I'm taking a short break!

... but will be back in the new year in all my glory. Somehow, I find the days when Hairy doesn't come to the door rather uninspiring. I guess there's a chance he'll call tomorrow, as I am still waiting for the 4 packs of vegetarian suet my mother kindly sent me from Blighty. Or it is stuck at customs.

Anyway, I wish everyone a wonderful and scintillating new year's eve. Let off a rocket, wave a sparkler, down a magnum, whatever floats your boat. x

The piste less travelled

Luckily for us beginner ski people, we have a very satisfactory network of cross-country pistes just yards away from our back door. Not living in the ski capital of Garmisch, the public here are slightly more forgiving and the pistes are indeed much less frequented. This is what we found out today, when we parked Hedda and Titus on a nice little hill overlooking the piste, (armed of course with their new, superfast sledges), and tried our luck without a teacher to tell us what to do. There were only two other skiers - one, a girl of about 12, was so fast that I can't even remember what she looked like as she whizzed past. The other, who seemed to be her friend, spent so long attaching her skis to her shoes that even I had done about 5 lengths before she managed to get to her feet. Thus, all in all, we felt quite confident to ski around, fall over, and generally make complete idiots of ourselves. By the end, though, we were both skiing quite confidently and had to be forced onto dry land by our freezing children.

I will try not to get boring about this new passion of ours. I can see that CG and I will be spending hours out there, perfecting our technique, or should I say learning it in the first place. Feel free, therefore, to remind me if I start blurbing on about it too much.

How NOT to make friends in Garmisch

I'll tell you how. You dress up in winter clothes, put on strange shoes and skis, and lurch over to the cross-country piste to have your first lesson. You are accompanied by an accomplished teacher, who sets you all manner of tasks in order to make you acquire the art of skating, which is a bit like inlining, but on skis. This is all fine, but the piste is overcrowded and more confident skiers come from behind and in front and seem to have forgotten what it is like to be a beginner. I've never been sworn at so much in my life! The disadvantage, compared with downhill skiing, is that traffic goes both ways, rather than one way, i.e. down the hill.

We are off this afternoon to try out a less-frequented piste, in the hope that we won't annoy too many people, and that we might cement our skills from yesterday. Gaia is already worried that we might be spotted by people from the village, but we feel secure in the knowledge that we are already regarded as completely loopy, or plem plem, as the Germans so neatly put it. So it actually doesn't matter what we do any more.

Another illusion shattered

Titus was most disappointed to discover that Boxing Day, as we Brits like to call 26th December, has absolutely nothing to do with the sport of boxing. Not only that, but opinion still seems divided regarding the origin of the term and therefore CG and I were unable to offer a definitive answer. If there is one thing Titus hates, it is vague and indeterminate explanations for things.

One of his favourite questions is when he, and other assorted people dear to his heart, will die. My standard reply is always, oh, a very, very, long time from now. But I have to be careful, because often he'll then leap in with, Mummy, was I born a long time ago? I mean, 6 years is quite a long time, isn't it? Well, yes.... So I could die in 6 years? No, of course not! (Indignantly reassuring). I try hard to be honest with my children. But I do feel that with such questions, it pays to lie just a little. The truth is that nothing in life is certain apart from birth and death. We simply do not know. And it can happen at any time. However, I don't want my kids spending their lives in terror, waiting for the axe to fall. So it is good to have distraction tactics, a little strategic lying, and a swift change of subject to hand at all times.

On a brighter note: tomorrow, CG and I are having our first cross-country skiing lesson. We have borrowed the equipment from the army. Am slightly nervous about it, having seen that the skis are actually taller than I am.

Cat sick

What's that on the floor under the Christmas tree, asked CG yesterday evening, reaching down to pick it up. And then retracting his hand rather hurriedly. For there, amongst the presents waiting to be unwrapped this morning, was a little pile of cat sick. Thanks Max!

It is Christmas Day, the presents are now all unwrapped and are being enjoyed, Gaia has closeted herself away in her room to commune with her laptop, Hedda is starting her first journal and marking it PRIVATE, Titus is building a tractor park in the living room. Outside, the snow just won't stop and the neighbours are shovelling away to their heart's content, casting curious glances at us (which we are actually used to by now) and our strange British habit of celebrating on 25th December. CG and I are about to launch a pre-emptive attack on the massive lunchtime calorie onslaught by venturing out for a run. Merry Christmas, dear blog-readers! xxxxxxx

Christmas is here once again...

... and to mark the occasion, CG took Hedda and Titus off to the local church to masquerade as Catholics for half an hour. All went swimmingly apparently, up until the end of the service when they were filing out, and Titus, confused at there having been no collection, tried to put his 50 cent coin in the holy water by the door. CG stopped him just in time (it would have been dreadful to contaminate it). I had opted not to go, having had my fill of nativity plays this week. Instead I went for a fun run in a blizzard, choosing to avoid the village in case anyone should see me and think me sacrilegious. I saw nothing and nobody, got thoroughly soaked and freezing cold, but it was fun doing my high knee running all by myself in the whirling snowflakes.

Föhn comes before a snowfall

The Föhn (remember the hairdryer??) weather has induced a big thaw here in Bovinia, but we've been assured by all the media available to us that we will get a white Christmas. If not I'm going to ask for my money back. What's the point of living somewhere like this if you can't awake to a snowscape on Christmas morn???

Meanwhile excitement levels are mounting here in our household. Even Max is behaving a bit strangely (even more than normal). This could, however, be due to the fact that last night, purely for my own amusement, I let one of his 'friends' into the living room where Max, enthroned on the red sofa, recoiled in horror and promptly hid. Phyllis, the black cat from next door, disappeared under the Christmas tree and I had to drag him out (I was worried he would pee on CG's presents, which are already wrapped and on display, just to show how amazingly organised I am this year).

Gaia, Hedda and Titus are at school/kindergarten for a token two hours this morning, so CG and I are off for one of our romantic dates to Aldi. Always a treat.

The perfect Christmas tree bird

Yesterday saw me in Garmisch (again), firstly for a jolly appointment at the Arbeitsamt, which was so nondescript there is nothing I want to or can say about it, and secondly on a mission to find the right ornament for the top of our rather misshapen Christmas tree. The mission was nobody's but mine, i.e. I had challenged myself. For some reason, I had decided that we had to have a bird. Actually I was looking for a snowy owl, but I knew the chances of finding one were pretty slim if not nonexistent.

There is only one place around here where you look for kitschy Christmas stuff - the renowned Käthe Wohlfahrt, a chain of festive emporia with plump, bedirndled assistants and soporific carols playing all year round. So there I went. I was idling over various sparkly avian objects, for once hoping that the lady in charge (who sounded dreadfully ill and for all I know had bird flu) would ask me if I needed any help. Usually I hate this question and have my prickly defences up as soon as I enter a shop. Of course, she ignored me, so busy was she with her kleenex and her throat-clearing, and I was forced to ask for her assistance. I said that I was looking for a bird for the top of my Christmas tree. She gave me one of those looks that only Germans give me when presented with a strange, foreign request, like the time when I asked for duck breast in summer or for suet at any time of year. Was I really sure, she wanted to know. I nodded in affirmation. Did my tree have an overall bird theme? No, I said, but there were a number of birds amongst the other ornaments. And what kind of birds would they be? Well, no particular breed, actually, I said. She looked a bit flummoxed. Then inspiration struck and she dug out the two largest birds in the shop. I wasn't sure either would be right but it was too late. I had fallen into her trap. Why didn't I take both and try them out? Twenty euros and ten minutes later and I was the proud owner of a swan and a peacock. (The ten minutes I spent waiting for them to be meticulously wrapped by another lady with trembling fingers and apparently no concept of urgency.)

Once home I tried them out and asked for Titus' opinion. He liked the peacock, but agreed that the swan, with its more upright stance, was more suitable. Sorted. But to appease him, and because he felt sorry for it, I had to stick the silly peacock halfway down the tree, where it looks completely incongruous amongst the other non-breed birds and wooden angels.

Oh well, it's only a tree. Now I am off to Titus' nativity play, in which he is starring as a shepherd. The highlight, however, will surely be the 'Gemütliches Würstlessen' (cosy sausage eating) afterwards (bring your own plate, knife and cup). I have already primed T for a sharp exit.

Hairy, Shavey and Lady

Those are our three trusty post-people here in Bovinia. You may remember Hairy from the beginning of this blog. Well, I can assure you that he is still going strong, and his beard is as matted and badger-back grey as ever. He is at our door nearly every day at the moment, such is the volume of parcels we are receiving from kind relatives and various online shopping portals. Each time I open the door to him, he looks increasingly embarrassed, as if he hardly dares to hand over yet another parcel. For my part, I am embarrassed that we are getting so many! (Not that I am complaining, folks!)

Shavey, aptly named by Titus for his skinhead, is, in contrast to Hairy, rather surly and seems to resent his job. This may be because we only see him when Hairy is indisposed, which probably means he has to do overtime (but don't they get paid for that?). He never smiles and obviously has never heard of pleasant banter, or any kind of banter, in fact. So we don't mind if we don't see him for weeks on end.

Lady (also named by Titus, showing a distinct lack of imagination in this case) is, would you believe, a lady, and that is really all I can say about her. She is not surly or unpleasant, but always in such a hurry that you hardly see her for dust, or snow, or whatever. Nobody can wheelspin and make screeching tyre noises like she can in that yellow van. She is probably a frustrated would-be formula one driver. No doubt we will find out more about her in due course. I'll be sure to update you.

I finally got him!!!!!

For the last eleven years or so, I've been waiting for my chance to 'get' CG. Having always been fond of practical jokes (it must be in my jeans), I like to try a few old favourites every now and again - you know, jumping out on someone from behind a door, or hiding one of their possessions, or .... the list goes on. Well, up until a couple of days ago, CG was always the most unsatisfactory target. Many a time I've lurked in a dark hallway only for him to say, what are you doing there - shall I put the light on? Or, is there any reason why you put my slippers in the microwave? Awful. I had more or less given up. BUT - the other evening, he had been away in Berlin, as I told you. We were chatting away about his trip and he popped out to go to the bathroom. I seized my chance and hid under the dining table. When he came back in, I watched in glee as he ummed and aahhed and sniffed and wondered where I'd got to. Best of all, he even spoke to Max (I thought he only did that when he knew I was listening). I reached out and grabbed his knee and - fantastic - he leapt into the air with fright. Cue hysterical giggling from me and a victory squeal. Finally! I'd caught him out. With quite bad grace, actually, he stomped out of the room, but I found him chuckling to himself in the study (he stopped when I came in). I've since been on red alert as, knowing him as I do, he'll been keen to exact revenge. I'll let you know when he does.

It's snow boring here

Oh dear, another negative blog from the reluctant housewife. Actually she isn't feeling that negative - but it is true to say that the snow is rather getting us all down. And it isn't even officially winter yet!!!

Have spent the morning doing one of my least favourite jobs - cleaning my children's rooms. This is what I found in Hedda's bin:

- 7 mouldy conkers

- a pair of Barbie knickers

- 25+ spat out bits of chewing gum, assorted colours

- 3 half-eaten sandwiches

- about half a rainforest of drawing paper

- a black pen leaking ink over the rest of contents

- 2 letters from school to parents (never seen by said parents)

I couldn't face Gaia's. Am going to make her do it herself.

The blizzards continue in Bovinia. Hope CG makes it back from Berlin, where he's been hobnobbing with the Chancellor, Angie.

Drab Day

Gaia caught up with Titus and me on our sledgy way home from kindergarten today. She eyed my morose trudging through icy slush and asked me whether I was having a drab day. Talk about hitting the nail on the head. Yes, apart from lots of snow-shovelling, 4 loads of washing and a trip to the supermarket, nothing much has happened in Bovinia, at least not that I am aware of. I did order a turkey (of sorts) at the scary butcher's counter, and I managed to find some crackers online. And some Mr Kipling apple pies. Call me sad, but there is no way I am going to make Christmas pudding for a bunch of people who I know for a fact won't touch it with a bargepole. Even though it's traditional and all.

The high point was a run this morning, sometimes in snow so deep that I couldn't do my high knees-up jumping thing I've had to develop lately. It was more like wading. Surely that does something for the glutes.

Feedback

You know what - I actually had fun in the wood this morning. It's always like that, isn't it? When you are dreading something, it normally turns out better than you think. I travelled back in time 25 years as I romped and jumped in a foot of fresh snow and hid behind tree trunks from eagle-eyed kids. The kindergarten teacher was nearly fun to chat with. I mean that she is nice, but it was still a bit stilted. A lot of that, though, can be attributed to my perfectionist approach to speaking foreign languages. I hate making mistakes; therefore, the more time I get to plan my sentences, the more time I take. So the pauses in an already slow-moving conversation get longer and longer, until I am practically delivering a monologue by the time I next open my mouth. (I hope you can understand this. I am struggling to, and I wrote it!)

Sunday night at the Palladium

Well, not really. But it is Sunday night. I'm exhausted after a weekend of hosting wonderful guests from London. Not only were they fun for us adults to have around; they gave Gaia, Hedda and Titus lots of attention too. T was so upset when they left that he cried for half an hour.

He perked up when I reminded him that tomorrow is 'Waldtag'. In essence, this means that his little kindergarten group tramp off to a local wood for a couple of hours to romp around and get really messy, dirty and wet. Each time they do this, one lucky mother gets the chance to go along for the ride, and guess whose turn it is tomorrow? Yep - they collared me last week and I couldn't think of a good excuse quickly enough. T is delighted, which is the sole reason for me half looking forward to going. He has already assured me that I don't have to do much - "you're just there to chat to the teacher Mummy" - cool, so I get to practise my German, too. By this time tomorrow I will be a better person. I'll have done my good deed, and won't have to go again until March 2011 at the earliest!

Pointless ploughing

You know it is the law here in this good country that driveways and pavements are kept clear of snow. I have been hiding in the house this morning, because the neighbours - that is to say the ones who seemingly have nothing better to do - are out there having a snow shovelling contest. Not against each other, as you may think, but against the snow itself, which is coming down by the ton, rendering any ploughed surface virgin white again after a few minutes. I know - I know - I should be out there too, at least to keep the level manageable, otherwise I'll have to dig myself out of the door later when I go to fetch Titus from kindergarten. But I just can't face it. It is gross to tell you this, but I have to share it with someone - Max the cat has got the runs and has just emptied his bowels onto three different carpets. I nearly vomited on the spot. Having cleaned it all up, and gone back to stuffing aubergines (with a filling that sadly resembles Max's emissions; not sure I'll actually be able to eat it later) I am resolutely staying in until I absolutely have to brave the elements. Max is in disgrace and is sitting, plaintively miaowing, on the patio. None of his cat friends appear to be around. I'll think about letting him in again later. UGH! And this is after we installed a luxury cat toilet for him in the utility room.

Temptation and Christmas

'Twas ever thus. You go shopping with something particular in mind, and you don't find it. But when you are not looking for anything in particular, you always find that certain garment that you just have to have. Substitute every 'you' for 'I' and that is what happened to me this morning.

I was ostensibly, no, actually really, trying to find Christmas presents. I had taken myself off to Garmisch, which is a veritable metropolis compared to Bovinia. I even felt nervous as I walked along the main street and found myself surrounded by people. That is how much of a country bumpkin I am. The quest for purchases started well though - I was striding along purposefully, heading for a bookshop to find something for my pa. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I registered 'Esprit'. Before I knew it, my feet were walking into the store and I was holding a pair of jeans in my hand. I was on clothes-shopping autopilot - find the right size, hold up the garment against myself, touch the fabric, smell the fabric (weird, I know, but I always do it), turn it this and that way, put it over my arm to be tried on. Proceed to next rack, and oh look, there's something else I should try on, just to see how it looks. Fast forward twenty minutes and I was on my way again, back on the straight and narrow, with a brand new pair of jeans in a red bag. I told myself that they would probably look worse at home and that I'd most likely return them.*

In my defence I'd say that this little extravagance was a blessing in disguise. I was now free to concentrate entirely on the loved ones for whom I was buying. Temptation had been succumbed to and firmly put aside for another day. I bought nothing more for me, although a present meant for my mother may or may not actually make it to her house for Christmas. I tried it on when I got home and took an immediate fancy to it. What to do? She might not even like it... and she'd be none the wiser if I kept it and sent her something else (except she reads this blog, but I'll get round that one). Hmm.

Despite all this, I can now tick off most of my list and start thinking about my pet-hate, buying wrapping paper and worse still wrapping up presents. But by the way, did I tell you I am looking forward to Christmas after all? My scrooge-itis has worn off and I am feeling most festive this week. I even went out yesterday and bought the children an artificial Christmas tree for their living room, as it is such a torture every year waiting for CG to decide that the time is right to (a) buy (b) put up and (c) decorate our Nordmann pine, or whatever they are called. I know they aren't classy, but aren't artificial trees better for the environment? Something to be pondered upon, but not till after January 6th, 2011, when I am busy removing pine needles from every inch of the ground floor. Because hell will freeze over before my husband allows an artificial tree into his Christmas parlour.

*They look great and there's no way I'm returning these babies.

Date Night

For most people, this means a husband and wife going out on a 'date' in an attempt to recapture some of the excitement of their early days together. It is an oft-recommended remedy for marital boredom; some might say, also, a way of promoting and maintaining monogamy. All very laudible, but the very expression makes me reach for the motion sickness bag. However, yesterday evening, CG and I realised we were having one without even knowing. Yes, our 'date night' involved lying in bed watching trashy TV and scoffing ... dates. (Tunisian.) We were chomping away when I suddenly realised what we were doing. Such fun it was, and so delighted were we to be actually doing something healthy to 'keep our marriage alive'. (Apart from the obvious.) If you are married and things are getting a bit jaded, and perhaps on top of that you are feeling the pinch, why don't you give it a try? I suggest the dates with stones, as you can then incorporate a spitting the stone into a saucer contest into the evening too. A word of warning though - more than ten dates, and you may regret it. Their effect on your bowels is far greater than on your libido. Not that I would know, of course - I read it on Wikipedia.

St Nikolaus in person

St Nikolaus, the benevolent bishop who epitomises German pre-Christmas spirit (although he actually hailed from Turkey, but that's another story) was supposed to drop by our house last night and stuff our children's boots with handfuls of sweets. This is what he does every December 5th; from house to house he goes, with his bulging sack of goodies and his weird friend, the Knecht Ruprecht. Kids are alternately thrilled and terrified by the thought of this incongruous duo turning up on the doorstep. Sadly, I have to report that St Nick, primed by us (the disappointed parents - nobody did their chores or tidied their room) left only a paltry chocolate mini-him and a letter behind last night. In the letter, he explained his actions in a not unkind way, and reassured the readers (namely Hedda and Titus; the whole thing seemed to have gone over Gaia's head, and anyway she had already left for school) that they could still redeem themselves and get the rest of the booty at Christmas, as long as they were good until then.

Hedda didn't really comment. But Titus was most uncharacteristically unperturbed by everything. I know why - this afternoon, there is a Nikolaus party at his kindergarten. That means I am on biscuit baking duty and will have my best, smiling, friendly face on - "brush!" - which will limit our stay to an hour before I get cramp in my facial muscles and have to go home. It also means that St Nikolaus will be there IN PERSON, and Titus intends to use this opportunity to discuss the contents of his letter - and his boot - with the saint himself. There is no time for me to track St Nick down and prime him in advance. I'll just have to hope that he is quick off the mark, not like Santa, who is a bit senile, and comes up with a satisfactory reply that will not blow our cover.

Stunt gone wrong

Unless you live in Germany, Switzerland or Austria you may not be aware of the hugely popular TV show 'Wetten, dass' (Wanna bet) which has been going for nigh on 30 years. We rarely watch it, but last night, with a great line-up promised (Justin Biber, Take That etc... our children could hardly contain themselves) we decided to have a family viewing! The programme started so well, but the first 'bet', a stunt where a 23 year old drama student tried to somersault over 5 moving cars within 4 minutes, wearing power jumpers (those bendy stilt things, also known as kangaroo shoes) went horribly, horribly wrong. Unfortunately, as he jumped over the fourth car, which was being driven by his father, he landed badly and then fell flat on the hard studio floor. They stopped the programme and we've since heard that he is in an artificial coma, with critical spinal injuries. Sure, he took a risk, but poor guy. We're all thinking of him.

A Bavarian Saturday

I must be getting used to this winter thing - I found myself saying oh look, it's only

-6°C! Today is the first day since the snow set in when the mountains can be seen in all their glory. Now I believe those calendar pictures. The family are spending time at home, cooking to cater for all tastes (vegan in my case, non-dairy for CG, Dutch soup for Hedda, chicken just for the fun of it). Hedda and Titus went to the village shop on their own with a little list and 20 euros. Apart from leaving her gloves behind, H managed it all splendidly. She would never have gone without T, who is the spokesperson for his excruciatingly shy sister. They're a winning team, when they aren't practising Sumo wrestling techniques on each other.

This afternoon we are trying out a church with a view to our Christmas Eve agenda. Obligingly, the abbey down the road is putting on a children's service. Straight afterwards we'll move on to an 'Altbayerischer Weihnachtsmarkt'. You may remember that CG and I had planned to shop. In the end, we just couldn't face it. We'll get our share of pushing and shoving at the Christmas market, but a mug of Glühwein will make it just about bearable!

They do snow well here

Reading all the reports about snow in my native country, I am so glad to be here in Bovinia, where, although it is currently -8°C, the roads are clear and not too icy. I don't know when the brave snow-plough people get up - I dread to think - but somehow it seems that they have always got there before I have. What a change from chaotic Belgium last winter! There, one was never quite sure if normal life would carry on... rubbish remained uncollected for weeks, our little street was a ski slope which then froze into an elongated ice rink, noone appeared to use winter tyres. On one particularly snowy day, I remember the side of the main road being littered with abandoned or still-occupied, wheel-spinning cars. The snow did make everything look more beautiful, however. It covers a multitude of sins. Even the most grey and depressing industrial estate can look attractive with a layer of snow on it. Then the snow melts and we're back to slushy reality.

Anyway, enough about snow! TGIF! A long week draws to a close. It's three weeks till Christmas, chaps. Our challenge tomorrow morning is to find a Darth Vader costume in an alpine town with only five shops. It isn't that we can't get one on line. We just feel like undergoing the horrors of Christmas shopping, just to put us in a festive mood. Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without pushing through crowds of people in a hot and sweaty department store. Plus it is the only time of the year when people will tolerate Slade or Shakin' Stevens on the radio.

Shouting at the vacuum cleaner

The reluctant housewife was feeling true to her name today, so much so that it has been hard to find the motivation to pen some lines here (if you can call it penning). However, I have resolved never to moan - people have enough problems of their own and are mostly not interested anyway. Maybe I can describe my mood without actually complaining about anything. As I am now feeling better, this shouldn't be too hard.

I think it started when I caught myself shouting at my vacuum cleaner, who is an old trooper (although only a cheap model, it has outlasted any other Dyson or whatever posh vacuum cleaners are called) and really doesn't deserve to be treated in this manner. It faithfully succumbed to being dragged half-heartedly around the carpet, but then it did its annoying thing where it falls onto its side, to which I heard myself yelling, come on, you wimp. It lay there helplessly. I picked it up and continued, but those worrying thoughts that needle you about slowly going mad in a snow-bound village with only housework and a spot of cooking to occupy your time wouldn't leave my head.

Usually when I feel like this I put my neon pink trainers on and go out for a run. So that is exactly what I did. I must have looked pretty strange, for the snow was so deep in some places that I had to lift my knees really high, in that way that sadistic fitness instructors sometimes make you do just so they can have a good laugh. I couldn't see anyone, sadists or otherwise; nobody at all was out there in the white wilderness apart from me and the ubiquitous crows. When I got back I felt energised. I'd left all my negative thoughts in a snowdrift somewhere. I patted the vacuum cleaner by way of apology and went off to polish the sledge runners.

Bovinia

I started this blog with a smattering of pseudonyms and it would seem a shame not to have one for our village. I've used it before here and there, but I think it is time to officially announce it - Bovinia. It is almost beautiful, don't you think? I've told you that the bovines are all under lock and key in their barns now, not to be seen again till April, but I feel their presence anyhow. There cannot be a better name for this place. (I thought of 'Kuhdorf', but it doesn't sound so romantic.)

So Bovinia is lying under a thick blanket of snow. So thick that I was able to pull Titus to kindergarten on a sledge this morning. I think he's been overdoing the carbs - he's always been fond of them - I nearly ripped my arm out of its socket dragging the sledge along the riverbank. The ducks were all looking very cheesed off. Can't say I blame them. It was -4°C. Imagine having your feet in icy water the entire time! Meanwhile the burgers of the village are keeping themselves warm and only venturing out to the friendly baker or chemist. Well, needs must. The roads are quieter than usual, the tranquility only interrupted every now and again by München people racing through showing off their fast cars and frightening the life out of all and sundry. Our cat Max is enjoying staring at his less fortunate friends as they shiver on our patio (for some reason they like to gather there) from his underfloor heated rug. I forgot to tell you about a new cat. We've called him Fats Domino as he is colossal. Where other cats will spring nimbly onto a fence, he has no choice but to squeeze his great bulk under it. When seen from a distance you might confuse him for a dog or even a deer, with very short legs.

Ah, it's snowing again. I'm off to make a nutritious lunch for my children - christmas tree-shaped pasta with bolognaise sauce. I'll make sure Titus goes easy on the pasta. There are a lot of sledge-pulling days still to come.

Back to Bavaria

I was safely delivered back to Bavaria yesterday, thanks to my bro and his smart new car, BmiBaby and Deutsche Bahn. Not much had changed in my absence apart from the lighting of the first advent candle and about 2 feet of snow falling. Herr NN was awfully kind and offered to use his snow-blaster machine to clear our drive. Not only that - he said he'd do it every day! This will save at least half an hour of shovelling for me. Yippee!

Titus was disgusted as I forced him to walk to kindergarten this morning, citing saving polar bears as my motivation for not driving. Usually this works - he has been known to go round the house turning lights off - but today his habitual concern for the fluffy white seal-eaters was sadly lacking. To his six-year-old mind, if it is snowing here, then it must be in the Arctic too, so there is no immediate danger of pack ice melting. It is hard to explain the bigger picture to someone who can only see the small one.

So it's back to the housework after a couple of days off. I'm on my second load of washing, I've microwaved a Hokkaido pumpkin (makes them easier to peel), and I'm dithering whether to clean the toilet upstairs or polish the piano. Whittering to you on my blog is just pure procastination, something I am extremely good at. Maybe I could polish the toilet and clean the piano, just to spice things up a bit. It is advent, after all.

Good ol' Blighty

This little bloggette comes to you from snow-covered Beverley, in the East Riding of Yorkshire (don't worry if you haven't heard of it, because I hadn't either before my mother moved here, or at least not the Riding part).

There are two reasons why I won't post another blog until back in Bovinia - one, I am going to make the most of my time here and two, I cannot make head nor tail of my mother's computer keyboard, and even typing these few lines has taken me 20 minutes.

So until next Tuesday, goodbye....

Miss Hannigan

Do you remember the dastardly Miss Hannigan from Annie? Titus and I conducted a thorough character analysis of her over vegetable soup this lunchtime. It was important that we cleared up a few points, mostly why she was allowed to be at the big party at the end of the film in spite of her dreadful treatment of the orphans. (In case you are wondering, it is because she tried to rescue Annie from the clutches of her evil brother, Rooster, aka Tim Curry).

The good thing about six-year-olds is that they are - most of the time - satisfied by adult explanations, however silly and far-fetched they might be. Titus' acceptance of mine regarding Miss H's fate practically puts me up there with the script-writing team. Knowing as I do how this state of childhood innocence rarely lasts past the age of ten, I find his trust in my knowledge quite a boost to my ego. In fact I revel in it. Not many people are seeking my opinion these days, but that is normal when you are the new girl in town, or should I say village. I am sure by this time next year people will be knocking on my door ten to the dozen, asking for recipes, anecdotes from the Sceptred Isle, or simply for sage advice, ha ha.

Gingerbread Toilet Paper

For me, the best time of the year in Germany is advent. As a child, I don't remember much about advent apart from the Blue Peter coat hanger candle thing they made every year, and singing that song about most highly flavoured gravy. (Sorry, this is a bit British- and my generation-specific!) Here though, people look forward to, and celebrate, advent just as much as Christmas itself. There are advent markets which precede the Christmas markets. And then there are pre-Christmas markets. Speaking of which, we had seen an advertisement for one in a nearby village. CG was very keen to go along and have a look. It seemed that, even for a German, this was somewhat of a novelty. We drove around for a bit, scanning the deserted and foggy village for signs of pre-Christmas life, and were about to give up when Hedda (who always spots things first) saw an arrow. Thus we came upon the merry scene, which actually turned out to be people dressed up in not very authentic medieval clothes selling old pieces of wood and broken furniture and poking various small fires. The setting was a saw mill at the side of a road. There were various yuletide fun-seekers wondering around looking doleful. The dank mist didn't help, it has to be said. The children all said in unison, please NO. How lucky we were that we could see all this from the road, without even having to get out of our car and suffer the embarrassment of paying an entry fee and then leaving again after five miserable minutes! We drove to a filling station and bought ice creams, then went back to our sofa.

Anyway you must be wondering what all this has to do with the title today. I used the word gingerbread, but really it is 'Spekulatius' - an amazingly delicious spiced biscuit that is eaten here (and in several other northern European countries) during the festive season. Imagine my delight when I discovered that Spekulatius-scented toilet paper was on sale at my favourite supermarket*. Not only does it waft a delicate aroma around the bathroom - it is printed with reindeer, snowflakes and pine cones. I bought up 20 rolls straight away, because my guess is it'll be sold out by the end of November.

*Penny Markt, in case any Germans reading this want to rush out and get some before it's too late!

Metal acorns

I have to admit that absolutely nothing funny or interesting has happened to me this weekend. There has been a distinct lack of crimson-haired pensioners or strangely-behaving postmen. The weather has been and remains grey and uninspiring. It is at times like these that I dig into my copious files of hideously embarrassing incidents, which are now suitably long enough ago for me to laugh over and share them with others, like you, dear blog-readers.

Let's take the time when I was sitting in my old house in London, many moons back. I was having a kind of telephone interview with a serious and intimidating woman. In those days, I used to conduct most of my phone conversations at the kitchen table, where I would idly fiddle with something, or doodle, while chatting with the receiver tucked between ear and shoulder. On this particular occasion, I was playing with the blind pull, you know, that kind of string that you use to raise or lower a blind, which is weighted down by, in this case, a lump of lead formed into something aesthetically pleasing (I think it was an acorn - there's no accounting for taste). As I talked, I swung the metal acorn from side to side. Deep in discussion, I paid no heed to my actions and conked myself on the forehead with the acorn. I was stunned into silence. In fact I nearly fell off my chair. The serious lady asked if everything was ok. Momentarily I debated explaining what had just happened, then dismissed the idea - it would hardly make a good impression. Unlike the acorn on my forehead. I managed to pull myself together and finish the interview, making no sense whatsoever, and as a result never heard from her again.

This was one of the many times that I was SO glad there was no hidden camera in the room. At least if there was, I never saw the footage. Since then, I have replayed the scene in my mind and inwardly guffawed over what I must have looked like. It's good to laugh about these things, isn't it? And I hope, that if you are the kind of person to which these things never happen, I have brightened your Sunday with my tale.

Beautiful yet predictable

Where we live is predictably beautiful. That means, everywhere you go, you see beauty - but all of the same kind. Mountains, lakes, rivers, houses, animals and birds. I revel in the sameness of it all. (It would have driven me nuts 15 years ago.) What this means is that when you see something or someone at all out of the ordinary, you practically crash your car/bike/horse while trying to catch a squiz. This happened to me today. We were on the way to judo, when we spied a man taking a picture of a statue - not unusual in the least, except that he was about 65 years old and had crimson, quite clearly dyed, hair. Opulent tresses of it. Once I'd regained control of the wheel, I pointed him out to Hedda and Titus. We considered what might have persuaded him to choose such a striking colour, when most men of his age simply opt for Grecian 2000. You know what we decided? It was a clown on his day off.

I am glad that my children had their three years in Belgium, where they saw many different nationalities and skin colours. I kid you not - since being here, I have seen ONE Afro-Caribbean person. It is slightly unnerving. I want my offspring to know that the world does not only consist of cheery, plump caucasian people with a fondness for green felt hats with a feather in. Luckily Munich, with its wealth of culture and rich mix of faces, is just down the road. I shall make a point of taking the children there frequently. We shall feast our eyes on what makes the world interesting and dynamic, before returning to our beautiful cud-chewing, beer-swilling, tractor-driving bovine hinterland.

Charmlessness and Post-Nasal Drips

If your ego is feeling a little inflated, I'll tell you what to do. Ring up the Job Centre (or Bundesagentur für Arbeit, as it is known here) and have a little chat. They'll soon put you in your place! I had this joyful experience this morning. I won't bore you with the whole conversation; suffice to say that when I dared to mention anything other than the absolute facts of the matter, simply in an attempt to make friendly conversation, the lady on the phone snapped 'please spare me the unnecessary details Frau L. I already have enough to go on.' Charming.

Feeling a little subdued, I prepared myself for a meeting with one of Gaia's teachers. This didn't really lift my spirits. Gaia has clearly decided that business studies is not her cup of tea. The teacher in question seemed of the same opinion, and appeared to be quite bored with the subject matter himself. That aside, he was a jolly chap, though I spent the whole meeting resisting the temptation to hand him a kleenex. Sniff cough snuffle sniff cough. If he were Japanese he'd be wearing a face mask. I wished him a speedy recovery and hotfooted it to my car.

Persimmons and Prince William

I was excited to discover some persimmons this morning (yes, I was at the supermarket again)... they are fruits I have always bypassed for one reason or another, but I find the name so exotic, redolent of Biblical banquet scenes, or something. Anyway, Hedda persuaded me to buy a box of them and I had scoffed two by lunchtime. Oh, how I wish I hadn't. My stomach is most unhappy, and this on a day when I actually have a job interview, of sorts.

Meanwhile it is a dark, grey day here in the bovine backwater. The said bovines are all tucked away in their sheds. The sound of cowbells will not pervade the air again until next spring. The only evidence remaining is the slurry on the fields which, although it's so cold now, still stinks to high heaven. Horses appear to be tougher than cows, as they are still to be seen in their paddocks, although it has got to be said that they look pretty cheesed off about this state of affairs.

Titus and his mad little friend are wrecking the house as I write; Hedda is building a virtual igloo, and Gaia is allegedly doing physics homework, the operative word being allegedly. I am sitting here nursing my persimmon-afflicted stomach and wishing the witching hour of 5 pm would hurry up.

The rest of the world seems to be over the moon that Prince William and Kate M are finally engaged. All I can say is, about time chaps, good luck and let's hope the press leave them alone. Some hope!

Rain, rain...

... go away, come again aback aday, as Titus used to sing. Yep, it seems that the hairdryer weather has moved on - enjoy it if you get it, it was sublime. It is amazing how depressing supermarket car parks are in the rain; they're not amongst my favourite places at the best of times, but wet litter, leaves and people hanging around the trolley depot smoking wet cigarettes make them so much worse. Today's needless purchases included a pair of ski trousers for CG (he might wear them at some point) and an amaryllis in sparkly ivory-coloured pot. I dithered for ages over pink, red or white flowers. I know, I know, you want me to tell you what I chose. Pink! But only because the red and white looked manky.

Still on the subject of supermarkets, I was at a nearby Aldi the other day (incidentally the cleanest and customer-friendliest Aldi I have ever experienced), returning my trolley to its friends, when I caught a glimpse of myself in the window. I had just smiled at another customer and it was still frozen on my face (the smile). It was my 'I don't know you so I'm not going to overdo it, but I like to be friendly just for the sake of it' smile. I have used this quite a lot recently, and get very mixed reactions. Now I know why. I don't appear to be smiling at all - I look as if I have a cherry pip in my mouth, and am preparing to spit it out at great velocity. It is no wonder people are confused. I blame the fact that I used to play the flute when I was younger. The all-important embouchure has scarred me for life, socially at least.

Mountains and nutella

Having been busy with our visitors, Antje and Lance, I haven't blogged for two days. They left this morning, so I'm back to my routine of housework, blog, bit of shopping to alleviate boredom, more housework, chat with Frau NN, etc, etc. Yesterday I finally managed to climb a 'proper' mountain - the Heimgarten (1790 m). This sounds impressive, but you have to bear in mind that we started at 600 m above sea level. Despite it being mid-November, it was 19°C and there were still gentians growing way up the slopes. I wouldn't be me if I didn't tell you that I spotted my first alpine chough (a cousin of the crow; much better-looking though). The summit was surprisingly crowded - people were literally jostling to have their picture taken next to the huge cross, which has stood there for over 150 years. We didn't hang around too long, knowing it would take two hours to get down again. The thought of fumbling around in a pine forest trying to find the way home in the dark was enough to speed us on our way.

On a completely different note, I recently discovered that nutella is banned in Titus' kindergarten - this was after giving him nutella-filled ricecakes every day for the last two months. I don't understand - it is practically a national delicacy! For me, nutella is synonymous with Germany and all things German. Anyway, we're back to cottage cheese now. Our dentist is sure to be happy. And the kindergarten. That's the main thing, isn't it?

The hands of time...

... sadly, there's no stopping them. Time keeps marching on and (cliche alert) we are all getting older. Every second, every minute, every day. So far I've been counting myself lucky - I'm thirty-nine and don't have any grey hairs yet, or at least any that show through the highlights. Today, therefore, I was horrified to discover threadveins on my decollete. (Sorry French people, I don't have any accents on this computer.) This I really don't need at all. I'm going to have to buy some more "Second Skin" by Max Factor.*

The problem with getting older, or at least noticing that you are, is that if you talk to younger people about it, they pretend to sympathise, but really they're thinking, I've got years yet. And if you go to older people, they just tell you that it will only get worse. Their favourite expression: "It's all downhill from here!" So you're pretty much restricted to people who are exactly the same age as you, give or take a year. My ideal role model would be someone, let's say, two years older than me, who looks amazing, but displays all the same signs of ageing as I do, just a little bit more advanced. This would simultaneously inspire me and make me feel young. Not that I'm shallow at all, you understand.

*Buy some - it's FAB!

RIP Geese

It's a sad day for German geese today - it is the feast of St Martin, and roast goose is the traditional fare. As far as I know, there is no goose equivalent of the US thanksgiving turkey ritual - you know, where the incumbent President 'pardons' one symbolic and very lucky turkey. (By the way, did you know that, with the exception of JFK in 1963, no president actually pardoned a turkey until George H. W. Bush in 1989? I'm glad to say that all presidents since have followed suit.) Titus' kindergarten is celebrating St Martin tomorrow, and I am pleased to say that we will eating only cake, as far as I can ascertain. Maybe I am just terribly old-fashioned, but I like these saints' days, which date back centuries but are still religiously upheld in an otherwise modern, non-stop world. Easy for me to say - I'm not a goose!

Jays - (Warning, Nature-Lover Post!)

I don't know whether I love or hate jays. Their only redeeming feature seems to be that flash of cerulean blue in an otherwise dull plumage. Yesterday, Titus helped me hang up 6 bags of birdseed in our apple tree. It actually looks quite picturesque - a kind of autumnal take on a Christmas tree. It didn't take long for word to get round the little crowd (bluetits, sparrows, great tits etc) - they've been arriving in flocks since sunrise. But just one jay is enough to empty the tree in a trice. I even caught him sitting on a branch to which I'd tied a bag of seed, lifting up the string with his beak in order to get a peck at the bag. Crafty or what? You can tell he is related to magpies. They, however, have a nasty streak, whereas jays tend to be shy and don't steal your jewellery.

PS: if you've read this far, you'll probably be interested to know that I saw a pair of goldcrests last Saturday!

The Customer is (not) King

Hedda had 'afternoon religion' today, which means the poor thing has to rush home for lunch, then rush back again for an extra, fortnightly religion lesson, presumably to boost what they don't learn in their three hours a day at school. So Titus and I went to the nearest shopping metropolis to run a few errands.

Firstly we had to go to the chemist, where two weeks ago I had ordered a product for the next day but forgot to pick it up. I explained this to the disapproving-looking pharmacist. Well, why didn't you come the day after, she asked, her lips practically disappearing into a single, flat line. I stuttered out an excuse (the worst ever, that I'd had to leave the country in a hurry) and apologised, all the time thinking, why? But she made me feel so guilty. You're in luck, she then said grudgingly, it's still here. That might not happen next time though. Too right, grumpy chemist lady! I shall never darken your already gloomy doors again! A now familiar scenario ensued - me sweeping up my wares, or ware in this case, and leaving the shop with a forced air of jollity, which was mainly to play down the situation for the ear-wigging pensioners waiting their turn.

Then we went to find a hairdresser for Titus. He has been becoming ever more lion-like, a bit like the teenage Simba. We thought we had talked him into growing it, which admittedly was a mother-driven initiative in the absence of any appropriate barber in the area. A week ago though, I'd spied this relatively harmless looking salon, conveniently next to the now-to-be-boycotted chemist. However, it was the kind of place where you can't see much from the outside, and once you are in, you have to be extremely brave to turn and walk out again if you don't like what you see. A balding man lounging on a purple sofa leapt up as we entered. Which of you is requiring my services, he asked brightly. I resisted giving him a death stare (I had mine done less than a week ago) and pointed to Simba/Titus.

Despite the smoky atmosphere and the fact that the hairdresser kept up a monologue the whole time about his rather questionable motives for entering his profession, Titus looked grand by the time he'd finished. A whole new boy, I said. Titus said gravely, that hairdresser is now my favourite ever Mummy - you can tell he is so much better trained than his colleagues in Belgium!

I had to promise him we'd return before Christmas 'to make sure the man gets money to buy presents for his children' - that's my philanthropic son....

Toenail clippings and mosquitoes

Neither of these are particularly pleasant things, are they? Let's deal with the toenail issue first. I've blogged before about aspects of domestic drudgery that I detest slightly more than others, and here is another for the list. Imagine me cleaning my bathroom, humming gently to myself, enjoying the warm glow I get from restoring a previously rather dirty room to one of gleaming, Hilton-like cleanliness. I spy a small pile of... what could it be? I peer at it more closely. It is a neatly-stacked pile of toenail clippings. Ugh! Well, they're not mine, so that only leaves four other potential culprits. Actually I don't really care who they belong to. I just don't want it to happen again.

And now for the mosquitoes. We all know that they have their uses - at least if you are a winged mammal with long ears or perhaps an amphibian - or even a large, crafty spider. We know they are an important part of the food chain (that's primary school brain-washing for you) and we hate them nonetheless. Especially the ones who are still hanging around as we edge into mid-November, naively presuming that we don't need to worry about them any more. These doggedly persistent types are also hungry. They know their days are numbered, so when they see their chance, they'll grab as much blood as they can. I know, because we've had one camping out in our bedroom for the last three nights. We have yet to locate him, so tonight will see me sporting long-sleeved pyjamas and gloves, and quite possibly a balaclava, if that's what it takes.

Stretched-out donuts

Today we finally made it to the Landeshauptstadt - Muenchen/Munich. What a fine city! We decided to wander through the English Garden, the city's answer to Central Park. It was teeming with people and dogs. After two months of rural life, it was a shock to the system to be surrounded by people and to see such a wide range of clothing/hairstyle/age/nationality again. Vibrant is the word I'd use. And look, I just have. There is a special kind of donut here called an "Ausgezogene" (literally, stretched-out). You only have to look at it to put on weight, but sometimes it's good to indulge yourself and enjoy a bit of good old-fashioned hot fat and sugar, so this we did to round off our city trip. We've just added insult to injury by snaffling some mini-Stollen at home, too. It is strange to be back here in our little bovine backwater. A storm is raging, rain is lashing against the windows, and there are whirling tornadoes of brown leaves everywhere. This is what I imagine the weather is chanting: you've had it good guys but enough's enough. Winter, come on down and do your stuff!

The Breadline

I've just been to the baker's, something I usually try and avoid in the early hours, as that is when most good Germans go and buy their daily bread. The advantage of going at this time is that there is a much bigger choice. But this morning it was so overwhelming that I really had trouble trying to decide what I wanted. Such dithering can lead to social death if you aren't careful. Both behind and in front of me were stern elderly ladies who knew quite clearly what they needed. The one ahead only had to grunt and point a gnarled finger at the baker-lady. The one behind grew more and more impatient as I stumbled my way through my order. I felt that familiar, light-sweat-breaking-out-on-brow sensation that I so often get in these situations. It was the same in Belgium - foreigners are all very well, but they shouldn't disrupt time-honoured rituals like bread buying with their lack of knowledge and indecisiveness. The upshot of this was, as always, that I didn't get what I went to buy at all; under pressure, I plumped for the only thing that was clearly labelled and that I knew I could pronounce. No wonder we eat a lot of sliced bread in this house! So much easier, and you can take your time deciding which packaging is more attractive.

Too prude to go nude

Yesterday afternoon saw Hedda, Titus and I enjoy a couple of hours at the local alpine swimming pool complex. For a hefty 15 euros you get to slide, sit in a bubbling tub, swim inside and out (with a superb view of the Kochelsee*) and there's even an infra-red sun lounge, with a green baize floor. If you lie down and shut your eyes, you can almost delude yourself into thinking that you are on a warm beach somewhere (the operative word being 'almost'). Anyway, afterwards of course you need to shower. It was then I was reminded of what a complete prude I am. To me it is an alien concept that mothers, teenage daughters and small children all shower together, naked, completely unabashed and unselfconscious. I hadn't realised I had brought my children up to be prudish too - Hedda felt most uncomfortable in the midst of these people and kept her swimsuit resolutely on. But what is wrong with nudity - why does it disturb me so? It is the human body in its most natural state, and let's face it, most people do not look their best without clothes, so there is no need to worry about one's own appearance.

I want to salute people who are happy to go nude, but there's a small voice inside me that says there are voyeurs everywhere, and isn't this just more fodder for them? Some years ago, I was persuaded by a female friend to attend a mixed sauna. For prudish, uptight, British me, this was a veritable baptism of fire. Swimsuits were banned - you could wrap yourself in a towel if you wanted, but most people didn't. In the sauna itself, you could more or less keep yourself to yourself - the problem came afterwards, when you had to plunge into an ice-cold pool. I - who balked at this most of the time - will never forget the sight of my nubile, naked friend jumping up and down in the freezing water, watched by a group of elderly men, whose eyes - I swear it - were gleaming with excitement. After all, they're only human!

In the end, I suppose it is better to be happy naked. It is how we are born, and we are all much the same, apart from the obvious gender differences. I don't know when I stopped walking around without any clothes on at home, but I think it happened our first au pair moved in. And now I find myself unable to shake off this prudishness. It is very much a matter of cultural background, and I like the fact that Germans are more comfortable being nude. As long as they don't expect me to join in. And luckily we have a sauna at home now, so the only nudity I'm likely to encounter is that of my husband, thank goodness!