’s wonderful! New!
Don’t shoot him! We’ll CATCH him. That’s just what we’ll do!
Let’s take him alive. Why, he’s terribly funny!
We’ll sell him back home to a circus, for money!”
Horton Hatches the Egg (2)
“H-m-m-m … the first thing to do,” murmured Horton,
“Let’s see …
The first thing to do is to prop up this tree
And make it much stronger. That has to be done
Before I get on it. I must weigh a ton.”
Then carefully,
Tenderly,
Gently he crept
Up the trunk to the nest where the little egg slept.
Then Horton the elephant smiled. “Now that’s that … ”
And he sat
and he sat
and he sat
and he sat …
And he sat all that day
And he kept the egg warm …
And he sat all that night
Through a terrible storm.
It poured and it lightninged!
It thundered! It rumbled!
“This isn’t much fun,”
The poor elephant grumbled.
“I wish she’d come back
’Cause I’m cold and I’m wet.
I hope that that Mayzie bird doesn’t forget.”
But Mayzie, by this time, was far beyond reach,
Enjoying the sunshine way off in Palm Beach,
And having such fun, such a wonderful rest,
Decided she’d NEVER go back to her nest!
So Horton kept sitting there, day after day.
And soon it was Autumn. The leaves blew away.
And then came the Winter … the snow and the sleet!
And icicles hung
From his trunk and his feet.
But Horton kept sitting, and said with a sneeze,
“I’ll stay on this egg and I won’t let it freeze.
I meant what I said
And I said what I meant …
An elephant’s faithful
One hundred per cent!”
(Dr Seuss)
Horton Hatches the Egg (1)
Sighed Mayzie, a lazy bird hatching an egg:
“I’m tired and I’m bored
And I’ve kinks in my leg
From sitting, just sitting here day after day.
It’s work! How I hate it!
I’d much rather play!
I’d take a vacation, fly off for a rest
If I could find someone to stay on my nest!
If I could find someone, I’d fly away – free … ”
Then Horton, the Elephant, passed by her tree.
“Hello!” called the lazy bird, smiling her best,
“You’ve nothing to do and I do need a rest.
Would YOU like to sit on the egg in my nest?”
The elephant laughed
“Why, of all silly things!
I haven’t feathers and I haven’t wings.
ME on you egg? Why, that doesn’t make sense …
Your egg is so small, ma’m, and I’m so immense!”
“Tut, tut,” answered Mayzie. “I know you’re not small
But I’m sure you can do it. No trouble at all.
Just sit on it softly. You’re gentle and kind.
Come, be a good fellow. I know you won’t mind.”
“I can’t,” said the elephant.
“PL-E-E-ASE!” begged the bird.
“I won’t be gone long, sir. I give you my word.
I’ll hurry right back. Why, I’ll never be missed … ”
“Very well,” said the elephant, “since you insist …
You want a vacation. Go fly off and take it.
I’ll sit on your egg and I’ll try not to break it.
I’ll stay and be faithful. I mean what I say.”
“Toodle-oo!” sang out Mayzie and fluttered away.
(Dr Seuss)
Thou shalt not despise thy nation
Andrew Marr’s A History of Modern Britain is a book to devour, at bedtime or otherwise. The 600-page volume follows a BBC television series and covers nearly sixty years of the recent story of the island we unavoidably tend to refer to in our job. Decade by decade, from Britain after the war to the latest Polish workers invasion, Marr makes sure that the reader gets not only in-depth information and commentary, but also the emotional background, an enormous account of collective consciousness and mood behind events, affairs and conflicts, all delivered in sensual, witty, lucid prose. A sample below illustrates well how, within the span of few sentences, he manages to combine criticism, irony, pride, a sense of belonging and affection to his own pack.
“If, by an act of science or magic, a small platoon of British people from 1945 could be time-travelled sixty or so years into the future, what would they make of us? They would be nudging one another and trying not to laugh. They would be shocked by the different colours of skin. They would be surprised by the crammed and busy roads, the garish shops, the lack of smoke in the air. They would be amazed at how big so many of us are – not just tall but shamefully fat. They would be impressed by the clean hair, the new-looking clothes and the youthful faces of the new British. But they would feel shock and revulsion at the gross wastefulness, the food flown here from Zambia or Peru then promptly thrown out of houses and supermarkets uneaten, the mountains of intricately designed and hurriedly discarded music players, television sets and fridges, clothes and furniture; the ugly marks of painted, distorted words on walls and the litter everywhere of plastic and coloured paper. They would wonder at our lack of church-going, our flagrant openness about sex, our divorce habit, alongside our amazingly warm and comfortable houses. They would then discuss it all in voices that might make us in turn laugh at them – insufferably posh or quaintly regional. Yet these alien people were us. They are us. The cropped-haired urchins of the forties are our pensioners now. The impatient lean young adults of 1947 with their imperial convictions or socialist beliefs are around us still in wheelchairs or hidden in care homes. It was their lives and the choices they made which led to here and now. So although they might stare at us and ask, ‘Who are these alien people?’ we could reply, ‘We are you, what you chose to become.’”
WW2 women conductors
Obscene scents of summer
A celebration of summer may well begin with an early morning trip to the farmer’s market, giving way to a whole series of events and experiences, all about senses.
Blood-red strawberries, uniformly and loosely packed in baskets, exposed to our voyeuristic look, are as good as they come: smallish, deeply flavoured and red right through, without that tasteless white core some varieties have these days. While still in the basket, their smell is reminiscent of a baby after an evening bath. But when you pile them on a plate, sprinkle with a pinch of salt, freshly ground black pepper and drizzle with the juice of half a lemon, they will release a flavour of unparalleled intensity.
Summer garlic is something else. Plump and white, its soft pliable skin faintly brushed with green and mauve hides the youngest, freshest, juiciest nuggets inside. So firm, crisp and mild you want to eat them raw, thinly sliced on a sandwich, or in mayonnaise. This is the sweet garlic of cautious romance, just don’t expect anyone to want to snog you afterwards.
Meanwhile, a seemingly humble Galia melon has been in the kitchen for a few days. It’s oozing its intoxicating scent, given each morning a gentle squeeze, sniffed and rolled over and over in hands. Heavy with juice and promise, it won’t last another day.
Bundled spears of delight
Asparagus, the first vegetable that appears in the new season, doesn’t travel very well. If you resisted the temptation to buy any withered, tired-looking imported stuff earlier in spring, you are being rewarded at the moment. The Polish season for asparagus has just begun, but it won’t last long, just a month or so. To get some wholesome asparagus, avoid supermarket stalls, choose a small dedicated grocer, like the one in that hut a few steps down the street from Global Village. Spears should be fresh, firm to touch, plump and dump. Don’t mess around with asparagus, it deserves only simplest treatment.
Heat the oven to 200°C. Trim the woody ends and peel the stalks, the bleached variety need peeling, the green ones are just fine without. Toss the asparagus carefully in olive oil, sprinkle with coarse sea salt and place flat on a cast-iron griddle. Shove it into the oven and roast for about 20 minutes, or until the tips turn brown and a knife goes into the thick end with ease. When done, leave it to cool slightly. Eat with your fingers, with lots of thickly buttered fresh brown bread. A glass of bubbly does make a difference.
You might notice that asparagus makes your wee smell funny, but that’s the sign of how well it cleanses your system from within. Who cares when it is so good? Eat it as often as you can and watch your virility grow by the day.
