I start a new relationship and almost immediately start coming down with urinary tract infections (UTIs). For those of you unaware, these can be incredibly painful and often make you feel like you can’t get off the loo, so you want them treated quickly and avoid them as much as possible.

It becomes apparent over the next few months that this is not a one-off. It’s a long-distance relationship, and my partner and I work out that if we are apart for more than a month, as soon as we have sex, I get a UTI. We improve our hygiene and do what we can, but they keep occurring at a faster rate and getting more serious.

I go to my general practitioner every time, but as I get an infection every few months, to them it doesn’t look like a problem. (“Recurring” is classed at roughly more than three in six months, but as my partner and I normally meet up every three to six months, I only get one or two in that timeframe.) I keep trying to explain the link between my long-distance relationship, my boyfriend arriving, and getting infections. They give me a half-hearted response and send me on my way. This cycle repeats for four years.

When I start peeing blood, I’ve had enough. This time when I go for the antibiotics (in quite bad pain), I sit there with a chart explaining the flights and the infections. I talk through everything we’ve been doing to avoid UTIs.

Doctor: “Some women are just prone to UTIs, unfortunately.”

Me: “In the three serious relationships I’ve had, this is the only one where this problem has occurred; I have never needed treatment for a UTI before this. There is something about my boyfriend I don’t seem to get immunity from, or if I do, I quickly lose it.” *Starting to cry* “Please. I am begging you for anything you can do. I can’t go through this for the rest of my life, risking a kidney infection each time this happens. The problem is only likely to get worse when we finally get together full-time; I might be able to keep any immunity gained, but it’s not a given it will happen.”

The doctor finally put two and two together with the colour-coded chart my partner and I had made, and luckily, we’d been able to spend more time together, so the last three infections made this a recurring problem.

The doctor put me on an E. coli vaccine, which takes around nine months to complete. I’m only on month three, but since my boyfriend and I have moved in together (and this is after a gap, so we would expect an infection to occur) there have been no new infections.

Thank God a doctor finally listened to me and, while I may have bullied her into accepting that there was a problem, she finally accepted that there was one.

This is another story about my colleague, Peter, the special man who works for the Swiss police. I wrote this story.

We have learned more about Peter. Peter is very intelligent and knows all of our procedures, even if they have nothing to do with his job. He lives alone and can drive. He is still mostly non-verbal and strongly prefers sign language. A police officer at another station has volunteered to translate when it is complex.

Peter is motivated by a strong sense of duty, even if something isn’t in his job description. This explains his actions in this story. When the post arrives, Peter greets the postman (in English, of course), sorts the post for each department, and leaves it for the departments to collect. Normally, they collect it.  

Peter: “Hallo, Professor Post! Happy Thursday!”

Postman: *In English* “Hello, Peter! Here is the post.”

A certain corporal works in a team responsible for a small nearby town— shoplifting, graffiti, and so on. This corporal approaches me.

Corporal: “Peter was rude. He marched into my office, shouted, ‘You take post!’, slammed it on my desk, and walked off.”

Me: “That’s unusual. Let me know if it happens again.”

The next day, the same thing happens. The next week, several lieutenants have seen Peter get frustrated about the mail for [Small Town Team] — no other mail, just that team’s. He has been pestering them at every chance.

Lieutenant: “Is there something wrong here?”

Me: “Maybe. I will find out.”

I email Peter in German.

Me: “Hey, Peter. How is it going with the post for [Small Town Team]?”

He replies in English.

Peter: “Bad. Complicated. [Officer] helps.”

Me: “What do you mean?”

My phone rings later.

Officer: “Hi, I am [Officer]. I speak German Sign Language, and Peter has asked me to translate from German Sign Language to German.”

Me: “Right… Hey, Peter, did you borrow a police officer who knows sign language?”

Peter: “Ja!”

Me: “Okay, Peter… I don’t know where you found them, but return them to the library. Thank you, [Officer]. I am listening.”

Officer: “The lieutenant responsible for [Small Town] used to check his post every day. Then, he went off work because his mother died. After that, the post for [Small Town] wasn’t collected.”

Me: “But Peter only sorts the mail. Why is this still his problem?”

Officer: “Because we serve the Swiss people and nobody else has dealt with it.”

Me: “People, huh? There are corporals in that team working without their lieutenant.”

Officer: “Peter can see that the post for [Small Town] has not been collected. That means that nobody else is dealing with this. A resident of [Small Town] has been charged with assault and must appear in court on [date]. A police officer needs to deliver this summons to their apartment. What if we don’t do this?”

Me: “…the defendant won’t be in court, and the judge will want to know why? From us?”

Officer: “Yes. We will have to explain to the judge why we did not inform the defendant that he had to appear in court. We had the summons, but we did nothing about it. That’s our problem, and Peter knows that.”

Me: “I knew he was dedicated, but…”

Officer: “Basically, he harassed senior police officers until he saw somebody deal with it. He doesn’t care whether it is in his job description. Peter won’t take the risk that they won’t assault somebody else or lose their right to be informed of the charges. Contact me anytime.”

Those with managerial responsibility were reminded to arrange cover for posts. We now ask Peter whenever he gets annoyed about the post. Peter says he knows the situation with [Suspect], but he says he isn’t allowed to tell us.

Related:
No Accident K’Boom Explode On His Watch!

As a Scotsman living in Switzerland, I often get asked “The Question” about my kilt — the answer to which, of course, is, “Mind your own d*** business.” However, sometimes people go a little further than simply asking. Over the years, I have had a number of women and men (usually drunk) try to lift up my kilt to verify for themselves. Usually, I am polite and gentle with them whilst steering them away. Usually.

This case was particularly egregious. I was attending a major concert with my son, and naturally, we were both kilted. While he was off getting some drinks, a very drunk woman in her sixties came up to me and tried the usual moves. I gently eased her away and she staggered off.  

Then, my son arrived back with some beers. The woman came back, this time wielding a phone. My son thought she was asking to take a picture with him. (We often get that, and it’s always a pleasure to take a snap with someone.)

But no, she was asking to take a picture UP HIS KILT! I saw her swoop down, and that was enough; Papa Bear saw red.

I stepped in and walked her backward from him, yelling:

Me: “NO! NO! YOU DO NOT DO THAT! GO AWAY! GO AWAY NOW! GO AWAY AND SIT DOWN!”

Those were my actual words; I did not swear at her despite the provocation.

She had a look on her face that showed she had no idea that she was doing anything wrong, yet if I had tried to lift up her skirt or take a photograph in the same manner, I would (rightly) have been treated as a criminal.

Scotsmen are people; treat us with respect, folks.

I’m baking in the evening and realise that I just don’t have enough of one ingredient. I check the time and realise I have ten minutes before the supermarket five minutes away closes. I know the aisle where the product is, so I think I can dash down, quickly look down the aisle, and pay before the shop closes.

I get there with five minutes to go, and I’m not surprised that there are signs that the place is closing. I go down two flights to where the food section is and get to the aisle. I spot the product I am looking for, but before I can grab it, an employee appears and starts speaking to me in German.

Me: “Entschuldigung, mein Deutsch ist nicht so gut. Sprechen Sie Englisch?” *Sorry, my German is not so good. Do you speak English?*

Employee: “We are closing. You need to leave.”

Me: “Yes, I know. I just came to get this.”

I grab the thing I need.

Employee: “You need to go; we are closing.”

Me: “Yes, I’m just heading to the self-checkout to get this.”

I try to walk around him.

Employee: “You need to go; we are closing.”

I check the time; I still have two minutes until the place closes.

Me: “Yes, I know. I am trying to leave. I just want to buy this first.”

I managed to walk around him. By that point, another employee was watching me. Both employees followed me to the self-checkout and watched me check out as if I were about to turn around and run to go and find another 500 items. I bought my thing and left.

I checked the time as I walked out and the grill shut behind me. It was closing time on the dot. I know the Swiss are punctual, but that felt like a joke. I never went to that shop within half an hour of closing again.

I was invited to go visit a friend and her family, but I got a bug the week before. I recovered enough to go but was still not at 100%. My friend’s daughter had also been under the weather, so my friend and I went to the local pharmacy to get some medicine. I’m around ten years younger than my friend, but I also have a baby face.

Friend: “Do you have any decongestants? I need one for my daughter.”

Pharmacist: “Yes, we have this one. How old is your daughter? It’s safe for kids six years and older.”

Friend: “She is seven, so that should be fine.”

Me: “I also need one. Can you grab one for me?”

Pharmacist: *Jokingly* “Sure. Just to check, how old are you?”

Me: “Twenty-eight.”

I had a friendly laugh as I am used to being age-checked for beer (even now), but the poor pharmacist got quite flustered. I’m not sure how old she thought I was, but I think it was a bit younger than I am. I made sure to tell her everything was fine and that it was quite the compliment to be age-checked in my late twenties.

My friend teased me on the walk back to the flat.

Friend: “Are you sure you should be allowed out by yourself?”

Related:
The Curse Of The Babyface, Part 3
The Curse Of The Babyface, Part 2
The Curse Of The Babyface