Lush

These new offices for Corridor Land Inc are proving quite tasty. Aside from the decked balcony, which comes complete with sunset views, there are new flat screens, new chairs, new desks, and parquet floors in every office. And the security, feck, I need a security tag just to get into the lift. If I didn't know otherwise, this could almost be a real hi-tech company. Don't know about anyone else here, but I'm still left with a distinct feeling of "same, same but different"...same management, same ideas, same people, just a different setting.

Oh, and a new office means new rules, of course. No standing in corridors, office doors must be closed, lunch breaks must not exceed 45 minutes etc etc. I have an eleven page doc that states all the new rules and procedures, but it's all in Hebrew, so...

Fuck that.

[ opens top secret mini-bar ] O, how many ice cubes in your vodka?

Eilat

This is Eilat for me...


Drive down towards the border crossing at Taba, stop off at Migdal Or beach, grab your snorkel, jump into the sea, gawp at the fish and coral reefs (OK, not quite as good as Sinai, but still pretty good), have yourself a nice, cold beer as your toes dangle in the Red Sea, and listen to Bob Marley or something else summery and ambient pumping out in the background...



Bless him, anglosaxy junior was an absolute star. Even The Village on a Friday afternoon wasn't too much for him...bit too much for me, mind, what with those acres of 18-20 year old flesh on display (had to jump into the water a couple of times to cool down...) and crappy wedding music disguised as r'n'b disturbing the peace.

Off to sunnier climes

Off later to Eilat for lots of sun, sea and, go on then, a little bit more sun. But before we go, off for some brekkie with O from Corridor Land. God knows how, or why, but it looks like she's managed to convince other corridor inmates to join us. Great.

Love spending time with these guys. First off, there's K, who always manages to be a miserable git and really, why bother coming? Then, there's the boss. She's actually pretty cool, in an Amazon-esque kind of way, but since she's married to the big boss it's impossible to vent and rage...and then there's the super-geeky N and N. OK, I know we can't always pick and choose our friends, but really, I wouldn't choose to socialise with any of them if I had the choice...what the fuck, bring on the beers!

Back in a few days.

Revisiting former palaces

Returned to see the old house in Tel Aviv, the first time since moving to smallsville. The house me and mrs. anglosaxy converted from a tip into a fairly cute tip. But, no longer our house. On paper it is, of course, but it just felt very strange, almost soulless. No more shoes littered about on the floor, no cushions on the sofa and what the hell is that bed doing in the middle of the room? Shouldn't it be over there against the wall? Feckin' idiots.

Strange feeling, seeing someone else's interpretation of the blank canvas that was once your place.

A time for firsts

The first cry.
The first feeding.
The first burp.
The first fart.
The first nappy change.
The first time I touch another male's tackle.
The first car ride.
The first bath.
The first night at home.
The first sleepless night.
The first smile.
The first hints of recognition.
The first vasectomy (joke, joke).

The ugliest town in Israel is...

Petach Tikva.*

Surely the most demoralising, boring, ugliest town in Israel? OK, I admit, I'm not that objective, I used to live there in the 90's with a local girl (pre-pre mrs. anglosaxy) and her family (including the legendary Jewish mother, mentioned here), but even then I was aware of how godawful the place was/is. Recently, what with visits to the local hospital and our relocation to smallsville (meaning visits to the local tax and health insurance offices), I've had the misfortune to frequent the place again. Not recommended.

Is there any other town with such a blatant "let's make our city center the ugliest in Israel" policy? As for just getting to this town from Tel Aviv (just 10km away), that's another story. Think gridlock and an abundance of traffic lights. And, asketh you, how dare I label the town boring? Well, thanks to its religious tendencies, everything is pretty much closed on Friday night, meaning you have to go out of town for the simple pleasure of a beer in half-decent surroundings. I don't know if this has changed in the last few years, but I'd put money on it that it hasn't...

The building below sticks out like a sore-thumb every time I enter the city, I'm just amazed that I found a pic of it on the municipality's site. Never mind the quality of the pic, would you put this on your website as a teaser for potential new residents?


Shit, I've just twigged, anglosaxy junior was born in this town...

* Can be spelt: Petah Tikva, Petakh Tikwa or Shite-Hole.

Everything but the kitchen sink

North Tel Aviv, August 2005.

(Not the best quality but this was a moving target...)

About bleedin' time, some might say...

Last week, in a bevy of bureacratic bliss, mrs. anglosaxy officially became mrs. anglosaxy.

Eh?

Well, we got married a few years back (don't prompt me for a date, because, well...) but due to a variety of reasons (such as turning up on 3 previous occasions, but being turned away because of a lack of this official paper or that official document) we had never managed to register ourselves as officially married at the Ministry of Interior, the Ministry that can put the shiver in your timbers as well as define your legal status in this country. Some might argue that if there's a choice between your loved one and having to face the wild packs of swarming Israelis at the Ministry of Interior, the loved one might be the one packing his/her bags. Be warned my fellow goys, marrying a Jewish girl in Israel is a bureacratic nightmare...

Anyway, last week, we finally managed to squeeze in a visit to the Ministry of Interior's luscious new offices, and, hey presto, within an hour or so, unbelievably, we were done. Complete with a fresh new addition attached to our little identity card pullouts. We are now, officially, a family. Oh crap.

And yes, those surly bitches at the Ministry of Interior still reign supreme.
"Smile love, for chrissake".

Where the hell am I?

Easy one this one, right?

Upgrading

Holy shit, almost forgot to tell you.

The corridor is dead.
No more.
Finito.

Plush new offices await in an unnamed destination (think airports...). Two to an office. You can guess who'll be by loyal sidekick, right? Me and O already have plans for a secret "liquid" drawer, for emergencies only of course. The disco lights have been purchased, Pammie Anderson posters re-ironed, and golf clubs dusted down. The stupid "no plants because of the sexy new panelled floor" law is set to be breached big time. And windows that open, fuck, unbelievable...

Shit, it was a struggle. These last 4 and a half years, slaving away over a hot computer in a windowless corridor. In honor of all those who suffered with me, I'll be taking a swig of something cold and nasty...

And dab your eyes with some tissue, for the arty rooftop shots will cease to be...


* Please note that this sudden turnaround in Corridor Inc's fortunes is unexpected and not predicted to last. But hey, fuck it, after the shit I've seen from this company let's enjoy the fresh new ride...fear not, the management is still the same management, so plenty more resources for future corridor-type tales...and yes, if you're interested, the teaching continues in its quest for "English school" control of smallsville (more to come on that particular topic)...*

That time of year again, ladies

Today sees the return of 22 grown men kicking a ball about. Yep, the footie season (the Premiership, of course) kicks off in England. Just thought I'd mention that. Tomorrow sees my boys in their new redcurrant shirts against the Geordies, live on Sport5+. Cold ones are ready. Anglosaxy junior is also ready, though he still hasn't got the chants licked...

I won't be making any predictions this year, because last year's lot were a little off (i.e. star players for 2004-5: Bentley, Kezman and Cisse)...we all know Chelski are probably gonna walk it, the filthy rich feckers...

Oh, and just when you thought it was all over, there's one of these to come, just to fill your boring summer nights...

Luscious

Since eating at Mangosteen last night, I've been flirting with the idea of getting a divorce and escaping to Thailand to go and teach English. I blame the Singha beer(s). There's just something about Thai food that takes me right back to Bangkok or Khao Lak or Ko Lanta...lurve the stuff...

The Bat Mitzva and John the Baptist

Last week we headed over to Jerusalem for a bat mitzva. It took place in a restaurant on Moshav Even Sapir, a distant family enclave, though the restaurant wasn't really a restaurant as it had been converted for celebratory purposes. We were late but at least we have a good excuse these days ("...anglosaxy junior wouldn't stop crying so we had to stop and feed him along the way...") - though next time I miss the belly dancer, I won't be so forgiving...

After soaking in some true Jewish spirit (OK, make that spirits), it was time to take junior back to his Christian roots. Just down the road from the restaurant is a Franciscan monastery, with its own spring (couldn't find a link). I was surprised to see it also contained a John the Baptist grotto (though this place was not the Church of St John the Baptist, just down the road in Ein Karem). After quickly dunking junior in the holy water (only kidding!) it was time to get the camera out. Grabbed a few pics, including the one below of Mad Monk Leonardo. Mad? Well, his sunglasses certainly were.

A multi-faith day out for the anglosaxies, many more to come.

Almost over...

The problem with having a wife on maternity leave is the soaps she's gotten herself attached to...OK, I lie, not soaps but one soap in particular - HaShir Shelanu (Our Song). The problem is, of course, that her addiction has also turned into my new habit. Oh feck, maybe I shouldn't be confessing to this, but I'm almost concerned about Zohar and his efforts to convince Ninette that Ariel is one big fake (and do we really believe that Zohar is dead after last night's drama?). I think Ninette is a bit of a babe, despite those "tyres".

I'll be glad when it's all finally over (this week, right? Please let it be the final episodes...).

A month...

...of sleepless nights.

In celebration, I've posted a link to anglosaxy junior's Flickr page, over there on the right*. That's right, the black and white pic, just click it and wait for a couple of secs. Enjoy.

And Liam and myself have a date tomorrow in front of the TV, his first ever viewing of the greatest side in the world. The beers are being chilled as we speak. God forbid his favourite color turns out to be blue...

* Latest pics displayed first

Homo Sapiette - August '05

Time for some eye candy. Oh my.

Sandi Bar - not the name of a beachside pub, but one of the most gorgeous women in Israel (yep, I think she's a little confused how to spell her name on her own website). She's graced these pages before, and will undoubtedly do so again and again, especially if she adorns the side of buildings in that saucy minx manner...


Married to Aki Avni, Sandi isn't perhaps in the public eye as she once was, what with their relocation to the States. But she is still instantly recognizable, thanks to her regular day job modelling chocolate dessert puddings and sunglasses. Sandi love, we don't like the dark Marilyn look you've recently been sporting, I guess the money was too good to refuse, eh?

Anyway, we still love her at anglosaxy, very much. We don't care how you spell your name Sendi Sandy Sandi, we're just waiting to see you pop up in another trashy Israeli soap (who remembers her first real acting role?), preferably beside the pool in as little clothing as possible.

Oh yeh, me and Sandi have something in common. What is it (apart from a fondness for skimpy white bikinis...)?

Confessional booth

Sometimes I really hate being in this country.
Sometimes I really love being in this country.
Sometimes I let people assume I'm Jewish.
Sometimes I love informing people that I'm not Jewish just to see their reaction.
Sometimes I pretend I can't speak Hebrew.
Sometimes I pretend to be a tourist who knows the odd word in Hebrew.
Sometimes I feel I'm way too good at my job.
Sometimes I feel like a fraud at work.
Sometimes I absolutely resent feedback on my work.
Sometimes I know my work needs so much more feedback.
Sometimes I spend way too much time on the Internet.
Sometimes I spend way too much time on the Internet at work.
Sometimes I really hate being tall.
Sometimes I really love being tall.
Sometimes I try to fart when alone in a lift.
Sometimes I blame others for my farts.
Sometimes I realise I have an amazing wife, and son.
Sometimes I really wish I was still single.
Sometimes I flirt and shmooze when maybe I shouldn't.
Sometimes I hate it when mrs. anglosaxy shmoozes with her customers.
Sometimes I'm glad we bought our own place in Tel Aviv.
Sometimes I rue the day we signed up for a mortgage and the long term commitment.
Sometimes I have no idea how to explain something to an English student.
Sometimes I actually laugh when I hear bad English from a student.
Sometimes I love being alone, just me myself and I.
Sometimes I wish my family was just around the corner.

Something on your chest? Go on, confess to me in the comments...

Placing a sharp knife in the hands of an Arab...

"Ahmed, is this sharp enough?"

"Ah, habibi, very good". Ahmed looks carefully at the 10 inch blade and smiles murderously, an evil twinkle in his eye temporarily blinding me. He then savagely slices open the packaging around the new fridge he's just delivered. Think "Psycho" knife action.

It is about now that I'm beginning to question my decision to hand him the largest knife in the house. And Ahmed is a huge motherf*cker. Distraction, I need to distract him.

"Ahmed, tell me, this fridge we've bought, is it really any good?" And with that, Ahmed the Knife turns into Ahmed the Pussycat. "Ah habibi, it's OK, but I would have bought the side-by-side version, just like the one my mother has...". In the end, what with his tales of batchelorhood and searches for a wife, I was almost ready to fix him up with one of mrs. anglosaxy's friends...

But, just for a second there...

Pick Tzvika!

OK, so I promised no name dropping, but this guy is one of mrs. anglosaxy's new 'friends'. She actually sat with him once or twice a week (pre-anglosaxy junior) as he tried to barter with her over certain 'things' that he needed produced. She's assured me that she wasn't swayed by his luscious good looks. Me, if I spot young Liam wearing shiny black outfits, I'll start to wonder...

He usually had one of his trademark blond lapdogs with him. In fact, within the few weeks he'd been frequenting mrs. anglosaxy's office, the number of lapdogs spotted had reached double figures. I've also had the pleasure (?) of seeing him in the flesh. And I have his mobile number at my disposal, so if any blond lapdog out there fancies her chances, feel free...then again, the idea of pulling off the ultimate crank call is rather tempting, especially after some amber nectar.

More? You want more? OK...

Last week, O (the vodka-toting Ruskie) flew to London. On the same flight as young Tzvika. Little did they know it, but a customs search was waiting for the pair of 'em. Tzvika was a little put out, since, after all, he is a Eurovision superstar. "Do you know who I am?" he asked the poor British customs officer, "I'm a big star in Israel, I'm the Maestro". His words, I kid you not. When it came to O's turn with another customs officer, she had to laugh at his dry, British wit - "So, are you famous in Israel too?".

Us Brits, we know how to bring a true superstar to his knees.

Boring ol' politics

I don't talk about politics on anglosaxy because [ yawn ] it's so boring...