Snow-woman, no cry

Take a look at this photo.  What do you see?  That's right, a solitary snowman on the shore of an alpine lake, gazing pensively into the deep, still waters.  A sight for sore eyes, and indeed so much so that it enticed me down from the path to take a picture.  It wasn't the most beautifully crafted snowman, but it did have breasts (bet you any money that its creator was male).  No, it was the serenity of the scene that made it so special.  I took the picture and would have taken more but CG, on his way to join me, knocked its head off.  The torso and breasts remained.  The head rolled gently over the shingle and came to rest on a pile of stones.  Sorry, snowman.  Or should I say snow-woman.  (Interesting that spellcheck forces me to insert a hyphen for the latter.  But only if you are a punctuation buff like me.)

So this is Christmas, and what have you done.  Well, in CG's case, you've decapitated a snowman (woman), amongst other things.  Another year is almost over.  Some people are dreading 2012, but not me.  It has a nice ring to it.  Just for once, I am extremely grateful NOT to be residing in the UK, what with the upcoming Olympic Games.  I reckon we should have left all that behind in Ancient Greece.  Modern Greece could certainly do with the income.  

When I was little, I hated it when people said, on December 27th, that Christmas was over.  Or when they asked, how was your Christmas?  I would always reply, indignantly, that there were ten days left of it.  My daughters are exactly the same, even without being brainwashed by me.  We have done Christmas proud for the last four days, but tonight we cannot face lighting the 38 candles on our tree, for which you have to be present - obviously, to light it, but I mean to ensure that whole house doesn't catch fire - so we are retreating to our room to watch three hours of TV from dear old Blighty (is Yusef finally dead?  Hope so).  Upstairs, Titus has muscled in on Hedda's sleepover.  He was offered one of his own but chickened out at the last minute.  The prospect of sleeping in the cellar of his support teacher's house was too creepy, and I've got to say I don't blame him.  

Last but not least I must salute our venerable turkey.  CG specifically requested that we should have 'enough left over for a sandwich or two' after the Christmas dinner.  Three days on, we still have a mountain of turkey meat in our fridge.  Nobody else can face any more, so it looks like turkey sandwiches for CG till 2012 pops it merry little head round the door.

High winds

Bovinia was hit by a storm called Joachim last night.  (Who chooses storm names???) A number of barns lost some roof tiles, but far worse, our satellite dish - my link to the UK - took a battering and we now have NO BRITISH TV.  Normally I wouldn't think this so disastrous, but this evening it's the final of Strictly Come Dancing and Hedda and I were so looking forward to it.

CG is pretending not to be smug, as the German channels are still working.  He claimed it would be too dangerous to climb up the snow-covered roof to adjust the dish.  If I do that, you might as well order the ambulance now, he said.  We'll see how the weather is tomorrow.  Pah!  Little does he suspect, lying there watching German football (which is much superior to English football, but then again so are most things), that he will be up on that roof tomorrow  come what may.  Or I shall do it myself.  Ah well.  I guess we know who is going to win anyway.

Have you noticed that I rarely talk about nature any more?   I hope I am not starting to take it all for granted.  This morning we awoke to a winter wonderland and it was still snowing.  Although the silly antique clock and people snoring had roused me from my sleep far too early, I felt a thrill of anticipation about my first snowy run.  There's nothing like it.  I set off down the road, treading very gingerly to avoid breaking my leg with the neighbours watching.  Everything was quiet, apart from somebody shouting at their dogs.  Within minutes I was completely alone, whiteness all around me.  It struck me that the crows, never the most dynamic and interesting of birds,  were looking particularly despondent.  Then I saw what I thought to be a husky or wolf sitting in the middle of a field.  It turned out to be a huge dark-red fox, who rushed off into the bushes when he saw me coming.  It was all wonderful.  At lunchtime, I glowingly recounted this scene to my devoted family.  CG thought for a minute.  Did the fox have bald patches and keep scratching itself, he then asked me.  No.  WHY???  Apparently, there is a vicious fox epidemic doing the rounds.  CG had heard this on Radio Oberland, his source of all regional information.  I never get to listen to it, for half way to work it starts going all crackly and I get bursts of opera singing, or people speaking Russian, which is most confusing.  And then it disappears altogether.

I don't like to think about ill foxes but at least it might mean Johann and Sophie need not be so fearful.   Goodness knows they are already scared enough.  I observed them coming home yesterday evening.  Their friends dropped them off at the end of our little road.  I swear that they all quacked goodbye to each other.  Then our two pat-patted along, very slowly, to the gate.  Every time a car went past, or somebody sneezed, or the wind whistled, they stopped and did their panic routine.  I had to ask the lady next door to pause her drilling, or they would have been standing outside all night.  She obligingly did.

Basil in winter?

I haven't blogged because nothing has happened.  Nothing of note, anyway.  All I have to offer you are little vignettes, such as today, when I decided to call in at a village shop for the first time.  The village in question, which shall remain nameless and doesn't even deserve a pseudonym, is somewhere I drive through on my way to work, and for some reason I decided to call in there today and buy a basil plant.  I should have known from the door, which looked like an ordinary house door with a knocker and a bell, that a brightly-lit, well-stocked supermarket would not be what was waiting behind it.  The door creaked in a cliched way as I opened it and peered inside.  A few wrinkled oranges, the ubiquitous sausages, a dusty linoleum floor.  Someone appeared out of the gloom and made me jump.  Can I help you, it, I mean she, enquired.  Freaked out, I tried to escape but it was no good.  I'm looking for some basil, actually, I stuttered.  Ha!  We don't sell 'things like that' here, she said.  No call for it.  Especially not in winter.  Silly me, wanting basil in winter!  (And it isn't even winter yet.) When will I ever learn?

We ate our tortellini, without the basil, and Hedda had sausages.  Titus made a big show of not eating the latter, as he has recently been talking about being a vegetarian again. According to him, he 'wanted to, but wasn't allowed' - tosh!  I told him he could when he was ready.  He swore blind that he was ready this time.  The test came this afternoon after Christmas shopping in Garmisch.  We were on our way to Burger King and the girls were licking their lips in anticipation of a big fat juicy burger.  'I shall have fries and ketchup ONLY' declared Titus.  Just outside the restaurant, he tugged on my coat.  'I am not a vegetarian yet, actually, Mummy, sorry' he said.  And proceeded to enjoy six chicken nuggets.  His justification was that they look nothing like a hen.  Interesting, as not many cuts of meat resemble the animal from which they derive, but I know what he means.  It is a well-known fact that there are 38 different ingredients in a single chicken nugget, although admittedly this refers to McDonald's ones.  Who knows - perhaps the BK nuggets only have 16, or maybe a grand total of 42?

The Nativity - live

The house is being buffeted by wind and rain and flying objects (not birds, but other detritus).  The mountains have retreated into the thick grey cloud, roads are turning into streams and we are waiting for the snow.  This didn't stop anyone from having a good time at the Christmas market yesterday evening, however.  Around here, these markets are two a penny.  Any village worth its salt has one - people come from far and wide to peruse the wares being flogged by locals and more eminent vendors alike.  It struck me last night that such markets can be quite hazardous.  You nudge your way through crowds of people, half of whom have a mug of boiling hot alcohol in their hand and a lit cigarette in the other.  For some reason, the cigarettes are always on a level with small children's eyes.  The only light comes from flickering fires and candles.  Hungry revellers fight their way to sausages spitting fat and squabble over the mustard.  If you are lucky, there will be a 'live' nativity scene.  Perhaps you are not familiar with this concept.  School children are recruited for the various roles (Mary, Joseph, Shepherd No. 1 etc) and wear their robes over winter clothes, making them all look a tad obese.  There are always real animals, that normally behave far better than the kids.  Yesterday's example had a very well mannered donkey.  I think it must have been on valium, stuck as it was in a small enclosure with four shepherds goading each other with flaming sticks.  Bored angels ran to and fro, Joseph had gone AWOL, Mary sat sadly next to the manger, her glasses steamed up from the night air.  Sheep picked desultorily at the hay around Baby Jesus.  A couple of goats locked horns and head-butted. Nobody said anything.  Parents dressed in Bavarian clothes stood at the fence and admired their offspring.  We watched for five minutes, just to see if the donkey caught fire, but it didn't, so we moved on.

Back to Friday evening and the company Christmas party.  Our 'turn' went down a treat.  Sad to say, it will not be appearing on youtube (as far as I know).  I played Prince Charming in a potted version of Cinderella.  Then we sang a silly little song, one verse each; I got to go first, naturally.  I was more terrified than I'd ever been, more, even, than when I had to play O little town of Bethlehem at a nativity play on the piano and my fingers were shaking. The rest of the evening was not too bad though, on the whole.  There were vast amounts of food and fine wines and beer and cocktails.  People I hardly knew came up to me, slinging an arm over my shoulder and slurring professions of love for the English language.  (They must have been rat-arsed.)  I was one of the first to leave at half-past midnight.  As I got into my car two hundred yards away, I could still hear roaring and raucous singing and see people leaping about.  With relief, I made my way home through the dark, rainy night.

The flame of Fatima

It's official.  The spice-fragranced bog roll is on the shelves.  So Christmas is within striking distance.  This morning I heard on the radio that we have had the dryest November in 130 years - how about that?  It didn't feel very dry to me, but then I'm not a farmer (thank goodness).  I mean, we all have different perceptions of dryness.  I think that lack of rain is probably meant, to which I say yippee!  I hate rain.

Tomorrow is (I declare needlessly) December 1st and everyone is talking about how the year has flown by, etc, etc. Max the ginger cat may have just got us into our first neighbourhood dispute.  The neighbour - who shall remain nameless - apparently collared Hedda and said our pet is a disgrace, having done his business in the entrance hall (Max, I presume).  And why don't we keep our cat in at night.  Precisely for that reason, Mr Neighbour.  I should go over there and confront him in person, but I am too scared.  Anyway, I have enough on my plate.  In two days' time it is the annual party at the company where I work.  This in itself would be quite a pleasant prospect, but sadly there is a tradition that all the newbies have to perform some kind of turn, preferably a song, in front of the assembled mass.  I cannot divulge what it is we - me and five blokes - are planning.  Highly confidential, and you never know who might read this.  I just know I won't relax until it's over with.

If all that weren't enough to contend with, I have the prospect of tonight's bellydancing session to look forward to.  Deep within me must flicker the flame of Fatima, for there is something about this kind of dancing that I feel drawn to.  Liking something does not mean that you can automatically do it, however.  I look more like a Fiona than a Fatima as I try to contort myself into the twists and turns and shimmies.  Fiona from the Home Counties wearing a curtain round her waist.  Our teacher has ambitiously decided that we should put on a show next June, part of which will involve dancing round a fire, which is surely asking for trouble with all that whirling chiffon.  Loads of time till then though, isn't there.  Except we know it will fly by.

Duck the halls

When we acquired our duck 'friends' (they hate us), I didn't envisage that the entire duck population in our street would make our garden their favourite place to hang out.  OK, there are only six in total, but it is amazing how much mess and noise they are capable of creating.  Max the ginger cat has been stunned into submission by the gang; other cats now think twice before trespassing and when they do, they hurry across the lawn in that funny way that cats run, glancing nervously from side to side.  My guess is that next year we will indeed have slug- and snail-free garden, but it will most probably be free of plants and flowers too.  A sort of desert, with only the apple tree (out of reach) and a few stones remaining.  Still, I cannot complain, for whose dumb idea was it in the first place??

I saw the mysterious shopper at Aldi again yesterday.  She is indeed American, and I am pleased to report that her cough is better.  I wonder if she realises just how well-known she is.  I had only to start my description of her and a woman I was visiting the other day knew immediately who I meant. It makes me wonder how conspicuous I must look, but not for long, or I would truly go insane.

Meanwhile we are preparing for advent.  Germans 'do' advent very well.  Other countries would call it putting up the Christmas decorations too early, but here it is approached with solemnity and pomp and splendour and the rush is now on to pack away the autumnal stuff and get out that red and green kitsch and invest in thousands of tea-lights.  The shops are heaving with Glühwein, Stollen and Lebkuchen.  All I need now is for Penny Markt to start selling their Spekulatius (spicy biscuit) scented toilet paper, and the scene will be properly set.

A lot of us about

Oh my. Another week has flown by since I last penned a few lines for cyberspace.  I wanted to write last Monday, when I found myself - I hate to admit it but it's true - stalking a woman at Aldi.  I think I told you last time I was off there in thick fog.  And there I stood, staring at the same old, same old products, heaving my habitual sigh and starting, as one must, at the coffee*.  Then I heard a voice.  It was speaking German, but I detected a nuance.  It just didn't sound... German.  English, or American perhaps (even that would do).  Confusingly, the kid in the trolley was speaking, actually screaming, German, and very authentically too. But the way Mum said 'ssshhhh' identified her as an English speaker - I can't quite explain why.  I felt curiously drawn to this stranger.  I had no wish to befriend her - cripes, she had a toddler and a baby with her, and I've put those days firmly and happily behind me - it was simply her foreignness and the air of being slightly lost that I could so easily identify with.  Not being a particularly outgoing person, there was no way I was going to approach her.  What would I say? 'Hi, I believe we both speak the same language!' Forget it.  I made do with following her, in a very discreet way, round the shop, listening to her remonstrate with her very unruly boy (another thing we had in common) and chatting to various people she bumped into.  She did have, however, an annoying throat-clearing habit, and it was this that made me decide she was American.  Sorry, readers from across the pond, but only allergy-sufferers cough in that unique way.  I also observed that she had extremely small feet, and big-footed people like me always feel slightly threatened by this.  Enough said.  I saw her last packing her kids and groceries into an SUV - another clue - whilst I was being approached by a man with several large dents in his forehead.  I forgot the stressed mother in an instant as I realised that the guy was talking to me.  Turns out he was commenting on the amount of food I had bought (that old chestnut) and, to boot, was completely loopy.  He must have shaken off his carer on the main road.  I was glad to get home, to be honest.

*I've tried going round the other way, but it doesn't render the experience any easier or more interesting.

I'd kill for a mince pie

I've been doing this blog thing for over a year now and it has become such a part of my life that I get a twitchy feeling when I haven't written for a few days.  Exactly this happened to me just now while I was mopping the marble floor tiles.  I obeyed my instincts and dropped the mop instantly, for wouldn't it be ironic if housework took precedence over the reluctant housewife's musings?  A large point would be glaringly missed.

Yesterday was Remembrance Sunday and I tuned into the BBC to watch the veterans marching past the Queen and the War Memorial.  We got a squizz at the other royals (CG about Duchess of Cambridge - wow, she's aged since the wedding; me about Prince William - he looks better in a hat) and enjoyed the music of the massed bands.  At the national anthem I got a lump in my throat and had to leave the room.  This would never happen if I actually lived in England, of course.  Lately, though, I've been getting increasingly homesick and the slightest little thing will set me off again.  Silly really, as I've been abroad now for over eleven years and you might think I would have got used to it.  I attribute this new wave of nostalgia to the Bavaria effect.  The Bavarians are very good at behaving as if nothing beyond the borders of the Free State matters much.  Beautiful though it is here, unless you travel a lot (which I don't) your life starts to consist only of mountains and onion-tower churches and pretzels.  You meet people who have never left here and never will.  The unhurried, unchanging rhythm of rural life lulls you into a state of false security.  Then you watch British TV and see a commercial for a mince pie and remember that where you come from is a long, long way away.  Not that I even like mince pies that much.

I wanted to drivel on a bit more about this but a cacophony of quacking from the garden has made me lose track.  Probably just as well.  The other two duck couples have discovered Johann and Sophie and the six of them are currently engaged in a vicious battle of hierarchy, involving lots of pecking and ducking (sorry) their heads and running around in circles.  It is clear to see that Johann is the weakest - typical - but Sophie is quite the tyrant and, I have to admit, a little too fast and free with the other drakes for my liking.  I wouldn't want her to get a reputation.

So I'm off now into the fog, shopping list in hand, to the Aldi lying in the shadow of a mountain where I'll be more likely to meet Simon Cowell than find a packet of mince pies.

Achtung! Geisterfahrer unterwegs!

Literal translation: watch out - ghost-driver on the loose.  This doesn't refer to a headless horseman or any other spectre but is just as sinister, and it seems that not a weekend goes by in Bavaria without numerous such warnings being issued over the airwaves.  Yes, the phenomenon of wrong-way driving is alive and well over here.  I have no personal experience of it, happily, but it is a subject I've had to investigate in order to provide my children with a satisfactory answer.  For a while I thought I was imagining it.  Could there really be more wrong-way drivers here than in good old Blighty?  It really seems so.  Often, they are at large on the Autobahn.  Even more scarily, you will hear of them driving the wrong way through a uni-directional tunnel.  The radio presenter will urge drivers in the vicinity not to overtake or drive alongside the confused motorist but to alert the police immediately. The question is, are they confused, or are they daredevil idiots who put the rush of adrenalin before the safety of others?  My research has revealed that they are mostly old, confused, drunk or a combination of all three, as nobody will actually admit to simply doing it for a dare.  Whoever they are, it's on the increase.  If you have ever witnessed one, I would be most interested to hear about it.

P.S. CG likes to call me the queen of coincidences, and it is true that I experience an abnormal number of them.  (I won't bore you with the details now - you'll just have to take my word for it.)  I am therefore hoping that I don't encounter a ghost-driver on my way into work tomorrow morning.

Swearing it well

I took a frisky Titus to Penny Markt this evening, against my better judgment.  He only ever offers to keep me company because his little - but considerably able - brain thinks 'sweets' and, knowing I'll be busy browsing the array of luxury goods, there is a good chance he will get some.  Today, however, I was on the ball and only allowed him a miniscule treat.  Afterwards he was sulking, big time.  We had to wait for Gaia at the station, so there we were, sitting in the dark car, twiddling our thumbs.  I became aware that Titus was muttering expletives.  I couldn't be sure what he was saying, but I knew he didn't dare to say it aloud, so it must have been bad.  Look, I said.  I'll give you ten minutes to utter as many rude words as you can think of.  Get it out of your system.  He looked suspicious and said 'arse' really, really quietly.  Oh come on, I said.  Surely you can do better than that?  He took a deep breath and shouted a string of three or four swear words.  I admit, it was strange hearing this from the mouth of my seven-year-old, and for a moment I questioned my parental wisdom.  I mean, do other mothers do that?  Is it cool or just barmy??  Anyway, he ran out of steam after the four words and was reduced to 'normal' insults like 'dwarf'.   Don't you know any more, I said.  You've only used up 40 seconds so far.  No, said Titus.  Could you teach me some please?  I had to draw the line at that, and luckily Gaia appeared just at that moment and jumped into the car. Titus wanted to show her all his swear words but, in typical big sister style, she remained completely unmoved and merely remarked that children these days are much more precocious.  At Titus' age, she maintained, she only knew 'scheisse', which doesn't even count.

It's Föhnwetter again - that unseasonally warm breeze that makes November feel like May.  CG and I were out in the garden tidying up for winter.  We were observed from both sides; by Herr NN, which is nothing unusual, and by the new neighbours in the upstairs flat and all their visitors.  We only ever see these neighbours when they go out on their balcony for a smoke, and today it was apparent that they need to invest in some more garden furniture if they are going to have regular visits from fellow smokers.  It was standing room only - even the visiting dog was out there sniffing the breeze or passively smoking, I'm not sure which.   In any case, all eight of them stared down us, and our ducks, who were making a horrible noise as they could sense the dog.

My last words today concern our dear web-footed, feathered friends.  If you are the kind of person who craves affection and devotion, don't make runner ducks your pets.  'Runner' clearly refers to their need to flee from you as fast as possible whenever you come within 3 metres of them.  One could get quite paranoid.  It doesn't take much to make them anxious, and this they display by making their heads go up and down and increasing their quacking volume.  Only Sophie can quack, though.  Johann just makes a sort of muted, strangled noise.  He really is the underduck in the relationship - he can't fly properly either, so whenever they get seriously spooked, Sophie takes to the skies and leaves him standing, ineffectually flapping his tiny wings, helplessly watching his wife as she seeks refuge in another part of the garden.  If we had chickens, too, there's no doubt he'd be a hen-pecked husband.

Don't panic

It's Halloween again (hope I spelled it right this year). This is our giant pumpkin, ably carved by CG, who was at home today while I had to work.   Whilst there I had time to reflect on my day of driving yesterday (everyone else was on holiday, so I had nothing to do at all).  I suppose it was a worthwhile exercise.  We now know that our new car has excellent brakes, at least it did before I slammed them on at least twenty times in succession on a variety of road surfaces.  Considering that most of the participants were there because they were anxious about some aspect of driving, I found it somewhat ironic that the trainer was called Ms Panick (but don't, she told us, the irony thankfully not eluding her).  

Meanwhile Johann and Sophie are settling in well, if you could call it that.  I had a moment of anxiety on Saturday though.  We had arranged a little pond for them, with a ramp for easy access.  I watched as they padded up and then promptly fell in to the water, and seemingly disappeared.  Suddenly I wondered if they could actually swim?  Imagine having to explain to people that your new ducks had just drowned.  I'd have been the laughing stock of the neighbourhood.  But they can swim, of course - they are waterfowl, after all.  Silly me.  They just needed a moment to orientate themselves.  And considering they are runner ducks, they don't spend much time running.  They hang out in the water the whole time.  I don't know what they will do in winter, because we are not planning to heat their pool.  

I have to go now.  A crowd of trick or treaters is approaching our door.  CG is lying in wait with his death mask on.  He looks too scary for words.  

Spring forwards, fall backwards

Introducing our new duck friends, Johann (right) and Sophie, who are not to be re-christened any more as the children feel it irreverent to the previous owner.  She was quite moved as she said goodbye this morning.  Johann and Sophie were very quiet during the journey home.  Apart from a couple of muffled quacks and the smell of duck poo, you would never have known they were there.  Their first day has gone pretty well, I'm thinking - they've been for a swim in their pond, they've been inspected by Herr NN, and they've fought Max and won.

Tonight the clocks go back.  The only positive thing about this is the extra hour in bed tomorrow morning, I feel.  I read yesterday with great interest that Britain is considering joining CET - about time, Blighty - but that 'Scottish farmers are not happy'.  CG remarked that they never are anyway, so why should they throw a spanner in the works?  I think it would be wonderful if Germany and Britain were in the same timezone.  Who cares what the Scottish farmers think?  If you are one, by the way, reading this in between oat harvests or whatever else you do up there, please drop me a line and enlighten us all.  I mean, we all know it is something to do with more daylight, but all the tractors round here have headlights powerful enough to floodlight a football pitch.  Surely the Scottish could stretch to this - after all, it is 2011?

I will not be languishing in bed too long tomorrow, as I must be up betimes to get to my driving course somewhere else in Bavaria (which is huge, by the way).  I know it is eighty miles from here and I have to be there by 9 a.m.  I am taking Gaia for moral support.  She is under strict instructions not to laugh or distract me when I'm negotiating the obstacle course or in the skid-pan.  Nor is she to try and do her make-up in the passenger mirror.  I am quite excited.  Everyone I know who has done one of these courses says it is exhilarating.   I chose a women-only variety, as apparently the mixed sex groups tend to be dominated by guys wanting to try out their new motor and see what it can do.  I, too, wish to do this, but my objective is safety, rather than speed.  Yes, those days are long gone.  Now I am off to adjust the first clock.

Last cow post - really

I promise this will be the last cow-related post of the year.  This won't be hard to keep, as the poor creatures are due to be locked up again till springtime.  I wonder if they know that the barn is beckoning.  Anyway.  On my run yesterday evening I came across a typical scene.  Farmer on bicycle wobbling along to field of cows.  Throws bike to the ground, grabs his stick, and goes in to usher the girls out onto the road.  They all obey in their pondering, meandering way except for one - I'm going to call her Flossie - who remained sitting on the grass, facing the opposite direction.  Farmer pokes her back end with stick.  Flossie flinches but doesn't budge. Farmer roars a strange Bavarian word.  More pokes with stick.  Flossie heaves herself up reluctantly.  Observing this from the road, I see her walk ever so slowly towards the gate, Farmer following behind.  Just as slowly and deliberately, she raises her tail and showers him with liquid excrement.  The rest of the herd and a few car drivers laugh with me as Farmer gloweringly wipes himself down. 

Once they were all on their way, I had the pleasure of weaving in between them - this is quite an art, actually, running through a cow herd.  You have to be extremely careful not to spook them as, like horses, they don't like surprises and it shouldn't be forgotten that they are very, very heavy.  A cow stepping on my foot would mean no more running for a while, perhaps ever.

Tomorrow we collect our new duck friends Donald and Daisy, and I suppose the day will be spent helping them to acclimatize to their new environment.  I have warned Max to be on his best behaviour.

The Resentment List

Dire warning from Titus this morning.  Fierce Teacher has decreed that any child coughing even once will be sent home immediately.  Panic gripped my heart.  I am half way through my trial period at work, and it would be so nice if I could manage six months without having to take any time off.  I told Titus he was not to cough.  But what if I have to, he said.  Smother it, I told him.  Because I know he is not ill.  Anyone who rides tractors and plays football in the rain wearing only a t-shirt is clearly hard as nails, and it will take more than a bit of snot and the odd cough to render him bedridden. Of course, Titus couldn't leave it at that.  He started listing illnesses and injuries of increasing gravity to test my response.  This game is otherwise known as 'how merciless is my mother?' - I know it well, as it's been passed down to him by Gaia and Hedda.   According to Gaia I am one of the least sympathetic mothers ever.

Children naturally assume the role of upholder of the maternal guilty conscience.  I know that my three have a bottomless pit of incidents pertaining to every area of daily life, ranging from petty disappointments (not checking that the swimming pool was open, and having to drive home again; not reserving cinema tickets and arriving to a sold-out film) to broken or forgotten promises on a larger, more complicated scale (fitting out the doll's house with electric lights, getting pet rabbits).  Thus far the winner has to be Gaia's sixth birthday, when she was given a miniature potter's wheel, lots of slimy clay and powder and all the stuff that you might expect to find in a pottery set.  The picture on the box was enough to send most parents running for cover, being of three children smeared with clay, forming uneven shapes in a room equally smeared with clay.   OK, admittedly it looked fun. But I couldn't bear the thought of the mess, so I kept saying when you're seven.  And then she was seven, and I still couldn't face it, so I put it off another year.  And again, and again, until finally she lost interest in it and we gave it away to a deserving cause.  (I think a local occupational therapy centre, but that is irrelevant.)  Anyway, not only does Gaia sporadically remind me of this.  Hedda and Titus, in solidarity, also wheel it out when it suits their cause.  I swear that one day, when I am old and rich, I will send them all on a week-long pottery course, perhaps in Stoke-on-Trent, and they can muck around and form pots a la Patrick and Demi to their hearts' content.

I just heard an ominous cough from upstairs.  Poor Titus.  I'm willing him through two more 'days' at school - remember they are only there for three hours - and then he can relax into autumn half-term and all the joys that Halloween has to offer, if I only remember to pick up a giant pumpkin on the way home from work tomorrow.  There's an old bloke - he may have served in the last world war - standing by a pile of them at the roadside.  He looks scary, to be honest, which is why I always tootle on past, but I don't want this Halloween to be added to the Resentment List (I can just hear it now: Mummy, you said you'd get us a huge pumpkin.  Since you've been working you forget EVERYTHING!)  so I'll be sure to stop and choose his plumpest specimen, so to speak.  And then gare out the flesh with a sharp knife.  Grrr.

To absent friends

Last week a crumpled piece of paper in our letterbox announced the annual wreath-laying ceremony of the Bovinian Military Reservist and Veteran Society.  (What a long sentence.)  CG thought, as a serving officer, that it would be a nice idea to go along and offer moral, and possibly other, support.  Being, as you know, of a curious nature, I was keen to accompany him and was proud when we set off, so fine he looked in his regalia, tall and upright, buttons gleaming.  The sun had long set when we arrived at the the meeting place and focal point for all Bovinian events, the maypole.  We looked around for other uniformed personages, but could only see the brass band warming up, which they needed to badly, as it was freezing.  You might think they were playing a few last minute scales and arpeggios, but actually their idea of preparing for a performance is hurriedly chain smoking and draining their beer glass as they gather up their respective wind instrument. A few other figures lurked in the gloaming, all over seventy years of age, woolen cardigans under their blazers and various sashes and feathers adorning their hats/shoulders/whatever.  We presumed these to be the Society, as such, as there was nobody else around, and edged towards them.  As usual we were eyed suspiciously and not a word was uttered, until the tallest of the grey men approached CG and asked worriedly if he was a VIP.  At which my husband laughed - in a kind way, I should add - and said he was 'just a normal soldier', and the grey tall man heaved a sigh of relief and introduced himself as the Chairman.  The Society, quite sizable really with 93 members, was present in a somewhat depleted form, he said, as most were carousing at a wedding in another village. So it was just us, the old guys, the band and then the mayor, whose arrival always puts the official seal on things.  I asked the mayor if I should be part of the procession, being the only woman, and he ushered me into line with a wicked chuckle.  Before I could protest, the band struck up a jaunty tune and off we marched.

Thank goodness it was dark.  I felt most ill at ease in a line of military men, albeit mostly decrepit.  And just for your future reference, don't try it with a handbag on your shoulder - it severely affects arm swinging symmetry.  It wasn't a long way into the church, where I escaped into a pew at the earliest opportunity.  The mass was short and business-like.  We had the feeling that Father Hans had his eye on an unseen clock and I felt pretty sure that his mind was on his planned activities for the evening.  Perhaps a nightclub in Munich?  Surely there is a place where they all go and let their hair down.  He rattled through the service, we all poured out into the cold night, and stood around while tall grey Chairman made a brief speech and laid a wreath at the village war memorial. Bovinia wouldn't be Bovinia without the token surprise, though, and this time it was three huge canon blasts - I know not from whence they came - which shook us to the core and caused the maypole to visibly wobble.  Then they all got in line again, except CG who'd had enough of being the only one in a real uniform and needed to get home and into back into mufti.  As we drove away the band and the old men paraded up and down the street, and the audience drifted into the Gasthof for a quick schnapps.  The smell of old schnitzel frying fat wafted out as the door opened.  The flaming torches around the maypole were efficiently extinguished by the bored local fire brigade, and peace was once again restored to the village centre.

New faces and moonshine

Our next-door-neighbours, the NNs, have got a new tenant in their upstairs flat.  According to Frau NN, it's a separated man - let me rephrase that, a man who has just separated from his wife - and he'll be living alone, primarily.  I had to ask as to the meaning of primarily in this instance.  Frau NN went on to say that although his marriage is over, his wife intends to come over every weekend to do his cooking and washing (presumably his clothes).  Does she have a screw loose, or just a guilty conscience?  Who in their right mind would do this??  I haven't seen the new neighbour yet, but Gaia, who spied him in the garden yesterday, says he is the spitting image of 'the perverted murderer from The Lovely Bones'.  It turned out she had only seen him from behind, so he may not be that bad.  Time will tell.

In the last blog I told you that we might be acquiring some ducks.  It is now official, and they will take up residence on 29th October.  We have decided to change their names to Donald and Daisy.  Original that is not, but these are the only two names the whole family could agree on.  They don't know how lucky they are.  Last Sunday was a feast day known as Kirchweih, and ducks all over Bavaria were slaughtered and served up with red cabbage and a smattering of spices.  All Donald and Daisy will have to worry about is the prominent cat community.  Not Max himself, who is a bit of a wuss, but other, more aggressive types.  You may wonder why we are getting ducks at all, but the other two runner duck couples in the street seem to hold their own very well and don't let anyone, feline or otherwise, ruffle their feathers.  They just move away quickly, making gentle quacking noises (strange, I know) to somewhere out of harm's way.

How can I go without telling you about what I did this morning.  I got up at three thirty a.m. to meet some people from work for a Mondscheintour, a moonlight hike up to the top of the Herzogstand (one of the nearby mountains).  We reached the top ten minutes before the sun rose.  I cannot describe the beauty of it all.  It more than compensated for the tiredness I am now feeling.  Snow-capped peaks bathed in an orange glow, valleys thick with drifting cloud, absolute silence, and then the sun bursting over the horizon bathing everything in light.  The cloud and fog slowly moved away to reveal the lakes and villages below.  It was stunning.  On the way down we met several people on their way up, all looking a bit dour, to be honest.  I greeted them all perkily, feeling smug that just for once, I was one of the first instead of dragging my way up at midday.  I don't think they appreciated my cheeriness, but they might be feeling a bit better now, sitting up there sipping tea and chewing a Weisswurst.  I hope so.

Mmm, that looks good - what is it??

My blog suffers when we have visitors.  But that is the only downside of having loving family to stay.  They've gone now, so I'm settling back into 'normal' life. Might as well enjoy it while I can, for guess what - we are about to acquire two new additions!  No, I am not pregnant with twins; nor is anyone else.  Tomorrow morning, we are going to meet Johann and Sophie, a pair of Indian runner ducks - whose owner can no longer keep them due to 'lack of space'. On the telephone, the current owner confided that it 'would break her heart to see them go' and that such an amicable couple of ducks I would never find, even if I searched the length and breadth of Bavaria.  Talk about raising my expectations.  I know that Johann has a green head, and that Sophie has a brown back and white chest (not unlike somebody who fell asleep while sunbathing; my words, not the duck lady's).  But the rest remains to be seen.  I didn't wish to commit myself to taking them by phone - they might only have one leg between them.  More tomorrow.

Let me just give you a little update about my world of work.  It really isn't going too badly now.  I daren't write too much about it, or invent pseudonyms for my colleagues, tempting though this is.  That would be most unwise, I feel.  Eventually, the good people would come across my blog, identify themselves and bang - I'd be sent to Coventry before you could say unmanned aerial vehicle.  I can impart, however, that I am tiring of having my lunch analysed by everyone who passes.  It is true that I take a lot of time and effort to prepare myself a healthy and appetising repast.  If nothing else, it provides something to look forward to during the long morning hours (I start at 7.30 a.m. - criminal).  It was hard, in the beginning, to get used to eating in front of people who are not also eating.  I have always disliked this.  I've had to get used to it, otherwise I would be horribly hungry by the time I get home.  It spoils the taste of a good salad, however, when I have to recite the ingredients six times whilst consuming it.  Yesterday I had two or three colleagues discussing my lunch, even arguing about whether sun-dried tomatoes go with lentils or not.  I try to take all this as a compliment, even when a particular person - particular being the operative word - leaned over my shoulder, peered into my plate and said mmm, how delicious, except I could never eat that, I hate sun-dried tomatoes.  Just as well I am not offering you any, I privately thought, so bugger off and let me eat my lunch in peace.  I couldn't face the same again today, neither the food nor the attention, so I took peanut butter sandwiches.  You know what happened?  People still stopped and commented, but this time it was whaaat?  That's all you're having???  Are you ill, perhaps?  I wolfed down the sandwiches and wound up with peanut butter sticking to the roof of my mouth and had to swill it off with a cup of tea.  I was pleased when the whole spectacle was over and I could concentrate on reading the weather forecast online.  A glorious weekend beckons.

The big green container

What an enticing title.  If you even clicked on it, which you must have or you wouldn't be reading this, you must be having a slow day in the office/at home/wherever.  As I have now got your attention, though, let me remind you of posts from a year back, when the big green garden waste container was deposited at the end of our street and our neighbour, Herr NN, was positively orgasmic about its arrival.  If you have been following this blog from the beginning, you may remember that he would not rest until we had also made the acquaintance of the container and trailed down the street with a full wheelbarrow.

Well, it's there again (it has a summer break, for who needs to dispose of garden waste then).  Usually I wait for CG to do all the recycling/waste/rubbish jobs, because he is a man and they don't seem to mind as much as women do.  But he wasn't there and we had a huge pile of old foliage, so I piled my barrow high and trudged off to the BGC.  Whilst I was struggling to dump my load therein, the toothless, be-hearing-aided man who 'works' there came to my assistance.  Haven't you got a husband to do this, he asked.  Sure, I said.  But he's away at the moment.  Ah, said the man.  Would that be the Preuss (Prussian) who works down in Garmisch?*  That's him, I said.  And I am from England.  At this his eyes lit up.  Apparently his grandson had been there recently, and what had impressed him the most?  That the buses stop wherever you want them to.  I asked him if he meant London.  Yes indeed, he said.  That is England, isn't it?  Mmm.  I thought of shattering his illusions for a moment, and telling him that his grandson must have availed himself of the expensive hop on, hop off tourist bus service in old London town, but then it occurred to me that it was the first time a Bavarian had said something positive about England, so I let it lie.  He's far too old to go and find out for himself. Doing a neat turn with my barrow I tried to leave, but he'd pinned me down (metaphorically speaking only, I hasten to add) and I had to listen to a further ten minutes of dialogue about the bus-riding grandson who was training to be a famous actor.  Finally somebody pitched up with a trailer full of tree branches and he lost interest in me, so I trundled off back home.

*Bavarians call anyone who comes from the North of Germany Prussian (Bavarian: Preiss), and woe betide you if you are one - it's better to be English, and that's saying something in these parts.

Feeling my age and loving it

I should have blogged about being 40 before now, but somehow things have been a little crazy since I crossed the line.  And as in the last six years, I have little time to recover before I tackle the next challenge, namely Titus' birthday cake.  Now you may remember the mountain cake with cable car from last year.  Well, he requested the same again, but I had to decline, mindful of the hours I spent sculpturing green marzipan and white royal icing onto lumps of lemon sponge cake.  Not to mention the cable car wires.  His only other suggestion was the Titanic (what else) but, as that is really beyond my powers, I have privately settled for a volcano, based on the mountain principle but using melted chocolate and poppyseeds for the covering instead.   I haven't yet worked out how to do the molten lava dripping down the sides, but I do have an idea for the smoke.  Watch this space. (As I wrote then, the space is now filled with above photo.)

So back to my new decade.  It feels just fine, actually.  I think it helps that I live in a country where people always talk up their ages - they'll happily say they are already 59 in January, even though their actual birthday is in August.  This means that most people around me who are aware of my year of birth will already have written me off as 40 way back in the spring.  October 1st is thus merely a formality.  Anyway, I was lovingly spoiled and treated like a queen and all the things that one should feel when happy, I did.  When else will I be in an expensive clothes shop with CG, see an amazingly beautiful pair of exorbitantly priced trousers, sigh, oh my, aren't they lovely, to hear the words - try them on!  I'll buy you them.  I rushed to the changing room before he could change his mind.  They fit like a glove - or should I say a sock, as I don't have enough legs for a glove - and I am now the proud owner thereof.  I spared a thought for all those hard done-by wives, who have to make do with a new ironing board or vacuum cleaner, as I skipped out of the shop.

House arrest

Titus, having sneaked off to ride in the tractor cab one time too many, was grounded over the weekend.  It is disconcerting not to be able to find our son when we need him, and then to see the ancient tractor juddering past our kitchen window, assorted children (including Titus) clinging on for dear life inside.  As it appears to be the local attraction I don't wish to forbid it, but disappearing without telling us is a no-go.  On Saturday morning, he spied his friends - and the farmer - on the field and asked if he could go outside.  Why not, I said.  Oh no Mummy - I can't, said Titus.  I'm grounded, remember?  How kind of him to remind me.  I cleared my throat, regaining the ascendancy.  Well of course you are.  I was just checking.  For a while Titus enjoyed his temporary status as house prisoner.  He mooned around, gazing out of windows with longing akin to that of the Count of Montecristo, sighing and saying how he wished he were free.  Clearly the punishment had backfired, but on Sunday afternoon it struck him that it was actually really annoying to be playing Old Maid with us while his friends were out hitting mice on the head with spades under the direction of the tractor driver. (Yes, really!  They flood the holes with water, lie in wait for the fleeing mice,  then do the dreadful deed.)  His 'friends' didn't help by shouting and waving at him the whole time.  In the end we relented and let him spend the last half hour of daylight frolicking - I prefer to think of it that way - having assured us that he would never disappear again.  Until next time.

Fine dining and other snippets

You know when you watch a scene unfolding, and it doesn't seem real, until you realise it is and you spring into action - let's say, because your cat is eating from your daughter's plate.  As happened today.  Mad Max was in his customary place under the table, where, unless we remember to put him out first, he likes to lie in wait for scraps to fall and for small legs to dangle, just waiting for him to claw at, which he duly does, completely unperturbed by the shrieks and squawks that ensue.  So there was he, and there was Hedda eating fish fingers and mashed potato, and I had to go outside for a second.  Then I saw, from the garden, that Hedda had gone and in her place sat Max, like a fine diner, front paws on the table and the rest of him neatly arranged on her chair.  I banged on the window and he looked round, face smeared with mayonnaise, paused his chewing for a second to check I was no imminent threat, and continued.  Hedda comes back into the room.  Screams.  I think about making her eat it anyway, but don't want to get into trouble with Social Services.  Give the rest to Max.  One nil to cat.

Next snippet for today.  Last night saw the first of many parents' evenings.  Luckily CG was around, as we had two at the same time.   We drew lots for who should attend the less dull.  I lost.  Two hours and umpteen digressions, boring anecdotes and petty squabbles later, we - that is to say, the teacher and the parents who could still be bothered to talk - were discussing the first grade timetable.  The woman next me was trying to ascertain which religious education class her child should attend.  (From the wide range of Catholic and Protestant.)  Easy, says Teacher.  Whichever one you like!!  Ah, says woman.  We are Muslims.  All the Catholic mothers then piped up, choose ours - it's much more similar to Islam!  If I hadn't been so desperate to get home I might have ventured a comment.  Can anybody please tell me why Catholicism is more similar to Islam than the Protestant Church?  Surely the major role played by the Virgin Mary renders Catholicism further removed, not nearer to Islam? Or am I missing something?

Last snippet, quite literally.  I took my newly acquired Bavarian outfit to the dour dressmaker today.  She was a bit sniffy about it, as I knew she would be.  My pointing out it was a bargain didn't move her one bit.  If you're going to live here, then might as well have one, she grudgingly said.  But real ones should have ... and then she launched into a list of dirndl attributes, all the while sticking pins into my midriff.  I left the dress with her, privately wondering when I would see it again.  There's no rush, is there, she said.  It's not as if you'll be wearing it to the Oktoberfest.  I am still wondering why she said that.

Two more weeks of thirty-something

... indeed.  In a fortnight I shall be forty years old, which, although I am trying not to care, does bother me immensely.  Not so much that I mind being forty (although I haven't tried it yet) - more that it marks the passing of time.  I remember, as a child, trying to imagine October 2011; it always seemed so comfortably long away.  And now it's nearly upon us.  CG, never one to over-emotionalise a situation, or even emotionalise it, blithely pointed out this morning that after his next birthday (44) both of us will be the same age as our shoe size.  A reassuring if somewhat irrelevant thought.

But let's get back to the daily grind of the sawmill in Bovinia; the whine of the chain saw, the chorus of lawn mowers, and the swallows gathering on electricity lines wondering if it's cold enough to head back South yet.  We have now been here for an entire year, and the whole cycle, duly noted in this very blog-book, is about to start again.  Except it won't be as strange this time.  I won't nearly fall off my bike when I see a fat man in leather shorts, and I'll know to turn my head away from potential early morning skinny-dippers at the local lake.  I'll stop feeling sorry for the cows, as they really don't look too unhappy with their lot.  I shall pretend to look forward to the snow coming, and I will not, most definitely not, go to the wine festival at the fire station this year.  However much they plead.  In fact, festivals of any kind are best avoided, unless you are part of the band or the mayor.  I have bought myself a dirndl - admittedly a bargain second-hand one, but I just couldn't resist - and one day, I may even wear it.  I've been wanting to dress up like Heidi ever since I was six, when my cousin got the alpine maid fancy dress costume while I got the nurse.  And here, at nearly forty, is my chance.  First though, it's back to the dressmaker down the road for some essential alterations (in case you were wondering, she did eventually return the other items).

I shall try to write more soon.  A fun-packed week awaits, with three parents' evenings and two and a half days at the unfriendly company where I am now employed.  Turns out that certain people there had been wanting someone else to get the position, which would explain, but not justify, their icy treatment of me.  Shame, because irrational behaviour like that cannot be reasoned with.  I just might keep reading those situations vacant.   The coffin-bearer job is seeming quite attractive right now.

Moove over darling

As so often happens when I am already late, I got stuck behind a herd of cows this morning on the way to work.  I didn't allow this to get me down, however, telling myself that more haste was less speed, and hummed along to a Beach Boys song on the radio.  The cows took their time and one in particular seemed reluctant to move along.  She then planted herself in front of my car and mooed - presumably loudly; my music was so loud I couldn't really tell - until the irate farmer stomped over and gestured to me that I should open the window.  Unwillingly I obeyed, knowing I wouldn't understand a word he said.  Sure enough, he was completely unintelligible, so I had to ask him to repeat himself, the silly cow mooing the whole time making things even worse.  I felt myself breaking out in a nervous sweat when I suddenly clicked - he wanted me to turn the volume down!  The Beach Boys (Sloop John B, if you must know) were perturbing Brunhilde.   I complied with the farmer's wishes, simultaneously wondering what the world is coming to when you can't listen to the radio in your own car without curdling the local milk.  Sure enough, Brunhilde shut up immediately and gallumphed off after her friends.  I swear she had a spring in her step. The farmer got back on his rickety bike, waving his stick, and he and his accomplice saw me on my way with evil stares.  I shuddered despite the warmth of the morning, but at least this meant I was glad to get to work, where the people seemed quite friendly, comparatively speaking.

Temper temper

Despite his being nearly seven, Titus' Rumpelstiltskin tantrum attacks are showing no signs of abating.  Last week we had the boat scene.  And at the weekend he decided to throw a wobbler on a precarious mountain path, on each side of which was a thousand metre drop.  Just to give you an idea - "I'M GOING TO JUMP OFF THE MOUNTAIN, AND THEN I'M GOING TO PUSH YOU OFF TOO!!!!!" (I thought of pointing out the flaw in this plan, but decided against it.)  He scampers off furiously, elbowing innocent bystanders aside, who can only wonder at this small demonic figure and his hapless parents.  Said parents exchange glances and ask themselves where on earth they went wrong.  But within minutes it's all over.  A chastened Titus waits for me behind a stunted pine tree and puts a sweaty paw in mine.  Would you like to have my crisps Mummy, he says, the ones I really really like but I want to give to you now?  I decline - I never have liked barbecue flavour, otherwise I might have been tempted - and forgive him, as usual, for isn't that what mothers do.  And I know that giving up his crisps would have been a huge sacrifice.

Luckily, good humour was soon restored, and we progressed happily along to the cable car, which I would like to say was waiting to transport us smoothly to the valley, but actually we had to stand in line for at least half an hour.  No matter.  The sun shone and people ignored the no smoking signs and I watched other badly-behaved children being annoying, pleased that mine were, at that moment, being models of good behaviour.

So it's back to work today.  I wonder what delights will be lying in store?  Gosh, I can hardly contain myself.  Maybe somebody might - just might - be friendly? Better not get my hopes up though.

Bovine antics

I know, I know.  Not everyone is as interested in cows as I am.  But I remain faithful to my cause of promoting the bovine as a fascinating and much-underestimated animal.  Take Yvonne, the Bavarian cow who, since the end of May, has been on the run.  Yvonne is practically a star; at time of writing she remains at large, hanging out somewhere in a dense forest.  There is a ten thousand euro reward for the brave person who not only finds her but, if not actually catches her, keeps her occupied until the police/vet/farmer cavalcade arrives to take her home.  Various blurry photos of Yvonne have been broadcast.  Despite the poor quality of the pictures, the determined gleam in her eyes, the gleam that says, enough of twice-daily milking and perpetual pregnancy for me, is plain to see.  Apparently she is aggressive and extremely crafty, and suddenly the media is waking up to the fact that cows are not, contrary to popular belief, stupid.  The strong herd instinct makes them appear that way, but they are actually pretty wily.

Just over the road from us there is a cluster of large brown dairy cows and the clanging of their bells, a sound I found almost intoxicating when I first arrived last year, was beginning to get on our nerves.  It seemed pointless to put a bell on a cow that is in an enclosed space and cannot escape (unless it's called Yvonne).  Yesterday I noticed that only one of these cows is wearing a bell, and she spends her entire time following her fellow inmates around and trying to lean her head on their back or sides.  At first this appeared to be affectionately meant, but after a few minutes of observation I realised she is trying to muffle the bell, which is, naturally, driving her nuts.  It is a futile attempt but not at all stupid.

So I'm off to work again today.  Who knows what will greet me on arrival - perhaps a coachload of people off to a luxury spa, just waiting for me to turn up and manage the phones before they tootle away to Austria?  Come now, do not be so cynical (I address myself here).  After all, seeing my pay in my bank account yesterday gave me a lovely warm sensation and made it all seem worthwhile.  I was so happy that I agreed to take all three children out on a boat trip.  One of those pedalo things that you need long legs for.  All in all, it was a pleasant experience, though Titus leaping around the boat akin to a mountain goat prevented me from relaxing completely.   And then, when he started one of his Rumpelstiltskin tantrums, we got really nervous.  Hell hath no fury like a Titus scorned.  Luckily we distracted him by pretending he was Captain Smith of the Titanic, deftly steering his craft through the icebergs (orange buoys) back to shore (the jetty).  If only Captain Smith had done so - history would look so different.

The first snow of summer

Ah, thank you for the morale boosting comments from here and other quarters.  I shall carry them close to my heart as I trudge along the long and winding road towards acceptance.  Have to say, I've completely lost interest in new and challenging environments.  I just want to fit in, see to my daily affairs (aren't I the lucky one) and not have to get to know another person for at least six months.

The new car arrived yesterday (sadly not a Mini Cooper, but lovely nonetheless) and it was actually quite touching to observe the stir it caused in our little cul-de-sac.  Herr NN was beside himself with excitement.  He's been on a high recently anyway, as they've been having their house repainted and had to have scaffolding erected and so on.  I am surprised the painter got any work done, as Herr NN stood chatting to him the whole day long.  Plus he seemed to do all his painting with a cigarette hanging from his lip and a bottle of beer in his hand.  But I digress.  I had to push my way through the cluster of neighbours to make my maiden voyage yesterday evening, to guess where - the oh-so-thrilling Pennymarkt (we'd run out of Happy End toilet paper and I cannot contemplate another brand, in case the end is not so happy).  I also had to pick up Gaia from the station and am pleased to report that she likes the car and has now readjusted to being with her dreadful family after 3 weeks away, doing exactly as she pleased.

Today the temperature had dropped 26°C overnight.  I could see the first covering of snow on the higher peaks as I went for a lightning cycle ride this evening.  Funny how yesterday I was sent home from the office early (thank you, Mr Managing Director) due to the baking heat, and today I had to wear socks and a jacket for the first time in weeks.  I put some other clothes on too, in case you're wondering.  Life at home has taken a real turn for the better since we've had Brit-TV again.  CG is amusing himself by flicking through the channels and trying to imitate the various regional accents.  He was particularly tickled by Mancunian (Come Dine with Me).  I suppose it does sound a little strange, though nothing compared to Bavarian.

New kid on the block

Really felt like the new girl at work today.  Arrived at midday in the shimmering heat, sat down at my desk, was greeted with the words 'we're off to lunch now' - no problem in itself.  Then I'm offered a glass of champagne and OJ, which I accept, against my better judgment. Then all the female members of staff go off and have lunch together in an adjoining room, celebrating somebody's birthday (hence the Buck's Fizz), without a word of explanation, leaving me to man the phones. Even the cleaning lady had been invited.  They all looked a bit shifty and I have to be honest, I was hurt. When they weren't looking I chucked my drink away and sat there trying not to cry.  Until the rational side of me kicked in and said get a grip.  So I did, and smiled at them merrily when they emerged, burping delicately, from their exquisite repast. It's hard being the new kid when you're nearly forty.

Yesterday we bought a new car.  That is to say, we borrowed a lot of money to buy a new car.  It's red and black like a ladybird, though luckily the design is a little different.  And just as we were preparing to bid an emotional farewell to our trusty green Twingo, who has served us well for over nine years, it broke down and I had to be rescued by one of my new (male) colleagues in order to get home.  He recharged my battery - lucky me - and I juddered off back to Bovinia.  Twingo, you've got to hold out just a little bit longer.  Just until you are exchanged for the smart new red/black number and head off for the great Renault garage in the sky.  I've heard it's nice there - diamonds are forever (oblique reference to Renault logo).

Deep sigh, deep sigh.  Work again tomorrow.  More smiling and fitting in. Glad to have a job at all; it's got to get better soon!  Surely?

The wrong baby

Thanks to CG I have the perfect subject for my first blog in three weeks.  We're staying with our friends Lance and Antje near Cologne this weekend, but that's largely irrelevant.  Yesterday evening, CG proudly showed me his new wallet, all his cards nicely arranged (it took him half a day to do this) and in pride of place were his photos of children and wife.  One picture caught my eye and I examined it more closely.  That's Hedda, CG assured me.  But guess what  - it is not Hedda, but an unknown child.  The upshot of this all is that my husband has been going around with a picture of the wrong baby for the last eight years.  When I woke up this morning I mulled over this a bit.  Am I being too naive?  Could it be that he has a secret love child? Does he have a different wife photo too? Have no fear, tis not the case.  But ask yourself this - if any picture of a cute blonde toddler will suffice, why go to the lengths of taking photos at all?

The situation has now been rectified.  The unknown child turned out to be my god-daughter, now resident in the USA, so it is not that bad.  I shall let her know that she has occupied a place close to my husband's heart for most of her life.  Now, somewhat hung over, we are about to catch a train into the city centre and look at the famous black cathedral.  Gaia is due back from her tour of Eastern Europe at 4.15 pm and only luck and a shoe string will ensure that she actually catches the train, does not get off at the wrong stop or fail to get off at all - both cases have occurred in the past.  Luckily Cologne central station is a terminus, so the worst thing that can happen is that she stays in her seat and we'll have to bang on the window to make her get out.

We had a wonderful week in Croatia - more about that another time.  Enduring memory - Titus screaming as a plastic bag wrapped itself around his leg whilst snorkelling in the Adriatic (he, not the bag).  Fat Polish men (sorry - note to self - stop making negative observations about Poland) in tight Speedos smoking and - guess what - scratching.  Why do men do that so much?

Cow on a stick

Really I mean cow AND a stick, but I thought 'on' sounded more interesting.  I chose this title for, on my way home from my new job this afternoon, I had to slow down for a very fat farmer, who was wobbling along on a bike and prodding a reluctant cow along with a big stick.  The cow looked most displeased at being prodded, and I wondered why she didn't kick out slyly and send Bauer Sepp (as farmers are known round here) flying.  Prodding cows along the road is a prominent feature of the summer months in Bovinia.  If you are unlucky, and particularly if you are already running late, you will get stuck behind as many as three different herds, all meandering slowly either to or from their byre, dropping dollops of cow-pat on the road and trying to eat  the hedge.

But enough of cows.  A few weeks back, I had the bright idea of asking the local dressmaker (yet another of the cottage industries in our street) to alter some clothes for me.  I went along with Titus and explained what needed doing, and she promised to have it done in a jiffy.  I am now questioning what a Bavarian jiffy entails, since I have heard absolutely nothing from her, though I pass her house regularly.  Rather than spying her bent over a hot sewing machine, I usually see her engaging in the local sport of chatting to the neighbours over the fence.  I look hopeful and try to catch her eye, but she is always preoccupied with swapping lawnmower tips or comparing chainsaws/tractor tyres/window boxes with Frau Schmidt next door.  Titus did try to warn me - he was aghast that I simply handed over my as yet unworn purchases - "she didn't even give you any money for them Mummy!  She just took them!"  Indeed.  As we are leaving for a sunny Croatian island at three tomorrow morning, I have had to abandon all hope of getting my summer dress back in time to take with me.  I had to poke around my bare wardrobe for some paltry alternatives.  CG had absolutely no sympathy.  Incomprehensibly, he thinks I have far too many clothes.  This, although I warned him years ago in the first flush of new marriage that a woman can and will never have too many clothes, shoes, or earrings.

So, in exactly six hours our alarm clock will ring, and we shall leap out of bed with zest and zeal and reach blindly for the coffee machine.  If I am going to learn some Croatian I'd better hurry up.  I feel rather unmotivated, it is true to say, but at the very least I shall try and master 'a glass of cold dry white wine please' or, failing that, just 'please' and point at the bottle.  Adieu, dear readers.  I'll be back browner, and probably plumper, in a week's time.

This and that - mostly that

Day Two of new job successfully completed.  Am devoid of humour, being completely exhausted from smiling and trying to fit in to the company image.  Livened up what was left of the afternoon by feeding the neighbours' goldfish to their cats.  Sorry, I mean and their cats.

Yesterday evening I took Gaia to the airport for her flight to Poland.  She has been paid a thousand euros by the Polish Tourist Board to go there, hold out for two weeks on a campsite at the Polish Riviera and come back raving about how wonderful everything is.  Hopefully the idea will catch on and Poland will become THE holiday destination of the future.  I jest, of course.  True, she has gone to Poland, with some misgivings, but the first SMS was extremely positive in tone - off to the beach following tasty breakfast.  As for what she'll get up to in the evenings, I have no clue, nor do I want one.  Definitely a case of what the eye doesn't see, the heart doesn't grieve after.

I was about to tell you about our planned trip to Croatia, but I fear Titus has just been kidnapped by a local farmer, so must dash.  Said farmer likes to drive around with children in his tractor cabin.  Sounds harmless enough, but I'll take a look just in case...

Parenting for dummies

Titus is going to kindergarten for the last time ever today.  This means no more Fierce Devout Teacher, but if you think I'm sighing with relief, think again.  For last night I attended the first of many parents' evenings with his new school teacher, and just five minutes in her company was enough to confirm that she will outdo her kindergarten colleague in every way.  She kicked off the fun with a list of 'tips' for us parents, which were actually thinly disguised rules, and had she given us a copy I'd gladly reproduce it for you here.  Sadly, we had to rely on taking notes.  My heart sank lower with every rule - sorry, I mean tip - in fact, by the time I went home it had dropped through the floor into the girls' toilets on the floor below.  So.  We parents must be models of good behaviour.  We must read regularly, not only aloud to our children, but be seen reading a variety of literature around the house.  We must seem to be enjoying said literature, the aim being that Junior thinks hey! Mom and Pop are reading and having so much fun.  I must learn how to as soon as possible, then I can have that much fun too!
Next, we never jump red lights, even when we are in a hurry.  We don't swear.  While Junior is doing his homework, we stay within earshot, but not too close.  We keep distractions at bay and make ourselves available to our child at all times, engaging ourselves in tasks that can be easily broken off at any time.  Then came my personal favourite - the snack, or Pausenbrot as it's known here.  Specific rules apply; two slices of thick wholegrain bread, spread with butter, filled with cheese, ham or sausage and at least one kind of vegetable.  Sugar is strictly forbidden.  And let's not forget TV.  Teacher's preference would be that her pupils watch none at all, but even she, oh paragon of virtue and mother of two well-adjusted high-achieving daughters, had to admit that a minute number of programmes could be of educational value.  Preferably, parents select TV shows in advance after a mature discussion with their partner.  They watch with the child and then analyse the content afterwards, to ensure Junior has learned something.  If not, that particular programme is no longer in the running for future viewing.

And so it went on.  And on.  Parents' evening is compulsory, Teacher notes each and every no-show.  Even one of these can have a negative influence on the child.  Don't buy cheap arts and craft materials - children are quick to notice when their glue, or brush, or pinking shears, are of a lower calibre than others.  Practise the journey to school with your child.  Make sure they wear the right clothes, shoes, hat. Last but not least, the sheep were separated from the goats: all Catholic parents were handed a letter of welcome from the Bishop.  The Protestants were left empty-handed. I guess we have to find our own spiritual guidance.

When Teacher had finally finished, I surveyed the dismal ring of parents and felt their pain.  It was easy to distinguish the keen, eager-beaver types from the God-help-me I've got three other children, a full-time job and six dogs at home types.  The former had glittering eyes and were leaning forward in their dwarf-sized chairs.  They will strive to please Teacher at all costs.  The latter leant back with an air of exhausted resignation,  foreseeing many struggles ahead.

We filed out into the driving rain.  I put my foot in a pothole and got a wet sock.  Once home, I ate three slices of toast and marmite out of pure frustration.  Rang my mother for comfort.  It's still raining.  Maybe it will rain a bit more this afternoon, too.

Play hookey, pay the price

Maybe I'm just paranoid (surely not), but why is it that there have been THREE funerals in as many days this week?  Am I missing something?  The church bells have been clanging non-stop, and throngs of black-clad, bedirndled and lederhosened mourners have been blocking traffic and eating post-funereal schnitzel in equal proportions.  Naturally my heart goes out to the bereaved, but still, one has to consider the already small number of people residing in this village and hope that some more stork deliveries are pending, before it's just us and the neighbours and a lame duck left. CG and I ran past a little procession yesterday, a cluster of acolytes and a priesty-looking person, swinging incense and looking very serious.  I felt disrespectful in my blue nylon shorts and zebra t-shirt.  Comforted, though, that Herr and Frau NN seemed not to be acquaintances of the deceased; they have remained stolidly at home, going about their daily business of polishing geraniums, snipping at the lawn with nail scissors and checking that the world is going by at an appropriate pace.

Quick change of tack to lighten the tone.  Well, sort of.  The summer holidays are about to commence, and tomorrow is therefore the last day of school until mid-September.  As you can imagine, the roads and airways will be packed (ha - get it?) on Saturday, so some wily holiday-makers will no doubt have attempted to evade the rush and slipped off this afternoon.  Woe betide them if they are travelling with their school age children!!! I heard on the radio this morning that it is a criminal offence to miss the last day of term, even though the kids are only in school for one hour.  My trusty source - I glean a lot of information from this channel - went on to say that there are even police waiting at the airports to catch potential offenders.  If the unfortunates are unable to provide proof of permission from the school, they may be liable for a fine of up to one thousand euros!!!!   I nearly crashed the car when I heard this.  Apparently, though, one might be lucky, if one's headteacher is of a particularly lenient, kind nature, and if one has a suitable excuse, for example, Grandma's 80th birthday party.  (How convenient that her birthday falls on this very day!  Don't forget to supply birth certificate.) Mostly, however, schools take a very dim view of this kind of behaviour, and in a way I can understand this, while finding the fine a little extreme.  There always has to be a last day, for if they were continually removed the result would be, in this case, that nobody goes to school at all.  And then what would happen?  The country would go to the dogs.  German Shepherds, naturally.

How fascinating! Do tell me more....

I was too busy to blog at the weekend.  Too busy doing... housework.  How ironic.  Not only that, but recently it's been just one long whirligig of scintillating social events, all, strangely, connected with school or kindergarten and all involving the same people every single time.  Well, I guess they are as bored with my face as I am with theirs.

Talking of faces, I had always thought that I had a good 'listening' face.  You know - interested and animated, no matter what dull facts I am being bombarded with.  Then, several years ago, I spotted my listening face in a mirror.  I was at a party and desperately wishing I was somewhere else. For that split second before I recognised myself I thought, who on earth is that woman?  She looks so fed up. And realised it was me, and that actually, I looked far from interested or animated.  So I took it upon myself to smarten up my image and try to be a more avid listener.  As you know, this isn't always easy, and we have all experienced that drifting-off look in our fellow conversationalist's eye which means we've gone on too long.  My aim is never to give someone that feeling, and it would seem I have largely achieved this, as people will rattle on for hours about the most tedious of things and not sense, in any way, that I am silently willing them to shut up. (Note of clarification to friends, family and regular conversation partners of mine: you genuinely are interesting; please exclude yourselves from this rather scathing analysis! I refer mainly to the dubious pleasure of smalltalk.)

Now back to the housework.  Rather unwisely, I recently told a new pal of mine that I keep my kitchen squeaky clean, to a standard of hygiene otherwise only found in an operating theatre.  Even more unwisely, I then invited her round to eat here.  Got home and panicked.  Kitchen full of unidentifiable streaks and stains, plus scary cobwebs that wisp against my arms in the early morning when I stumble for the kettle.  My eyes turned to other things, like my dustball farms under the cupboards and the peanuts under the sofa cushions. All have now been eradicated.  Please feel free to drop round at your earliest convenience, but make sure you phone me a couple of days beforehand, just in case.  Dust re-accumulates horribly quickly in Bavaria.

An itch to scratch

I haven't blurbed on about the wonders of nature for ages, so permit me to share with you my delight at encountering a family of foxes during my run today.  I use the term 'encountering' lightly - actually, they legged it as I approached, but I had the satisfaction of seeing them tiptoe over a stream on a log and disappear into the undergrowth, brushes twitching in irritation.  Next attraction was a stork; not unusual for this area, but I don't often see them at such close quarters.

These wonders were blitzed momentarily from my mind, however, as I jogged past our local lake and, lo and behold, there stood the nightmare of all prudish Brits, a naked man.  A naked, OLD, FAT man, and if that were not bad enough, he was staring straight at me, holding his bicycle up with one hand and slowly scratching his private parts with the other.  Mortified, I looked in the other direction (hoping he hadn't brought a couple of friends).  To his cheery 'Grüß Gott!' all I could manage was 'hi!' through gritted teeth.  I mean please.  It was four o'clock in the afternoon, a time when most people are decently attired and sipping tea on their balconies.  Or coffee, or Jägermeister. But clothed.

I recovered myself quickly and ran on, mildly comforted by the sight of some cows galloping round a field - this spectacle never fails to amuse me, they are so ungainly - and reached our front gate just as the heavens opened and the umpteenth thunderstorm so far this year started with a fanfare.  Only time for a few press-ups before I start baking for CG's work sports day tomorrow (aren't they a bit old for that?).  In a moment of weakness I agreed to make a giant quiche.  As I always say, there's no rest for the wicked.  Speaking of which, I hope the old guy is back home by now, in a warm jumper and pair of corduroys, and that his wife gives him a right old rollicking for exhibitionism.

A handmade gift I actually LIKE

Typical.  How often do children come home from school and present you with something handmade - you aren't quite sure what it's supposed to be, but you can't ask - uttering the words "this is for you, Mummy".  The little loves.  You say "thank you - aren't you clever!", simultaneously wondering where on earth you can display the item for it to be on view, yet not too much, in case a visitor to the house thinks you bought it for yourself.  I have accumulated hundreds of such items over the years.  But today, Hedda came home with an object that was both identifiable and attractive, a kind of clay hedgehog trinket box, to which I took an instant fancy.  Is that for me, I asked hopefully.  Presumptuously, even.  Hedda looked embarrassed.  Actually, she said, I was sort of going to keep it for myself.  Oh, I said, disappointed.  Then she drifted away in the direction of the TV, so I swiftly took the hedgehog and put it on the bookshelf, where it looks most fine and as good as anything you could get in a shop.  A shop selling pottery animals, that is. She hasn't noticed - yet.  Of course, as soon as she does, I'll give it back.  I can always pretend it's mine while she's at school!

The future's bright. The future's... maroon

CG, or VOD, as I should now call him, has never enthused much about his relatives.  It would be fair to say that he's kept most of them firmly under his hat.  This would explain why it took me ten years to realise that his aunt is.... a fortune teller.  I was entranced by this piece of information.  Perhaps I've led a sheltered life, but I have had little, if not nothing, to do with this mysterious breed of people.  The whole business is shrouded in secrecy and, as fortune tellers normally sit inside tents or old gypsy caravans I've never really seen one.  So when I finally met Tante Rose Lee, or Karin as she's actually called, I was both curious and cautious at the same time.  I couldn't find anything remotely spiritual or unusual about her, however, except for her thinning maroon hair, which had been coaxed into a bouffant style that would resist any force 10 gale.  I guess she keeps her professional and private lives firmly separate, thank goodness.  But I do know that when she wants to irk my mother-in-law - her sister - she terminates their phone calls with the words "I've looked at your cards.  You take good care of yourself, now" which, let's face it, would unnerve people of weaker stuff than my mother-in-law.

So why am I telling you about her?  It's the maroon hair.  Gaia decided to dye hers last week - you've guessed it, maroon - and as she thought her roots were showing, she dyed it again today, just for good measure.  I am not sure if Tante Rose Lee was her inspiration, but they now look cut from the same cloth.  I suppose dyeing hair is part of the teenage rebellion list; try smoking - check.  Steal parents' ancient violet liqueur - check.  Threaten to get piercing in weird part of body - check.  Dye beautiful chestnut hair a garish colour - check.  Sigh.  Been there, done that.  Where did it get me?  Nowhere.  Do I tell her that?  Yes.  Does it stop her?  No.  One day the butterfly will emerge from the cocoon and all will be well. But I do hope she doesn't want to be a fortune teller when she's older. Now that really is a profession that doesn't thrive in an economic crisis.

My melons are just fine, thanks

Just home from work today, CG asked me how my melons were.  For a moment I thought he was making a pass at me, but no, he meant the watermelon plants that are gradually taking over the greenhouse.  Oh well.  I was able to say that they were blooming, thank you very much.  We went into said greenhouse to take a look.  CG disappeared from view as he was still wearing his camouflage, but I could smell where he was as he'd had onions for lunch.

So you're au fait with the state of my melons.  What else can I tell you - it's Friday, probably where you are, too, and the roads are crawling with the three evil Ts - tourists, tractors and trucks, a deadly combination that makes any journey twice as long as it should be. I have completed another week at my state-funded training course, where I learned absolutely nothing except how to look busy when I'm not.  I was pretty good at this already to be honest, but as it is an essential lifeskill I am not averse to perfecting it.  The course participants are disappearing daily as more and more of them find employment or call in sick.  Those who are left hang around eating cake and playing with MS Office.

I'd like to describe my garden in greater detail but find myself unable to without boring people to tears.  One of my favourite books is 'Elizabeth and her German Garden' by Elizabeth von Arnim - I urge you to read it.  There's more to it than gardening - it's a sort of late 19th century blog and packed with cutting edge humour.  Anyway, the writer manages to convey her passion for flowers and shrubs without being dull.  I didn't have to skip a single page. How did she manage it?  Even a paragraph of my horticultural musings sends me to sleep, let alone anyone else who might read it.  I can sum up the current state of affairs for you though.  The melons, as you already know, are coming along nicely.  There are also some flowers, loads of slugs and millions of weeds.  But my pride and joy is my pumpkin patch.  By September I'll have at least thirty juicy orange-fleshed Hokkaido fruits.  We're going to have to invest in another freezer.

Back to Elizabeth and her garden.  She also uses pseudonyms for her family, and I just love the name she chose for her husband - the Man of Wrath.  As soon as I read it, I regretted using the rather floppy and pathetic CG for mine.  You know what I really wanted to call him?  My (shortly to be no more) secret nickname, the Voice of Doom.  This suits him far better, though he is cuddly too, most of the time.  VOD can cut through the most jolly of situations with his booming tones and, with his prophecies of doom and gloom, makes a wet blanket look bone-dry.  It isn't all bad though.  We need someone like him to remind us that life is not a bowl of cherries.  Or melons.

All's well that ends well

If the tale of Rumpelstiltskin hadn't been penned several hundred years ago, I'd claim to know exactly who was the character's inspiration.  My son, the kicking, screaming psycho six-year-old, who I picked up from kindergarten an hour or so ago.  Such was his ire that I was forced to film a couple of scenes for posterity, or perhaps YouTube if I am feeling particularly mean later.  One of CG's regiments took a battering from a sofa cushion.  (Miniature tin bayonets are not much defence against ten kilograms of Ikea soft furnishings.)  Luckily no injuries were sustained and peace was restored among the ranks.  Not so in the real world, where Titus is still growling and gesticulating from one end of the dining table.  Gaia, Hedda and I have retreated to the other end, and a kind of impasse has been reached, except now I have to go to the supermarket - one of life's great pleasures - and leave him to Gaia, and I am still deciding whether this is a wise decision or not.  The police are most probably on their way by now, as the screams that pierced the air jolted Herr NN from his afternoon nap and it would be MOST unlike him not to act in a responsible manner and stick his nose in.  Oh dear, oh dear, and I'd thought we'd have a quiet afternoon baking cakes.  I blame the weather.  Lots of people do in Germany, and it comes in really handy as the weather is, as a rule, doing something that someone, somewhere, doesn't like and can then pinpoint as the reason for their adverse behaviour.  Another thunderstorm is brewing and the air is thick as peasoup fog in 1950s London.

(Some hours later - torrential rain falling)

Returned from exotic local supermarket - pah - to find apologetic psycho son on doorstep, dressed in German football kit.  He fell to his knees and begged for my forgiveness.  I handed him two cartons of apple juice and told him to stop being a drama king.  You might as well ask Michelle Obama to wear skinny jeans - it's just never going to happen.

Re: the supermarket.  Nobody from outside Germany, and possibly many from within, could find a trip to Penny Markt inspiring in any way.  Rather than let this get me down, I approach my trips there as I would a jumble sale.  You know - you expect little and usually that is all you get, but occasionally, if you rummage around enough, you find the odd treasure that makes the whole outing worthwhile.  Then you can boast to everyone where you found it (they will all say "No! Really?") and what a bargain it was.  One of my favourite products is the moist toilet paper, not for its soothing properties, but its name.  Happy End.  Does this refer to the fate of the paper, or to the part of the body for which it is intended?  Answers on a recycled postcard please.

              

You'll never guess what....

The unthinkable has happened.  I, the ultimate reluctant housewife and extraordinaire, have found a job.  That is to say, a paid job.  Now you might think me a bit of a fraud, continuing to write under the old name, but as any of you working mothers out there will testify, a woman remains a housewife to some degree, whether she works 8 or 80 hours a week.  Yes!  Such is life.  Please don't think me ungrateful, for I am truly over the Bavarian moon about having found gainful employment - what's left of the salary after 50% income tax will come in most useful.  I can upgrade my mop and buy more expensive furniture polish, amongst other things.  Buying myself an authentic dirndl, for the rare occasions when I might wish to mingle with the good burgers of Bovinia, is now an obtainable goal (they cost as much as a mini-break in Venice). All this is well and good.  It's just that, as a working housewife, you don't get less housework - only fewer hours to complete the existing amount in.  But let's look on the bright side.  I won't be here so much to notice the housework I don't do.

I had thought that blogging about a job would be boring, particularly a clerical kind of job, but then I'm the one who managed to write about housework and countryside for nine whole months and people still read it.  I thus have faith that I might find some interesting snippets to impart about my new life.  And never mind the future.  I've really missed writing this blog over the last few weeks.  Not a day has passed without some gem of an observation, that I would previously have relayed, faithfully, to you via this medium.  None of them springs to mind at this very instant, apart from a lady I was sitting next to at a recent parents' evening. She had on a pair of fine, black velvet shoes - most inappropriate for a sweaty June evening, but smart nevertheless - and I was idly admiring them while the headmaster droned on about I don't know what up front.  I suddenly realised that the shoe-wearer had excessive foot hair.  How unfortunate.  The hairs were blonde, all smoothed in the same direction (probably brushed) and overlapped onto the black velvet, giving the air of a fine golden rim to the shoe.  In other circumstances, it would have been quite beautiful.  I couldn't stop staring at them, and as a result left the meeting little more informed than I had been at the start.

I start my new life on 1st August.  Until then I remain reliant on the German government to keep my head above water, which I must say it has done so quite well for the last ten months.  Bovinia, as it transpires, comes into its own in the summer - there are no end of wacky things going on - so have no fear, life will not be dull, and even if it were, I'd try and liven it up a bit.