Angol moves out.

Moving to a new home is always disorientating. It's taken me four days to find a good place for the tea that I don’t instantly forget. There are pleasures as well. After moving to a new place it is compulsory to go to your local superstore and buy a cartload of essential household stuff that you mysteriously didn’t need before you moved. I bought myself a fire extinguisher, which I'm very excited about because I've never had one before. I'm itching to use it. Hopefully we will have a small, non-life threatening fire sometime between now and the end of next November when the use-by date expires. I assume that if you use a fire extinguisher after the use-by date, it acts as a flamethrower. Deciding where to put the fire extinguisher took up much of my day. I want it near things that might catch fire, but not near enough that the extinguisher itself might be on fire when I need it. I concluded that the centre of the living room was the most sensible location, as well as ensuring that it is highly visible to guests so they can admire it. My wife's objections were illogical, but strongly worded.

In Poland, unlike in England, most city-dwellers live in communal buildings. Some of them are large and swanky and some of them are small and decrepit, but they are all communal. This means there are two critical rites of passage you always experience when moving to a new building in Poland: learning how the main communal door works and finding out where the rubbish goes. These may sound simple, but they can be surprisingly stressful and time consuming.

Getting out of a building should, theoretically, be simple. In fact it often involves locating a switch that electronically unlocks the door via the domofon system. The positioning and design of these switches is not standard. They look identical to a lot of light switches and doorbells and are rarely right next to the door, which means you get to spend an amusing few minutes wandering around the entrance area ringing people's doorbells and switching lights on and off like a fool.

Getting back into the building is even harder. Sometimes you need a key or, more specifically, you need a key other than the one you happen to be trying at that moment. And, by the way, why is there is always one key with your new set that doesn’t seem to fit anywhere. It gives me sleepless nights. Sometimes you need to enter a code on a keypad, sometimes you need to enter the number of your flat and then a code on the keypad and sometimes you need to whistle the Polish national anthem backwards while standing on one leg.

In my new building there is an additional complication to the entrance procedure in the shape of a man in a uniform who sits near the door. I don't know what his job is, other than sitting near a door reading a newspaper. He's not at a desk, so he's not a concierge, and he's not always there, so he's not a security guard or a doorman. His purpose and motives remain mysterious to me. When he is in his little room, reading his newspaper with one eye on the door, I never know if I should say 'hello' or not. The one time I needed him, so I could ask where the rubbish goes, he wasn't there. It would have been enormously helpful. This is a big building with mysterious doors and staircases everywhere, any one of which might have lead to the fabled chamber of rubbish. I spent half an hour wandering around in basements and up and down corridors full of ducts until I found it—behind a locked steel door right at the back of the building. At least I know what that mysterious fourth key is for now.