Captain Codpiece - Expat in Kaliningrad, Russia

Advice for free

Published: 29 September 2021 ~ Beware of the Babooshka!

It was an extremely hot day when my wife decided that as I had made the mistake of buying a new lawnmower, perhaps now would be a good time to cut the lawn. “Why whinge?” you ask. “There is nothing so easy as cutting a lawn. Modern, electric-powered lawn mowers cut lawns as if they were made for the job.”

“Ah, yes,” I concede, “but there are lawns and lawns.”

The lawn in question was big and, as it had not been cut for a year, it was intolerably overgrown and full of long, brown straggly things.

Nevertheless, not one to walk away from a challenge when there is the promise of beer at the end of it, I set to with a vengeance.

About four hours later and three-quarters of the way through it, I was just looking back over what I had done and secretly congratulating myself, when a stout and redoubtable babooshka came marching down the road.

As she drew level with me, she stopped, peered over the fence and gazed intently first at the lawn, then at the mower and then at me.

“I’ll bowl her over with my scintillating grasp of Russian,” I thought. So, I call out, merrily.

“Strasveetee [Hello]!”

The babooshka looks but says nothing.

Perhaps she was spellbound by the conquistador job that I was doing.

When she finally did say something, it sounded short and to the point. I asked my good lady to translate.

“What did she say?” I asked. I suppose I was expecting to hear a compliment.

“She said, “‘You don’t do it like that!’”

“Don’t do what, like what?” I asked

“Don’t cut lawns like that!”

Well, really, had I been in England I would have put her right and no mistake: “Listen to me my good woman, I’ll have you know that I’ve been mowing lawns man and boy …”

But that was just it. I wasn’t in England and, if I had been, would an elderly lady address me like this?

Certainly, in days of yore, when I was a nipper, they would have done. But that was then and now is now. Grandmas in the UK no longer dispense worldly advice and criticism, they are too busy nightclubbing and looking for dates on Tinder.

Having said her piece the babooshka went on her way, and I continued to cut the lawn the way that I always shouldn’t have done.

This was the same babooshka, incidentally, who had sworn blind that our statue was black when, in fact, it is bronzed-brown (I repeat the incident from my former post, Hippy Party on the Baltic Coast).

We were standing on the pavement at the end of the garden admiring the newly painted statue when who should appear but the friendly village babooshka.

“Hello,” we regaled her, cheerily.

“Why have you spoilt him?” she snapped.

I knew she could not have been referring to me, so she must have meant the statue. Before we had chance to reply, she had exclaimed: “He’s black!”

I shot a glance at the statue. Heavens, should we be taking a knee?!

“No, in fact, he is bronze,” I curtly corrected her.

Olga bent down and picked up some litter from the side of the road and placed it inside the rubbish bag we were carrying.

“Huh!” the babooshka tutted, “Haven’t you got anything better to do with your time!”

A few days later, without me, I am sad to say, my wife ran into her again.

“Hello,” Olga greeted her.

“You haven’t done much, have you?” came the oblique reply.

Who remembers Albert Tatlock from Coronation Street?

Olga asked for clarification.

She got it: “The house. You haven’t done much to it. All you’ve done is painted the statue black!”

Who remembers Nora Batty from Last of the Summer Wine?

My wife attempted to turn the tables adroitly, innocently remarking on the nice sunflowers that she had observed in a neighbour’s garden.

“What’s the use of them?” the babooshka asked, and before Olga could think of nothing in response, went on to say, “Those sunflowers are in my relative’s garden. Look at it. It’s full of potatoes, but she hasn’t looked after them properly. They’re all overgrown. Spent too much time on those sunflowers, I suppose.”

Puzzled by Babooshka — See end of post for image attribution

The next time my wife bumped into this ray of golden sunlight, she was caught by the philosopher as she was running to catch the bus.

“What are you running for?” the merry babooshka asked.

“To catch the bus,” Olga explained. “The last time I almost missed it. The driver left earlier than he should.”

“Well,” retorted the babooshka, “sometimes he gets here early, so he leaves early.”

“But he shouldn’t!”

“Why not, he can do what he likes. If he’s here early there’s no point in him sitting about. He wants to get on.”

“Yes,” my wife argued, “but there is such a thing as a timetable.”

“Timetable,” the babooshka snorted contemptuously, “what’s the point of that when he’s here early and doesn’t want to wait?”

“But people will miss the bus,” exclaimed my wife.

“That’s their problem, not the bus drivers,” concluded the babooshka.

Beware of the Babooshka!

Sometimes the most important and valuable things in life can pass you by, and when we are reminded of them we should be eternally grateful. For example, if it was not for this babooshka, it would never have occurred to me that I had spent the greater proportion of my life cutting the lawn like I shouldn’t have done; that our bronzed statue was black; that there is no possible excuse for growing sunflowers; and that impatient bus drivers had better things to do than to adhere to timetables and pick up passengers.

It is surely food for thought that I have reached the age that I have but still have much, so very much to learn.😉

Image attributions:
Elderly lady cartoon: http://clipart-library.com/clipart/kT8oprbnc.htm
Question mark figure cartoon: http://clipart-library.com/clipart/BcarELBKi.htm

A funky, flower-power, fabulous day

Published: 13 September 2021 ~ Hippy Party on the Baltic Coast

It didn’t go exactly according to plan, but then what does? I am talking about our hippy party, which was scheduled to take place on the 11^th September 2021. The main stumbling block was the weather. We had decided to hold the event on the 11^th because two weeks before the day assorted internet weather services were predicting uninterrupted sun, but as the days fell away from the calendar, so the forecast changed erratically.

One consultation revealed that it would be overcast, another that we were in for intermittent rain, another that … In desperation, I even turned to the BBC weather site, knowing only too well that their forecasts, like everything else that they do, has a sharp liberal left slant to it, so the probability of getting the truth, the half-truth or anything but the truth was rather hit and miss, and yes, their forecast was also chopping and changing, like the way they had reported Brexit and the EU referendum.

It was hardly surprising, therefore, that as the day drew near, one by one, people cried away; and on the evening before the day that the party was to take place, we cancelled it.

Between times, we had succeeded in completing the renovation of Captain Codpiece, the deteriorating statue in our garden. Our friend and artist Vladimir Chilikin, with the help of a beer or two, had transformed Codpiece from the worn concrete man that he had become over the past 40 years into a strapping bronzed figure, in which many lost details could now be clearly seen.

Olga Hart with Russian fisherman statue — Olga Hart with renovated fisherman statue

We, my wife and I, had been admiring Chilikin’s work from the pavement at the end of the garden when who should materialise but our friendly stout babushka.

“Hello,” we regaled her, cheerily.

“Why have you spoilt him?” she asked.

I knew she could not have been referring to me, so she must have meant the statue. Before we had chance to reply, she had exclaimed “He’s black!”

I heard someone saying, but I know not from whence the voice came, that it would not surprise me if it was black. Being British, I am only too aware that white statues are an endangered species, at least in the UK, and that, unless they are all painted black, it won’t be long before they will all have been run off with and thrown over some wall or other into a watery mire. But I ignored this voice and simply retorted, “No, in fact, he is bronze.”

“Well,” replied the stout babushka in a rare moment of concession, “I wouldn’t know because I am peearnee (drunk).”

I think in all fairness we can say ‘tipsy’, because when Olga collected some litter from the side of the road and placed it in our rubbish bag, babushka was quick to comment: “Huh! Haven’t you got anything better to do with your time!”

The statue, which is bronzed not black, was completed that afternoon. We had brought the marble glazed plaque to Victor Ryabinin with us, and before we left at the end of the day, we dragged the boat into place and finished the ensemble.

Hippy Party on the Baltic Coast

We came back on the 11^th September as, on the morning of that day, we discovered that the weather forecast had changed again. Now we were informed that it would rain but not until 8pm, and until that time it would be bright and sunny, with temperatures reaching 26 degrees centigrade.

It was too late to rally the fringe, but the old faithful were ready to go and at a moment’s notice, so our hippy party went ahead, albeit reduced in numbers.

An executive decision was reached that it did not seem proper to combine the opening of Victor’s memorial with everyone dressed in flower power, even though Victor’s Boat with Flowers put flowers centre stage. But we abided by the decision and reserved the ceremony for a later date

The renovated statue, rocks adorning the plinth and Victor’s Boat with Flowers joined forces with our rather silly attire, caricature wigs, bright-coloured cushions and mats and, with the help of Arthur’s classic Volga and the dulcet tones of the Beatles wafting from our music system, attracted many a stare and comment from passing villagers.

The stout babushka was not in evidence today, which was a shame. I am sure that she would have had a thing or two to say had she witnessed our shenanigans. But at some point in the early evening a different distraction occurred. Someone had sent a drone buzzing over the garden and consigned us all and our antics to film.

I am sure that a hippy party, themed or not, would not have gone down well had this been the former USSR, even though, or especially since, drinking cognac from cognac glasses gave our particular brand of hippyness a rather bourgeois air.

Peace man! (no sexism intended, of course)