Back in the UK , pre-volcano, we waited like naughty children in a glass and steel edifice on The Strand watching the Koi in a Japanese inspired pond.  Don’t be fooled by the modern architecture,  the British banking system is still Dickensian, in fact I think it may even be governed by medieval law, only appearances have changed.  I had to bite my tongue several times as it wanted to say “Please sir, can we ‘ave some money?” as we were led to a wood panelled room and I sat trying to shake off the feeling of being back in the Headmistress’ Office.  The Headmistress/Banker had beautiful manners and was highly skilled in the art of retrieving information through inane conversation.  It was a marvellous performance with excellent timing but  alas minus the laughs.  He kept coming back to my whereabouts between the years 1986 and 1990 – a kibbutz perhaps, terrorist cell? his intonation implied.  My vague reply of “travelling” without further elaboration made his eyebrows knit together and I silently chalked up a one on my side of the table. 

We’ve developed a sort of comedy routine now with those wielding the power.   Mr. J. is the serious one, razor sharp on-the-button with the figures handling all the papers.  I am the dipsy sidekick whose precise role I have yet to determine.  The most I can say is that I provide a bit of light entertainment and humanise Mr. J., who can be a bit frightening in his manières Suisses. Note to British Bankers: the Swiss don’t understand polite, inane questions or euphemisms they only state facts and answer all questions directly and honestly.  Yes I know it is astonishing, even marvellous as you say,  AND  BECAUSE OF THIS they (the Swiss) get a smidgen impatient at times.  (I noticed that at one point the Banker’s coffee cup was shaking as the steely blue eyes of my Swiss man bore down on him waiting for him to catch up.  I know how powerful that look is as I occasionally get it when I baffle him).

I have begged not to come along to these meetings as my neck aches from nodding knowingly at well timed intervals and I fear my eye balls may permanently glaze over but Mr. J. explained that as I will be a co-owner I have to, apparently, show up and sign my name on lots of pieces of paper in my best handwriting.  There was one suppressed snigger moment when Mr. J. had to provide a personal code and he used the dog’s name.  I mean here we are in Coutts, on the Strand, in a wood panelled meeting room drinking out of bone china cups  and he writes not chuchichäschtli (Swiss German for kitchen cupboard pronounced hooheehayshlee, as you know) which would have given them something to think about or even the regal sounding Jungfrau,  just plain old Molly.  That’s the Swiss for you,  nothing bloody bollocks about them at all. 

 When we were leaving we were politely asked as to our plans for the rest of the trip and Mr. Jules, fooled again, answered honestly and enthusiastically that he was going to queue up for tickets for The Comedy Store.  I wanted to kick his shins but desperate for a laugh at this stage I threw my hat into the ring and said I was going off to a Vinyasa Flow yoga class in (stinky, full of hippies) Soho adding in my intonation that yes there would be incense and, heaven forbid, even a bit of chanting.  The Banker’s eyebrows knitted together again and I gleefully upped my one point to two.  I could sense we  had disappointed him by not having a appointment at Sotheby’s followed by lunch at Claridges but ho-hum.

As a treat I told Mr. J. I would come with him that night to the Comedy Store so he went along and queued up for an hour to get the door tickets.  (I only huff and hum about going so he offers to do the queuing while I go back to the hotel for a nice shower and to change out of serious would-be-first-time-buyers gear: pearls, cashmere sweater, Hermès scarf and Tod’s ballerinas to girl about town: leather jacket, jeans, pony tail).  It is rather sweet that he loves English stand up comedy, lui, mon homme Suisse.  The last time we were there too many girls were squeazed into too few clothes wearing bunny ears and standing around drinking pints. The women still drink masses (mostly pints) but there were more properly dressed females this time.  I even spotted some families up from the home counties and worried that maybe they had got the wrong venue and were supposed to be across the road watching Mama Mia.

You’ve got to know where to sit at the Comedy Store.  When our friend Young Dave was last there he was late back to his place in the front row after the interval and the comedian spent the rest of the session picking on him.  The fact that he is a chartered accountant probably didn’t help either.  I always make Mr. J. sit a few rows back as the answer of Switzerland in an accent heavy with German undertones to the question Where are you from?  would be the equivalent of winning the stand up comic’s lottery to them.

Ever since I wrote the posting The Swiss Male – Who is he?  I am often contacted by women asking for advice about Swiss men… I seem to have become the go-to agony aunt for lovelorn women around the world who have fallen for Swiss men and are very confused.  WELL THERE’S A SURPRISE. 

I know that it is all too easy to fall into the stereotypical trap here and confuse character and culture but hey you are getting this from the horse’s mouth. I am reporting from the coal face of 25 years of life with a Swiss man which should give me some credibility and a smidgen of insight into what makes a Swiss man tick.

Of course I can only talk about the Eastern Swiss Man, those hailing from the German speaking parts with, usually, a Protestant background.  But here is my take on Swiss Men and please feel free to agree or disagree in the comments below:

- Swiss men are parsimonious with their praise.  They do not compliment or praise unless by accident.  They won’t notice when you have been to the hairdresser’s or whether you are wearing a stunning LBD.   The flip side to this is that they don’t criticise or complain either.  I could go out to dinner in a bin liner for all Mr. Jules cared.  Only once has he said anything faintly critical as to my attire and it was a neutral but clever,

 ”Er, you’re not going to like the way that looks from behind” 

And because he says this and not “Jeeeesssssuuusssss!  Are you kidding me?” I am rather fond of him.

- Swiss men are not cuddly.  Don’t expect a cuddle, ever.  You might get a pat on the shoulder or a derrière squeeze at the moment when you least want it but that’s it.  There’s no smooching in front of the telly or public shows of affection.  He’ll willingly take your suitcase from you when you arrive off the plane but that is the nearest he’ll get to intimacy in a public space.  (Note:  If they start calling you odd names like chatzli, minou, etc. which the Swiss Germans deem as a sign of affection, put a stop to it at once.  It is a huge turn off.)

- Swiss men only have the left side of their brains working.  Hence they are brilliant bankers, brokers, negotiators.  Anything that involves logic is right up their strasse and if they have developed a brilliantly creative design concept alongside a brilliant piece of engineering or software for example, you’ll usually find there’s an Italian involved.

- Swiss men do not like emotion.  They are happy to analyse using logic until the cows literally come home but as their right side brain has no neural pathways having shrivelled up through non-use, feelings and emotions are something they cannot fathom.  So to Sofia in Argentina the reason he hasn’t written a letter of explanation is that he has no idea he has hurt your feelings. A Swiss man is very unlikely to give you closure although logically he knows he ought to – good manners and all that – he is incapable of writing “stuff” in an expressive heartfelt way.  Eyore’s dumbfounded, woebegone face in Winnie the Pooh springs to mind here. 

-Swiss men are perfectionists.  They can be a bit pernickety about their homes, cars, the food on their plates.  This is a country of high standards and they are used to upholding them.  To be fair they all work extremely hard and return those high standards in their work.

NOW THE GOOD STUFF

-  Swiss men are funny.  You will laugh at them (a lot) but also find that like the Brits they have a very dry, sense of humour and can also be extremely silly and childish.  They love British and American Sitcoms such as Curb Your Enthusiasm, Fawlty Towers etc. Mostly because they are so law-abiding that they wouldn’t ever dare do anything as naughty and anti-establishment so watching other people doing it, even if only pretending,  is absolutely thrilling.

-Swiss men need to marry foreign women.  They need to be shaken up out of their robotic thinking patterns, forced to let their hair down, spend time away from a landscape of mountains and lakes and eat something other than cheese and sausage.  (When Mr. Jules and I lived in America he would get lost every night on the way home from work.  Without a mountain or lake as guidance he was completely flummoxed by the grid-system).  I think all we foreign wives should receive a special allowance from the government.

-Swiss men will never let you down.  Your bills will be paid, your car will be serviced, your health insurance will be up-to-date and he’ll even put his loose change into your car so that you never run out for the parking meters.   They are never late, always do what they say they will and are extremely fair-play. (Apart from when partaking in family board games). 

-Swiss men are the best travel companions.  They never get stressed or nervous or angry when flights are delayed or hotel bookings lost or any kind of disaster strikes.  In fact they are good to have around in any kind of  emergency as they are so level headed – no emotions just the facts – which many put down to the compulsive military training they all undergo and of course the lack of a right sided brain helps here.

Marry one if you want to.  Preferably a Catholic from the sunnier, southern parts (the food’s better and they tend not to wear white sports socks with leather shoes), but wherever they hail from they are intensely loyal and easy to train if you go about it in a logical way and keep all the touchy feely stuff under wraps.

Sorry for the lull it’s half-term (again) and we took the girlies to Venice on the train, as it was cheaper, and I was lured by the thought of reading non-stop for six and a half hours.  At least I would have if I hadn’t taught Lexi to play scrabble last week and she triumphantly produced the board – having got through the rucksack control with her booty under the cover of darkness -  two minutes out of Lausanne before the man with the trolley had even passed.   

I’m rubbish at board games being a non-competitive type but I’m quite good at scrabble.  In fact I am so good I once made a man leave a room in fury when I produced the word “sequin” in New York back in 1986. (Claims to fame, you’ve got to grab ‘em and milk ‘em).

I like an ambitious man but not one who shouts “STOP THE GAME!!!” in Monopoly whenever someone lands on (his) Park Lane especially when playing with young children,  or one who refuses every Christmas to have his mother-in-law on his team for Trivial Pursuits.  But then this is a man who has never failed anything.  Not one exam, driving test, nada.  He passes everything first time.  When we were studying together for our motor boat license  I, as a slow-to-learn plodder, religiously studied 30 minutes a day two weeks prior, using the book, the interactive CD Rom and even had a plastic motor boat in the bath.  Mr. Jules looked at the book for about an hour in total, poured scorn on my exam techniques and you guessed it, not only passed but was the first out of the room.

A French woman once said to me.  “Mon plus grand travail c’est de lire.”  (My greatest life work is reading).   And I feel the same way.  When not organising my family’s life my next largest chunk of time is spent reading.  My reading bag for the train held a copy of Condé Nast Traveller, the FT, The Sunday Times, Hello Magazine, The Migros Magazine, a day old copy of La Côte, a book on meditation by Jon Kabat-Zinn and The Bride’s Farewell by Meg Rosoff (brilliant). 

So words and the forming of them, plucking them out of the air, are part of me.  Scrabble plugs into my knowledge base.  And finally I beat him.

“Kerpow!  I’m writing to the Commune, we’ll have to take a lawyer,”  he said pacing the room as I watched him bleary eyed from under the duvet.  His sudden rise in testosterone was phenomenal making him quite attractive if only I hadn’t started developing a headache… from all the noise. 

Before you think that we are over-reacting, let me inform you that this is the third or fourth brutal awakening this past ten days and on the holy of holiest 1st of August (Swiss national day) when bottle depositing is strictly interdit, I had to peer through the bushes in my bikini and “ask them nicely” to stop pointing to the large sign on the front of the bottle bank distinctly telling them when they can and can’t déposer les bouteilles.

The excuses given are risible ranging from the “I can’t stop I’m leaving for my holiday” (last year’s midnight bottle bank abuser) to shrugs and “only a few left” (would that be those few hundreds at your feet then?) 

Recently at the bottom of the village, on the way to the décheterrie (that’s recycling station to you and me),  a sleeping policeman (speed bump) disappeared, just like that, over night.  Where we would all slow down outside Madame Mimram’s grand driveway (the main contributor to the communal tax bucket) we now just continue along without the usual, quick gear change, up and over shenanigans.

 AND DO YOU KNOW WHY?

Because Monsieur Prelaz, who owns the farm opposite and whose bedroom looks out over the road and the offending speed bump, was continually awoken by the lights of the dipping headlights as cars kerthumped over the obstacle.  Aside from beefy Monsieur Prelaz’s lack of shut-eye, the tractor drivers, of which there are many in this village, are constantly looking for excuses to banish speed bumps and this was the last one standing…er…lying….no technically it would be sleeping.  You see their argument is that speed bumps tend to spoil all their fun – screeching at high speeds with massive loads being a major pastime around here.

When I heard of Mr. Prelaz’s ”bedtime story”, I knew there was hope for us.  Surely if Monsieur Prelaz – who obviously hasn’t heard of black out curtains or any curtains for that matter – can have a whole speed bump removed then I can get the bottle bank moved from below my bedroom window before Mr. Jules invests in a pair of binoculars, stops taking showers and dusts off his army rifle.

A few years ago I had a conversation with my friend Suzan from New Zealand about massage.

“I hate them.  I hate someone, especially if it is a man, getting that close, in my personal zone.  I suppose it is a British embarrassment thing…I find it hard to relax and enjoy it.  Once, when I tried reflexology I was so embarrassed at all the attention given to my feet that I spoke non-stop for an hour.” 

She had looked at me pitifully and with a soupçon of annoyance replied,

 ”How pathetic, it’s about time you got over that.”

 She didn’t really, of course she is much too nice for that, but that was the subtext and quite right she was too.

Thus two days ago I was standing naked in a Hamman in Marrakech being scrubbed like a baby (but not so tenderly) by a kind Moroccan soul.  I had booked a “couples” Hamman, gommage and massage for Mr. Jules and I.   Despite his protestant upbringing,  Mr. Jules’  family were quite hippy dippy when it came to family saunas so he revelled in my pretense at comfort and okayness with all my goodies on display.  (He was almost disappointed that he felt obliged, out of respect to the lady masseuse/torturer, to keep his trunks on).

Later whilst we were browsing in la Médina (souk) and whilst breaking out in a red rash from head to toe due to an allergy to the black soap scrub (yes go ahead analyse at will) he is amused by the salesmen who greet me as La Gazelle.

“Bonjour la gazelle j’ai des jolies choses pour toi,” they call out to  me.

“Et moi?”  He says feeling obviously left out.

“Toi?  Tu es couscous.

Touché mon amour.