The blade shimmered before savagely flashing downwards. I was decapitated.

Actually, I was across the street, but the effect of seeing some wizened old farmer nonchalantly cutting his grass with an honest-to-goodness scythe was extreme. Especially when juxtaposed with a passing speeding silver Mercedes, the driver busily conversing on a cell-phone.

Now don't get me wrong. Not everyone in Poland trims their lawn with an instrument of death, but it is certainly not unusual to see country and towns people walking down the side of a busy street, their scimitar-on-a-stick bouncing over one shoulder.

I thought a cheery and polite greeting in Polish might be in order, in case the little brown nut of a man, his old woolen vest unravelling alarmingly and making me itch to whip out a couple of knitting needles, had grown tired of my gaping mouth and protruding eyes. I managed a donkey-like but phonetically correct: JIN DOH-BRAY! (rolling the rrrrrrrrs courageously), yet sadly admit to only startling the apparently nearly deaf fellow, which is not at all the thing to do of course when he's in the follow-through swing stage with his pre-guillotine slicing instrument.

Attempting an apology for any wounds he might have sustained, I tried the Polish equivalent of "excuse me", but since the word repeats several "shpshpsh"s in a row, my valiant efforts at pronunciation (resulting in copious shots of saliva generally in the direction of the incredulous little man) might have actually made matters worse.

Decapitation now seemed a real possibility, but thanks to the passing of a slow-moving and roaring tractor (accompanied by the usual pack of shrieking and hysterically barking dogs, dodging all around the machine, missing tires by hair-breadths), I made my slithering get-away.