Cultural differences, Poland - UK

Sitting in the Stag and Huntsman in Hambleden, a lovely old pub in a lovely old Buckinghamshire village, one of the essential cultural difference between Poland and Great Britain became clear to me.

It is the village. Cities tend to be similar. But examine the villages in both countries, and you will see the core of what makes Poles different to Brits.

In England, the village is the central repository of essential English values; decency, politeness, community - and privacy. 

It is here in Hambleden, not far from Henley-on-Thames, that W.H. Smith, newspaper vendor and bookseller - who made his fortune placing kiosks in stations as Britain's railways boomed - retired to. The village - like many around it - Fingest, Turville, Skirmett, Frieth - is extremely picturesque (it often appears in films and TV series). Its topography bears some examination, for it is here that lies the heart of the difference between Poland and England.

Hambleden is a largish group of cottages and a manor house clustered around a village green, a village church, a village hall, a village store and a village pub. Fields are regular in shape, interspersed by woodland and divided by hedgerows. Roads run off in all directions - down towards the river, up into the wooded heights, east and west to neighbouring villages. The terrain undulates; villages nestle cosily in the folds of hills. Below: the Village Hall, Hambleden.

It's a Sunday lunchtime, and the Stag and Huntsman is packed. Poles would look through the window, and remark that these people would be better off saving money by cooking their own food and eating it in their own homes - it's cheaper. It occurred to me that what these English rural folk are doing as they spend their money on roast beef and Yorkshire pudding is investing in their community. It's not just about creating local jobs for bar staff, kitchen staff, farmers and brewers. It's about building trust and friendships between people in the village.

Below: beyond the butcher's shop, Hambleden's village inn, the Stag and Huntsman. Note how all cars are obediently parked on one side of the road. Porządek, Panie.

The Polish village, in contrast, is typically strung out along a long, straight road, with no discernible centre. This makes sense as the landscape's table-top flat. Ideal for mobile warfare. Left: ribbon-thin strips of land run off at right angles from this road, each farmed by different farmers (click to enlarge), the sons of sons of sons who had too many sons. I've also mentioned the importance of primogeniture in defining the difference between Poland and England - and in particular the countryside. In England, custom and law had it that the eldest son inherited the entire landed estate - as a whole. Younger sons joined the army, the church, the civil service. Or went off to conquer an empire, invent steam engines or football. In Poland, a father would divide his estate between sons, with each son ending up with ever-smaller strips of land, just enough to subsist on.

Other than the church on Sunday, there's no social focus. Yes, there's the shop, and outside it Pan Heniek and Pan Ziutek will while the afternoon away supping tins of Warka Pstrąg. And indeed, they bring with them to the UK the habit of outdoor drinking and depositing their empty tins of Lech, Tyskie and Żywiec around Britain's parkland, rather than paying the premium for sitting down in a pub to imbibe one's ale, as is the British wont.

And so, roaming around the Polish countryside, I yearn for those village hostelries where a pork pie (what's that in Polish!?) and a pint can be consumed in agreeable surroundings while resting weary legs.

The result of primogeniture is that the British aristocracy is numerically a minute percentage of the population. The Polish szlachta, or nobility, watered down by split inheritance, numbered some 8%-10% of the population at its peak. Better to be a somebody with a tiny parcel of land and a noble surname than a nobody forced to invent stuff like steam engines, telegraphs, mechanised looms, or blast furnaces.

As I have written before, the English countryside is where one wants to retire to, the Polish countryside is where one wants to escape from. The Polish wieś seethes with zawiść - jealous hatred or hateful jealousy - neighbours cannot countenance the fact that others are doing better than they through harder work, more judicious crop rotation, earlier (or later) planting (or reaping) - or just better luck.

But back to Hambleden. I doubt if all but the smallest number of villagers living here actually makes a living from the land. The large landholdings are efficiently and industrially farmed; here and there some organic farming takes place, but generally this is arable and livestock country, well maintained and managed. The majority of its 1,500 villagers are recent arrivals who have bought picturesque properties with monies earned or inherited or both; I'd guess the village is 50%+ retired City folk, entrepreneurs who've exited their businesses or inherited wealth, with the minority being people connected to the village through their kin. The influx drives up property prices.

In Poland, I get the sense that the majority of Varsovians are only one or two generations removed from the land. In 2001, I remember going for a walk with my children, then aged eight and six, and seeing a slaughtered pig being drained of blood, its throat slit, lying on a large wooden table in the middle of a farmyard. At work the next day, I mentioned this to my colleagues Beata and Joasia. Both laughed and said they could still remember seeing the same scene as children on their grandfathers' farms. Most of urban Britain is five or even ten generations removed from the land. And with that comes learned dependence - on the mill-owner or the state - but that's another story. In January 2006, on my way to a conference in Sandomierz, I noticed on the thermometer it was -26C outside. I glanced at the landscape; an elderly woman was carrying a bundle of firewood from the forest to her house. It occurred to me that at minus twenty-six there's no such word as mañana - rural life is hard, and one takes full responsibility for one's fate. You don't outsource it to a welfare state. 

Rugged individualism can become pathological individualism, however.

Poland needs its villages to get more connected, to discover a sense of community, of win-win, of public-spiritedness, building trust between neighbours. The pub is essential to that process. Village pub teams - bowling, darts, cricket, quiz - compete with one another in English. Nothing like this happens in Poland.

But to get things kick-started, there's no better way to do it than by opening small cafés, bars, restaurants, pubs. Maybe in a generation or two's time, the Polish village is where wealthier Poles will want to retire to.

[UPDATE NOVEMBER 2017: I buy a działka in Jakubowizna, a village 40km south of Warsaw.]

[UPDATE JULY 2022: I find I'm spending more time in Jakubowizna than in Jeziorki.]

This time last year:
Schadenfreude! The downfall of Hofman & Co.

This time two years ago:
From the Mersey to the Tyne

This time three years ago
Autumnal Gdańsk

This time four years ago:
What Independence Day means for Poles

This time five years ago:
Words fail me: what's the Polish for 'to fail'?

This time six years ago:
Autumn in Dobra

This time eight years ago:
Autumn ploughing

Death and bureaucracy

When my Ciocia Jadzia died in September, she was buried within four days. When my father's cousin died the following week, she was buried within five days. Both at the Bródno cemetery in Warsaw. So why is it my mother's funeral will not take place until nearly three weeks after her death?

My mother died in Ealing Hospital less than 24 hours after admission; this means that a coroner's report is needed before the death certificate can be issued. The coroner cannot issue the report without recourse to the doctor present at the scene. Now, my mother died at the weekend; the coroner works Mondays to Fridays. The doctor works a long weekend shift, returning to work the following Thursday night. So the earliest time the doctor could talk to the coroner was on Friday morning.

And indeed, on Friday morning, we duly received the information that all was in order; a post-mortem was not required, and we could arrange to collect the death certificate from the Registrar of Births, Deaths and Marriages at Ealing Town Hall on Monday. So we made an appointment, and then contacted the funeral director. Now, funeral directors can formally do nothing without a death certificate, but the one we are using (A. Galla of Pope's Lane, South Ealing) was sufficiently ahead of the game to make provisional bookings for the church and the crematorium.

We were lucky that church and the crematorium were both available on a Friday (a popular day for funerals) which was ideal from the point of view of family travel logistics. So Friday 20th November it is - Polish church, Ealing, cremation at Mortlake, then back to the Polish church for the wake. The earliest date we could have possibly arranged the funeral for was Tuesday 17th, which is still two and half weeks after my mother's death.

Today at Ealing Town Hall, it took an hour to sort everything out, because the system was down. But once working properly, I was amazed at the efficiency of the British State. The Registrar's office was busy, with seven other people in at the same time to register births, deaths or marriages. What documents were required by the Registrar? None. I brought along my mother's old passport, just to ensure correct spelling of her name, but it was not essential.

Once equipped with a handful of death certificates, my father and I popped into the Cooperative Bank to close my mother's current account. All sorted out in a few minutes. Across the road, the visit to Santander Bank was not a success - the queues were so long we were asked to come back later.

An online government service called Tell Us Once allows next-of-kin to enter all the details of a deceased person - just once - thenceforth informing every relevant public sector body. National Insurance, National Savings, National Health Service, Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs, the Department of Work and Pensions, the local authority, the electoral register (and where relevant - though not in my mother's case - the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Authority and the Passport Office).

Just ONE form filled in ON LINE. This is thanks the the wonders of Gov.uk, which seamlessly links all government departments into one, joined-up, citizen-friendly, cost-effective, time-saving system. Here, all the additional information I needed was my mother's National Insurance number.

So while the wait for the funeral is longer in the UK, the amount of time sorting things out is much shorter. No visits with official documents to various offices, just spend literally four minutes online and that is that. At times like this, having a well-organised state supporting you (rather than being a time-consuming burden).

This time four years ago:
Bad news for Jeziorki rat-runners

This time eight years ago:
From Łady to Falenty

Remembrance Sunday, Northolt

There are two main roads running west out of London - the Great West Road (A4) and the Western Avenue (A40). For motorists using the latter, the Polish War Memorial is a landmark along the way, between the Target Roundabout and the Swakeleys Roundabout. Built in 1948, the Polish War Memorial stands next to RAF Northolt, and commemorates the 1,500 Polish airmen who gave their lives fighting for Britain in RAF squadrons.

RAF Northolt was the base for the legendary 303 Sqn during the Battle of Britain, but it was also home to other Polish units throughout the duration of WWII. Today being Remembrance Sunday, my father (a Warsaw Uprising veteran) and I visited the Polish War Memorial to pay our respects. To our surprise, we found a continual procession of cars drawing up to bring visitors of all ages to the Memorial. Below: my father reads the inscription on the commemorative plaque at the main gate.

On the back of the pedestal, words from 2 Timothy 4:7 "I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith." Below: my father inspects the names of the fallen airmen inscribed upon the monument.

Below: opened less than two months ago, to commemorate the 75th anniversary of the Battle of Britain, the Polish War Memorial Remembrance Garden is a new addition to the site.

A memorial service had been held earlier this morning; three great English hymns (Abide With Me, I Vow To Thee My Country and O God Our Help In Ages Past followed by the British and Polish national anthems. It is gratifying to see the Polish War Memorial woven into the fabric of a British Remembrance Sunday, the flags of the United Kingdom and Poland flying proudly on either side of the memorial.

This time five years ago:
Death on the tracks

Back in action - my father's car

Twenty months ago, in April 2014, my father's driving licence was not renewed. He couldn't read a car number plate from 20 metres. So he cancelled his car insurance, posted a Statutory Off Road Notice, and his car, a Rover 214 SLi, stood in the drive, in the rain, the mist, the drizzle and the sleet.

Since then, my father has had two eye operations, as a result of which his eyesight is better than mine. In August, he re-applied for his driving licence. It finally arrived in the post on Thursday. Now, how about that car? Is it fit for purpose, or for the scrapyard? With a mere 61,000 miles on the clock after 23 years (it was bought and first registered by my father in December 1992 - before Moni was born), would it ever go again?

Over the car's lifetime, it has been regularly serviced by a garage on the Argyle Road. Recently, it has been acquired by the giant Halford's Group. The resurrection of a 23 year-old car, laid up for over a year and half, is not something that you'll find in any corporate Standard Operating Procedures. So my father chose a small garage in Hanwell, offering MoTs (ang. przegląd techniczny) and services. We went. A tiny Victorian mews, all brick and cobbles, space in the garage and forecourt for no more than four cars. My father spoke to the proprietor, and soon I was driving back with my father, two mechanics, a battery power pack, a spare battery, a pair of trade plates. Everyone was silently weighing up the odds of getting the old car started.

Silted up oilways in the cylinder block. Seized handbrake. Wheels rusted solid onto the axles. Short-circuits caused by rusty wiring.

But start it did! Within five minutes of their arrival, the mechanics had fired up the engine, and a few minutes later, with trade plates attached, the guys drove off back to Hanwell to fix the car. This was around half-past three. An hour or so later, they called to say that the car had failed the MoT. Minor things - windscreen wiper blades - would be easy to fix, but the failed emissions test would be trickier. The following morning they called back - all fixed. The car was ready for collection, with a new MoT certificate valid for 12 months.

So my father called up the insurance company to renew his policy which lapsed in June 2014. A long time spent waiting for the call centre to put the call through, but once we did, all went smoothly. With my brother and me as named additional drivers on his policy, my father is once again fully insured.

But given my father's age, it was not cheap - probably three times more than the value of the car itself. Twenty-plus year-old Rover 214s can be had for a couple of hundred quid. [However, my father reminded me that I'd got the car for him through Rover's journalist discount scheme back in 1992. No doubt, the car had been specially prepared with a particularly critical customer in mind. No ordinary Rover 214 SLi, then.]

Next up was road tax (as Vehicle Excise Duty is erroneously called). Online this was sorted out in moments, credit card payment and a print-off of the confirmation that the duty had been paid.

All street legal. I walked to Hanwell to pick up the car. The proprietor told me that the car was in phenomenally good shape for its age, and for the fact that it had never been garaged, spending all 23 years of its life exposed to the elements. There was not a spot of rust on the underside of the vehicle. All it needed was a thorough clean, and a new clutch plate within the next year, and it will go on for years to come.

I drove it home. Indeed, the clutch's biting point is very high, but it's still working. Between 1,200 and 1,500 rpm, the engine's vibrations feed through to the dashboard, as they have done for at least 12 years, otherwise the car is good. Good for another 23 years? Hope so! Classic cars from the 1960s and '70s are still a common sight on Britain's roads.

Classic cars. Back in the early 1980s, when I started motoring, a 'classic car' was one over 20 years old. So my 1963 GAZ Volga M-21 was a classic car, eligible for classic car insurance and no road tax. Today, as the longevity of cars increases, a 'historic vehicle' is one built before 1975. And that's fixed, so each year, historic vehicles get a year older, newer ones no longer make it into the fold.

Back at the garage, picking up the car, I had so many  nostalgic memories - this is Dziadzia-Auto, as Moni used to call it when she was a year and half old. Before her second birthday, she could identify several car brands - Audi, Renault, Mełczedeś (Mercedes), Fud Gennada (Ford Granada), but all Rover 200s were 'Dziadzia-Auto'. The smell of the interior reminds me of summer holidays, returning to the car, warmed up by the sunshine in a Welsh beach car park.

So my father is mobile again. The car will only be used for local trips to the shops, to church, etc. Mobility = independence = dignity.

The developed world's demographics mean that more and more very old people will be still driving. This is a challenge that will have to be met by policy-makers. On the one hand, independence through mobility is a good thing - on the other, a road-safety issue.

I believe that in the same way that motorcycle licences are issued (AM for mopeds, A1 for 125cc bikes, A2 for bikes up to 48 BHP and A for unlimited power), so car licences should be graded. My father is allowed - as are all other nonagenarians and centenarians possessing valid Cat. B driving licences - to legally drive a Porsche Cayenne Turbo S, Range Rover Sport, Bugatti Veyron etc. On motorways. This is absurd. And it is also absurd to restrict old drivers' access to means of mobility.

I would argue that over a certain age, say 85, restrictions should apply as to the power - and physical size - of cars that can be driven. Small urban cars - fine. Big, powerful cars - no longer. And they should be marked accordingly - like the red 'L' plate for learner, or the green 'P' for provisional plate, some means for other road users to quickly identify an elderly driver, should be made mandatory. The sign would mean 'I'm slow but safe, please be patient'.  'V' for veteran (what do you think?) plates should also limit elderly drivers to local roads - certainly no motorway driving.

This time last year:
Defending Poland against hybrid warfare 

This time two years ago:
Another office move

This time four years ago:
PiS splits again - Solidarna Polska formed

This time five years ago:
Tesco vs. Auchan

This time eight years ago:
My father's house

Judging Civic Platform's eight years from the outside

After eight years in power, the Civic Platform (Platforma Obywatelska - PO) coalition government stands down to make way for a democratically elected government formed by Law and Justice (Prawo i Sprawiedliwość - PiS), a party that's socially conservative and economically socialist.

Campaigning on a redistributionist ticket, PiS pronounced that Poland is 'in ruins', and as premier-designate Beata Szydło put it, "you cannot feed your family on statistics".

She would say that wouldn't she. But what about those voices that have no skin in the game, no axes to grind, no party political point to make - those global institutions putting together international rankings which serve to put the world's sovereign nations into context?

These rankings are made up of many countries, judged by impartial analysts, using the same methodology. Questionable rankings are immediately noticeable. "How can Serbia/Albania/Romania be more [insert subject of ranking here] than Denmark/Ireland/Spain?" Online forums become ablaze with comments; these indexes have to hold water if they are to be globally respected, and need a long track record to become established and followed by policy-makers.

How had Poland fared over the past eight years, on PO's watch, in the context of other countries in Europe and around the world?

Let's look at the main ones, the ones that determine investment decisions. The World Bank's Doing Business. The World Economic Forum's Global Competitiveness Report. The United Nation's Human Development Reports. Transparency International's Corruption Perception Index, and OECD's PISA index of school education.

In EACH ONE we have seen Poland improve over the past eight years - and in some cases improve markedly.

Let's start with Doing Business. In the latest survey, Poland is ranked 25th in the world in terms of how easy it is to set up a company, pay taxes, get planning permission, enforce contracts etc. In 2007, when PO took office, it was 75th. In other words, Poland has overtaken 50 countries along the way in its drive to create a better environment for business. If you really want to drill down into the details, check here: www.doingbusiness.org/custom-query.

Next up - WEF's Global Competitiveness Report. In the latest report, for 2015, Poland comes 41st in the world. Twelve factors are considered, such as infrastructure, institutions, market size and labour force. (Incidentally, Poland scores best for primary education and worst for innovation.) The report for 2007 put Poland in 51st position globally, so a mere 10 countries overtaken. A better measure for large international investors than Doing Business, which is small-firm focused.

While business creates strong economies, it's not everything. Quality of life must be judged too. Health, poverty, inequality, security, mobility. The United Nations has been looking at all of its members since 1980, measuring their progress against one another. In the latest (2014) ranking, Poland came 35th in the world, with a score of 0.834 (where 1.0 is 'perfect'). In 2007-08, Poland came 37th in the world, with a score of 0.817. Slower progress, but progress nevertheless that cannot be denied.

Poland's rise up Transparency International's global Corruption Perception Index I've blogged about in the past. Although in recent years the improvements have been slower, they are consistent and noticeable. In last year's Index, Poland was ranked the 35th-least corrupt country on earth, up from 61st-least corrupt in 2007. And Poland's progress in this respect has been faster than any other post-communist country except Estonia.

Let's look at education. Every three years, the OECD conducts a survey - PISA - of the world's richer nations middle schools (in Poland the gimnazja) to look at the educational attainments of 14-15 year-olds from the point of view of mathematics, science and reading. Again Poland has done well, rising up the league table of 65 developed countries:

2012: Maths 13th;  Science 9th;  Reading 10th

2009: Maths 25th; Science 19th; Reading 15th

Worth noting that in all three areas, Poland has outperformed both the UK and US. Why is this? Strong focus on learning by rote, rather than namby-pambyism (creative drama classes and Venn diagrams). Less-able children need to be given the basic building-blocks of the 3Rs and memory-boosting repetition. Clearly, this approach works - it's how Polish schools function.

EF's English Proficiency Index, looking at how well English has been mastered by non-native speaking nations around the world, has only been going since 2011, but Poland has done impressively well over the five editions of this ranking. From 'moderate proficiency' to 'very high proficiency' in just five years is a very impressive result.

Where could Poland do better? Tax collection for one. Poland is third from last of 55 countries considered by the OECD for efficiency of their tax systems. Universities - tertiary education in Poland is not one of the country's strong points, with just three of its higher learning institutions making it into the global Top 500. Weak universities mean weak R&D, poor innovation (as the WEF points out).

Poland's new government needs to focus on turning the economy from an operational one (serving bigger economies around the world with outsourced manufacturing and services) to becoming a strategic one (devising and commercialising new technologies). In areas such as IT, life sciences, renewable energy, advanced materials and aerospace, Poland needs to stop following and start leading. This is the challenge that faces the new government.

This time last year:
Cloudless, 18C - the beauty of Polish autumn

This time two years ago:
Call 19115: Warsaw Fix-my-Street

This time four years ago:
Vapour trails at sunset

This time five years ago:
Autumnal blues

My mother - a life in documents

Sifting through my mother's documents gives me a sense of how the Poles led out of Soviet captivity by General Anders received the framework of education and military service from emigre Polish then later British institutions, thanks to which this significant group of migrants came to contribute so much to the UK's post-war economy.

My mother has no documents at all surviving from her pre-war life, birth certificate, baptism certificate, childhood photos etc. The earliest papers date back to the mid-1940s, by which her life had regained some semblance of normality. Deported on 10 February 1940 to a spetspos'yolok (labour camp) in Russia's Vologda Oblast (near a place called Punduga), the family was set to work along with other Polish deportees in chopping down trees. My mother, 12 at the time, was spared the physical work of the adults, but had to look after the family - cooking and cleaning for her parents and elder sisters. Full story of the deportation and conditions here.

After journeying to Tashkent from the lumber camp with her family following the 'amnesty' of August 1941, my mother and her middle sister Irena managed to leave the USSR along with the Polish divisions led by Anders in spring 1942. A total of 77,000 soldiers and 43,000 civilians made their way to join the British High Command in the Middle East. The boys and girls of 16 and up were educated in two schools in what was then Palestine - the boys in Szkola Junaków (Polish Young Soldiers' School) and the girls in Szkoła Młodzych Ochotniczek (SMO - in English, the Polish Young Women's Auxiliary Service School).

Below: my mother's school legitymacja, issued by the SMO in 1946, giving my mother the right to wear the school's insignia.

Below: the front and back cover of the document, depicting the schools' (SJ and SMO) insignia - a Polish eagle standing on a globe with crossed rifles and a book (with a cross on it).

Below: my mother's school Identification Card, valid from 23.9.1945 to 23.9.1946. Note her date of birth is given as 8 September 1926; she gave a false date of birth so as to be over 16, the age from which Polish children could join the British forces in the Middle East. Younger children (the few that survived the Siberian deportation) were shipped to centres in India and Africa.

Another document in the collection is my mother's matura certificate - the equivalent of A-levels, issued by the Polish Ministry of Religions and Public Enlightenment (in exile, of course), issued in 1945. My mother remained in the Middle East for two years after the war, being shipped to England in August 1947 as part of the UK's resettlement of displaced persons who had been part of the Polish Second Corps. So she enlisted in the Polish Resettlement Corps:

"I, the undersigned, undertake to enlist in the Polish Resettlement Corps, on being offered the opportunity of doing so after my arrival in the United Kingdom, on the understanding that I do not thereby in anyway prejudice my chance of being repatriated to Poland should I wish to return there.

Signed: Bortnik Maria,
Unit: PWAS Base Holding Unit ME [Middle East]
Formation: PWAS Base Holding Unit ME"

(Proforma of Undertaking to be signed by Polish personnel of Middle East Land Forces before moving from the Middle East to the United Kingdom)

Left: the cover of my mother's Army Book 64 Soldier's Service and Pay Book. She enlisted in the Auxiliary Territorial Service (Polish Resettlement Section) as Private W/3003654 Bortnik Maria, based at Witley Camp, Godalming, Surrey, from 21 August 1947 to 20 August 1949, when she was discharged (with Military Conduct 'Good'). Medical classification Grade 'A'.



During this time, she studied the Senior Commerce Course at the county Technical College, Guildford. Her end-of-term report for the year 1948-49 states in the General Remarks: "Outstandingly good work in many respects." She got 94% for Accountancy, 70% in English ("Assiduous work. A very good effort), 79% in Shorthand ("Excellent") but a mere 34% in Commercial Arithmetic ("Needs to pay more attention") - which is ironic, because this is where my mother ended up earning her salary, as a comptometer operator.

Later, my mother went on to pass Royal Society of Arts (full name: Royal Society for the Encouragement of Arts, Manufactures and Commerce London) commercial exams in English, Shorthand ("50 w.p.m"), Bookkeeping and Typewriting.

In March 1952, she received a certificate that "Miss Bortnik has completed a Course of Instruction in the use of the "SUMLOCK" all-British Calculating Machine at the Sumlock School for Operators at 102/8 Clerkenwell Road, London E.C.1."

Below: my mother's National Registration Identity Card, issued at Witley Camp in November 1947. Each change of address was noted; two private lodgings in Guildford, then two addresses in south-west London (Roland Gardens SW7 and Coleherne Road, SW10).

"1. Always carry your Identity Card. You must produce it on demand by a Police Officer in uniform or member of H.M. Armed Forces in uniform.

2. You are responsible for this Card, and must not part with it to any other person. You must report at once to the local Registration Office if it is lost, destroyed, damaged or defaced."

How strange this official tone sounds today. Not only does the individual have a number (DNN 7391288), but the ID card has a number (GT 492391). A bit like Poland today, then.

Another interesting document is my mother's first National Insurance contribution record, for the year 1950-51. Issued by the Ministry of National Insurance, it shows 51 weeks covered by Class 1 contributions, and one week not covered.

My mother paid in to National Insurance from 1950 to 1986 with a ten-year gap for motherhood; she lived in retirement for 29 years. [Certainly suggesting, if more proof be needed, that retirement age needs to go up if society is to pay its way.]

On the 28th day of June, 1952, my parents married, at the Chapel of the Assumption Convent, Kensington Square, in the District of KENSINGTON, Royal Borough of Kensington (Metropolitan Borough). My father lived on Sinclair Road, W14 at the time. Most of their friends also lived in what today are exceedingly posh parts of London. But then, a decade on from the Blitz, most Poles dreamed of leafier suburbs. And so, in 1955, my parents moved to Croft Gardens, Hanwell W7, the setting for my Grey Jumper'd Childhood.

Chronologically, the final document is my mother's Certificate of Naturalisation. On the 5th day of January 1957, my mother swore by Almighty God that she "will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth the Second, Her Heirs and Successors, according to law." I was born nine months later.

And my mother was, to the end a monarchist, with much to be grateful for. The British state had given her security, stability, excellent, free healthcare, educated her sons (for free, but that was a long time ago), a generous pension.

Perusing these mementoes from the 1940s and 1950s, I can see a world that has greatly changed, in organisation, in tone, in look and feel. Perhaps the second half of the 1960s saw the fastest change in this respect. Technology is the main driver of change today, but the mid- to late 1960s saw social change happen at a pace far quicker than at any time in the history of mankind.

But technology too - in  pre-war Horodziec, the village in eastern Poland in which my mother grew up, there was only one car, a Model A Ford; there was no mains electricity in her house; my grandfather had to go, by horse and cart, to the nearest larger town, Antonówka, to charge the battery he used to power the wireless that he listened to. Reflections upon a life interrupted by turmoil; we can only ever expect change.

This time two years ago:
Golden autumn gives way to dismal grey autumn

This time three years ago:
Hopes fade for S7 to relieve Puławska

This time four years ago:
New office - first impressions (ul. Nowogrodzka)

This time five years ago:
The topography of dreams

This time six years ago:
A regular interchange

Foggy evening in London town

Flying into the UK on Sunday afternoon, I noticed the banks of fog rolling in off the English Channel, bringing to mind that old headline from the Times - "Heavy fog in Channel - continent cut off". I arrived at Luton without a hitch, ahead of time, courtesy of WizzAir, picked up a hire car (natty Tychy-built Fiat 500, good service from Avis) and drove to London. By the time I arrived in Ealing, it was cloaked in thick fog.

Below: Cleveland Road, West Ealing. A 297 bus pulls away from the stop outside Cleveland Park. Note the different colour temperature of the street lighting - white on Cleveland Road, old-style amber on the side roads running into it.

Below: the same bus stop in November, 47 years earlier. The same park, the same railings. Photo from Ealing, Hanwell & Greenford by Richard Essen.

Below: further along Cleveland Road, looking towards the roundabout and the junction with Kent Gardens, Victoria Road and Castlebar Hill. A 297 bus on its way from Ealing Broadway heads towards Willesden. Note how well marked the pedestrian crossing is - zebra with zig-zag road markings, spotlighting and Belisha beacons. Little surprise then that the number of pedestrian fatalities on British pedestrian crossings is 50 (yes, five-zero) times lower than on Polish pedestrian crossings.

The following day, the fog abated somewhat, lingering here and there as a light mist. Below: twilight on the River Brent in Pitshanger Park.

Just for the record, the Met Office reported the highest ever temperature ever recorded in the UK in November, a hot 22.4C in mid-Wales (on Sunday 1st and then again exceeding 22C on Monday 2nd).

This time last year:
Kraków - Europe's top short-break destination

This time three years ago:
Rzeczpospolita publishes infamous 'trotyl' Smolensk story

This time four years ago:
Wilanowska - south Warsaw transport hub

This time six years ago:
Powiśle on a cold, clear autumn morning

This time seven years ago:
Okęcie "to remain Warsaw's only airport"

This time eight years ago:
Searching for autumnal perfection

On the death of my mother

How things can change in an instant. My mother, Maria Dembinska, nee Bortnik, died last night aged 88. She fainted, knocking her head on a radiator as she fell. My father summoned an ambulance, which arrived in less than four minutes. Six paramedics could not revive her on the spot, so she was taken to Ealing Hospital, and pronounced dead just before midnight on Saturday, 31 October.

In excellent mental shape to the end, and though frail, she was still walking - with the aid of a walking stick - albeit only short distances in recent years.

Growing up in Horodziec, a village in what was then eastern Poland - the Kresy, borderlands, my mother had a very pleasant childhood by all accounts. Her father was the forestry manager for a magnate of Belgian origin, Kamil de Pourbaix. When the war broke out, and the Soviet Union invaded and annexed eastern Poland, everything changed. She was deported along with her parents and two sisters to a labour camp north of Leningrad, a place called Punduga in the Vologda oblast. Their exile ended with the amnesty of 1941, when Polish prisoners were allowed out of their camps to form an army. My mother and her middle sister made it out with General Władysław Anders to the Middle East; after the war ended, my mother found herself in Britain, where she married, had two boys, and led a comparatively uneventful life to the end of her days.

Hard work was my mother's forte. She worked as a comptometer operator for many years, before having us, she worked at the head office of Rootes Group at Halkyn House, Halkyn St, London; afterwards as a temp for a specialist agency called Sumlock (including a memorable stint at Levi's in Acton, ensuring I had a good supply of jeans as a teenager), and finally at the head office of Curry's before it merged with Dixons. Juggling sales figures - in the days of pounds, shillings and pence, before the era of spreadsheets and automation, she got on with it.

First heart attack in 1986. A second in 1995, and a third in 2011. It's amazing she lived to the age of 88. If a lesson can be learned, it's "don't eat cake and biscuits, and exercise".

If housework was exercise, however, my mother did plenty of it. And because of her claustrophobia (a result of being transported around the USSR in locked cattle trucks), she didn't take public transport after London's buses lost their open rear platforms - she walked everywhere. Our shirts were always washed (by hand - no washing machine until the 1990s) and ironed, there was always hot food on the table and the house was always clean - had my mother not spent her last day washing and ironing the curtains ahead of a planned bridge party, she might not have fainted.

Very sudden it all was. I have flown to London to be with my father, 92, and I'll remain here for at least two weeks until everything is sorted out. In the meantime, I shall continue to post on my blog and on Twitter.

Et respice finem. Best piece of wisdom my mother passed to me: Quidquid agis, prudenter agas et respice finem - "Whatever you do, do it wisely and consider the end result/ the outcome".

This time last year:
Marek Raczkowski on All Saints' Day

This time two years ago:
Disclosure of UFOs - are we ready?

This time three years ago:
Jeziorki pond development

This time four years ago:
Captain Wrona's perfect gear-up landing

This time six years ago:
Where's the daylight gone?

This time eight years ago:
All Saints' Day - Wszystkich Świętych