Switzerland is a direct democracy. If there is something that disturbs, there is a special formula. Write it all down at the top and collect signatures below on the formula, a few thousand, perhaps 100,000, I really do not know because I have never collected signatures for voting.
We vote on a Sunday usually but can also do it by post, nice and comfortable from your own four walls. Mr. Swiss usually fills out the Ja’s and Nein’s and I sign. Of course not blindly. I have a look to see what we are voting for, but we generally agree or agree to disagree.
So why the cow. In Switzerland they also have a right. Look at their heads, do you see horns? Of course not. As soon as they are born the calf has the little stubs removed and does not even realise that one day horns should grow there. And so our female cows grow without horns. There is now a heifer rights movement and signatures have been collected.
Later this year we will all be voting for the right of the cows to keep their horns, to let them grow. Some farmers do not agree but the cows are complaining, mooing.
The ladies are firm. They find it is time for the heifer rights movement. If the bulls can keep them, why not the cows. The idea behind removing the cow horns was because the cows could harm themselves, but they are peaceful creatures. The only time they fight is when a bull might have ideas and the cow does not agree, but now these “me too” days are over for the cows. They can defend themselves against any bull that might have ideas. They will be showing their horns.
And now the bulls are complaining. They are tired of the imitation cows at the breeding station, the want only real cows that breathe and are soft to the touch. Yes there are problems in Switzerland.
Justice for the female cows I say and I will be writing “Ja” when I vote.
Friday RDP: Justice
I suppose it does look grubby. The remaining blinds on the windows are hanging on for dear life and there are missing panes of glass. I remember it about 40 years ago. The owner was then a younger man and had married a lady that inherited the factory from her family. It manufactured small engineering parts, but eventually it got into financial difficulties. It closed down and was abandoned. I have now watched as the building has gradually fallen apart and slowly becoming a victim of disintegration over the past years.
At one time it was used as a theatre.
The door was then glass with posters advertising the newest productions. That is now also a thing of the past. The left glass door has been replaced with boarding and the right door still shows cracks and breakage in the glass.
It even had a side path where the workers in the factory days, probably took their break in the good weather and a chance for a smoke outside.
This has now become wasteland for the weed survival although at the front a flowering buddleia has arrived, which even attracts butterflies. I am not sure if the butterflies would even survive in this wasteland.
I remember the area where I grew up in the docklands area of London. It was surrounded by such areas, being the remains of the bombed ruins of buildings from world was II, which were my childhood playgrounds. This factory is the result of pure neglect. The area now belongs to the bank and can be bought, although it is probably only the land that has a value. The old factory would be demolished and something new built, although it has been waiting for a buyer for many years. It is in an industrial area.
I had a look through the boarded up window. Some of the windows still have glass and the general impression of the inside is desertion, grubby being another word for it.
Friday RDP: Grubby
12 years ago and I was 59 years of age on a week’s stay in London to visit my father. I was on my own, and stayed with my schoolfriend and so now and again we went for a day somewhere. We were in Lakeside, one of those modern shopping malls on the fring of London incorporating more shops that you could actually handle. Both of us were book addicts: the Kindle was still in its diapers I believe and so we headed for the bookshop, probably Waterstones. It coincided with a coffee break and the café incorporated café looked good with its warm inviting wood surroundings.
We were alone, there were no other customers and it was the middle of the afternoon and the guy in charge was standing and waiting. My friend had to pay a visit to the ladies and the waiter asked for my order. He spoke with a French accent, so who does not get weak at the knees for a French accent. He came originally from Marseilles and was spending a time in England. My friend arrived back to the café and I was engrossed in a conversation comparing life in Switzerland with life in France and comparing a lot more. He was not Alain Delon, Jean Paul Belmondo or even my favourite of the day Christoper Lambert, but if you closed your eyes you could let the imagination run wild with the reality. Of course I did not, because I was 59 years old and he was probably old enough to be my son.
We now have 12 years later and I am now 71 years old. I wonder what happened to him. Did he return to Marseille, which was his intention? Is he now married with a family or still enchanting the french mademoiselles with his stories of London? Perhaps he even remembered the english lady who actually lived and worked in Switzerland: probably not, but I still have the photo. I said the coffee bar looked interesting and if it would be OK to take a photo and he obliged.
Today I no longer drink coffee. It must be at least 10 years since I had my last cup of coffee due to digestive problems. I do not really miss it, I have become a tea drinker in the meanwhile. I am sure if I was then drinking tea I had not met my French barrister and as a trophy would have had a photo of an english tea room full of old ladies sipping their milky teas.
Oh, the memories of the years gone past.
Friday RDP: Coffee
It was a rainy morning and I really did not bargain on a wheelie in my chair this afternoon, although I had a little purpose in my journey. If I could manage to go places, I wanted to take a few photos of our local castle for a challenge in WordPress, although I combine my photographic purposes with anything that might cross the lens. On the way I wheeled past this garden in the top half of the village. It was empty, the chidren’s playground was deserted but what did I see. They had a Mowey, the same as ours, and it was mowing the lawn all on its own: wheeling backwards and forwards murmuring with a Mowey voice as it continued. Now and again the slide was in the way and he tried to ignore it by giving it a push, but it didn’t work, so Mowey changed his direction and continued on his lonely way. It was almost like something from a science fiction novel.
I continued on my way and did not meet one single person or hear anything. I was alone. Had we been invaded by extra terrestrials that had captured the village population? The only movement in the village were the various mowing machines. Perhaps they were possessed and were the new intelligence.
We also have a Mowey, but he is now redundant since our lawn refused to grow and began to die. Perhaps we are one of the lucky ones. Our lawn was protecting us from the Moweys which were slowly conquering the population. We are planning to have our lawn removed and just in time. Our Mowey supplier told us that our model is no longer being sold. This should have bee a warning. We asked why, but somehow the supplier avoided a clear answer. It was discovered that the smallest version made too many mistakes. Perhaps they became people mowers and the missing population had become garden fertiliser, small human pellets in a large sealed plastic bag.
There is a silence in the air you could cut with a knife.
I do not like the way Mowey is sitting there. He has chewed all the surrounding grass. What is he planning now?
Friday RDP: Absent