Hallow'een in Bavaria

Ah, Hallow'een. Hedda and Titus have been looking forward to it for weeks. To what, exactly? The lack of Americans in the vicinity means that opinion is very much divided about this most commercial of festivals. Like Marmite, you either love it or you hate it. We did a quick tour of the cul-de-sac with our witch and vampire. They'd been primed to recite a little rhyme, sadly made all the more unintelligible by Titus' draculan false teeth. Still, they got a whole bag of sweets at the first house. At the second house (and actually the last - they lost their nerve after this), there was much barking from the repressed Alsatians, then the somewhat bemused neighbour, who probably hasn't been near a gummi bear for several decades, offered a single - and very fine - apple. We got the distinct feeling that only the weird foreign family was out trick or treating and retreated. Once home though, we realised that we had simply started too early. Since then the doorbell has been ringing every ten minutes and Titus is being kept busy giving the contents of our larder to those who dare to approach our hallowed portals. The sweets ran out an hour ago, so we're down to onions, cereal left over from Belgium that nobody wants any more, and sesame seeds. That should cement our strange reputation here for at least the next five years.

Still on the subject of commercial festivals, I finally came out of the closet a few weeks back and admitted to my family that I hate Christmas. Of course this news was greeted with a chorus of boo and Scrooge and bah humbug Mummy. But I felt glad to have come clean; not that it will change anything. I find it hard to explain exactly why I detest the festive season, but it has something to do with the weight of expectation from various quarters, which descends on me around the end of November and doesn't really go again until I am sweeping up the needles from the discarded Christmas tree on January 7th. Throw into the equation CG's birthday on January 4th too, an awkward date for a birthday if ever there was one - not that he can help it, poor thing. He's usually very noble about things not getting there on time, or people forgetting him as they're still digesting turkey sandwiches and nursing hangovers. Just don't mention the Dresden china Napoleon bust that I ordered at huge expense from Canada last year. It didn't arrive on time, and when it did he (CG, not Napoleon) was nursing a huge hangover, and hated the thing as soon it poked its stupid china tricorn hat out of the bubblewrap. The ensuing day was spent under a dark, sulking cloud of resentful disappointment. This year, he's ordering his own stuff on line! And I shall get him nasal hair trimmers as a frivolous extra.

Vacuum Cleaners, Wind and Rhubarb

The vacuum cleaner has many uses. I caught Herr NN cleaning his lawn with it this morning. Apparently Frau NN didn't really approve. He'd only been at it a couple of minutes when the vacuum cleaner, which he'd plugged in somewhere in the house, was tugged slowly by an invisible force back into the warmth. Not deterred and despite his advanced years, he got down on hands and knees and began picking out the offending particles with his fingers. This little scene reminded me of the Roger Hargreaves book Mr Fussy, who used to cut his lawn with nail scissors. But had Mr Fussy lived next door to the NNs, he'd most definitely have been demoted.

Otherwise today has been rather uneventful. I hope it stays that way. We are enjoying a burst of unseasonal warm weather, thanks to the alpine wind, the Föhn (which translates as 'hairdryer', but maybe the wind got there first when the name was handed out, rather than the other way round). My neighbour (the one with the two repressed dogs) came over to warn me that this sudden change can cause headaches. She also offered me some of her rhubarb and I had another mini-make-a-fool-of-myself moment. I asked her if it could go in the deep-freeze. She replied, in theory yes, but the plants do tend to grow better if you put them in the soil. And then handed me a grubby-looking clump of roots. Ah, I said. Thanks very much. I felt the familiar blush creeping over my face and laughed my much-practised, self-deprecating English laugh and thought to myself, one day, just one day, I will understand everything that is said to me, all of the time.

The Dumb Foreigner Part 2

Silly, silly me... I was just thinking yesterday how I haven't made a fool of myself for weeks, maybe even months. I was feeling quite complacent, to tell you the truth. I mean, it's normally something I do for a living. How strange - and how nice - not to have done it for a while!

Anyway, that was yesterday. Today, I set off bright and early to do the weekend grocery shop. I was particularly excited as I would not only be going to Lidl (always a thrill) but, for the first time, to the organic shop at Benediktbeuern abbey (with real nuns, a herb garden and twin onion towers). Last night I had found a flyer advertising all manner of organic and vegetarian delights, which I spent some time perusing. I am a sucker for things like this. But what really whetted my appetite was the promise of a free soup tureen for any purchase made at the store. At least that is what I thought. The photo showed a burnished orange, pumpkin-shaped tureen, brimming with steaming pumpkin soup. The blurb beneath read something like - "Fancy some pumpkin soup this week? Free pot included!" How could I resist?

When I arrived there it was hard to park - the shop is at the end of one of those narrow, one-way streets, which means if you don't find a space you have no choice but to reverse all the way back, watched by nuns, gardeners, tourists and whoever else happens to be hanging around. This task accomplished, and sweating in the autumn sun, I made my way into the shop. It didn't really look that enticing. I wandered around for a while, picking things up and putting them back again, having little discussions with myself like "do we really need organic buckwheat cookies with Peruvian carob flakes ? - no" and observing my wholesome-looking, earthy fellow shoppers out of the corner of my eye. Nowhere could I see mention of the soup tureen. I didn't want to ask unless completely necessary, so I shoved a few things into my basket, had one last look around, then went to pay. As luck would have it, the aforementioned flyer was lying at the cash desk, so I only had to point to it and ask about the special offer. The gnome-like sales assistant started giggling, as did the couple of people in the queue behind me. "There is no special offer, madam!" - stupidly, I persisted - "but it says here that...." Turns out that it was a German play on words/ad slogan thing, meaning that if you buy a pumpkin, you can use the shell as a tureen and don't need a normal one. How witty and clever and cutting-edge. Not that I'm bitter, of course. "Have you been in Germany long?" asked the woman behind me. "Just arrived actually!" I replied blithely, sweeping my purchases into my non-organic plastic bag and making for the door. Oh well. Hopefully I've given her and her cronies something to cackle about over their nun-brewed beer this evening.

Cat City

It's a good thing we don't have a dog any more, because around here the cat is most definitely king. I find this quite interesting, for usually dogs dominate a neighbourhood, with their owners automatically forming a sort of clique; people are defined by the kind of dog they have and everyone in the street knows each dog by name. Here in Gartenstrasse, this applies instead to cats. In our little cul-de-sac alone there are 6 different cats. There's Rufi, Brownie, Ruby, Felis (?), Garfield and our own Max. Plus two more mysterious ones who stay inside the whole time, apart from little sojourns to their balcony, from whence they peer down, snootily, on the rest. Max was given such a warm welcome by the neighbours - at least the human ones - when we arrived; this touched me. It must have been confusing for him, though, that Rufi is in fact his doppelgaenger. Imagine that it happened to you - suddenly finding your mirror image staring out at you from a clump of bamboo. And then it goes and steals your breakfast.

Some of you will know that our other (and favourite) cat Monty decided not to accompany us to Bayern. I so wish he had - he would fit right in here. No traffic, endless opportunities for climbing and chasing and taunting your enemies. Max, on the other hand, does not seem to miss him. Not one bit. Moreover, he visibly revels in his newfound only-cat status. We can't help wondering whether he paid Monty to do a runner.

There are two dogs here too, but they keep themselves to themselves. They are German Shepherds and lead a very regimented life - a bit like middle-class private school children in London; you know, endless extra-curricular activities and seemingly no time to just chill. You don't even see a furry face at the window - just the occasional yelp betrays their presence in the house.

Now it's time for me to go and reacquaint myself with my lonely vacuum cleaner. It doesn't get out much these days.

The hills are alive

OK, not with the sound of music, but they are looking their very finest since I arrived here. Now, I promised myself when starting this blog that I would not get carried away and blurb on about nature. Anyone who knows me will testify to the fact that I am very keen on the great outdoors, which is just as well really since we've been living in the sticks for the last 8 years or so. I am someone who derives true pleasure from beautiful surroundings. However, I am not blind to the fact that describing scenery to people is on a par with describing one's dreams.... we all know people who love to do that, don't we? And how dull is it, unless you yourself feature in the dream - and even then it can be boring to hear the rest?? I remember when I was at school reading Thomas Hardy novels. That guy spent whole chapters depicting bucolic scenes in ye olde Wessex. Luckily, you could tell from the first page that the rest of the chapter would be in the same vein, so you just skipped to the next one. I doubt that Mr Hardy intended his readers to do this, though.

So, after all this, I will just tell you that on days like today, here in Bavaria, when I am out in the mountain air and can see for miles and miles and there are birds and flowers and cows and snowy mountains and rivers and cute little onion-tower churches... I feel at peace.

Titus the Miner

The story of the Chilean miners really struck a chord with Titus. So much so that he is building his own mine in the front garden, with the aid of a trowel and a pocket torch. His plan is to create a mine that will not collapse and trap people inside, such is his empathy with those poor guys who were trapped for 63 days. On a more cheerful note, he has also started a nature collection. Originally this was restricted to stones, but as he often finds these too heavy for his coat pockets he has started adding other random items, such as two half-eaten apples, a dead bird and a snailshell.

Meanwhile Hedda has a date this afternoon - she'd kill me for saying that though. A little boy from her class is coming round at three o'clock to play. He is one of those children that you cannot help liking - polite, looks you in the eye, not shy but also not cocky. His manner reminds me so much of the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland; he always seems in a hurry and checks his watch frequently before rushing off to whatever he is late for. Hedda is very dismissive of him so I shall observe them with interest later. From a discreet distance, of course.

Nosy Neighbours no more

Oh, if it were possible to eat my words, I'd be chomping on a whole dictionary by now. The NNs - in case you weren't aware, the nosy neighbours - are now, most definitely, renamed as NICE neighbours and shall remain so forever more. It is only because of them that I am sitting here in a warm house posting my blog.

This morning it was all a bit stressful, even more so than usual, as we had woken to snow and all the pleasures it brings. I had to take my pa to Kochel station, then I took Titus to kindergarten, followed by yoga with the stuffed owls and Helga. When I arrived home I breathed a sigh of relief and stuck my key in the lock... only to find that there was another key on the inside.

First I wanted to cry. After all, it was snowing, I hadn't had breakfast, and I felt like a prize idiot. I had two housekeys but STILL couldn't get into my house. I fiddled around in the lock with my nail file but no joy. Just then, the NNs sailed past me into their driveway, just back from a cosy breakfast somewhere. To cut a long story short, they rang a locksmith, gave me two cups of hot coffee and translated what the extremely Bavarian lock man was saying. He didn't actually need to do any smithing - he borrowed a ladder from Herr NN and got in through an upstairs window, using a bit of string and what looked like the hook of a wire coat-hanger. And all for the bargain price of 40 euros!

I shall be off again shortly to collect Titus and a very large box of chocolates, which I shall place on their perfectly polished doorstep, next to the stone lion holding the Bavarian flag in his teeth.

CG, Man of the People

Yesterday my pa was here and we took him off to see some local sights, including a Benedictine monastery, a cheese factory and the metropolis of Garmisch-Partenkirchen. It was really CG's day though - everywhere we went, random people approached him and started chatting. A little man coming out of a graveyard shook his hand and asked his name, to which CG dutifully replied (I thought with a courtly bow, but actually it was due to the man's diminutive size). Next, a friendly family explained their car number plate to him - he actually knew it already but was too kind to say - and threw in a bit of tourism propaganda for their part of Germany. Then, while he was checking the tyre pressure on our car, a lost and bewildered American started chatting away to him about his 20-year-old Volvo. By now it was getting a bit silly. I was wondering who would be next to respond to his magnetism. Sadly I didn't get to find out, as our party split at that point, leaving CG, Hedda and Titus motoring home in the Twingo and Pa and me at large in GAP*, where we had coffee and admired the tourists. When we got back, CG was revelling in his new status as man of the people and impressing our nosy neighbours with a frenzied bout of lawn-mowing and digging the vegetable patch. Horseradish can be awfully stubborn.

*Garmisch-Partenkirchen, also our car registration.

The Nosy Neighbours Strike Again

The NNs have got bored of watching me reverse out of my drive and have turned their hand to gardening tips. They're pretty smug themselves, having made their own garden 'winterfest' sometime back in August. Clearly, it is too much for them that CG and I leave our gardening tasks until the very last minute. Or, we start something but are then forced to break off in the middle and resume activity a couple of days later. This is unthinkable for the NNs. Everything they do is purposeful, goal-oriented and quickly executed; they wouldn't dream of leaving a half-full sack of dead foliage sitting around on the patio, as we do. Or did, until today. I exaggerate not - over the last few days, Herr NN has asked me at least 5 times when I might finish filling the sack, and each time he tells me about the garden refuse collection point in the village and reminds me of the opening times thereof. Today he caught me again. He stuck his merry little white head, Bavarian working hat perched atop, over the fence and asked me about the sack. Then he said something pretty much unintelligible except for the word wheelbarrow. I smiled and nodded for lack of a suitable reply. (This usually does the trick.) When I next looked up from my weeding he'd gone - only to reappear a few minutes later trundling a large wheelbarrow round the corner. I watched warily as he stepped over our fence, picked up my sack and heaved it onto said barrow. Then he sauntered off down the street, whistling. I was confused. Had he stolen my sack and all our accumulated dead foliage? No! He couldn't bear waiting any longer - and had simply decided to take the stuff to his beloved collection point himself! I am still deciding whether this was interference in the extreme or charming, old worldly helpfulness. You know, that poor harrassed Englishwoman grafting away while her husband swans round the Balkan States collecting airmiles, go and give her a hand, Rudolf, says Frau NN. Or (and much more likely) they have no faith whatsoever in our green fingers and refuse to just stand by and watch while a formerly Eden-like garden turns to rack and ruin?

When all's said and done, though, he saved me a trip down the road, so I'm not complaining!

"Brush!" A tip for social success

Years ago I was reading a Nancy Mitford novel - can't remember which one, but anyway - the story involved young ladies of good social standing, who were forced to endure endless visits from other young ladies/maiden aunts/potential suitors. It was (obviously) set in the 19th century. Think Jane Austen-type scenes - whether or not you want to see someone, people just arrive and expect to be entertained with scintillating chatter, songs at the harpsicord or perhaps a round of whist. So the girls in the book were given this fabulous piece of advice, which I also decided to try, and it has never let me down.

When you are standing outside a room, into which you really don't want to go but have to for whatever reason, say the word "brush" and keep your mouth in that exact position as you enter. You will present your guests with a beaming smile, no matter what you are feeling inside. Try it for yourself - it works! You can use it for any kind of situation. Even CG does it now, although to any non-English speakers reading this, it doesn't work if you translate it (we tried "Buerste").

So next time the doorbell rings and you see the outline of a person you would rather not, reach for this handy piece of advice. Or when you are standing outside your boss's office because he/she is about to haul you in for a roasting. Or whatever. BRUSH!

The Asia Shop

One thing I find difficult about German supermarkets is that they don't stock a lot of unusual, let's say oriental products. Only the westernised ones, like Uncle Ben's sweet and sour, or maybe a few more specialised things depending on the shop. Kaffir lime leaves, tahini paste - forget it.

I was therefore overjoyed to find the Asia Shop nestled in between a baker's and pork delicatessen in nearby Murnau. I found mild curry paste, the lovely lime leaves (a whole branch, practically), sushi ginger, tahini paste and organic red lentils, much to my delight, and Titus (who didn't go to kindergarten - again) got two fortune cookies. You know those strange Chinese biscuits with a message inside? The first message was no problem - "you will be charmed by someone next week", which I translated to T as perhaps falling in love with someone in his class. Unfortunately the second message said, "you'll get a big surprise when you get home today". I swore to him that these weren't true and he should just ignore them, but as I write, he is scouring the house and garden for the surprise. And complaining loudly. Thanks, Asia Shop.

Anyway, I digress. What I wanted to tell you was that all these wonderful ingredients cost me 25 euros. Can you believe it? Then I added insult to injury by buying some parsnips and 2 sweet potatoes at a greengrocer's nearby. Another 9.50 euros!!!! I am skint now.

No wonder people round here just stick to 'normal' ingredients. You can't enjoy your Thai curry if you're too poor to eat for another week afterwards!

How you know when your child is NOT sick

Titus was all growly and coughing this morning, so I let him stay at home. Normally this would annoy me, as it would impede my housework for the day, but as I had to wait for the telephone man anyway, I gave in.

Just now I asked him how he was feeling. "Does it hurt anywhere?" I said.

"Yes... in my knee, no I mean my leg, actually no, it's my foot..." came the reply.

"Which foot?" I asked. "Why don't you choose one, Mummy"! Ha.

The telephone man came at 1440. I hope I never have to see him again. There are people on this planet who are devoid of all humour, and he was part of this elite group. I try to avoid them if at all possible - they make me nervous.

So World Boring Day grinds to a close. The snow is getting lower and lower down the mountains, threatening to wipe out autumn 2010 forever. Hang in there, deciduous trees! At least till my Dad comes...

Dull as ditchwater

There are days when you wake up in the morning and think - no thanks, I'll skip today, cheers anyway. Like today, Wednesday 20th October.... guess what I am doing? Waiting for the telephone man to arrive (anytime between 0800 and 1600, according to the letter I got, which probably means he'll come at 1555). If that weren't boring enough, I have to clean the entire basement, which I've been putting off for weeks, but can't any more because my father is coming to stay in two days and needs somewhere to rest his weary head.

It is true, I admit, that for a blog I originally started about housework, I don't actually write much about this thrilling topic. Every day I think of little gems of wisdom that I could share with you, but then something more interesting occurs to me and I write that instead. Today, however, is World Boring Day, so I am going to tell you something that drives me mad.

Have you ever tried peeling potatoes that are far too small to be peeled? They are not new potatoes and the skin looks pretty skanky so you've no choice but to peel them. If you live out in the sticks like me, it's not an option to get some more, so you decide to persevere with those you have. It is such a thankless task. Try it sometime - you will see what I mean. Oh, and another thing. I hate, hate, hate getting the hair and gunk out of plugholes.

Anyway, enough of that. I've been preoccupied since waking with the thought of how to get a photo of the Hairy Postman. I can't really get a clandestine one - it would be too embarrassing if I got caught. I'm thinking I could ask him to pose for me, saying that I am putting together an album of my new life in Bavaria. But if I then post that photo on the WWW, am I breaking the law? Surely it's ok if I don't tag him??

There is no rush to find an answer as he is clearly having a week off, not only one day. Maybe I'll catch him later when I go to the village postbox again. He clearly likes it there.

The Jolly Trout

I'm back already from the Jolly Trout. No doubt you are wondering how I got on (and even if you are not, I am going to tell you).

Well, I'd love to say it was awful, because that would offer so much more amusement value. But it really wasn't that bad. I accept, as Ms Foreigner, that I am only going to understand about 50% of what people say down here, and I've got to say that that is one of the most sensible attitudes I've ever adopted. It makes life so much easier. All pretences of speaking the lingo and proving that I know German are dropped. I act like a friendly, bemused person who, if in doubt, smiles inanely. I ask for translations of strange Bavarian words (they LOVE it when I do that). I nod and look as if I have really committed the word to memory. Why have I spent most of my adult life worrying that people think I am stupid? It's so much easier to play stupid. Even better, you don't have to worry about witty asides or quips, as I do when speaking English.

Anyway, the mothers (no father dared show his face) took me under their communal wing. The two hours passed fairly quickly, and the few moments of boredom I spent counting the dead animals adorning the walls of the room. It went a bit awry when the Catholic sector (Bavaria is predominantly Catholic) started arguing amongst themselves about who would bake the altar bread. A few insults were thrown and I actually thought that two women would start a fistfight. For once in my life, I was truly pleased to be Protestant (how often do you hear people saying that?). I made my excuses and retired. I practised a German thing I'd always seen people do but had never tried out - when you are leaving a group, and you want to include everyone in your goodbye but not interrupt their conversation, you simply knock your knuckles on the table loudly and say ciao everybody. (You have to do it with conviction though - otherwise they just ignore you). I think it worked.

Got home to a quiet house - no nightmares about the rabbit of death - YET...

The dumb foreigner

Yup, that's me - again. I'd been so looking forward to this evening. Hedda's school PTA is not content with just having normal, run-of-the-mill parents' evenings. No, to spice up our dreary parental lives, they also expect you to attend 'fun' and 'loose' (direct translation, so please don't misconstrue) evenings in a bar, where school/class matters can be discussed in a free and - one of my favourite German words - gemuetlich (cosy) way. Hurray!

So I set off at quarter to seven, determined not to be late, not because I want to be punctual and Germanic, but because I hate being the last one to walk in the room. Except there was no room, only a darkened carpark with an ominously flickering streetlight. The place where I thought I had to be was empty. With a growing feeling of panic in my stomach I wandered around for a few minutes. There was someone I could ask but I really didn't want to. However, I pulled myself together and drove to her house.

She screamed with laughter when I explained my predicament. "Well, what were you doing there, you silly thing! We always go to the Jolly Trout (or whatever). And it's at 8, not 7 o'clock!" Silly me indeed. Sigh, sigh, sigh... back I drive to my island of foreign-ness in this village where everyone seems to know what's going on apart from me.

I get home. Hedda rushes down the stairs. "Wow Mummy, you were so quick!" I grunted in reply. "And guess what - Titus is watching Watership Down and isn't even crying yet!" Great. That'll mean nightmares about rabbits of death for the next six months. Am about to confiscate the DVD, close my ears to the howls of protest, apply another layer of lipstick, take a deep breath, get in the car and go to the Jolly Trout for a fun, loose and cosy evening. Think of me.

The hairy postman's day off

I saw the hairy postman yesterday. It was clearly his day off, as he was in mufti. Weirdly, he was loitering around the village postbox - can't the guy keep away? Or perhaps he was hoping to dissuade people from posting too much stuff, thinking kindly of his pals in the sorting office.

In any case, I know why he wears such a splendid beard now. He is bald as a coot! He looked embarrassed when I said hello to him. Maybe it is a bit like doctors, who also hate being recognised by their patients in the street.

Monday Blues

OK, OK, I admit it. I was a bit harsh on CG in my last post. He really did us proud and got so many things sorted out. It rained the whole day anyway, so I amused myself by making aeroplanes (fighter jets, actually) out of cardboard boxes with Hedda and Titus. The addition of cakeforks made the planes particularly menacing.

There was no frantic shirt-ironing, no, all was calm, and he left this morning at 0400 on the dot.

After two more hours of sleep, I got up to face the rainy Bavarian morning. Went off to yoga in the Trachtenheim, where I positioned myself under the stuffed owls as per last week. They have a kindly look about them, which is admirable given the sticky end to which they came. I lay back and let Helga's soothing, dulcet tones wash over me. One of the old guys nodded off. There were three new women, one of them with really crunching hip joints. But it's better than farting.

Now I'm about to go and fetch Titus from kindergarten. Much to his disgust, his group were planning to walk back from a trip to the local museum, having been bussed up there. Titus hates walking. He shall doubtless need lots of placating on the way home in the warm car.

CG is off on his travels

CG is off to Macedonia tomorrow. As usual, he is spending the day before a trip in a flurry of DIY activity, and as we are still not shipshape here, there are plenty of things for him to choose from. Whatever task he chooses, however, is guaranteed to be long, arduous, annoying (because there will be one tiny part/screw/nut/bolt that he can't find which is essential to the whole operation) and will render him in a terrible mood. I can already visualise the familiar scene this evening as he stomps around the bedroom complaining that he's been too busy to pack. This is usually topped off with furious shirt-ironing close to midnight. You might wonder why I don't ask him now, early afternoon, if there are some things I could iron/pack for him. Quite simply, we've been together long enough for me to know that it would be counter-productive. It would be like poking a hungry bear with a sharp stick. So I remain in the shadows, offer no comments or suggestions, and smile sweetly whenever we pass in the hall. And, when the task is finally completed and he asks for my opinion, I will say that it is fantastic.

Snow is on its way

Apparently it is going to snow at the end of the week. I am really not ready for this!! It feels as if we have been cheated out of autumn this year. Everyone here, of course, is very philosophical about the weather - and snow is part and parcel of life in Bavaria, particularly when you live near the Alps.

The white stone - again

If you were reading this in September, you'll remember my fascinating post about the weird white stone in my washing machine. I am sure you have been wondering about it ever since, and therefore feel compelled to report that it has gone.

I know I didn't remove it, and as I am the only person who uses the washing machine, I can only assume that (a) it is inside somebody's clean pants or (b) it fell out unnoticed or - worst-case scenario - (c) it is now lodged within the workings of the washing machine and will shortly cause complete and irreparable breakdown of said appliance.

Peace at last

After an insane, domestic, downtrodden grey day I am feeling somewhat revived, thanks to a run at twilight with CG and Titus (the latter on bike) and 2 sessions in the sauna. Now I'm sipping diet coke, feeling serene and healthy, planning a marathon bike ride for tomorrow morning - fog or no fog!!

City slicker

Yesterday, when I was running, a horrible little fly lodged itself in my eye. I ploughed on for a couple of kilometres, all the time rubbing and probing and trying to get the thing out. It wouldn't budge and I couldn't see properly. What to do? Then, I spied a parked car. Nobody seemed to be around (I hadn't yet encountered the man in the neon-pink hat), so I leaned down to one of the wing mirrors. I had just located the fly and flicked it away, when a voice boomed out (I translate) "you don't need to worry about your make-up here. You ain't in the big city now, you know!" Mortified, I stood up, but before I could even start my pathetic explanation, the stout country bumpkin had moved on, presumably to hassle other vulnerable, innocent souls.

Be suspicious of anyone wearing a neon hat

I managed 14 km this morning, which I was quite happy with. It would have been 15, but that 1 km extra involved taking a different path. Was preparing to do this when I spotted an oddly-attired fellow-runner (that's giving him the benefit of the doubt), waving at me furiously through the mist. He was particularly distinctive, in that he was sporting a neon-pink bobble hat. I did my usual trick of looking behind me first, to check he didn't mean someone else, but no, we were alone. So I - quite smoothly, I thought, turned round again quickly, as if to say "oh no, I've dropped my phone/watch/bottle/etc" and sped off in the other direction.

My new book, the Complete Book of Running, is to blame for this heightened sense of personal safety. There is a special chapter for women runners, where we are warned that ANY man is a potential rapist, however benign the physical appearance. And they tell you to run early in the day, as "bad people tend to sleep longer in the mornings". I guess they need to recover from the previous night's stalking.

The loneliness of the middle-distance runner

Having survived the dentist yesterday, I am due a long run today. That is to say, at least 15 km, since I have decided I need to do 50 km a week. It is one of those days where I really have to force myself out there - about 4 degrees, fog (just for a change), no wind, no .... anything at all. I am sitting here in my running clothes, procrastinating as usual. OK, I have to go. But first, a teensy anecdote I keep meaning to tell you about...

Get this - in the next village, the hotel is called "Gasthof Killer", which is bad enough in itself, but it is located RIGHT NEXT TO THE GRAVEYARD. Who would wish to spend the night there?? (NB: I have to give credit to Gaia for this observation.)

Now I am going.

The scary dentist

In one hour I've got an appointment with the scary dentist. He looks like a cross between Antony Worrall-Thompson and Prince Charming from Shrek (which, as any of you who have seen the films know, is not a compliment). I am not expecting to need any treatment, but it is always then that dentists find something that needs immediate and painful intervention.

I was going to go on my bike - it's about 5 miles away - but it is so foggy here, I can't even see the front gate from the house. So I shall be taking the Twingo, which is now proudly sporting the local numberplate. No more mistaking me for a Belgian!!

Yoga in the "Trachtenheim"

I can't think of a better way to translate "Trachtenheim" than "Folk Centre". It is a quaint little building, a bit like a hunting lodge, where people go, as far as I could ascertain from the decor and the photos on the walls, to wear their Dirndl/Lederhose and just hang out. It was thus a rather incongruous setting for a Hatha yoga course.

It was going well at the beginning - the teacher, Helga, had us all lying down while she gently hypnotised us into a seaside environment. I could nearly hear the waves crashing on the nearby shore, when I made the mistake of opening my eyes. Looking up, I met the beady gaze of a pair of stuffed owls perched on a giant antler.

All in all though, it was most pleasant. Helga and two other women are probably about my age - the others are well over seventy. I was really surprised to see two crusty old farmer types there (I see them all the time, racing their tractors around the village). By the end of the session I was nearly asleep, but pulled myself together for a fun drive to the nearest Lidl.

10/10/10

This is a memorable date - I read on FB that it only occurs every 1000 years (which seems obvious, in retrospect). So in spite of a day devoid of any interest whatsoever, I am posting. It's Sunday evening and I'm trying to choose whether to unload the dishwasher or clear out a cupboard in the cellar first. Writing this is just a way to procrastinate.

The best thing that happened today was the sun coming out, finally seeing the mountains again, and going for a walk along a dry riverbed with CG and Titus, who was thrilled when I found a stone with half an ammonite clearly evident. Conversation topics ranged from the different tones of cowbell ringing out across the meadows, why the ducks rejected our bread, why coots are called coots and why were we actually walking, when we could have taken the car. If I hadn't been on my feet, I'd have fallen asleep. Except the cowbells were so damn noisy.

I've decided to tackle the cupboard first. Tomorrow, at 0830 sharp, I'm starting a Hatha yoga course here in the village. Last time I tried a yoga class in Germany, I was put off by the lady next to me farting all the time. I hope the people tomorrow are more... genteel. Will report back!

Romantic dinner for three

We decided to have a romantic dinner a deux yesterday evening, as my birthday had been such a wash-out. Off we sallied in the mist to the Gasthof Froehlichs. It started well - there were enough people dining to drown our conversation and the stare-o-meter didn't even waver from zero. But by half-past eight, the others had all trundled off into the night, leaving us, our dirty plates and a very chatty waiter. Clearly he had nothing else to do but regale us with stories of restaurant life. There's nothing wrong with the guy - although even CG can't really understand him (which made me feel better) - he just didn't want to be alone. He asked for my feedback on the menu and I suggested that maybe a third vegetarian option would be nice. At this he shook his head sadly and said that the chef only liked to work with certain ingredients... he didn't elaborate, but I'm guessing pork and derivatives thereof, cabbage, and dumplings. But they threw a nice salad together for me AND we got the last two glasses of wine on the house.

We'll definitely go again, but only when we're in the mood for light banter and tales of smashed plates and drunken tourists.

We passed!!!

Yay! Our cars are fully in accordance with German safety standards. The guys cocked an eyebrow at CG's unorthodox method of operating his electric window (you need to press the button and push the glass upwards with your other hand, simultaneously) but otherwise, no problem.

So we went off to buy a new mattress to celebrate.

This afternoon Titus has his first judo lesson. We went along to watch last week, so we know that he is by far the smallest in the group. What he lacks in size, however, he makes up for in energy. He can't really be bothered to learn all the basics; his main goal is to master the trick of being able to floor all members of his family whenever he feels like it. He was also most impressed, last week, that the black belt in charge is a 70-year-old woman. She came in late, and I wondered if she was a bit senile and had put on the wrong belt by mistake. She looked so.... doddery. But then she set to work, and wow! She certainly deserves that belt. She has a wizened assistant, whose belt is brown - is this good, as in nearly black?? I didn't like to ask.

Wish us luck

It's a tense morning here. Both our cars, having been given the OK in Belgium, now have to be subjected to a more rigorous German test (the Germans clearly have no faith in Belgian auto-knowhow). If one or both of them fails, we will have no choice but to spend thousands on repairs or, worse still, buy a new one!!! We're leaving now... more later.

German footballers in the making

Last night, on his 6th birthday, Titus went to his second week of football training. World cup fever clearly infected at least ten other little boys, who were all to be found careering round a miniature pitch in the gloaming. There was a change of goalkeeper every five minutes, which I could well understand as, apart from the fact that attention spans at this age are notoriously short, it was also quite chilly, and there were thousands of mosquitoes trying to join in too.

Husband CG joined forces with the trainer yesterday, the latter having implored the former to help him out. It's true that managing a dozen kids who all want to be the next Schweinsteiger/Podolski/Klose but have absolutely no idea of the rules is quite a challenge. Rather than finding themselves a good place away from the opposing team and urging their team mate with the ball to pass, they tend to tackle the ball away from their own players, as all are only concerned with one thing - scoring a goal.

CG had things well under control when I arrived to pick them both up. The other trainer - let's call him Rolf - was loping around rather ineffectually blowing on his whistle. You could see that he would have had a nervous breakdown without CG's support. Titus was bristling with pride to have his Dad there and my heart swelled with love for the pair of them. In the space of ten minutes there were five fouls, eight corners, ten throw-ins and various tantrums. The ball was probably in the right place for ten percent of the time, and I'm being generous. But it was a joy to watch, with the backdrop of Kloster Schlehdorf and it's twin onion towers only adding to the charm of it all.

Nosy neighbours

That's what we call the people next door, who are one of those identikit, German OAP couples... you know the type - white haired, beige/pale green/brown unisex clothing, glasses, stout shoes etc. You can set your watch by their habits and they are meticulously clean. They seem to wash everything immediately after use, as far as we can see (I'm sure they're equally, if not more, hygenic indoors). Most people wouldn't consider it necessary to hose down a bike after a 5 min turn around the block, especially in fine weather. But when you've got all the time in the world, as they have, why not?

When we first arrived in mid-September, the weather was fine every day and our every move was observed by the nosy neighbours, who like nothing better than to sit on their patio watching the world go by. To their credit, they smile and chuckle and couldn't be more friendly. They even pretend to understand me when I talk to them. Nevertheless, it is unnerving to have to reverse your car down a long, narrow driveway under their scrutiny. I'm yet to crash into the gatepost, and they always give me a reassuring wave once I've made it out onto the street.

Now the days are getting colder and their terrace is a little chilly for people-watching, but I'm sure I still see the curtains twitch whenever we leave the house or return home. One thing is certain - we do not want to get on the wrong side of these guys; they are the mayor's parents, no less, and as anyone who has experienced German village life will testify, you don't mess with him!

Novelty cakes

Ever since Gaia was little, we've had a Jane Asher Book of Children's Party Cakes floating around. I bought it when I was still in good old England, where ready-roll icing and all the other essential ingredients are readily available. The years in Germany have seen me bitterly resenting the purchase of this book. Try as you might, you cannot find good alternatives here - marzipan does it's best but it's just not white or smooth enough for these creations. Yet my children still persist in leafing dreamily through Jane's designs, picking out a novelty cake for their next birthday. In Germany, novelty cakes are such a novelty that noone's started doing them yet - or at least, not to my knowledge. So I guess it is a combination of pride and stubbornness that keeps me trying, each year, to create some confectionierial delight that will put a smile on the faces of my darling children.

This year, Gaia thankfully requested Banoffee Cheesecake (Delia) - no icing in sight and it doesn't have to resemble anything other than what it's supposed to be. Titus, however, had grander plans and that is why I have just spent 2 hours creating a 'mountain with snow, pine trees on the edge and a cable car'. It could have been worse actually; he wanted Mount Fuji first but then changed his mind when he saw the Bavarian Alps.

The mountain doesn't look too bad, considering. I used green marzipan for the grassy bit and royal icing for the snow. The only tricky bit was trying to make a peak - it looked more like Tintin's quiff. To a visually impaired person, the cake definitely resembles a mountain. I know, because I squinted my eyes nearly shut, a bit like when you look at impressionist paintings, and I was convinced. The only thing I cannot do is make the cable car (which is not edible - normally I make a rule of only using edible ingredients; I suppose a goat would eat it though) actually move up and down the mountain. Oh, and the pine trees are plastic.

Ironic

It's ironic, but since starting this blog I haven't touched the mop even once. Nor have I lifted a duster or vacuumed. I'm starting to lose my touch, clearly.

Yes, what with one thing and another, I've just been too busy to clean! But that small voice that nags you to get something out of the way is getting louder. So I'll be off to go and polish those marble tiles...

Hills and dead ends

Just a little gem of information for any of you who might one day find yourselves in a similar position...

Let's say you decide to go for a bike ride, and you look carefully at the map and think you've found a good route. You set off purposefully. All is going well - the sun is shining on the mountains, the river flows majestically alongside, you marvel at the various other sights and sounds of nature. You jolly along for a couple of kilometres and feel at one with the world. Then the asphalt peters out and becomes a stony track. Not one to be easily deterred, you carry on, although you can't help but notice that your chosen path is ascending sharply. Eventually you have to get off and push, and it is normally at this stage that you pass someone on their way down (who, by the way, is never on a bike but is wearing stout boots and carrying a stick). Invariably this person will give you a strange stare. You tut and continue, as staring is a national pastime here and you've become hardened to it. Then you reach a stile and have to lug your bike over it. You scratch yourself, and your bike, in several places. The path gets steeper and narrower. Still you persevere as you know the path is part of a circular route and can't realistically get much worse. It is at this point that (a) you land in a field of young, energetic bulls, no path to be seen and a worrying lack of electricity in the fence (b) you nearly fall off a cliff or (c) you turn a corner and realise that even you cannot drag a 30 kg bike up a vertical shale mountain goat's track. So you turn around and wearily go down again, trying desperately to stop your bike wrenching itself free and careering down the hill. At the bottom, you see the hiker from earlier, sitting calmly on a bench chewing a brezl (pretzel). They acknowledge you with a mixture of disdain and amusement. You cycle back home, looking as if you've been dragged through a hedge backwards.

Don't be me. When you are accosted by the questioning stare, pretend you have dropped forgotten something (or whatever), turn yourself around and find yourself a nice, flat road. It's really not worth the hassle.

Pseudonyms

Hedda has decided that she doesn't like her pseudonym, so I've been looking up other Roman girls' names beginning with H. All I could find was "Horatia", "Hortensia" and "Honoraria", none of which suits her character and anyway, they take too long to type. She felt better when I showed her how Hedda was spelt, as this meant she could no longer confuse it with a football move.

Don't ask me why I've chosen Roman names - I guess watching the series "Rome" on DVD just before we moved here left a lasting influence. Plus I did a project on the Romans at primary school.

Masquerading as Belgians

It's no wonder that the blending in with the locals isn't going that well. Not that we've really tried - we've a cat's chance in hell of actually looking like we belong here. But it would definitely reduce the stare-o-meter scores if we changed our car number plates. I discovered the other day, quite by chance, that most of the kindergarten community think we're Belgian. Now, you know I got pretty fond of the place while I was there, but heaven forbid that anyone should think I am one. I quashed the rumour immediately and explained our somewhat complicated status. (Anything that isn't born and bred in this village is viewed as complicated.)

I find it touching that, three times in the last few days, people have asked me where I have come from (those who haven't seen my car number plate, of course). When I tell them, they make sympathetic noises about fitting in, finding doctors, dentists etc. They're not from here either, they understand exactly how it is, they say. So I ask them in return, and in all three cases, they've moved from a village not more than 30 km away! That speaks volumes, does it not...

Why you don't go to the local hairdresser!

Just got back from Murnau where I had my hair done by a very able and pleasant 'girl' (I sound like my mother!). What a relief. I knew before we moved here that I would have to find one soon and it was weighing on my mind, in all senses of the word. A few houses along from us in the village is a large sign advertising 'Hanni's Haarstudio'. How practical, I thought first, a hairdresser within walking distance. In fact, I can even see it out of my living room window. But something - caution, instinct, I don't know what - stopped me going there. Eventually I asked someone who lives down the street. Apparently, she's never been there, and nor has anyone else in the village that she knows of. Bizarre! But you know why? Nobody dares, because if Hanni were to give you a mullet, and you wished never to darken her salon doors again, she'd know about it. And in a village, that would cause no end of trouble. No, the trick is to go to a neighbouring village or town, which guarantees anonymity and reduces the risk of ever seeing the hairdresser again. Hence my decision to go to Murnau!

Turns out that my hairdresser knows Hanni, who apparently shares her premises with her husband the slaughterer, her brother the mechanic, an Oma and several cats. I feel I've had a lucky escape.