I haven't been updating my blog, but will be back to normal next week when back in Kenya and twiddling my thumbs between staving off the almost certain school holiday boredom that my three daughters will complain of.
Our trip to England has been great but is now winding up. Each time we come home in the summer, (this is our nineth year of doing it), there are new buzz words in the UK media and while things look the same, things have changed in an intangible way.
This year it's all about:
The Credit Crunch - everyone is tightening their belts ready for the possibility of a recession. Sunday newspaper suppliments are expounding the benefits of 'make do and mend'. High Street spending has fallen and the summer sales are offering record discounts in an attempt to lure shoppers.
The Property Slump - Having had at least ten years of booming trade, the housing market has suddenly fallen flat on it's face over a matter of two months. Housing developments have been put on hold unfinished and house prices are falling for the first time in a decade.
Recycling - Many County councils in England have imposed new, strict measures with regard to rubbish collection and the rules vary from County to County. When we rented a cottage in Devon for a week, I nearly had a nervous breakdown over the bewildering instructions over how to separate the rubbish into colour coded bags. Tins and plastic bottles (without lids) in blue, newspaper and cardboard (but not big boxes) in clear, cooked food and fruit and vegetable parings in brown and remaining rubbish in grey bags. (It took me over an hour to work all that out and even now I'm not sure I got it right). One week rubbish for recycling is collected, the next 'other rubbish'. Predictably the holiday cottages had a rather nasty rat problem because rubbish sits around outside for weeks and an enterprising private 'rubbish collection services' guy was called out at vast expense. He said:
'This new rubbish collection system is hopeless but I've got a good business out of it. I get called out to cart away rubbish every day in this area.'
If home owners fail to separate their rubbish correctly, there are harsh fines and council workers have the right to refuse to collect improperly sorted bags. My mum tells me that old ladies she knows no longer buy newspapers as they are terrified about how to dispose of them.
Poor Gordon - Gordon Brown, the UK Prime Minister's popularity is at an all time low due, largely to the state of the economy.
Rising costs - particularly of fuel. Not only has the cost of petrol risen dramatically (filling a car now costs not far off £100) forcing people to think twice before climbing into their cars, but last night British Gas announced a 35% price rise. All this means that the average Brit has less and less disposable income. It could be a cold winter.
The diary of a British expat living in Kenya. News, views, debate and a healthy dose of trivia.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Sunday, July 20, 2008
'Boden Beach', Devon, UK
We had a great week on ‘Boden’ beach, near Salcombe Devon. I say ‘Boden beach’ because Johnnie Boden would have been proud to see the amount of devotees to his massive online clothing empire who were out and proud and dancing about on the beach. Families were striking poses identical to those pictured in his catalogues that come crashing through UK letterboxes with relentless regularity. The kid’s knee length towelling tunics were popular this year, as were the shorts, t-shirts, bikinis, ladies skirts, crop trousers and dresses. By the way, we fitted in a treat as I have to admit my kids wear Boden too. We too are slaves to the aspirational lifestyle marketing... My brother in law said that holidaying in Salcombe without a boat is like visiting a ski resort without skis, but we survived nonetheless.
The one other indispensable item of clothing required for a UK beach holiday is the wetsuit, particularly for children crazy enough to want to spend extended periods in the icy British water – acceptable makes were O’Neal, Gull, etc... My husband was very proud to have found his ancient ‘Solar’ wetsuit tucked into the back of a cupboard at my parent’s house in England, which he gamely poured himself into having not worn it for fifteen years. However, it quickly became clear that ‘Solar’ is definitely not a make that is very ‘in’ at the moment and there were smirks amongst friends as they teased about the ‘eighties look’ and neon orange panels. I did not swim, but chose to hunker down with all the other mums at the high water mark and watch from a safe distance. We borrowed some buckets and spades from my Mum too which were invaluable, but my shopping savvy eldest daughter said when we got to the beach;
‘why has everyone else got bigger spades with wooden handles.’
Laying out our Masai rug on the silty sand and donning sunglasses, I soon became aware that I was in ‘people watching’ heaven. The situation improved for me as the tide came in swiftly during the afternoon and the entire holiday making beach going contingent were compressed onto a small sliver of sand at high tide. During this golden hour you could hear other people’s conversations even better! On one rare sunny (not drizzling) afternoon, glamorous holidaymakers scudded into the bay on small, inflatable speedboats, presumably fresh off their yachts for a spot of lunch and a glass of chilled white wine on shore. Mothers on the beach chatted about their babies, fathers took up bat and ball or bucket and spade to mastermind and construct ever more complex sand castle arrangements with their children, to rival all others. A couple of grannies were there on beach chairs huddled in jumpers to protect themselves from the cold onshore breeze.
Couples brought dogs to the beach, then proceeded to fuss over them endlessly in anxious tones.
‘Should I take Bella off the lead?’
‘Yes I will take it off, it would be nice for her to run about’
‘Hang on Bella, come back!’
‘Bella, don’t shake water over those poor people’
‘Who is that dog that Bella is talking too now?’
‘Oh my God, they are fighting!’
‘Come back Bella!! Stop it Bella! Naughty Bella’
followed by,
‘Oh dear, Bella!....’
‘Has anyone got a doggy poo bag?’
A veritable frisson ran up and down the beach at high tide when a lady with undulating curves wearing a tiny mini skirt, with accompanying tattoos, facial piercings and a pushchair shambled out of a combi van and down the concrete ramp onto the sand. She had six children of varying ages in tow and used the most colourful language whilst smoking a fag. Without meaning to be too derogatory, she was the personification of Harry Enfield’s famous character ‘Waynetta Slob’.
‘F***ing Hell Jaden, come back ‘ere!’ she yelled at her five year old son, followed by,
‘What do you mean you left it in the car Michelle? Do you expect me to f***ing well go back and get it for you, for f***s sake!’
After ten minutes of the rolling expletives continuing without a breath drawn, I whispered to my husband:
‘You’d think she should stay at home if going to the beach was going to give her such a stress attack!’
I caught the end of a neighbour’s covert whisper that finished with,
‘...shouldn’t be allowed out.’
Secretly we were delighted with such a refreshing side-show and a break from the relentless middle ‘class-ish-ness’ of it all up until that point.
The one other indispensable item of clothing required for a UK beach holiday is the wetsuit, particularly for children crazy enough to want to spend extended periods in the icy British water – acceptable makes were O’Neal, Gull, etc... My husband was very proud to have found his ancient ‘Solar’ wetsuit tucked into the back of a cupboard at my parent’s house in England, which he gamely poured himself into having not worn it for fifteen years. However, it quickly became clear that ‘Solar’ is definitely not a make that is very ‘in’ at the moment and there were smirks amongst friends as they teased about the ‘eighties look’ and neon orange panels. I did not swim, but chose to hunker down with all the other mums at the high water mark and watch from a safe distance. We borrowed some buckets and spades from my Mum too which were invaluable, but my shopping savvy eldest daughter said when we got to the beach;
‘why has everyone else got bigger spades with wooden handles.’
Laying out our Masai rug on the silty sand and donning sunglasses, I soon became aware that I was in ‘people watching’ heaven. The situation improved for me as the tide came in swiftly during the afternoon and the entire holiday making beach going contingent were compressed onto a small sliver of sand at high tide. During this golden hour you could hear other people’s conversations even better! On one rare sunny (not drizzling) afternoon, glamorous holidaymakers scudded into the bay on small, inflatable speedboats, presumably fresh off their yachts for a spot of lunch and a glass of chilled white wine on shore. Mothers on the beach chatted about their babies, fathers took up bat and ball or bucket and spade to mastermind and construct ever more complex sand castle arrangements with their children, to rival all others. A couple of grannies were there on beach chairs huddled in jumpers to protect themselves from the cold onshore breeze.
Couples brought dogs to the beach, then proceeded to fuss over them endlessly in anxious tones.
‘Should I take Bella off the lead?’
‘Yes I will take it off, it would be nice for her to run about’
‘Hang on Bella, come back!’
‘Bella, don’t shake water over those poor people’
‘Who is that dog that Bella is talking too now?’
‘Oh my God, they are fighting!’
‘Come back Bella!! Stop it Bella! Naughty Bella’
followed by,
‘Oh dear, Bella!....’
‘Has anyone got a doggy poo bag?’
A veritable frisson ran up and down the beach at high tide when a lady with undulating curves wearing a tiny mini skirt, with accompanying tattoos, facial piercings and a pushchair shambled out of a combi van and down the concrete ramp onto the sand. She had six children of varying ages in tow and used the most colourful language whilst smoking a fag. Without meaning to be too derogatory, she was the personification of Harry Enfield’s famous character ‘Waynetta Slob’.
‘F***ing Hell Jaden, come back ‘ere!’ she yelled at her five year old son, followed by,
‘What do you mean you left it in the car Michelle? Do you expect me to f***ing well go back and get it for you, for f***s sake!’
After ten minutes of the rolling expletives continuing without a breath drawn, I whispered to my husband:
‘You’d think she should stay at home if going to the beach was going to give her such a stress attack!’
I caught the end of a neighbour’s covert whisper that finished with,
‘...shouldn’t be allowed out.’
Secretly we were delighted with such a refreshing side-show and a break from the relentless middle ‘class-ish-ness’ of it all up until that point.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Rain Rain Go Away
It's great to be home. Spoiled to death and eating far too much. Sleeping in and vegging out. Kenya seems not just thousands but millions of miles away and leaving for a while gives it all a new perspective. However, I am just hoping against hope that this rainy English weather will let up for long enough for us to enjoy those long summer evenings and sunny days in the garden that we have been dreaming of! After nine and a half years of living in Africa, in spite of coming home annually, you always forget the English drizzle that seemlessly crosses from season to season, washing everything outside into various shades of grey.
We don't really mind, because the novelty of being in England again is still wonderful... it's just that we are heading to the seaside soon and were hoping to get out the bucket and spade! Oh well, at least this year I remembered to pack the raincoats!
We don't really mind, because the novelty of being in England again is still wonderful... it's just that we are heading to the seaside soon and were hoping to get out the bucket and spade! Oh well, at least this year I remembered to pack the raincoats!
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Mass Exodus... again
Off to England tomorrow - very excited. I am in the midst of the worst part - packing suitcases. After years of practise I still can't get it right. I always put in too much, or too little. Last year we stood on a small quayside in Cornwall fishing for crabs in driving, relentless rain with not a waterproof between us. Lets hope for some sun this time!
Many expats go on home leave as soon as the final school term in the academic year is finished, sometimes for the entire two months. We are off for a few weeks. I'll enjoy blogging about the various little things at home that have changed over twelve months, leaving the expat feeling like a stranger in their own country. I am sure we will notice the rise in cost of food, fuel etc. etc. but having experienced 20% inflation in Kenya since the recent election, it may not come as much of a surprise.
Wish me luck with long haul flying alone with three kids!
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Expat Stereotype - The British High Commission Couple
Mandy married Keith ten years ago. He has been working at the British High Commission for all that time, so they know the ropes. So far they have lived in their own house in Surrey, just outside London then they had a short stint in Singapore where they got to grips with living in a developing country along with their two children, a boy and a girl.
On arrival in East Africa (via business class on British Airways), Mandy was infuriated to find that her family were allocated a house that fell far below the requirements of her husband’s pay grade. This was in spite of her frequent emails regarding their requirements sent to the office in the run up to the move. They were promised at least four bedrooms and an office but were put in a pokey house with no garden on a shared compound. She could find no one at the High Commission who seemed to care much about the injustice and was further piqued to find on invitation to tea at a fellow BHC expat (on a lower grade), that they even had a swimming pool! This was the final straw. Keith says that he quite likes the house they are in and doesn’t want Mandy to: ‘rock the boat’ in the office but she is insistent that they move into a house that accurately reflects their status. The packers came to unpack their air freighted furniture and household items, but they put everything in the wrong place which has meant hours of reorganisation for Mandy.
Keith is paid a salary into their UK bank account, the office also pay household bills, school fees, the salaries of their house staff and they give Keith and Mandy a monthly ‘local allowance’ in shillings for food shopping etc. To ease the stress of the housing situation, Mandy has been surfing the internet to find a good hotel in Mauritius for their first ‘breather visit’ which will give them a chance to recharge their batteries after the rigours of their first few months – after all, they are doing a ‘hardship posting’. She’s trying to wangle business class tickets for this trip too but the office secretary is being difficult about it.
Mandy is also entitled to shop at the duty free supermarket, where wine, washing powder, marmite and chocolate are much cheaper. It irks her when fellow embassy spouses illegally invite their non embassy friends to shop there too. She has mentioned it to Keith who promised to follow it up in due course. For the first few weeks she had a High Commission driver to take her to the shops and do school pick ups until she was confident that she knew her way around town. The house staff are a great help, but Patience seems to be struggling with the cooking aspect of the job, so Mandy is sending her on a cookery course which she found was advertised in their British High Commission ‘introduction pack’, including a book which helpfully listed schools, hospitals, shops, restaurants and emergency telephone numbers.
If anything goes wrong around the house, all Mandy need do is put a call into the High Commission maintenance department and they whip around to the house the same day. The automatic starter for the generator has been playing up which means it occasionally needs to be switched on manually by the watchman in the event of a power cut. This delay can be a real bore. Some people say that High Commission wives don’t even know how to change a light bulb, but that is just ridiculous!
On arrival in East Africa (via business class on British Airways), Mandy was infuriated to find that her family were allocated a house that fell far below the requirements of her husband’s pay grade. This was in spite of her frequent emails regarding their requirements sent to the office in the run up to the move. They were promised at least four bedrooms and an office but were put in a pokey house with no garden on a shared compound. She could find no one at the High Commission who seemed to care much about the injustice and was further piqued to find on invitation to tea at a fellow BHC expat (on a lower grade), that they even had a swimming pool! This was the final straw. Keith says that he quite likes the house they are in and doesn’t want Mandy to: ‘rock the boat’ in the office but she is insistent that they move into a house that accurately reflects their status. The packers came to unpack their air freighted furniture and household items, but they put everything in the wrong place which has meant hours of reorganisation for Mandy.
Keith is paid a salary into their UK bank account, the office also pay household bills, school fees, the salaries of their house staff and they give Keith and Mandy a monthly ‘local allowance’ in shillings for food shopping etc. To ease the stress of the housing situation, Mandy has been surfing the internet to find a good hotel in Mauritius for their first ‘breather visit’ which will give them a chance to recharge their batteries after the rigours of their first few months – after all, they are doing a ‘hardship posting’. She’s trying to wangle business class tickets for this trip too but the office secretary is being difficult about it.
Mandy is also entitled to shop at the duty free supermarket, where wine, washing powder, marmite and chocolate are much cheaper. It irks her when fellow embassy spouses illegally invite their non embassy friends to shop there too. She has mentioned it to Keith who promised to follow it up in due course. For the first few weeks she had a High Commission driver to take her to the shops and do school pick ups until she was confident that she knew her way around town. The house staff are a great help, but Patience seems to be struggling with the cooking aspect of the job, so Mandy is sending her on a cookery course which she found was advertised in their British High Commission ‘introduction pack’, including a book which helpfully listed schools, hospitals, shops, restaurants and emergency telephone numbers.
If anything goes wrong around the house, all Mandy need do is put a call into the High Commission maintenance department and they whip around to the house the same day. The automatic starter for the generator has been playing up which means it occasionally needs to be switched on manually by the watchman in the event of a power cut. This delay can be a real bore. Some people say that High Commission wives don’t even know how to change a light bulb, but that is just ridiculous!
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