Where the hedgehogs and mice say good night
to each other, but be careful where you tread.
“Good night mouse”
“Good night hedgehog”
and everything is well in their sheltered burrows and nests somewhere in the Swiss countryside. I just wave to them when I walk through the area and ask myself what am I doing here?
Via London and its dusty smelling streets to Zürich in Switzerland with its dusty smelling streets, although the streets in Zürich had a hint of gold dust in the air, most likely from the banks where no-one really lives: just a few gnomes hoarding their treasures in the vaults. If you are lucky and know a person from Zürich you might be able to live in their house for a couple of years. If you are more than lucky, you can move away from Zürich to the Swiss countryside. You might even be lucky enough to meet the man of your dreams, marry and ground a family and then the fun starts. Where do you live, another town? Yes, but you wait for the opportunity and move into the countryside and there we meet the mice and hedgehogs.
Take a walk in the evening, family hedgehog are preparing for the night on the tiles, or in the grass. There are humans also living in the area. There are no shops. The postman only rings if he collects money or has a registered parcel, otherwise he will not even ring once or twice. He drops the letters in your own personal letter box at the entrance to your block where your name is engrave in large black letters. You know when he has been, he arrives once a day at the same time, he is Swiss.
It might be that a neighbour will be seen when you remove the post. Greet your neighbour, if she is dressed in her dressing gown, tights, casual clothes or the man of the apartment before he goes to work in his office somewhere in the city, dressed in a suit. Greeting is a Swiss habit, and not to be ignored.Remember, if you are younger you must greet. I am greeted first of all, I have grey hair and probably qualify as a senior citizen. You know “old” Mrs. Angloswiss, when the neighbours talk of me and they do. Neighbours are a large source of conversation. What else is there to discuss in the middle of the country. Perhaps Mrs. X has done something head turning to her front garden. The lawn it too long, shabby, too much moss and clover in all the corners. Mr. Y avoided this problem and no longer has a lawn but a Japanese type stone garden. He is yet to comb it with the rake to ensure that the stones are in a symmetrical pattern. Even Mrs. Angloswiss expelled the toad infested damp front garden and now has a lookalike Versaille garden, at least she thinks so.
The village is a unit, a compact community and all are respectable people. They pay their taxes, clean their windows, mow their lawns and observe perhaps through blind slits, or net curtains the movements of the day. If they do not pay their taxes, they keep it for themselves, or try to. It is a small village.
A millionaire moves into the village and builds a villa, just a villa amongst others and is the salvation of the low council tax rate, keeping it low: a boon to those that have no villa, enabling them to save tax money. The village youth meet at the local hall for a dance, a rock band is appearing, or at the worst, rappers. They are searched at the door, the innocent village youth, but they are innocent. Their cigarette ends and beer cans have been deposited before the door. Does it smell of weed?
And so the sun descends on the village, I spray my plants in the garden to cool them down from the hot sun rays of the day and of course, I say goodnight to the mice and hedgehogs.
Click here for more
“Good night mouse”
“Good night hedgehog”
and everything is well in their sheltered burrows and nests somewhere in the Swiss countryside. I just wave to them when I walk through the area and ask myself what am I doing here?
Via London and its dusty smelling streets to Zürich in Switzerland with its dusty smelling streets, although the streets in Zürich had a hint of gold dust in the air, most likely from the banks where no-one really lives: just a few gnomes hoarding their treasures in the vaults. If you are lucky and know a person from Zürich you might be able to live in their house for a couple of years. If you are more than lucky, you can move away from Zürich to the Swiss countryside. You might even be lucky enough to meet the man of your dreams, marry and ground a family and then the fun starts. Where do you live, another town? Yes, but you wait for the opportunity and move into the countryside and there we meet the mice and hedgehogs.
Take a walk in the evening, family hedgehog are preparing for the night on the tiles, or in the grass. There are humans also living in the area. There are no shops. The postman only rings if he collects money or has a registered parcel, otherwise he will not even ring once or twice. He drops the letters in your own personal letter box at the entrance to your block where your name is engrave in large black letters. You know when he has been, he arrives once a day at the same time, he is Swiss.
It might be that a neighbour will be seen when you remove the post. Greet your neighbour, if she is dressed in her dressing gown, tights, casual clothes or the man of the apartment before he goes to work in his office somewhere in the city, dressed in a suit. Greeting is a Swiss habit, and not to be ignored.Remember, if you are younger you must greet. I am greeted first of all, I have grey hair and probably qualify as a senior citizen. You know “old” Mrs. Angloswiss, when the neighbours talk of me and they do. Neighbours are a large source of conversation. What else is there to discuss in the middle of the country. Perhaps Mrs. X has done something head turning to her front garden. The lawn it too long, shabby, too much moss and clover in all the corners. Mr. Y avoided this problem and no longer has a lawn but a Japanese type stone garden. He is yet to comb it with the rake to ensure that the stones are in a symmetrical pattern. Even Mrs. Angloswiss expelled the toad infested damp front garden and now has a lookalike Versaille garden, at least she thinks so.
The village is a unit, a compact community and all are respectable people. They pay their taxes, clean their windows, mow their lawns and observe perhaps through blind slits, or net curtains the movements of the day. If they do not pay their taxes, they keep it for themselves, or try to. It is a small village.
A millionaire moves into the village and builds a villa, just a villa amongst others and is the salvation of the low council tax rate, keeping it low: a boon to those that have no villa, enabling them to save tax money. The village youth meet at the local hall for a dance, a rock band is appearing, or at the worst, rappers. They are searched at the door, the innocent village youth, but they are innocent. Their cigarette ends and beer cans have been deposited before the door. Does it smell of weed?
And so the sun descends on the village, I spray my plants in the garden to cool them down from the hot sun rays of the day and of course, I say goodnight to the mice and hedgehogs.
No comments:
Post a Comment