The bovine sperm bank

And there was me thinking I am so original.  Another illusion bites the dust.  Turns out that Bovinia is also a website selling cows, somewhere in the US.  But they haven't updated their site since 2008, so I feel I am on fairly safe ground should it come to plagiarism - or something. Maybe all their cows died (did they bother to house them in a sturdy barn for the winter?) or maybe they just realised that real farmers only buy their prize heifers at cattle markets.

All this calls to mind a crazy woman I knew in Belgium.  Isabelle had a cow as a pet - and why not indeed - but this wasn't enough.  She wanted a calf.  The cow needed a sire, but Isabelle didn't want to subject her beloved Clover to the fumblings of a local yokel.  So she sent off for a full-colour brochure of pedigree bulls.  All she had to do was select the best genetic match, and a syringe full of his sperm would be sped over the very next morning for the vet to plunge into the unwitting cow.  She pored over the pictures for days, pondering the various advantages of this colour or that.  You know, how would dark red fur - do cattle have fur? - look after seven days of Belgian rain, and so on.  In the end she plumped for a muscular Freesian type.  Kind, well-educated, GSOH.  I think his name was John.  I am glad to say that the match was successful and a healthy calf appeared some months later.  As far as I know he has no desire to trace his birth father - Clover is all he needs in life.

Here in my, aka the real Bovinia, I am still waiting for the first cow to emerge into the spring sunlight.   It can't be long now.  We are promised soaring temperatures for the weekend.  I must stop writing and finalise my tricks for tomorrow morning.  Gaia has already declared a heightened security alert - this means I would be wasting my time by bursting into her room at 5 a.m. to tell her it is ten minutes to seven and what the heck is she still doing in bed.  There are other potential victims, however; none of whom can take a joke, but the amusement factor will be worth any tantrum.  Watch this space!

Serious post warning - don't read if you want a laugh...

No doubt you all remember the case of Madeleine, the British four-year-old who was taken from her hotel room in Portugal in 2007.  Besides the pure horror at her disappearance and the ensuing, huge search efforts, I despaired as her parents were pilloried as neglectful fun-seekers and were even, at some points during the investigation, cited as potential murder suspects.  This is not unusual in Britain.  If you let your child out alone, or leave him/her unattended, and something dreadful happens, you, the parent, are to blame - almost as much as the assailant.  British children are driven everywhere and more fool you if you buck the trend and allow your child to walk.   The implication is, it would be your fault if something happened.  Every stranger is potentially evil.  Trust no one, talk to nobody.

I know, the tone of this post is horribly serious (I did warn you).  But when something weighs on my mind this much, I can't conjure up amusing anecdotes about Bavarian life.  Last week in a village not far from Bovinia, two sisters, eight and eleven, were murdered in their bedroom during the night while their mother was working at a local pub.  Horrendous. No official suspects as yet.  A whole community is grieving and the media is full of it.  The media response is what I find most interesting.  Not once, not in any of the 'expert' commentaries, or vox pop interviews, has anyone even insinuated that those kids shouldn't have been left alone overnight.  This in itself doesn't surprise me too much, as I have long been aware of the Germans' laidback approach towards children home alone.  I could - but won't - cite countless examples; one will suffice. A friend in north Germany regularly left her two-year-old at home while she took the older one to school, a round trip of forty minutes or so.  Horrified, I asked her how she knew he'd be ok.  She breezily replied that she locked him into his bedroom. I rest my case.

This attitude is so blatantly inconsistent with the German model of mother-at-home, who struggles to find a job that fits in with the minimal school hours and is expected to supervise and participate in homework every afternoon.  The finger is pointed if your child starts to underperform.  Schools deflect educational and pastoral responsibility onto parents as much as they can get away with.  So how is it ok for this same mother to leave the precious child home alone?

Germany's lack of blame culture, in this respect, allows parents and children to live much more freely.  As a mother you can be concerned about your child's whereabouts as all mothers are, but it is fully acceptable to let them wander around on their bikes, walk to school alone or in a group, go to the baker or whatever.  I believe this is a confidence so deep-rooted in the German psyche it is subconscious.  In a way, though, it is a good thing.  How does recrimination and blame and being made to a social pariah really help anyone - the guilt one must feel in such a situation is instinctive and painful enough already.

I am waiting to see whether an attitude shift might now occur.  Meanwhile I have adapted as much as I can to the German way.  My paranoia has often been scoffed at by other parents, and even my own children have begged me to back off sometimes.  I've had to abandon my natural overprotectiveness just to avoid embarrassing them.  It's a tightrope walk.  My heart goes out to the girls' mother.  And I hope that it might make everyone just a little more vigilant.  Better safe than sorry.

http://www.findmadeleine.com/home.html

Tanfastic bargain

Sucker that I am for the empty promises of the cosmetic industry, I snapped up a tube of anti-ageing cream last week at Aldi.  This magic potion claims to reduce those brown spots you get on your face and generally improve your complexion.  I lathered it on religiously for three days.  On inspection yesterday morning, I do declare my face looked healthier.... you know why?  My skin was a light, just-got-back-from-three-days-in-Mallorca brown.  Ha!  Of course it reduces pigmentation.  Even I, the least scientific brain in the world, could have dreamed this one up.  It is simply a common or garden moisturiser with a bit of self-tanning lotion thrown in. The only good thing is, I didn't feel in any way swindled.  The cream was in the bargain-basement section, and at Aldi that means dirt cheap.  It cost even less than my two punnets of Polish mushrooms, and that's saying something.

Someone told me it's all happening

Nothing like incessant rain to dampen the sprits, both human and animal.  Today saw us in Munich - again - at the zoo.  A CG-driven initiative.  (I refer naturally to our visit, not the zoo itself.)  I don't know about you, but I find the sight of wet animals cowering under their shelters really quite depressing.  They were all quite far away, and the rain was very hard, so the overriding effect was that of brown, four-legged, forlorn clumps of indeterminate deer- or cow-like creatures everywhere we looked.  We weren't even looking properly, more mooching round with a seen one, seen them all kind of attitude.  There were odd splashes of colour - the flamingoes, for example.  I'm not a big fan of flamingoes.  I find them too lurid.  But anyway.  The rain and accompanying cold wind forced us into the primate house.  The usual crowd were there on display, playing amongst and with themselves.  And that was just the humans. We spent longer in there than we might normally have done, for even the stink of gorilla urine was more bearable than the rain.   This gave me plenty of time to observe us (people) observing them (apes).  How we anthropomorphise!  It is particularly tempting to do this with primates as their expressions and gestures are so similar to our own.  Some more than others, of course. Orang-utans look mournful, gorillas grumpy and fierce, and chimpanzees cheeky.  But I bet they aren't feeling anything of the sort.  My analysis ends here, have no fear.  I once toyed with studying zoology but decided people are far more interesting.

So the week ahead beckons.  We can run but we can't hide - a bit like our friends in the ape house.  It'll be nice to see the back of March, and April 1 is always a good chance for playing a trick or two.  I shall have to start planning now for maximum impact.  Watch out, CG...

A grave prospect

Just finished scanning the Sits Vac in the local rag. Out of the hundreds of jobs on offer, there is only one which I could possibly apply for. Coffin-bearer (male or female) required for local cemetery and crematorium. Must have a serious and responsible countenance (check - sometimes, anyway), be flexible (check), in a good state of physical fitness (check), have your own vehicle (check). They even provide you with a uniform. So what's stopping me? It could be a nice little earner - apparently it's ten to fifteen burials per average month. But you have to be prepared to spring into action at short notice - people rarely plan an actual time and date for their funeral, weirdly enough - and (it's a big and) you must not be prone to dropping things. Which rules me out. Can you imagine? No, let's not.

Back to the drawing board, then. Or should I say scrubbing board, as it turns out our new washing machine is not arriving until next Friday. I take back all yesterday's waxing lyrical over times gone by. Either I'll be spending an awful lot of time leaning over the bathtub, or we'll have to find a launderette. The latter is quite tempting, as launderettes are famously sociable places, or so I've heard. I could treat it as a sort of social experiment - this usually turns even the most mundane of events into a fun and interesting encounter.

Elbow grease

I grow ever less deserving of my self-annointed status. The only kind of housework I've been doing lately is that of the reactive, emergency services kind. You know, when you realise that you can write your name and address on a wooden shelf just using a finger. So you reach for the polish and, while you're there, wipe a few other, random things in the immediate vicinity. Or, a child spills apple juice (lethal) on the floor. They have sloppily tried to clean it up with your bath towel, but your Croc gets stuck every time you walk over it. So you go in search of your old friend the mop. I'm sure you all get the picture. I don't voluntarily do anything, cleaning-wise. Why create work for myself? There are enough people doing that already.

I thus had a nasty re-awakening today. Our much over-worked and horribly exploited washing machine had given up the ghost. And at least three loads were waiting in the laundry basket. I could trace the last two days' family activities from the layers. There was nothing for it - I rolled up my sleeves and washed it all by hand, in the bath. Whilst stirring and rubbing and wringing I thought of my forefathers - or rather foremothers - who were doomed to a wash day once a week. Their best friend was the mangle and one of those scrubbing board things. I have to confess to feeling a bit humble. I also derived a certain sense of pride as I hung out the garments to dry, probably somewhat unwisely outside, where the local farmers are on yet another muck-spreading extravaganza. Never mind - I can do it all again tomorrow! The new machine won't come till Tuesday.

Driving at dawn

I was just putting the finishing touches to a tuna sandwich at 0610 this morning when a car lurched past our kitchen window. This in itself is not so unusual - there is a sort of street there - but this car was being driven by a petrified learner driver, shoulders in a frozen hunch, hands gripping the wheel for dear life. Now I know people like to get an early start in Germany, but surely this is taking the biscuit? What a horrible way to commence your day. Maybe I am just biased as I (a) hate getting up in the morning and (b) still have recurring nightmares about my driving instructor, way back in the days when you had to wind your car up with a handle to get it started. Her name was Mrs Arrowsmith and I was terrified of her. She may have been of Teutonic extraction, come to think of it, as she possessed absolutely no sense of humour, but she looked like a middle-aged British housewife who hated teenagers, particularly those who had the misfortune to end up in the driving seat of her silly little green car with the big L on the roof. I can still hear her croaky voice, berating me at some tricky junction - 'creep and peep, creep and peep'! Boy, was I glad to pass that test and wave goodbye to Mrs A forever. It's got to be said though, I did pass first time. The thought of having to go back to her for another six lessons must have been too much.

Lurking and shirking

Guilt hanging over me like a cloud. Just dropped Titus off at kindergarten in my new, clandestine fashion. That means I don't accompany him into the building and engage with anyone (unless they approach my car - even I draw the line at driving off in a cloud of dust, escaping eye contact with a large pair of sunglasses). I simply can't face it at the moment. Have we supplied the 6 cleaned and blown-out eggs for the Easter crafts? Have I put my name down for a 'chat' with the fierce and devout teacher? Did I sign up for the free first aid course? No, no and no. And all that on top of the no-show at the bazaar last week. I've got it coming to me, that's for sure. Luckily I have a potential soulmate in the village, who is equally reprehensible. She got an invitation to a tupperware party which she accepted. And then forgot all about, until the hostess rang up and asked where she was. This in itself is nothing, but then her husband, out walking the family dog, was accosted by a completely different woman, who he'd never seen in his life before. Something along the lines of, how could she? Scary. I shuddered with empathy when I heard this.

So CG popped into the village shop yesterday on his way home from work and was startled to come across our son browsing in the confectionery section. Hedda was waiting outside, the shy and unwilling accomplice. Apparently Gaia had sent them off to get something for her sugar-fix. I can't say I wouldn't have done the same at her age. Sadly, my three younger siblings were either too bolshy to comply or still in nappies.

This is us

Out on a dusk run last evening, CG and I mulled over the baby that never was, i.e. number 4, the one who would have jilted Titus from the throne of the youngest child, would have forced us into buying a people carrier, and increased my stretchmark count by at least 50 percent (apparently the skin is more prone to them with advancing age). He would have been called Magnus (and would have probably been a runt) or she would have been Isolde, would most likely have looked like CG - oh he of the dominant genes - and would have been born in Belgium. I'd say the hypothetical baby has had a lucky escape. Most of all, I am glad that we were discussing his/her non-existence with relief, rather than regret. Much as Titus moons over younger children, there is no doubt that his button nose would have been severely put out of joint by the arrival of another sibling.

It is a strange conclusion to have arrived at, yet quite liberating. This is our family: five crazy, ever-changing, imaginative people who love each other with a passion, despite regular appearances to the contrary. The next people to tear up the house will be our grandchildren. Not for a few years yet though, I hope.

It's all Greek to me

Saturday - spent the afternoon hiding from the village bazaar people in Munich. The Deutsche Museum seemed a pretty safe bet - I couldn't imagine that any of Bovinia's farmers pop into the museum regularly to check out the John Deere exhibits. Actually, the place was crawling with Italians and other assorted foreigners. Enjoyed the anonymity of a big city for a few hours.

Sunday - back in Bovinia. Three o'clock in the afternoon saw me, Hedda and CG attending a rather curious meeting in the local pub. All because two days earlier, a mother from the village had asked me whether we would like to come, knowing Hedda is keen on dancing. These were the only details I could glean from the conversation, which was one of those Bavarian dialect types where I had to admit I didn't understand three times, then gave up. The meeting itself was pretty much the same. I had coerced CG into coming in the guise of my official translator. Thank goodness I did, for I understood a maximum forty per cent of the proceedings. This was, however, more than Hedda. The meeting was to gauge interest in and get children to join a dance troupe for Fasching 2012, some typical Bavarian thing of which I had never heard, ever. Anyway, there were 7 potential dancers there. One clearly couldn't face the prospect and fled the room, crying, but Hedda appeared to be taking it all in and confidently put her name on the list when it came round. I asked her if she was quite sure and she nodded vigorously. This surprised me somewhat, as it had been made very clear what hard work it would be for the children and that it would entail 9 months of twice-weekly rehearsals. When we finally escaped into the fresh air again, I patted her little blonde head and said brightly, well! Good for you. She skipped along happily for a bit. Then asked, so what exactly have I signed up to do, Mummy? She really didn't have a clue. It makes me wonder how she copes at school... or anywhere in fact. Still, she is pleased to be in on the action. And of course, I will delight in the many parents' evenings, coffee mornings, trips to the dressmaker and whatever else, as long as I view it as a cultural integration project for myself. Please remind me if I seem to be veering off this worthy path at any time.

A domani

Just a quick note in case you've been wondering where I am all weekend. Don't panic - the houses in Bovinia are still standing and nothing terrible has happened! I haven't been off on some jaunt either; just hopelessly busy, but I shall drop a blog tomorrow!

Haunted by the community spirit

Was just leaping into the car having dropped Titus at kindergarten when a sweet girl approached me with a worried look on her face. Cripes, I thought, what on earth has happened? She proceeded to ask me what I am doing tomorrow, and luckily I spied the trap before falling in, as is my usual wont, and changed my answer from nothing in particular to being out the whole day, in Munich. Just as well, because actually she wanted me to man the cake stall at the kindergarten bazaar from ten till one o'clock. Can you imagine? Trying to sell cakes in Bavarian dialect. I've done it a couple of times elsewhere, and my main problem has always been trying to slide a slice of gateau onto a cardboard plate without it (the slice) falling sideways, as this is a real faux pas. Or, you have to preempt this happening, and ask the 'customer' first if you are allowed to serve it lying on its side. Some people- genuinely - say no, and then watch like hawks as you nudge the stupid thing, beads of sweat breaking out on your forehead, slowly, ever-so-slowly onto the plate. So the prospect of all this, in a language I am still struggling to understand, was just too much for me. Of course, I've been feeling guilty all morning. But I've only got myself to blame. I foolishly showed goodwill by frolicking around as a pirate, and now I will be expected to participate in every community event. Twas ever thus. Or risk half the population of Bovinia sending me to Coventry (which actually seems quite an attractive destination nowadays - only sometimes though). I am proud of myself that I didn't weaken on this occasion, but know that next time, I will have to join in with extra vim and vigour to compensate for tomorrow's no-show. Sigh. Better look on the internet for something to do in Munich tomorrow now - there's no way I can be seen out and about round here!

The School Doctor

Titus and I went on a jaunt to the school doctor this morning, down in good old Garmisch, our objective being to get a clean bill of health and that all-important signature which will enable our son to learn stuff for three hours a day. I know, I know, it is hard work. The kid has to be up to the job. Anyway, as I have mentioned before, Titus loves physical examinations. This one was particularly interesting for him as there were some new highlights: peeing in a plastic cup, showing his private parts (he's usually being told to put them away) and demonstrating sporting prowess. His theatrical talents did not go unnoticed, either. Returning from a hop on one leg across the room, he flopped dramatically onto the couch and appeared to be fainting from the effort. The doc looked concerned and asked whether this was normal. Oh yes, I said, absolutely, he's a budding Olivier. Titus popped back up again like a jack-in-the-box. I knew he'd ask me later who Olivier was.

To cut a long story short, it all went swimmingly, his defects were duly pointed out to me, I promised to keep an eye on them (pah! What defects?) and we were just putting our coats on to leave when Titus decided to open his heart about his new fear of earthquakes. The doctor loved this - she made us sit down again and went into shrink mode. My heart sank. I have enough to do without traipsing round a load of psychologist appointments with Titus Olivier. It is true that disasters like this strike fear into the hearts of all of us, and to this end I really didn't think it was helpful of the doc to mention that the tremors from Japan were even recorded in Bavaria. Luckily this detail went over Titus' head. I was reprimanded for letting him watch too much TV, then we hurried off before she could add 'panic disorder' or 'anxious disposition' to his files.

Nice doctor, Mummy, said Titus on the way to the car. But do you think she should have been wearing those socks with high-heeled shoes?

That's my boy.

Japan - lest we forget

It seems so wrong that, in the wake of Friday's horrendous disaster in Japan, the German media seem more interested in the safety of this country with regard to nuclear power stations. Every report I have heard in the last few days is focusing not on the immense challenge that now faces the Japanese, i.e. rebuilding their towns and villages, providing for homeless, sick, traumatised and bereaved people, recovering lost income, but on the lessons that can be learned from the explosions at the Fukushima plant. It is certainly important to capitalise on useful information arising from disastrous circumstances and to transform this into preventive measures for the future. Ignorance is most definitely not bliss in the case of nuclear fuel. I just feel it is too early to 'forget' the true nature of this natural catastrophe and what it means for the Japanese people.

On a lighter note, let me give you a teensy Bovinian update. The whole village is now ramping up for the next religious milestone, namely Easter. Little coloured eggs are hanging from little cute twigs and little eerie staring bunnies and chicks are parked in nooks and crannies wherever you look. At kindergarten, there is a sternly-written notice on the door - 'Parents please take note. For our Easter craft activities, we require six EMPTY and CLEAN whole eggshells PER CHILD.' This is definitely a job for CG - I don't know what it is about him, but he's got a gift when it comes to eggs. I always make the holes too big or break the shells in the process of trying to blow the damn stuff out.

There are still no cows to be seen on the pastures - morale in the barns must be at rock bottom by now. Bet it stinks, too. You might have noticed that I changed my profile picture in honour of the bovine (one of my favourite animals after the alpaca). I leave you with the words of William Topaz McGonagall, who, in his prime, was widely acclaimed as the worst poet in Britain:

The chicken is a noble beast

The cow is much forlorner

Standing in the morning rain

With a leg at every corner.

I've always liked this, which doesn't say much for my taste in poetry, does it?

Cell-U-Like

Somebody - I can't say who for fear of retribution, but it's a German male who plays a prominent role in my life - told me a really lame joke last night. It goes like this.

Q. Why don't men have cellulite?

A. Because it looks so awful!

Cue lots of guffawing.

Well, that very same person happened to reveal to me that he recently discovered some cellulite on a certain part of his body. He only revealed the fact, not the body part, but I'll take his word for it. I was quick to comfort him, however, and perhaps you will also find my words reassuring. Even small babies have cellulite. Titus, at the age of 3 months, had such chunky little thighs. All I had to do was grab a bit of flesh and squeeze it gently to produce a dimpled effect that would reduce most grown women to tears. And, while I'm on the subject, I can tell you that he even had blackheads.

So you see, these things can be with us from birth; faithful friends who accompany us through life, rather than sudden and ominous signs of the ageing process. Seeing them in this light is so much more positive!

Gaia of Sherwood

Gaia bounced into the study yesterday with great purpose and stated her dire need to go to a hairdresser. You know how it is - once you've decided you need a cut and blow, the whole situation becomes intolerable, although you may have put up with split ends and tangled tresses for months already. So I asked her what she wanted to have done. The length is fine, she thinks, nice and wavy... yes... so what then? Well Ma, she said. The problem is, I feel like Robin Hood, or an early English king!! I considered for a moment. You mean a sort of Richard the Lionheart figure, I said, and all you need to top off the look is a narrow crown with those regular zig-zags going on? Exactly, she said, and we both fell about laughing. I was still laughing hours later - she'd hit the nail on the head, so to speak, with such creative accuracy that I could only agree with her.

She won't dare go to our neighbour Hanni (as in Hanni's Haarstudio, one of our local industries) - can't say I blame her - so I think I'll take her to the sniffing man who 'does' Titus' hair. A bit of body and a few layers; even he won't get that wrong, surely?

Warning signs

Been caught up in loopy family life all weekend and can hardly think straight! All jolly and wonderful... I guess one day, my children will learn to speak one at a time and not to interrupt each other, and we won't have to spend whole car journeys playing I spy or listening to accusations about who just farted. And won't life be dull?

Today we went off on one of our family adventure tours, which sounds really exciting but actually involved a short stop at a very dull reservoir (heralded as 'amazing' and 'not to be missed' in our rather biased guidebook). It didn't help that gale force winds nearly blew us off the dam, and that Gaia spent most of the time wondering which part of the precipice would be the best suicide leaping point. We were practically alone, apart from clusters of motorcyclists on a smoke-break. They seem to like it round there - just endless curving empty roads with lots of potential for dangerous overtaking and frequent shack-like diner places dotted around. Anyway, we hustled everyone back in the car and CG decided that we should take in the Tegernsee, a lake in the vicinity, which is also one of the most expensive places to reside in Germany. (He likes to fuel his dislike of rich people by checking out how the other half live sometimes.) So off we went, winding along the roads in between motorbikes and dead leaves.

On arrival we parked and sat in the car eating peanut flips and other trashy things trying to build up the motivation to actually get out. We then headed to the lake and admired the waves and the other tourists. There were also some curious-looking ducks who were delighted to be fed with our sesame sticks. Some ten happy minutes were passed in this way and, as usual, we attracted lots of curious glances. Walking on a little further we were confronted with a large sign - DO NOT FEED THE DUCKS. THEY CAN FIND THEIR OWN FOOD AND WILL ONLY GET SPOILT IF YOU GIVE THEM YOURS. And so on. FEEDING THE DUCKS WILL ONLY RESULT IN RATS, WEASELS, SQUIRRELS, SEAGULLS AND OTHER VERMIN RUINING THE PLEASURE FOR VISITORS TO THIS BEAUTIFUL PLACE. OK, we get the message. Hurriedly shoved sesame sticks in rucksack in case the police are looking. The ducks moved off as one, disappointed. I hopped on to a little wooden jetty with Titus and we danced around a bit, pretending to fall in the water and so on. Then CG alerted me to another sign - ACCESS TO JETTY STRICTLY PROHIBITED. DISOBEYING THIS NOTICE COULD LAND YOU WITH A HEFTY FINE. Well, that was enough for me. I couldn't get back to the car fast enough. CG added insult to injury just before we got there by telling me off for walking on the grass. How German can you get????? He just can't help himself though. It really distresses him to see people behaving in this Bohemian fashion, and he feels obliged to put them back on the straight and narrow. Probably just as well as far as I am concerned. But that's another story.

It's grim up north

I didn't realise quite how grim, until we stepped off the train at Murnau, the Staffelsee glinting in the evening sun, the still-snowy Alpine slopes reflecting the pink sky.... wow, it feels good to be back here.

Hedda and Titus both complained that their suitcases were considerably heavier than on the trip northwards. Little did they know that bad Mummy had packed a bottle of wine inside each one! I felt quite guilty actually, particularly when we boarded the train at the wrong end and had to lug everything through five very full carriages, evoking all manner of complaints and running over lots of toes in our attempt to find our reserved seats. As usual there was a fat man sitting in one of them - got rid of him sharpish - spotted him later in the buffet car, filling his face with a sausage sandwich. I waved cheerily as I weaved past with my watery coffee.

Frau NN had obviously done a good job with Max. He looks no less mentally disturbed than when we left him on Monday. I couldn't find any signs of her snooping, either, but then again, good snoopers are very discreet. By the way, an interesting point about the NNs. This is so cute - they are called Maria* and Joseph! Obviously a match made in heaven, though I think in their case Joseph really is the father of their two sons...

*Mary is known as Maria in Germany.

What's a hair or two between friends?

It's weird how, if you like people, their bodily traces are not such a problem as when you don't. I speak specifically of pubes on the side of the bath. I remember a woman, my erstwhile hairdresser, who used to receive her clients at home, and this meant leaning over her bath to get your hair washed. I always found her husband a bit swarthy and suspicious (this proved to be right when he later had an affair with a Ukranian colleague) and thus the sight of his sprinkle of body hair, which she probably saw too but chose not to say anything, was always a bit gross. It's even worse when you find them on a public toilet, but that goes without saying. However, when you are staying with people you like and know to be not only kind but hygienic, the odd pube or two is not really that disturbing. You ignore them or simply blow them away. How strange you must think me to be writing this. But I simply had to share it with you.

Circling raccoons and creaking swings

Freezing cold, windy visit to local petting zoo. Didn't see anyone petting, practically no other people there actually, apart from a couple of other desperate mothers trying to while away the long and dreary afternoon. Hedda got attacked by a herd of deer who mistook her camera for a packet of animal food. A man was sluicing out the drains purely in our honour. (Drains are nasty at the best of times, but I think zoo drains are even worse than most.) But the overriding memory for me will be that of Stromi, a raccoon destined to spend his life going round and round in circles, breaking the cycle only briefly to move to the other side of his cage and then start again. Wisely, the zoo people had put up a sign. This explained that Stromi had a problem with 'the organ that controls balance' (isn't that the brain?) and 'can't help endlessly revolving' but that they decided to keep him anyway, because of his kind and friendly raccoonality. Poor Stromi. It was indeed a tragic sight, particularly as his cage-mates were engaged in procreative activities and seemed to visibly resent his dizzy-making presence. As all children seem to do these days, our collective rushed past the animals and bestowed no more than a glance on the avian exhibits, all in a bid to reach the playground as soon as possible, for that, of course, is why the parents pay twenty euros - who needs wildlife? A fifty-year-old swing and broken trampoline are what really make the day.

There's more to life than cows and mountains

Just a mini-bloggette from the lovely Lüneburger Heide. Went out for a run with my dog-in-law, Meischa. I can't believe I used to find this area dull. Even though there are no mountains, there are other wondrous things, such as wild animals (sheep, deer, pigs), frozen woodland ponds, ramshackle half-timbered buildings with roofs down to the ground. I suppose it is the beauty of contrast, too. Apart from my two brief sojourns to Blighty and the Big Apple, I've been cooped up, if that expression can be applied to such a spacious environment, down in Bovinia for half a year. It is good to get away and realise that there is more to Germany than beer, white sausage and skiing. And I actually understand all the people here, too.

About to take my relatives out to a slap-up lunch at Burger King (don't tell me I'm not classy), so had better go and get my glad-rags on.

Bye Bovinia

In little more than an hour we'll be sitting on a train taking us up north to the land of red brick churches and Protestants. The bags are packed, Frau NN has been primed as to her daily duties, and Max is running rings round the garden miaowing plaintively. I tried to put him in my Pa's suitcase but he jumped right out again. Oh well, it was worth a try.

Am not sure how much I'll be blogging in the next few days as I'll be relying on my sister-in-law to let me on her PC. She should be in a super-duper mood, because literally as I type she is in the throes of buying a HORSE - by the time we get there, she'll be the proud owner and I am sure my evening will be spent looking at photos of it from every possible angle.

Must go and collect Titus from kindergarten. Thought he might be quieter on the train if he had a few hours with the fierce devout teacher first. Bis bald!

While the cat's away

Except the cat isn't going away; we are. As previously mentioned. This will be a new experience for our already-very-disturbed Max, who is a needy and vocal individual, not good at being alone, although he has so far failed to make any friends in his new area. His insecurity probably scares potential playmates off. Also he doesn't have much to offer, being a eunuch.

Be that as it may, he will have to tough it out here for the next few days and I have asked the good Frau NN, our nice-but-nosey neighbour, to look after him. CG and I went over yesterday to ask her, and her little Bavarian blue eyes lit up, presumably at the prospect of finally getting a good squiz at the inside of our house. Of course she won't admit it, but she is sure to look in every single room - I would. The problem is I am now panicking at the thought of a real housewife, someone who takes true pride in their work and actually enjoys cleaning for its own sake, scrutinising my surfaces (marble, glass, wood - you name it, it's somewhere in this house). I can just picture her running a finger along the bookshelf, particularly where the tin soldier army stands knee-deep in dust, as CG doesn't want anyone to clean them except himself, yet seems to think that twice-yearly sessions with a soft cloth and Mr Sheen are sufficient. (I don't mind this at all, as the responsibility of polishing all those minute cannons and muskets and not breaking them brings me out in a cold sweat.)

I shall be running around like a whirlwind tomorrow morning, sweeping up fruit loops and apple-tree clippings and whipping away the worst of the cobwebs. I even think I might leave a note on our bed - something along the lines of, 'if you are reading this, you are SNOOPING'. The kids think I should set booby-traps but I feel that is going a bit far. After all, she is a kind soul and without her help we would have to pack Max off to some distant boarding kennels. In fact I don't even know of any. Gaia wanted to lock her door but my father managed to put her off with the wise adage that there is nothing more interesting than a locked room. Best to leave the door wide open, he said, everything neat and tidy and absolutely nothing tantalising a la 'private, keep out'.

Must go and throw some pasta in a pan. Nothing like ready-made tortellini for a Sunday lunch!

That is the week that was

Guess what - a blanket of fog is lying over the village. We shall have to travel upwards, not horizontally, to find a patch of sunshine this afternoon. My Pa is staying for a few days and needs entertainment. He's already lined up this morning's highlight - pruning the ancient apple tree in the front garden. That is the good thing about parents or other willing relatives coming to stay. Pruning a tree is the kind of task that CG and I know needs doing, admire other people when they do so, regret when the time has past and no fruit is borne, but somehow never get round to anyway. Hence my joy when my father reported that he is fresh from a fruit-tree pruning course (which he paid 50 quid for) and is eager to put his newfound knowledge into action. He has already bought the 'right' tools, ascertained that our ladders are long enough, and given me a detailed analysis as to which branches are staying or going. Now all he has to do is get out there and start snipping!

Don't the weeks just fly by? Now my brother has been a married man for 7 days, he's gone all quiet over there in the Big Apple, and I hope no news is good news. My jet lag has dissipated. Now the children and I are looking forward (sort of) to a trip up north to see two aunts, one grandma, three cousins, two dogs and whoever else might be hanging around. I say sort of because the train journey is as long as the flight to New York, though not as comfortable, and nobody will be coming round to pour me a complementary glass of wine or give me a little bag of nuts during the journey. But at least there won't be turbulence!!!!

PS: I didn't blog yesterday as I had just found out that a little girl very dear to our hearts has leukaemia. Her Mum reads this blog - she might be checking it out in the hospital - and I want her to know that I am thinking of her all the time and willing the treatment to be a success. X

Looking on the bright side

I think it's part of the British genetic make-up to do this. Which is just as well, because right now the RH is in a bit of a slough of despond about still being out of work. I'm asking myself, how long do I have to wait before I qualify as 'long-term unemployed', and will I feel better when I reach that milestone??

But of course, it doesn't pay to be miserable. Yesterday I thought of all the advantageous aspects of living in Bovinia and not working. Or at least not having paid work. Here they are:

1) I am familiar, to the minute, with the exact routines of the bin men, the postal service and the fat teenager who comes round with the free newspaper, and can be duly concerned when they are late;

2) I am truly able to say that any time will do for doctors' and dentists' appointments - no more squeezing them into a frenetic working day;

3) I would never have got to know the wonderfully inspiring and friendly types at the Job Centre - nor even been granted the honour of entering the building;

4) I would never have the ludicrously high score in Mah Jong that I can now boast;

5) I would have persisted in the delusional belief that I am eminently employable

and lastly

6) the quirks and idiosyncrasies of this unique village would most likely have passed me by completely. And what would my blog be without those?

Indeed, indeed. I would be reduced to writing about broken-down photocopiers and chance meetings in the staff kitchen. My creative juices would dry up to a trickle, whereas now they are a great, flowing Orinoco or Amazon.

Must go. There seems to be some irregular movement in the street outside, which I should enter into the log book.

I knew there'd be a hitch

How right I was to expect complications with the school test! I have been congratulating myself ever since, because it means I was not in the slightest bit discouraged or disappointed to be told that, although Titus is more than ready to go to school, I could not yet be furnished with the all-important document that will allow me to sign him up.

You see, we were a bit naughty and actually spent the last three years abroad - it doesn't matter where, only that it wasn't Germany - and this meant that Titus did not get to have the special, German development checks. The lady school tester pointed out that this was rather remiss of me. I like it when official people do that, for at the same time as stroking their ego, they are reminding me that I am not perfect and ensuring that I don't get above myself. Which is kind of doing me a favour, if you choose to look at it that way - I usually do, or I'd be permanently insulted.

So. After telling me what I already knew, i.e. that my son is a perfectly normal, alert and articulate boy, she instructed us to go and have a full medical, which we shall do the week after next. Then, and only then, will Titus be deemed suitable for school intake.

Slightly different tack to finish off with. I had thought that I was rid of my inhibitions and embarrassment about doing silly things in public. But in NYC at the weekend, I realised that a few boundaries still exist. My mother wanted to photograph me with the Statue of Liberty behind me, in the distance. That part was ok. But then she asked me to raise my arm in imitation of Lady Liberty and gaze into the middle-distance contemplatively. I have to admit that I had a problem with this. In the end, however, I relented, on the condition that she set the shot up first (for even though she has a digital camera, she spends as much time getting ready to take a photo as if she had one of those old ones on legs, with a black cloth for the photographer to hide under). That meant I only had to strike the pose for five seconds max. Anything to please my ma.

The School Test

I try to embrace the more tedious aspects of my adopted homeland as well as the jolly ones. I really do. But I struggle with the German approach to starting school. Firstly, they try and put you off sending your child to school for as long as possible - motto, you only live once, let the kid enjoy his/her last year in kindergarten. Are you really sure you want to push him/her. Because those three hours a day can be very taxing.

There is, however, as can only be expected in such a civilised country, a cut-off point where Junior simply has to go and no amount of pleading or cajoling will help you because it's the LAW. (I've never actually heard of a parent who pleads to keep their child at home, but there must be some, just as there must be people who like the band Roxette.) But even though it is compulsory, as in Titus' case (he's practically teenage compared to the age British children start school) they throw in one last challenge, just to keep you on your toes and make life just that tad more difficult. This hurdle is known as the 'Schuluntersuchung' or school test, and as far as I can see it is a way of creating work for doctors, psychologists and social workers who would otherwise be out of a job or at home knitting. Rafts of information are required and complex tasks must be completed by the child in order to get the go ahead, and even when you do and everything appears to be in order, they often like to point out some deficit in Junior's physical condition/speech/upbringing, just to stop the parents getting too complacent.

You might have guessed by now that today is the day for Titus, and in one hour I shall tootle along to the kindergarten with all his documentation and subject him and myself to interrogation - there will probably be a single, naked light bulb hanging down over a bare table and there will certainly be at least three people with clipboards. One will be wearing a white coat and at least two will have unisex, functional haircuts. They will regard me and my son as oddities, speaking as we do with British accents and little grammatical irregularities.

I know I sound terribly cynical. I am. Experience has taught me to expect the worst; not for me the joyful optimism of the uninitiated. I was once taken aside by Hedda's kindergarten teacher, up there in the wilds of northern Germany, as she had 'concerns' about my daughter's facial muscles, particularly those around the jaw. I had to struggle not to laugh. I humoured her, put my head on one side and asked her to explain herself more clearly, and perhaps give a reason for this physical deformity. Well, she said. I think it's because Hedda speaks too much English. Gosh, I replied, feeling my own cheeks and jaw in panic and mentally planning an emergency appointment at the local orthodontist. A solution was quickly offered, though. Hedda simply had to eat more carrots.

You probably think I'm joking. I swear this really happened. Up to that point I didn't know that being an English speaker was so hazardous. Being a positive kind of person, though, I use these experiences to the greater good, i.e. this morning, where forewarned is most definitely forearmed and I am prepared for them to say literally anything about my son's development, or lack of it. Don't worry about Titus, though. There is nothing he likes better than being prodded and poked by doctors and being the sole focus of attention. He was practically exploding with excitement this morning. So - let the fun begin!