Petrol Be va ka sha

I have a confession to make……

I don’t know how to get petrol.

I thought I was quite intelligent. Until I made Aliyah, I acted a bit like an adult.  I could buy what I needed, make myself understood in Starbucks and mostly get to school on time to pick up the kids. (Very occasionally I fell asleep on the sofa, after overdosing on Netflix).

But since making Aliyah there are things I can’t accomplish alone. The most annoying being I can’t work out how to fill my car up with petrol.

When I lived in England, I could do this. It took place when I did my weekly shop at my beloved Tesco. There was a petrol station right there. (So clever, those Tesco bods).  I moved seamlessly from shop car park to adjacent petrol garage forecourt to do the deed.

It was easy and at some point, it was made even easier, when one of those clever Tesco bods invented the ‘Pay At Pump’ option. What. A. Joy. Credit card inserted, petrol pumped and Tesco Clubcard Points to boot. No more trudging through the wind and rain (this was England) to the kiosk to pay, or more importantly, being faced with the temptation of that 'extra large snickers bar, four packets of crisps and fizzy drink combo' in the shop.

Although there were plenty of petrol stations in the UK, my car wasn’t always full. I never quite got the hang of that ‘fill your car up before it runs out’ thing. I always thought the petrol gauge was lying.

So I had my fair share of waiting for the AA man to bring me my green watering can containing £5 of petrol ‘to get you on yer’ way luv'’. I may have had a few smiley telling offs - ‘that was a silly thing to do wern’ it darlin’, you won’t be doin’ that again, will yer’?’ Ho ho ho.

But of course, I would be doing it again. And again. Culminating in being stranded one snowy night with my sister, Mum and Mum-in-law on the hard shoulder of the M11. Whilst waiting for said AA man to save us, we huddled together under a single silver foil blanket singing Barry Manilow songs. (We’d just been to see Barry in concert at the O2. And yes, his face did look really weird).

So though I didn’t always do it in a timely manner, I knew I could do it when required.

But, here in Israel, I can’t.

Everyone else seems to manage it. I see people driving around all over the place. But so far I’ve only figured out two options;

1.     Ask the smiling petrol attendant (often called Yossi) to do it for you.

2.     Do it yourself.

Up until recently, I didn’t even know there was a number 2 (The weird 'do it yourself' option). I honestly believed I had found my petrol station Utopia. I was blown away by the Israeli improvement on Tesco’s ‘Pay at Pump’ option, (which to be fair, I thought was beyond improvement). 

All I had to do was drive up to my pump of choice, smile graciously at Yossi, (as mentioned before, I have always been an overly courteous and appreciative customer), and boldly state ‘Ma-leh Be-vu-ka-sha’. (translation: ‘fill ‘er up please guv’nor’).

And the best bit ……you don’t even get out of your car !!  Your bum stays firmly in position. You open your window the tiniest crack to prevent your beautifully cool, air conditioned air, from escaping, you waggle your credit card through the crack at Yossi for payment and away you go.

Amazing or what?

So what’s the problem?

Well. The problem arises when Yossi isn’t there. Maybe he’s on a falafel break, or a fag break, or more than likely, in the middle of a loud and furious argument with three other customers all at the same time, all of whom are as stumped as me as how to get their flippin’ petrol, and have decided to completely block my entrance to the special ‘Get Yossi to do it for you’ pump lanes.

So now I have to go to one of the scary ‘Get yer' own petrol luv’-  we’re havin' a fag break’ pumps. That I have never ventured near before.

  

I know that before you can get pumping, you need to remove the nozzle. And I know you have to put the nozzle in the petrol hole thing in your car. (I’m not a complete idiot). But in Israel there are a whole series of numbers that need to be input into the frightening huge pump dispenser thing, before the petrol is released. Apparently the numbers include your ID number and your car registration, both of which I actually know. (Well, I don’t actually know my car registration, but again, I don’t want you thinking I’m a complete idiot).

But these numbers need to be input in the right order. Exactly after the scary machine asks you (in bloody Hebrew). And you need to insert your credit card at some point. Perhaps, even twice. And then press a few more random buttons frantically. And there appears to be a knack to this.

Which I haven’t got.

I search for Yossi. But Yossi is oblivious to my distress. He looks directly at me, sees I’m having difficulty, clocks the sweaty, middle-aged woman playing tug-of-war with the pump…....and looks away.

I try to grab his attention, I wave manically, managing to squeak ‘Slich-ah  be-va-ka-sha… ’ before my Hebrew runs out. He finally notices the red-faced, panic-stricken middle-aged lady (that’s me). He saunters over, casual like, looks me up and down with disdain whilst I attempt clumsily to wipe the (now pouring) sweat from my face, and says loudly ‘MUH?’

But. He’s there. Once he’s there, it’s plain sailing. He suavely inputs the magic numbers, his fingers release the nozzle and the fluid finally flows……(sorry, got a bit carried away there).

With Yossi – it’s Utopia.

Without, I face a future of being stranded on an Israeli highway, awaiting the Israeli equivalent of the AA man, bringing me my green watering can with 50 shekels of petrol.

Not appealing.

But I suppose at least I can be grateful that this time I won't be shivering under a silver foil blanket, on the M11, singing Cococabana.

I'm a TV addict

So I have a confession to make…

I’m a TV addict.

Which means I spend an awful lot of time on my beige sofa. Friends and family are taken aback to see me standing up. When face-timing, (an extremely rare occurrence) my sister (only person allowed to attempt this, and then, at her peril) will be completely thrown if she can’t see the familiar beige suede behind my head whilst we talk.

The first time I was pregnant, my husband left in the morning, kissing me goodbye (18 years ago, pre-kids, it used to happen). I was warm and snug on the sofa, curtains drawn, mug of tea in hand, stylishly clad in flannelette pyjamas and fleecy dressing gown, obviously from Primark, which is only slightly behind Tesco on my list of ‘Shops I Love’. (Which isn’t a very long list now I think of it, as those actually are the only two Shops I Love).

When he returned home at 6 o’clock, he found me in the same position. He was forced into prising the TV remote out my hand, (I’m surprisingly strong when the mood takes me), and trying to erase the imprint of my (rather large) bum left on the beige suede sofa.

Of course this was long before the days of Candy Crush and Netflix. So you can imagine how things have deteriorated since then. My husband now looks back on those days fondly.

In the UK, I had a TV. It was 55 inches wide, (showing off now) and I could spend hours in ‘position on beige sofa’ flicking through Sky. Of course, there were subtitles. I’m hard of hearing (honest) and need the subtitles to watch the programme. It was either subtitles or turn the volume up to 99 (I recall that was the maximum), but my husband didn’t seem to enjoy that all that much. He never said, but I could tell by the terrible pained grimace on his face and his hands plastered over his ears.

Then came Sky Plus! You could record a whole series and watch it at your leisure – in one sitting. It soon became known as ‘binge - watching’.

I believe I was one of the first ‘binge – watchers’. I was a quick learner. In those days, my kids were still young enough to help me find the correct buttons to press.

It was all so simple. The only thing that could ruin it was a power cut, and thankfully we didn't get many of those at the time. (It was the noughties, not the 70’s).

When we moved to Israel, I had one request. Just ONE. I didn’t want an oven, (cooking’s not really my thing), or a car, (I had nowhere to go, unless there was a TV there). No. All I wanted was Sky TV. This was a DEAL BREAKER. If we were to make Aliyah, I needed to know that my Strictly Come Dancing viewing plan would not be interrupted. Or I was not getting off the plane.

Promises were made by husband. Legal contracts were drawn up. I was assured that Sky TV would be in situ for my arrival.

But it wasn’t.

Apparently, he was ‘sooooo busy’ setting up a new business, finding us somewhere to live and making sure the kids were registered at Israeli schools, (I mean really), that he forgot the Most Important Thing - Sky TV.

We had an actual television. But the programmes were in Hebrew. (When I called to complain, they told me it was because we were living in Israel). We got the Israeli equivalent of Sky which showed English programmes. But the all-important subtitles without which I couldn’t watch, were, you guessed it, in Hebrew. (Again, annoyingly, this was something to do with the country we were living in).

Diss – aaahhhsss – ter.

My girlfriends in the UK knew that TV was a biggie for me and seemed worried that Sky TV was not going to happen in Israel (they obviously knew something I didn’t). So they clubbed together and bought me an Ipad.

I was joyous. Best. Gift. Ever.

I took up position on my beige sofa. I inserted the headphones. I turned it on. I was ready.

I then spent the next 18 months watching Netflix, BBC IPlayer, ITV Hub and Couchtuner (a new one on me). Sometimes I switched things up with some Candy Crush or Words with Friends. All was good with the world.

But then the Ipad stopped working. I called for my kids. But now they’re older they’re not interested. I called for my husband. But he was out (apparently he was working or something. Not sure what that is.) I lay on the beige sofa (I sometimes swap from sitting to lying for variety), head in my hands, sobbing loudly, ‘My Ipad woooon’t woooork. What am I supposed to dooooooooo???’, and they all walked on by, shrugging disdainfully at my disgusting, techy incompetence.

So my binge-watching days are over. It was great whilst it lasted but I spose the kids could do with a meal after a year and a half and apparently there’s a pile of laundry that needs doing.

I thought I’d write a blog instead.

I can't speak Hebrew

After a year and a half in Israel – I have a confession to make….

I can’t speak Hebrew.

It’s mortifying. Every time a visitor arrives, their first words are ’How’s your Ivrit? You must be fluent by now’. And I stare at them. And I try to decide.

Should I lie? Should I reply ,‘Pah! Of course I am. I mean, only an IDIOT wouldn’t be able to speak Hebrew after A YEAR AND A HALF in Israel. Ho ho ho’. Or do I own up to the truth - that actually - I AM that idiot, and that, no, I’m not bloody fluent. I can just about say my name.

It’s a dilemma. I mean, they’re not going to test me, are they.  I can order a coffee in the coffee shop, and maybe a cake, and they’ll be none the wiser. I’m excellent at the ‘todah’ and ‘bevukasha’, and if a shop assistant asks me a question, I usually answer with - ‘ken’. It seems to work for the most part, but has got me into trouble a few times. I’ve ended up having to buy special offer items at the till that I really didn’t want. But it was too late to back out at that stage (and the half price hemorrhoid cream has actually come in rather useful).

But I’m likely to get caught out at some point. What if my guests need actual help with something? I could pretend I’m speaking Hebrew – again – they're not going to know any different – it all sounds vaguely plausible if you get the spitting in the right places - but, it’s a risk. What if they hurt themselves whilst here and it’s up to me to save their life? I don’t know how to say ‘Quick, this lady needs a Thoracic Aortic Dissection Repair. NOW’, in Hebrew. It’s a worry.

I’ve tried. I really have. I went to Ulpan every day for 5 months. I hardly missed a lesson. When my car broke down and I had no way of getting there – I walked. Yes, walked. Those of you who know me will realise what a huge deal that is.  I’m not a big one for walking. It’s not my thing.  I have been known to drive to my neighbour, two houses down.

I did all my homework. Studiously. I only used Google Translate when it was absolutely necessary – mostly at midnight, when I’d spent too much time catching up on Greys Anatomy.

I can tell you where I live (B Ra’ananna), and I can recite my telephone number and Identity Number with ease. With only a few pauses in the middle. Whilst my brain catches up. But anything else, I’m stuck.

I still try. Every day. I prepare what I want to say…I practice in my head a few times…I reach the shop assistant… I look them directly in the eye and state confidently what I require with a defiant nod of the head for emphasis. I’m euphoric. I’ve done it. I’ve conversed with an Israeli. I Am Fluent.

But they look at me sadly and reply in a perfect North West London Twang ‘Sorry love, couldn’t make out what you were saying. What was it you wanted? Hemorrhoid cream?’

God I miss Tesco

So a year and a half after making Aliyah – I have a confession to make…

I am not a huge fan of Israeli supermarkets.

It’s been a long time coming. At first, I loved them. I was amused by the surly cashier, looking at me blankly when I asked for help packing my shopping. How I laughed when all the items in my overflowing shopping trolley wouldn’t fit on either end of the conveyor belt (design fault anyone?). No shopping trolley to be found? Don’t worry, walk around the shop until you find someone else’s and nick it.

But now, I’ve had enough. Today was the day that broke my happy go lucky shopper attitude’s back.

For 25 years I pledged loyal commitment to my favourite place ever – Tesco.  I could never understand my friends who bought ‘a few things’ in Sainsbury’s and would ‘pop’ into Waitrose if they were on the Finchley Road. No, I was a Tesco girl through and through. But after making Aliyah, I have become a supermarket flirt.

Unable to commit to any of the local supermarkets due to their complete lack of care for whether I ever return to their shop, or indeed, whether I keel over and die there, I have flitted and fluttered around freely, trying each chain in turn, comparing prices (the price on the shelf is always different to the one you end up paying) and ‘service’ (‘MUH??’) and knowing, just knowing, that my Supermarket Prince is out there and soon, soon, he will reveal himself to me.

But he’s not. And he didn’t. And I'm sad. I’m alone and lost in a sea of crap Israeli supermarket chains.

Why are they so crap here? Why? Not one of them wants my custom. Not one of them gives a monkey’s whether I return next week or not.

They. Just. Don’t. Care.

As an overly polite and courteous shopper myself (‘No, no I’ll pack and take my 45 bags out to the car myself. I wouldn’t want to trouble you to do your actual job’), now, I am slowly, changing…….

Today, I dropped two bottles of beer on the floor. Huge loud smash. Totally my fault. All over the shop floor, all over the produce and most importantly, all over me, the customer, the ONE WHO IS ALWAYS RIGHT.  There was beer and broken glass everywhere.

In England, at my beloved Tesco, three assistants would rush to help me. ‘Are you alright Madam?’, ‘Let’s get you away from that nasty broken glass, shall we?’ ‘There, there love, cup of tea?’. Followed by the comforting tannoy announcement (‘Ye, Derek, spillage in aisle 3 please mate’) that tells you, the customer, that it’s OK and no, you don’t have to clear it up yourself.

I waited for the rush of attention. I waited. But, Nothing.

The smash could be heard in the next town and yet not one assistant in the relatively small shop moved a muscle. There was a lady stacking shelves three feet away from me. Impossible to miss the noise, or the broken glass that shot towards her feet and settled around her in a pleasing shiny pattern and no way could she ignore the smell of spilt beer around her vicinity.

But she didn’t even move.

Without the prospect of Derek from Tesco coming to clear the mess away, I certainly didn’t want to risk being asked to do it, so I made a quick escape to the crisp aisle, red-faced and sweating, frantically looking around to check for the spillage police to investigate my clumsy mess. I pretended to be frightfully interested in the ingredients of a packet of Doritos and nonchalantly passed off  my soaked t shirt and jeans and stench of stale beer as an unfortunate drinking problem.

I needn’t have worried. No one took any notice whatsoever of the lady covered in beer. No mops were brought out, no worried health and safety official rushed over with a clipboard to assess the risk of broken glass to other customers, no one seemed aware that I was slinking warily through the shop, followed by the waft of beer.

I finished my shop and left. As I did, I caught a sly glance at the drinks aisle on my way out.

The broken glass and spilt beer was still there as it had fallen. Not one of the assistants had made any attempt to clear it up for the benefit of other customers..

And I realized. They. Just. Don’t. Care.

And so I have decided, in the future. Neither. Will. I.