Popular In Poland!

The Blog, Of Course
Not merely Pierogi and vodka.  Conrad can supply concrete proof that the citizens of Polska either have very good taste or a worrying interest in the peculiar:

The bad traffic

     This is interesting for a couple of reasons.  Firstly, it has usually been the South Canadians, or as the stats above like to call it, "United States", that has bought into BOOJUM! big time.  Secondly, the Poles speak Polish - logically enough one feels - and hence BOOJUM! is not in their native tongue. 
     Of further interest is that Magda and Marek might well get your humble scribe into trouble, since if either The Metro or First Bus (of whom more later) get to read the blog, you can bet letters of legal restraint will be getting hand-delivered by motorcycle courier*.

More Of Poland And Wartime
Today's generation have no idea of the debt of honour that the UK owes to the Poles who fought with and for us in the Second Unpleasantness.  Of course we, the Italians and the Germans are terrific pals now; back then we were at daggers drawn.
     Here's an example.  The highest-scoring squadrons in the Battle of Britain were - Polish.  The highest-scoring pilot was actually a Czech, but he flew with a Polish squadron.  By the time they were flying with the RAF, the Poles had fought in the skies over Poland and again over France and were more experienced that their British RAF brethren.  There was none of the sporting British way in their aerial gunnery "Oh I was only aiming for the aircraft old chap"; the Poles got as close as possible to the Luftwaffe and did their very best to turn the aircrew into dogfood.  On the principle, I suppose, that an aircraft might get shot full of holes and get home if the crew is okay, but the other way round - not so much.

Polish RAF pilots
(Nigel Farage unavailable for comment)

     There's an amusing anecdote in Alexander Clifford's "Three Against Rommel", when Polish troops arrive to replace the besieged Australian garrison at Tobruk, outside which the Italian and German forces lay waiting.  A British liaison officer is briefing a battalion of Poles, his words being translated.  He lists the location of the Italian forces opposite, where their trenches are, their artillery parks, ammunition dumps, concentration areas and so on.  The Poles look bored but take notes anyway. Then he moves on to where the Germans forces are - and before he finishes the sentence orders are barked in Polish, gunners go racing out of the tent and salvoes of shells are thrown at the hapless Teutons.
     Recovering slightly, the British officer carries on, detailing where the Italians have their sentry positions.  The Poles look bored but take notes anyway.  Then the officer points out on a map where three German sentries are stationed - and again, before he finishes the sentence orders are barked in Polish and the three bewildered German sentries go to ground in a hurricane of gunfire.
     Well, we can laugh at it now.

Poles fighting for the British against the Italians and Germans in Africa.
Funny old world, eh?

Despondent Doggeh Edna
Our pocket wunderhund has a fine sense of the dramatic and if she could speak would probably have a Received English accent.  If she is sulking for whatever reason, which is usually that We The Humans are not according her enough attention, she lets you know about it with her body language, viz:

Abject misery

     She will resist the invitation to come sit on your lap, for a certain length of time, just long enough for you to recognise her sense of martyrdom.  Then she condescends to use you as a soft warm cushion:

Slightly less miserable

     The one thing guaranteed to cheer her up is the word "Walkies".  In fact, being rather quick on the uptake, she now knows that if your gifted author takes off his trainers and puts on his shoes, it means the "W" word.  Yes, we have to resort to saying "The "W" word" as she knows it.

Despondency quotient - 0.0

     Thank the good Lord aloft that she doesn't have mutually-opposable digits or she'd be running the country.

Hebden Bridge
Conrad knows this picturesque small town well, having visited often.  It's just far enough from the Mansion to be a trip away, yet not inconveniently so.  Here it is in summer:

Darling Daughter has been paddling here

     You can even feed the ducks and ducklings as they take a constitutional on the river.
     Not so today.  Conrad was appalled at the video on the Beeb's website; it looks as if the town had been lifted bodily into the air and dropped into a raging torrent.  They've had floods there in the past yet nothing compared to this.

Matters Less Grim
Well I have finally finished my frozen yoghurt, as cobbled together from an ingredients list on the back of a Ben & Jerry's carton of the stuff.

     It actually tasted pretty nice, mostly honey-flavoured**.  The real problem was the texture, which was - er - rather slimy.  Doutbless B & J process theirs in vast industrial mixers that fill it with froth and then freeze it with liquid helium, resources beyond the ken of your humble scribe.

First Bus Schedule Assessing
Okay, one reason Conrad was in the lounge was to watch "NCIS", I've already confessed to watching it as my guilty pleasure so your blackmail attempts have no force -
     Anyway, that's not what I was writing about.  Without access to the Murdermobile***, Conrad is reduced to catching the bus into Royton.  So I sat and wrote what times they went past my window, then compared that to the 409's Sunday schedule and, true enough, neither matched at all.  I did get lucky going into Royton and the bus going back in the direction of the Mansion was either 7 minutes early or 7 minutes late.  For First Bus, that's almost on-time!

"Thank you Conrad.  The Czech is in the post.^"

Goodness gracious 1,000 words already!  Better knock off before I bore people.  Catch you later!



* Or perhaps motorboat courier, given our weather.
** Due to the honey in it.
*** Atomic howitzer needs servicing
^  He's an assassin, apparently.