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!

Laundry day at the NNs

As we are still enjoying this (now extended) burst of unseasonal good weather, many of the jolly burghers of our village are putting their washing outside to dry again. But noone, and I mean noone, had as much laundry airing in public as the NNs. I think they must have borrowed some clothes to wash, as they surely don't possess that many themselves (I know I don't, and that's saying something). Just to show community spirit, I put one duvet cover out to dry, which I now regret as it stinks of cow manure, the smell pervading the air around here this week. Two days ago, I embraced my husband after having bathed, body-lotioned, perfumed and dressed attractively. He nuzzled my neck and took a deep, deep breath. "Aaaaah....." he said. "You smell of.... cow poo." What an erotic start to the evening!

Meanwhile the children and I listened to Bayern 1 today to hear the interview from the painting workshop at the museum. Horror of horrors - Gaia's clip was in there (no name mentioned, much to her relief) but Hedda's contribution had been edited out! I am still trying to console her.

Have you heard of Franz Marc?

No, neither had I until I moved here, but he would appear to be quite a famous artist and there's even a little Franz Marc (nickname: The Blue Rider) Museum in Kochel, just down the road.

Anyway, it is half term and the museum is offering little arty workshops. I deposited Gaia and Hedda there this morning amidst great scepticism (on their part, not mine). Much to my relief, they were not the only participants. As soon as the nice artist teacher lady arrived I beat a hasty retreat, despite the kind offer for parents to hang around and watch. Two and a half hours later, I picked them up, Titus in tow. Both girls had produced veritable masterpieces. I was entranced. My daughters are artistic prodigies! And they had been interviewed for a local radio station.

Today is one of those grey, stuck-under-the-cloud-blanket days. The only highlights this afternoon: sharpening a stick for Titus to spear 'animals' with in the garden, and trying to get Hedda to learn her 7, 8, 9 and 12 times-tables. Am going to need another two cups of coffee to get me through to that magic hour, 5 pm. Nothing really happens then, but the evening (and respite from maternal duty) no longer seems so far away. Oh, I forgot - I've got some bedclothes to iron too.

What does this list say about me??

I have just found a list I wrote two years back. Here it is:

Things I love about living in Belgium:

- All the slimming, antibloating, herbal, dietary remedies and teas

- No one seems to care much about whether you stick to the rules

- People kiss each other a lot

- The food is great

- I live on a hill and can see for miles around

- I had very few expectations and am therefore pleasantly surprised (unusual for me)

- I am nearer to England

- SHAPE international life suits me to a T

- Learning French again

- Free gym

- More money

- I see more of my husband, or should I say I see him more often

- The children are at school until 3.30 pm – unheard of in Germany (at least where we've ever lived)

What a wonderful, idyllic life I was leading! But I am wondering what the list says about me - am I even shallower than I thought???

NB: this is a rhetorical question.