Nowa Polska

I am back from the Eastern front, eaten alive by mosquitoes but relatively unscathed by strong drink. The wedding was very pleasant, although quite unconventional by Polish standards. Civil ceremony, no speeches, no dancing, no drunkenness … but the young couple had the day they wanted, which is what counts. The bride looked lovely, her tattoo proudly displayed above her strapless wedding dress. I commiserated with her father, who is a fine figure of a man for his age, with a strong resemblance to both Stalin and Saddam Hussein. “Oy, Dasia,” he opined soberly, “Things were much better under Communism”.

He’s not going back far enough. Things were much better before Communism. There was more aristocracy in Poland than anywhere else before World War II. Everyone laughed at how all the Polish pilots in the RAF claimed to be counts. That’s because they really were. Counts. Warsaw claimed the title of “Paris of the East”. Mind you, so did Bucharest, Budapest and St Petersburg. I would have been in fine company in pre-war Warsaw, my noble breeding shining through, having my hand kissed by all those good-looking Polish officers in their tight breeches …

Sorry, where was I? The weather was fabulous, and Warsaw is looking good these days. The EU money is definitely filtering through. The young ladies were as lovely as ever and even the men were looking better. I don’t know if it’s because I am now footloose and fancy-free again, and therefore anything in trousers looks good, or perhaps it’s because the shaved head is finally fashionable everywhere. The Poles have always favoured it because it is cheap and manly. It’s like being in a whole country full of Mitchell brothers.

I won’t drone on too much about my adventures in the East, or there’ll only be Shyha still awake. Suffice it to say that it was a most enjoyable trip down memory lane, the ghost of Harold was nowhere to be seen (probably down in Kraków making a nuisance of himself) and I shall most certainly be going back again in the future, for a longer stay. You’ll have to wait for the photographs, as I still use a Kodak Brownie and have to wait for the film to be developed and scanned. Can’t be doing with those silly little digital things. They pick up the slightest touch of delirium tremens.

My only problem with travelling these days is flying. Now I deliberately did not use one of these budget airlines, which are only about 60 euros cheaper, and fly from some hellforsaken dump miles from anywhere (Oh all right, Charleroi. Apologies to all the poor souls who have to live there) and flew from Brussels International on LOT (which was known some twenty-odd years ago as “Lands On Trees” after one of their planes crashed in the forest). I was lucky enough to have a double seat all to myself on both legs of the journey. But for some reason I always manage to be seated behind a heavy-set man who reclines his seat for the whole journey and fidgets constantly, leaving me about 3” margin for manoeuvre and sloshing my drink everywhere. On the return journey from Warsaw, it was an Italian. I was sorely tempted to give him the Zidane Kiss from behind as he was descending the steps onto the tarmac. But, as the eternally wise P.I. said, leadership requires anger management. So I just rammed him with my trolley at the baggage reclaim.

Next time you are travelling by air, gentlemen, spare a thought for the lady in the seat behind. If you don’t want a bash on the head with a rolled-up copy of “The Lady”.