The city that never sleeps

I'm sure ol' Blue Eyes had different reasons than I for this description of New York City. It is, however, the most fitting quote I can find for my long weekend, now sadly over, during which I probably averaged about four hours sleep per night, either because of jet lag or the desire not to miss a thing. Yes, the reluctant housewife is back in Bovinia, the place where plenty of sleeping goes on, not a high heel nor miniature dog in a coat is to be seen, and the silence seems louder than the Manhattan overpass.

Surprise surprise - a claustrophobic, thick blanket of fog lay over the village as I returned, though CG assures me that the weather was good while I was away (funny how that always seems to be the case; how often have I returned from a rainy holiday abroad, only to be told how wonderfully sunny it was in my absence). Seeing my family again more than compensated, of course, for these slightly negative feelings. It's just that, having experienced city life again, Bovinia seems even more pedestrian and insular than before. Ho hum, I guess I'm tired. Tomorrow I will wake up with renewed vigour and determination.

Let us not forget the purpose of my visit to NYC, namely the wedding of my brother, which took place last Friday evening at the Harbour Lights restaurant overlooking Brooklyn Bridge. I had not known what to expect, having never met his intended apart from a few brief minutes on skype. Well, she's a stunner, there's no doubt about it. The evening was a bit strange though. My brother has accrued quite a few friends and drinking pals over the years, and quite a number of these had made it across the Atlantic to be there, in full force, as well as six relations and local mates from New York. His bride was, in contrast, rather under-represented, I felt. All in all, the whole she-bang was more like a knees-up in honour of my brother (who will be so sorely missed in London) with the wedding as a little side attraction. The party broke up at around 11.30 pm and the bridal couple departed. I found myself drifting along to some random bar with the die-hard revellers. A couple of hours later, though, my bro reappeared, having left his new wife reading in bed. He proceeded to party on till 5 a.m., not that I am one to criticise, as I was still up an hour or so later, drinking tea made by a little Indian guy, sitting on the sidewalk and trying to persuade my accomplice, the little-but-only-in-age pilot brother Rory, to stay up and watch the sun rise (higher) over the East River. Thank goodness we decided against it and finally hit the hay.

The next day I met up with the happy couple on the Lower East Side and was much reassured. I think this girl will take my brother in hand. (It's about time someone did.) Various other jaded people arrived and poked around in salad plates or drank coffee. Another evening of hard drinking was heralded, so I was most glad that my sensible side, who only makes rare appearances, spoke up and excused me in advance. There's only so much carousing I can do.

Well, it feels good to be back in the RH saddle. I do encourage you to comment if you feel like doing so. Sometimes it feels as if I am posting stuff into the ether. Let me know what you'd like to hear more about. Otherwise, you run the gauntlet of being subjected to my random anecdotes ad infinitum. Or is that the very charm of this blog?

Start spreading the news...

Bovinia is once again under a thick blanket of snow. Nobody seems very happy about it. There are lots of people out clearing their driveways and moaning that they thought spring was on the way. I couldn't agree more, but as I said to Titus on the way to kindergarten today, there are worse things, like pouring rain or freezing fog.

Snow or not, this week will be somewhat untypical for the reluctant housewife, who on Thursday is hopping over to the Big Apple for the weekend. As a result, this will be my last post until next week. No doubt I shall return armed with lots of material for the blog, as the reason for my trip is my brother's wedding and it is bound to be unlike any other I've been to before. I shall just get the chance to meet his fiancee before she becomes his wife at City Hall on Friday. So goodbye temporarily and have a wonderful week:)

A clean sweep

It's ten minutes to eight in the morning and there's a MAN ON MY ROOF. Yes, really. Not that I'm scared, at least not now that I've ascertained that it's the dreaded chimney sweep. I used to see them as romantic, Dick Van Dyke figures who would merrily poke their brush up the chimney a bit, scatter a bit of soot and scintillate with their cockney banter. The modern German breed is a merciless money-grabbing creature - they don't give you the chance to book an appointment (or whatever you do with a chimney sweep - a session? A brushing? A clean?); no, they just arrive and get on with their job and present you with a bill for a hundred euros afterwards. I remember the first time this happened to me - I was completely flummoxed, as I wasn't even aware I had a chimney. Maybe I didn't. Being a law-abiding citizen, I paid the bill anyway. Then there was the time when we did have a chimney, and our fireplace was smoking terribly, but the chimney sweep said nothing was wrong, swore blind he did, and it was CG who discovered the dead squirrel blocking the flue, poor thing, I mean of course the squirrel. And we had paid to be told nothing was wrong.

Writing this has called to mind my London days, when the window cleaner would also simply arrive and start cleaning, always at the most inopportune of moments. Don't tell me that appearing at somebody's upstairs window, while said person is dressing, is down to pure coincidence. I would love to hear the stories swapped at the annual window cleaner convention, or whatever they have. To my shame I remember hiding in the bathroom (small, frosted pane, hard to reach) while Andy/Steve/Gary rang the doorbell for his twenty quid. I never had it to hand, and as a result received red bills in the post for hundreds of pounds. Could it be that the fault lay with... me? Could I have been a little more organised? Nay! Never explain, never apologise, a la Maggie Thatcher. Life's so much simpler that way.

Tread carefully

Although it is only February, it seems like spring is on its way to Bovinia. This means good and bad things. Good - snowdrops. Bad - all the farmers in the vicinity (and there are hordes, believe me) have decided to monitor and rearrange their manure supplies, which involves ferrying it around by the trailer-load from one barn to another, dropping most of it on the road as they go, and stirring it up to produce steaming brown piles everywhere, marring the bucolic idyll and probably covering up half the snowdrops.

I should tread carefully - both literally and metaphorically. Those who know better, i.e. the true Bavarians, are darkly predicting more onslaughts of snow, perhaps until the middle of April. This means CG and I might get the chance to work on our skiing technique, or should I say develop one in the first place, but it also means goodbye (again) to the short-lived pleasures of inline-skating and bike riding.

Today is just grey. But even this has its advantages - no neighbours to be seen in the street. Extremes tend to bring them out - snow, which needs shovelling away, or sun, which means gardening and hanging stuff out to dry. In-between days see them staying inside quietly, doing whatever they do; I don't quite like to speculate.

Gaia, the girl-woman

Gaia complained recently that I never write about her, and that my anecdotes concern mainly Titus, and on reflection I think she is right. However, and it is a big however, I had to point out to her, in my defence, that I generally write about things I have personally seen or experienced. This rules out people who stay in their bedroom for hours on end. I am sure she's having loads of fun in there, whatever she might be doing - to date I have never been invited in to join in. My visits to her boudoir mainly involve laundry delivery, checking that the heating is not on 'high' next to an open window, and telling her that dinner is ready, having shouted from downstairs several times only to find she's plugged into her iPod.

The other restricting factor is the teenager's rock-bottom embarrassment threshold. Practically anything I do or say is likely to be a faux pas of the worst possible kind, so I thus feel rather constrained in mentioning my dear daughter at all, but I know she reads this, so here you are Gaia - you are the star of today's post! I have written about how and why I don't write about you!

Teenagers are a strange breed. Do we all remember being one, or are we just aware that we were - there is a difference. When I think really hard about how I was at Gaia's age, I feel so removed from that person that I might as well be watching my younger self in a film. I was so convinced of my beliefs, yet at the same time insecure and completely self-obsessed; a hundred times more than I am today. At twenty I wrote in my diary: "I have finally realised that I know absolutely nothing about anything at all - I have SO much left to learn!" This, in retrospect, was a turning point in my life.

It is funny, both peculiar and ha ha (as we Brits love to say), to observe your own child turning into you and doing all the things you did, and to hear yourself react in the way adults did to you, although you swore you never would, should you ever get old enough to be a parent! Gaia has several advantages over my teenage self, though: 1) the internet, 2) the tumble dryer, 3) affordable air travel, and 4) a mother with fashion sense - I have never recovered from having to wear a rust-coloured anorak with a fluffy reindeer-print lining, and a hood, when all the other girls in my class were wearing donkey jackets in inconspicuous dark blue and black. It still crops up in my worst nightmares.

Saint Val aftermath

Aaahhh... the card was worth waiting for - cute wobbly writing from doing it in the car but who cares; it's the thought that counts! In case you are feeling sorry for CG, please stop - I decided against the dog food and made him a cherry cheesecake instead. And I got a beautiful bouquet. So all is well and we can relax for another 364 days.

Am torn between really wanting to go swimming, but then I'll be confronted by the nudes in the showers, and staying here in the warm (fully clothed) and eating an omelette. My stomach is pushing me to the latter, my conscience to the former. Have got to overcome this British prudishness if I am going to survive here for any length of time, for what will I do in the summer, when nude lake-bathing overtakes nordic walking as the favoured pastime? And while I'm on the subject, why is it always the wrinkled, withered, slack-bellied (and other assorted body parts) people who throw caution and their undergarments to the wind and parade around unselfconsciously? Nobody would mind too much if young, nubile people did it, but mostly, I'm sorry to say, it's the older generation who put themselves on display. Perhaps they are beyond caring.

Love is in the air....

... every time you look around; a completely nonsensical lyric designed to irritate the cynics of this world, as indeed was Valentine's Day. A commercial circus without which, however, the red rose industry would wither and die, and sales figures at Hallmark would take a nosedive. You can probably guess by now that Bovinia is an exception to the rule - you would never know that it is February 14th at all, unless you check your calendar, of course. The only reference to the day of love appears in the flyer for our local supermarket. Right at the top of the page there's a gaudy reminder: "Valentinstag - 14 Februar" surrounded by blurred red hearts. Directly underneath is a technicolour pastiche of fishfingers, washing powder and dog food, all at discount prices and guaranteed to set pulses racing. I shall have to pop in there later and get CG a tin of Pedigree Chum.

Over the years, CG and I have reached an uneasy truce concerning Valentine's Day and the obligations attached. So when he asked me yesterday if we could "do the card thing after work tomorrow, not before", I knew this was man-speak for "haven't bought the damn thing yet so please don't embarrass me by giving me a card tomorrow morning" and nodded graciously. Then I said he didn't have to get one, which is woman-speak for "no card, you die", as most men must know, and if they don't know that by now, they'd better learn fast for self-protection purposes. (Do they teach you things like that at pre-marital counselling? They should!)

I did have a card already, but that was in case he turned romantic on me (I mean, even more so than usual, in case he's reading this at work). I guess I'll scribble a few lines in it now and put the envelope next to the dog food to greet him when he gets home later.

Human speed controls

Had you heard that such things are currently being trialled around the country? Me neither. But I am living proof of the fact that they exist. While many towns and villages have one of those lit-up display signs to monitor your speed on entering (no inuendoes please), one place not too far away from here is obviously trying to cut costs by using bored pensioners instead. I was driving along at 52 kmph, just behind someone else who was proceeding in an equally stately and legal fashion, when our eyes were drawn to a bespectacled personage - I think female, but you can never be sure with the German pensioner's penchant for unisex haircuts and drab trekking clothes - who appeared, at first glance, to be waving. But only for a second, as his-her fingers were splayed, as you do when signalling the number 5, and then he-she theatrically mouthed the word fifty and gave us a beady, reprimanding look.

I could tell that the driver ahead had, like me, assumed he-she was kindly warning us about an upcoming speed camera, so we continued through the village at camel's pace*, eyes scanning the road for the offending object. The village petered out and I found myself on the other side. No speed camera, no policeman with scary gun thing... nothing at all. I realised that I had been well and truly had by an archetypal do-gooder, someone who, when they aren't doing evening courses in serviette folding or watching slideshows of a cruise to the Arctic Circle, derives pleasure from patronising others in the interests of community, or whatever. Resisting the temptation to turn my car round and race past him-her at 70 kmph in the other direction, I carried on with my journey - to where I forget now; probably to some dimly-lit supermarket where other busybodies would be waiting to crash their trolleys into my ankles, or tut audibly at my family-of-five groceries as they pay for their one cabbage and stick of salami ("this'll last me at least a week") in one-cent coins.

But as I've often said, I'm not bitter. Without such characters my life would be nothing but a rich pasture of gaiety and carefree happiness. Wouldn't that be dull?

*Just to clarify, I mean camels walking, not when they're doing that wacky running across the desert with a person bumping around on their back.

No rest for the wicked

Titus has finally got rid of his stomach complaint and gone back to kindergarten. I was waiting for a sign that he felt better, and that sign was a knock at my door, 5 a.m. today. What's wrong? I asked groggily. I'll tell you what's wrong, Mummy (big sigh) - I'm BORED! Can't you get up and play with me?

What is this world coming to. Obviously he was feeling much, much better so I packed him off to the fierce and devout teacher for a bit of breakfast analysis and evaluation. I am expecting top marks today, as I used horrible, tough wholegrain bread, the sort that looks like a miller made the flour by rubbing wheat in between two grimy stones. I shall go and rescue him soon.

Today is a good day, despite the pre-dawn start. I got my child-free morning, finally; the sun is shining, and CG should be on his way home soon from six days of slumming it in Bucharest. Hope he's got me a good souvenir. I have one more thing to endure, however, before I can relax. The parents evening. Still, it can't be as bad as last time. I have learned some Bavarian words since then; useful ones such as prison (Cafe Viereck), poodle (Nuttenfiffi) and orthodontist (Foznschbangla) which are bound to serve me well in any discussions arising tonight. I shall set myself a challenge - to use all three in the same sentence without giving the impression that I'm completely nuts.

Every good things are four (???)

It's a subject most of us are familiar with. The English language, in one form or another, is slowly, slowly, like a giant oilslick, taking over the planet. As a native speaker this doesn't bother me too much, in the sense that I am not inconvenienced, nor am I forced to learn another language against my will, just to increase my career prospects, for example. But what of cultural diversity and individuality and all the things that different languages signify?
In Germany, debates rage over the demise of the traditional language and the ever-increasing number of English words and phrases that are being eingedeutscht (literally, Germanised). There are deep, dark divides between those who embrace this phenomenon and those who resist, clinging on to their purist approach for dear life.
It is true that we have a smattering of German words in everyday parlance - I can think of schadenfreude, über-anything, wanderlust, rucksack, for example. All horribly mispronounced. But just watch any contemporary German TV show and you will hear people dropping in English words and phrases left, right and centre. Particularly offensive, to me, are swear words, e.g. 'shit' and 'Jesus'; the users fail to recognise the impact these might have on a native speaker. Numerous other phrases - 'no risk, no fun', 'see you later, alligator', 'ready steady go' - abound.
But what I really cannot stand is when English sayings are used, but translated completely incorrectly. You know the expression 'all good things come in threes' (or something) - well, in German this is 'alle gute Dinge sind drei'. Word for word this means 'all good things are three', and this is, verbatim, what I keep hearing on the TV, which makes me want to throw my remote control at the screen and run around the room screaming, that makes no sense at all, who on earth edits these programmes??????? Worse still, I heard a commentator yesterday saying 'every good things are four' - off with his head!
I must take a deep breath, calm down, step off my soapbox, dust it off and put it away. Things are only going to get worse, so I might as well accept it. There are a few champions of true, beautiful German (one of them the wonderfully named Bastian Sick) and they will receive my undying support.

There is one huge advantage to all this English usage. When speaking German and stuck for a word, it has always been a useful tactic of mine to simply insert the English equivalent and hope for the best. It therefore stands to reason that the more English words become part of the German language, the more successful this strategy will prove to be. Jede Wolke ist mit Silber gefuttert! (Every cloud has a silver lining; an idiom that does not exist in German - at least, not yet....)

Out of the Dark

Thanks Falco, that 80s 'rock legend', for lending me the title of your hit song. It just seems so appropriate.

I had struggled to get to sleep last night but eventually managed. I must have done, for the next thing I knew it was 12.40 a.m. and someone was knocking slowly yet persistently at my bedroom door. Who is it, I asked. Silence. More knocking. I began to get scared. Speak! I commanded. Then came a croaking voice out of the darkness. It's me (Titus said). I've thrown up all over my bed and there are bits of potato everywhere.

I suppressed my initial and most unmaternal reaction, i.e. what I am supposed to do about it, and dragged myself out of bed, upstairs, to survey the damage. You don't need to know any more. I'm sure you can imagine how gross it was but I felt so sorry for him I couldn't possibly be cross. He spent the rest of the night in my bed.

This morning, I was shot down by rays of jealousy from Hedda over the breakfast table. Why am I never sick, she wanted to know. Typical Titus - he always gets his own way!

Too tired to argue. Amazingly, Titus is looking peaky but perky and has no intention of spending the day in bed. But I can't pack him off to kindergarten, as I would only incur bad mother points and there'd be whispering campaigns about me for the rest of the week. I've caused enough trouble already with my rice-cake fetish.

The Golden Arches

Am tearing myself away from 'Das perfekte Promi Dinner' to write this little Sunday night bloggette. The week ahead beckons, with all the fun and frolics one can expect living in place like Bovinia. An influx of city-dwellers flooded our streets today - the sunshine always brings them out - and most disappointingly for the world-class downhill skiers, the snow is disappearing (again). I mention the skiers in deference to the start of the World Downhill Skiing Championship, which kicks off tomorrow in Garmisch-Partenkirchen. Presumably they'll have snow machines on the whole night to ensure a good piste.

You would have thought it was carnival time again in McDonalds* today. There were so many strangely attired people there. I honestly couldn't figure out if a couple of them were in fancy-dress, or just quirky. There wasn't anyone in a Bavarian hat; I think McDonalds isn't quite their scene. But if you are ever in this area and get bored of the same old same old, i.e. jolly rosy-cheeked caucasian people tucking into Bavarian food and chasing cows, go to McDonalds because there, you will see every sort of nationality to be found residing in the vicinity. Otherwise, you would never know that there is a thriving Turkish community, for example. Most of these seem to be actually employed there, rather than just eating and passing on, but still the fact remains that they are normally not in evidence and keep themselves to themselves. We have one Turkish guy in our village, who seems to have overcome any sort of reticence on the part of the villagers by running a successful bar and cafe. There is, naturally, not very much competition in the village itself - namely two other eateries, unless you count the one table in the bakery where you can drink coffee and watch the world go by. Anyway, his being clearly an integral part of the village community gives me hope that we too, some day in the very distant future, may be accepted by this most discerning of folk.

*Of course not here in Bovinia. Ha! Hell will freeze over before that happens. Which is probably a good thing...

Carnival mood

I can't imagine why so many of my friends and relations have a burning desire to see me dressed up as a pirate. You would think they'd never witnessed such a spectacle before! Be assured that it will be a long time, if not never, until I parade around in my Bavarian carnival garb out of context.

The context was, of course, the big kids' party this afternoon, where I was 'starring' as one of the entertainment team - say no more. As usual with such things, however, it wasn't half as bad as I thought it would be. Firstly I was glad that I had a real costume, and not a homemade put-together-at-the-last-minute one, as some of the party-goers had really gone to town, or should I say village. The motto was anything goes, from a jellyfish to a polar bear or from Cleopatra to an old lady in a nightdress (I hope the latter was indeed a costume and not an escaped senile delinquent). Secondly, the excitement levels in the room peaked 5 minutes before the start and remained on the ceiling until people were forced to leave three hours later, to enable clearing-up volunteers to hastily prepare for the next event. Surrounded by so much enthusiasm I could not fail to be infected, not only by that, but probably umpteen cold and flu viruses. Thirdly, I found myself enjoying it all, as I guess there's a child inside us all and mine doesn't get let out much.

Am now completely exhausted and will have to prise my three angels away from Wii Party in order to get them into bed. Hedda is refusing to remove her facepaint, no matter how many times I tell her it won't look the same in the morning. Ah well, she'll find out when she sees her reflection tomorrow!

A Tall Man at the Jolly Trout

Just back from the local hostelry, the Jolly Trout, with CG. Excellent Thai-style meal -practically unheard of in this part of the world! A little salty, but then I am mega-critical.

A little vignette observed during our visit. Two guys were already sitting there when we arrived, nose to nose over a glass of beer. You could tell, though, that they weren't that interested in each other, such was their curiosity about the other diners, namely us. Just when I thought one of them - the more curious - was about to start chatting, another pair of men walked in, one of whom had to duck his head to enter the room. Nosey perked up as they sat down at the adjacent table.

So how tall would you be then? (Nosey) - 2 metres 4, or maybe 6?

2 metres 10, actually (Tall Man, not meeting Nosey's eyes, which in other words means shut the f up).

Hooo! 2 metres 10! That's massive! (sniff, wipe nose on sleeve, take giant slurp of beer - Nosey)

A small salad please (Tall Man to waitress, now regretting his choice of seat but not daring to move).

2 metres 10, would you Adam and Eve it? (Nosey, to his companion, who laughed and shook his head in disbelief.)

You know those kinds of people - I have mentioned them before here. They are absolutely determined to start up a conversation at any cost and will pick on the slightest unusual thing to get the ball rolling. Never meet their eyes - they'll have you for breakfast. They might shout goodbye at you as you leave the room, and at that stage it is ok to reply, as you are nearly at your car. But otherwise, steer well clear.

Meanwhile the Fasching (carnival) season fast approaches. Bovinia is kicking off with a party on Saturday afternoon (under 12s) and evening (teens, with DJ Franzl). Guess who got roped into doing the kids entertainment? Yes, the blogger who hates to say no. This afternoon, having upturned the contents of my entire wardrobe to find a passable costume, I gave up and went to Penny Markt. Am now the proud owner of a lady pirate dress, complete with skull and crossbones headscarf. I don't think I'll be able to wear the eye-patch during the dancing as (1) it will ruin my mascara and (2) I might trip over. Interference with my peripheral vision and all that. Nor do I know where to hang my telescope from, and the wonderful, gilded curved sword. I am sure it will all become clear nearer the time.

So SAD, it's tragic

An hour ago I peered out of the window and was shocked to see a large white burning ball in the sky. Other people were looking, too, standing out on the street and exclaiming to one another. Could it be a UFO or close encounter with some unearthly being? No! It was the sun, back from its holiday in South Africa or wherever its been hanging out lately. What a transformation! Even the dog urine-spattered snow piled up at the roadsides is glinting and glistening. The birds in my apple tree are flitting wildly from twig to twig. I wouldn't be surprised to hear a lawnmower starting up (stranger things have happened).

I used to make jokes about people with SAD, but now that I am part of their serried ranks I regret my former quips and lack of sympathy. How could I have been so callous? It is a true disorder and the worst thing is that there's absolutely nothing you can do about it, apart from emigrating, which is, let's face it, not practical for most SAD sufferers, otherwise they would have already done so. Or you could try one of those solar face lamp things, but aren't they bad for your skin? You just have to grimace and bear it.

At least the jolly Bavarian radio presenters acknowledge the condition. I have the feeling that the drearier the weather, the more they ramp up their eighties fever playlists. I caught myself singing along to 'Eye of the Tiger' (Survivor - but you knew that, right?) earlier. Horrifyingly, I knew all the words. In my defence I think it is because it was the theme tune to Rocky IV, which I saw several times during my teenage crush on Sylvester-I'm-beginning-to-look-just-like-my-mom-Stallone.

Wow - there's even a patch of blue sky now. I'd better get out there and catch some rays before it's too late.

Bixnmacha!

There's a cluster of signs on the corner of our street, advertising various - I hesitate to use this quaint English word, but - cottage industries. Amongst others we have Hanni's hairdressing salon, a holiday apartment (100 m left) and the ominous sounding Meatech. Just recently a new one appeared. A roughly sawn piece of wood with the word 'Bixnmacha' sprayed on in neon pink paint. I found it tawdry, to say the least. We don't want people lowering the tone of a respectable neighbourhood, do we? And to add insult to injury, there were three or four tin cans (used: sweetcorn, catfood, Red Bull) hanging from the sign on bits of dirty string. Turn into the street and there's a little house on the right hand side. I usually walk past it extremely fast as the woman who lives there is clearly Glaring Champion 2010 and is still trying to beat her personal best. On said house is another lurid sign, announcing the residence of 'The Bixnmacha'. More horrible tin cans. (Don't know what was in them, haven't dared take a close look.)

In our innocence and distinct lack of Bavarian cultural knowledge we assumed that this was some kind of scrap metal merchant advertising his new business. Although if I want old tin cans, I'll just look in my own bin, thanks. But on asking Frau NN, we discovered that a Bixnmacha is a man who fathers a girl. 'Bixen' are tin cans in Bavarian and this charming term is also a synonym for the fairer sex. Hence, 'Tin Can Maker'. Classy. Now I'm happy to compare myself with all manner of things; for example, I often play a game with the children where we decide who resembles which woodland animal the most, etc, etc. But I fail to see what I have in common with a tin can. Most likely there is some extremely distasteful yet apt explanation, but right now I really don't want us to ponder on it. Best not to without downing a couple of schnapps first.

Looking back it all seems so obvious - the large and unavoidable stork over the front door would seem to be an excellent clue. The glaring lady did have a huge tummy and now it's not so huge. Things like that. And it's funny, isn't it, that once you become aware of something, you start seeing it all over the place. Now I see Bixnmachas everywhere I go. I am on the lookout for the male equivalent, for surely 'tis an honour to father sons, who will grow up big and strapping and will shovel manure and race tractors in that way men seem to enjoy doing around here.