Limnetic frolic

Ever since I posted about nuns last week I've been seeing them everywhere.  There was one at the dental surgery today.  She was reading the free magazine that the dentist publishes in a ruthless attempt at self-promotion.  I looked over her shoulder discreetly - it was an article entitled 'Make Bad Breath a Thing of the Past'.  What do nuns care for halitosis remedies?  Or does it cause distress at Vespers when your neighbour emits oral fumes?  I blame the artificial lemon juice.

You must have noticed that I often report on the weather.  It is true that I hear myself talking about it more and more, although I have always been bored by people who chat on, or even worse, complain about the weather, for after all, what can we do to change it?  I think, however, it is a symptom of not being confined to an office.  My daily activities are dictated by the current conditions.  Some people would call this liberty and enjoy it.  So I try to.  Today was so hot that the only thing anyone felt like doing after lunch was bathing  - I use that term loosely - in the local lake.  I somehow ended up taking four children along and spent my time there hiding behind a bank of rushes while they screamed and splashed and generally ruined the peace for the few elderly swimmers who'd got there first.  I peeked out at one point just as Titus chucked an enormous piece of wood into the shallows, and hurriedly returned to my book.  Too late though - he'd spotted me.  Look at me, Mummy, he bellowed, in English.  Blew my cover in an instant.

Luckily we had the dental appointment looming, so the limnetic frolic was curtailed.  It wasn't at all a wasted trip; I learned from another mother there that the swimming pond in Bovinia is to be avoided at all costs being, as it is, a breeding ground for leeches.  How glad I am to have found that out before going there and finding them on my person afterwards.

Living in a car

The imagination of a six year old knows no boundaries.  A couple of examples to support this sweeping statement, perhaps?  Friday lunchtime.  Titus is eating pumpkin soup (homemade, pumpkin imported from another continent).  He tires of the conventional method and leans over his bowl.  He starts to lap up the soup with his tongue.  I think of admonishing him but decide not to, as it is actually quite an amusing spectacle.  I ask him why he has his hands on the sides of his head.  He looks perplexed - isn't it obvious?  I'm a spaniel with long silky ears, he says, and I have to keep them out of the way.

Later on we arrive back from judo class in driving rain.  It is so wet that we don't rush to get out of the car.  We stay sitting for a while in the warmth.  Titus starts to ponder on how life as a homeless person would be.  I tell him that some people really do live in cars.  This strikes him as an extremely appealing prospect.  I get bored of the roleplay and get out.  Come on, I say.  But he wants me to leave him there, so he can 'pretend to be a sad homeless person who lives in a car'.  Half an hour later I remember him, look out of the window, and see him in the driving seat, happily twiddling levers and buttons and making engine noises with his mouth (I can't hear this, but I'm good at lipreading).  He announces that he'd be happy to live in a car - the experiment was a success - but he'd make sure to park it outside flats and houses of generous relations, so he'd always have enough to eat and be allowed to use their bathroom.

Friends and relatives, if you see a suspicious vehicle in front of your property in years to come, don't call the police.  It'll be Titus, about to come and ask for a jacket potato and a quick shower.

Danger - nuns on road

You know the only thing I dislike about writing this blog?  It's thinking up titles.  I never, ever have a title in mind before I start and, no matter how flowingly the content comes out and how pleased I am with the end result, I then spend ages trying to think of a suitable title.  I've noticed that anything slightly risque always gets more hits, but with some of the subjects I write about it would be difficult, not to say impossible, to come up with a titivating header that wouldn't be completely irrelevant.

Today is no different, so who knows what I'll come up with, for the first subject on the agenda is nuns driving (badly).  I was on my way back from the garden centre, having managed to resist a climbing rose, a holly tree and an enormous potted geranium for the exhorbitant price of 75 euros.  It didn't take me long to notice that the driver in front was slaloming around in quite an alarming fashion.  From my perspective, it seemed as if she was holding up a piece of cardboard to block the sunlight - why not indeed, if your visor is broken.  Quite innovative, actually, if you think about it.  But when I overtook the little green car I realised it was being 'driven' by a little old nun, with a monster of a wimple on her head - this was the piece of cardboard, by the way.

There are quite a few nuns round here, as abbeys are two a penny.  However, I have yet to see one under eighty.  They are usually sighted in the cheaper supermarkets, and I have observed that they have a penchant for those plastic lemon things with extra-acidic lemon juice inside.  The good sisters generally favour the bicycle - can't imagine why - but some are to be seen, like today, driving old granny cars around, head barely visible over the wheel and putting their fellow motorists in mortal danger as they make their way from St Benedikt to St Ursula, or whatever.  No wonder really, because it's probably years since they took a driving test, if they ever did.  And abbey life can't allow much opportunity for improving one's driving skills.

Still on the same journey, I entered Bovinia and was struck by a classic vignette which typifies life here.  Coming from the other direction, on foot and pushing an overladen bike, an elderly lady with bowed shoulders was making her way up the road ever so, ever so slowly.  Behind her was a line of four or five cars.  Nobody could overtake as the road is so narrow at that point.  But no one looked concerned.  They contentedly crawled along at snail's pace as the lady wearily shuffled home.  (I hope she lives nearby, or the cars will still be behind her as I write.)  The lack of impatience, not a single blast of a horn or angry red face leaning out of the window to castigate her, sum up the attitude in this rural idyll.

Note to weary lady - ask a nun for a lift next time??

Nowhere to sun, nowhere to hide

You know when you are mature enough to realise that you are STUCK with a situation, so there is absolutely no point moaning about it, but it drives you NUTS?  Well, that is how I feel about our ever-decreasing garden privacy.  Bad enough that Herr NN (neighbour to the left) sets his deckchair up every day, facing the sun, i.e. our garden, which I am sure is no coincidence.  Then today, I discovered that as-yet-without-a-pseudonym other neighbour, directly opposite, has set his chair up, ostensibly to watch his tomatoes growing but also just on the other side of our fence, facing our garden.  This leaves two sides of potential sunbathing space; not bad, you might think.  But the one side is flanked by a large yellow house with two rubbernecking couples living in it and the other by a track, along which go-karts, motorcycles, tractors and cows thunder on a regular basis. And, being Bovinia, they all stare as they pass.  I hope they crash into a bush.  I'm beginning to understand why people buy their own sun-beds.  It used to seem a hugely extravagant thing to do, but being able to tan in private is surely a basic human right and if needs must....  You might be wondering why I don't throw caution and inhibition to the wind and ignore them all.  If you don't know already, I am a prudish Brit.  And besides, it isn't so much the presence of other people that bothers me.  It is the fact that they point themselves in our direction with such purpose.

Having said there was no point complaining, I have done quite a good job here.  Just needed to get it off my chest.  Maybe I should take Titus up on his advice - 'try shade-bathing Mummy.  It won't make you sick and no one can see you under the apple tree'.

Home of the muffin-top

I would say easyJet is a misnomer, given that we were delayed by six hours last Friday.  But how typical of me to start with a negative point.  Our weekend in sunny England was a delight.  Words cannot express how beautiful my sister looked, with a stunning back-up team of coral bridesmaids (plus a cream flower-girl), handsome groomsmen and Titus as Bavarian Boy.  The new husband scrubbed up well too. I won't gush further.  Suffice to say, watching two people making their wedding vows, who genuinely love each other and are so excited about their future together, would melt the heartstrings of the Tin Man.  That is, if he ever had any (wasn't that the original problem?  I forget).  And now they're off on their honeymoon, and let's hope the new ash cloud won't throw a spanner in the works.

Back in Bovinia it feels like mid-summer.  The NNs are there again, having disappeared off for a few days in quite a mysterious manner.  I admit that I enjoyed our garden more in their absence.  This morning, Herr NN was re-established in his customary place on the terrace, where he spends the morning overseeing activities in the street, particularly mine, it seems. In our absence a crowd of snails invaded our vegetable patch, so I'm going to have to resort to pellets.  I mean those you strew, not shoot.  Although shooting a snail can't be that difficult, actually.

There's always a slight feeling of anti-climax after a long-planned event, such as this wedding.  Just as well, then, that I got a letter from the Arbeitsamt this morning, 'inviting' me to an obligatory appointment in a couple of weeks.  Now I can look forward to that, plan my outfit, etc, etc.  It's a new man this time, I can see from the letter.  Here's hoping he will have a sense of humour and not be quite so long-winded.

I do miss England, but I've been away so long now that I can't help noticing things about it that I may not have done as a permanent resident.  For instance, it does not surprise me that the term 'muffin top' was coined there.  Nowhere else on my travels do I see so many examples of this sad development in female fashion and body size.  It is a phenomenon that has emerged over the last ten years or so, I think - feel free to correct me. Sadly I have to say that a dirndl, with gathered waist and billowing apron, is more flattering than too-tight hipster jeans.

On that note, I'll leave you.  My broccoli is boiling over.

Off to Blighty

Off to Ye Olde England tomorrow at the crack of dawn for Sister B's wedding.  So I won't be blogging till next Tuesday at the earliest.  We're flying courtesy of EasyJet, cousin of that other luxury airline, Ryanair.  No expense spared for us.  Then it's into a hire car, hopefully not a Mini, up the motorway to the East Riding of Yorkshire where we shall unite with the rest of the wedding party for a quick rehearsal.  The big day is Saturday.  I've cut Hedda's fingernails specially.

Have a wonderful weekend!

The perils of country life

I narrowly escaped being run over this morning.  Jogging round the corner, on the correct (i.e. left) side of the road, I heard the roar of a powerful engine and the next second, a red porsche zoomed out of nowhere.  I had to jump to safety, literally.  The driver (female, lots of lipstick, bad highlights) had the audacity to wave cheerfully at me as she sped off.

Brushing off the cow dung I got back on my feet, looked around carefully for other road hogs, and carried on running.  Down to the saw mill, where the workers play merrily with logs all day and stare rudely at whoever chances it past their yard.  Woe betide you if they happen to be swinging a potential maypole into place with their 1950s crane at the very moment you pass.  The best bet is to flatten yourself against the nearest barn, which I can tell you from my own experience is also home to a huge pile of steaming manure.

Today all was quiet at the saw mill, as it happens.  Apart from my encounter with the porsche driver, the rest of my run was remarkably peaceful and I revelled in the late spring scenery.  Allow me to gush just this once.  Every garden is overflowing with flowers.  Animals are out grazing, little knowing they're for the chop pretty soon.  Friendly housewife and farmer people wave and say 'grüß Gott' as they wheel their barrows full of gunk along the street. Cats sun themselves on pristine walls or hide in the fields waiting to torture the wildlife.  Yes, it really is idyllic here.  The meadows are ablaze with pink and yellow and white, the lakes glitter cerulean blue, the birds twitter and swoop.  The only things I find vaguely off-putting are these. Men loitering in fields, gun slung over their shoulder, which they'll occasionally grab and point at something.  The rational side of you knows they are not going to shoot you, but another, irrational voice screams 'lunatic' and there's nothing you can do apart from keep running.  The other thing also concerns men - those who lurk in the undergrowth or in densely wooded areas (otherwise known as forests).  You round a corner and there they are, in khaki trousers and waistcoat, silly hat askew.  Lowering their binoculars, they give you a gappy smile.  Now I like birds as much as the next person, perhaps even more.  But I like to think my clothes are normal and I still have all my teeth.  Plus I don't go for hanging out in bushes and scaring innocent runners.

It's all go right now.  Just got back from watching some men filling in the potholes in our street.  There's a little multipurpose gang in Bovinia - they seem to do anything and everything, including turning up to all village events and consuming vast amounts of beer. Titus swears that the foreman is called Chicago, but I have real trouble believing this.  I have to take T at his word, for I have absolutely no intention of asking Chicago if it is true.  I wouldn't understand the reply anyway.

Flight of fantasy

So annoying - I just can't get Estonia's Eurovision melody out of my head.  I don't understand this one bit, for out of all the songs (25 in total, for anyone sensible enough not to have watched the show), this was definitely one of the worst.  I can even hear it now, taunting me in everything I do and say.

Estonian melodies are all I need today, a day on which all three of my children have voiced their disapproval, to put it mildly, of something I've said or done.  Gaia - 'you're a rubbish parent'.  Hedda 'what do you mean we're only going on holiday for a week.  I'll only just have got to know people!'  Titus - 'shut up'.  Need I say more?  Think I'll go and thumb down a tractor and hitch a ride far, far away, perhaps to the next village where they talk all funny, and nobody will know me because I'm not from there. After a while, my children will get hungry, or want some money.  They'll look for me briefly but get distracted.  They'll assume I'm either (a) gardening, (b) cleaning or (c) running, and won't start to worry until CG gets home and asks, where's Mummy.  At which they will shrug their shoulders.  He will make himself a cappuccino, and change into normal clothes, because no one can see him in our garden when he's got his camouflage on.  He will go and look at his tin soldier painting workshop and check nothing's been moved.  Then, and only then, he will think hmm.  A bit odd.  And give a me a ring.  I'll pick up immediately, and he will come and get me and drive me home.  Gaia, Hedda and Titus will cry, where have you BEEN?  We were worried, Mummy! And we'll all hug each other and laugh.

The good thing is, while on this little flight of fantasy (and it shows how low my standards have sunk: a trip on a tractor to a neighbouring village is seeming attractive), the Estonian tune disappeared from my head.  Unfortunately, it has now been replaced by Phil Collins' In the Air Tonight, a song I have always hated but which is much loved by radio stations all over Germany, as far as I can hear.

Lesser of two evils

The last thing I'd want to be is a language bore, so I'll keep this short and sweet.  After my last post, in which I mentioned it had taken me 11 years to learn the word 'aufbauen', I've been worried that some German readers might think me a little dim.  This verb is very basic and frequently used and it would be impossible to survive even six months in Germany without hearing it.  No, what I meant was, I understood it, but never really grasped what the English alternative would be.  Aufbauen literally means to build up, and I always found it strange that people would talk of, for example, a buffet or trampoline being built up.  It implies that brick structures are being cemented into place.  Of course, we would say 'set up'.  Still extremely slow of me not to have worked this out before....

So here we are, Monday morning, pouring rain, and there's new snow on the mountains behind Bovinia.  I was trying to decide whether to do three hours of uninterrupted housework (unheard of) or go for a 12 mile run.  The latter was seeming more appealing until I saw ducks playing in the stream that used to be our street.  The run will have to happen sometime though, as I am now officially in training for the Munich marathon.  It cost a fortune to sign up - not sure why - so only a compound fracture will stop me taking my place at the starting line.  Apparently it is a 'fun' and flat course, and being in Munich, there will be lots of beer flowing and crazy people running in dirndls and lederhosen.  I will not be one of these, but they might provide some amusement in moments of boredom.  Just over a year ago I ran the Paris marathon.  I had thought it would be an interesting and stimulating combination of exercise, personal achievement and culture.  I pictured myself jogging round steadily, admiring all the various sights and soaking up the Parisian atmosphere.  What actually happened was that I kept my head down the whole time.  The only landmark I remember was the Seine, if that counts.  But my fellow runners were hard to ignore.  The best were a couple from Australia, who - I kid you not - filmed themselves running the whole race with little commentaries in between sips of Gatorade, along the lines of 'wow Bruce, there's the Eiffel Tower' and 'streuth, he's fast'.

Enough procrastinating.  I'll have a quick, strong coffee - no muckefuck for me - then get my duster out.

Muckefuck (it's not what you think)

I'm blogging outside today while a thunderstorm rages over Bovinia.  It feels like ages since I last wrote something on here.  After a bit of a break mid-week, I decided it was high time to post but then found Blogger to be out of action.  All back to normal now, though.  Let's just hope I don't get struck by lightning mid-blog.

It's been a strange week, one way or another.   I had quite a few reactions to my jaded ex-pat comments.  Perhaps I regret using the word 'jaded' - 'resigned' is probably more appropriate.  I am pointing this out now because I realised that many of the confused non-German blogs are actually quite anti-German and intolerant, which is not how I feel at all.  There are thousands of people out there who rant, on a daily basis, about how they can't get what they want for breakfast here, how the language is stupid, the landlords are mean and how it is impossible to buy a house.  True: getting used to life in another country is always going to be hard.  Fact: the shine will wear off even the most idyllic of locations, once the everyday grind sets in. Rest assured: there will be some things about Germany that you, the newcomer (and I think it is worse when you have been forced to come here, i.e. through your partner's job, or something) will never wholly accept or like.  Hence my usage of the word 'resigned'.  Some aspects of the Teutonic lifestyle will probably always drive me nuts, but I lead a charmed life and really cannot, so do not, complain, at least, not too much or often.

I still feel, after 11 years, that I am on a perpetual school exchange.  I learn new words all the time, mostly just by chance, and wonder how I managed to miss them up till now.  What did I say instead?  I don't mean  wacky words like 'Muckefuck' (my top favourite: means a watery, disgusting coffee or coffee substitute.  Picture someone sitting in a cafe, parched after a hard morning scrubbing the pavement.  The coffee arrives.  They take one sip, then splutter disgustedly, was ist DAS fuer ein Muckefuck?  The waiter shrugs and says that's all there is.  But I digress...).  No, I mean words like hikers' snack (Einkehr), the verb 'to set up' (aufbauen) and crack (Ritze).  There are loads more but somehow I can't bring them to mind, which must mean they are not yet entrenched in my active vocabulary and I'll have to hear them several times more before I remember and then use them.

I was at Hanni the hairdresser's two days ago and she was complaining that she, the arch-Bavarian, cannot understand people from a village six miles from here.  What chance on earth do I have, pray???  Recently I have been trying out a few newly-acquired Bavarian words, with limited success.  Hanni thinks it priceless that we have a Bavarian dictionary next to our toilet.  Do you actually read it, she asked incredulously.  Well, I dip in every now and again, I said.  I promised I'd bring it along next time to show her.  Maybe she'll learn a few new words too.  No doubt the compiler of the noble dictionary comes from some far-flung corner of the Free State, as they call it here, and his words are thus completely different from those used in Bovinia.  (This would also explain my limited success.)

The thunderstorm seems to be over now.  I have to admit that Max and I decamped inside during the writing of this blog. CG stayed stubbornly on the patio, reading Dan Brown and swatting flies.  We are due to go out inline-skating between showers.  Tonight we shall have a family jeering session at the Eurovision Song Contest.  My money's on Georgia.  If they win, I sincerely hope they get some fashion advice and revamp their image.   But more of all this tomorrow.

Tips from a jaded expat

I've been 'reaching out' (hate that phrase) to the wider community recently.  That is to say, I've been reading other people's blogs, particularly those of ex-pats, which makes a welcome change from struggling through a day in the Bavarian dialect.  There are so many amusing writers out there - what a wealth of untapped talent!  But glimmering beneath the humour is also the desperation; the sheer exhaustion of trying to get to grips with life in this formidable country and its language.  I wish I could offer some useful tips, having lived here for over ten years.  Sadly, the best I can come up with is:

(1) When people squeeze past you in crowded shops, they really aren't being rude.  Perhaps they just have poor spatial awareness.  And they are brought up that way, rightly or wrongly.
(2) German old people are all fierce, except when confronted with dogs and small children, in that order of preference.  Then they melt like butter on a hot potato.
(3) You really shouldn't walk on the grass, even when there is no sign telling you so.
(4) If you can't remember the gender of something, stick 'chen' on the end - the diminutive form.  Words with 'chen' are always 'das'.  It doesn't work so well with large objects, such as cathedral or elephant.  You have to choose between grammatical perfection and looking silly.  It's a thin line.
(5) The overly direct way of talking and frequent use of the imperative form can be scary at first.  I assure you though, after a while you will relish knowing where you stand.  Back in Blighty or the good old US of A, you'll wonder why people take so long to get to the point.
(6) The German definition of spicy, i.e. in curry, is extremely mild.  Take a korma, reduce the 'hot' factor by half, and you get spicy, German style.
(7)  Germans don't like tap water but it is safe to drink and tastes great.
(8) It is not weird when people bring their own slippers to your house when they come for tea.  Just practical.
(9) Germans do have a sense of humour.  It might not be the same as yours, but it is there. Sometimes extremely well-hidden.
(10) No German person can pronounce any of the following 'a' sounds - apple, sandwich, dad, cat, happy, etc, etc.  Don't bother trying to make them.

I hope this helps somewhat.  I may sound a tad cynical, but a healthy dose of cynicism is needed to survive here.  That said, I think it is a wonderful country; the language is really not that difficult, in that the rules are consistent, unlike in French or English, for example. There are lots of rules here, but after a while you will see that they make sense - mostly -and it doesn't pay to rebel.  Nothing will happen to you, but you will live in a state of permanent frustration.  Just go with it, and have a good laugh behind closed doors (and windows, to be on the safe side) when you get home from a hard day.  And don't forget the cyber community waiting to share your woes.

Living in a time warp

I can't quite shake off the feeling that we live on a film set.  As we drove home yesterday evening, we came upon yet another dirndl/lederhosen crowd moving slowly through the village.  This time, they were heading for the Mother's Day concert in the community centre.  It is hard to decide whether all the dressing up is creepy or quaint - perhaps a bit of both.  Ironic it certainly is, however, when you consider that school uniforms are rejected here as being too reminiscent of bygone, more sinister uniformed groups, yet people are still parading in clothes that would not look out of place in a 1930s photograph.

We were so tired from our hike up to the Devil-Place-Head mountain that the very thought of a concert was too much, particularly as it was the same oompah-pah brass band from last week's maypole extravaganza.   It is one thing to stand around in the street listening, as you can edge away unnoticed (or so you hope) when things get boring.  But at a concert you would be trapped.  The mountain, by the way, was amazing and fulfilled all my expectations.  Even the children liked it, as it involved 'real' climbing at the end.  My heart was in my mouth as I watched them teetering along a foot-wide path, sheer drops on each side.  This particular summit was really narrow.  There were already five or six people clustering around the cross when we got there and much politeness and sureness of foot (as warned in the tour guide) was required to stop anyone falling off.  Even with all this, one guy managed to bash his head on the cross as he adjusted his shoe.  What on earth was that, he cried, rubbing the wound, it was surely the devil himself.  We all chortled.  Shouldn't have really, but it is quite funny to knock yourself on top of the head when you are already on top of a very high mountain.  I bet he's still feeling silly!

Anyway, there wasn't much more to do up there so we picked our way back down along a horribly thin ridge, back to the relative safety of an animal track.  How I hoped to spot a real mountain goat, and how thrilled I was when I saw three of them, admittedly at a great distance, grazing in the forest below.  They moved off pretty sharpish when they sensed us, however.  We finished our trip in style, as always, at Burger King.  There's something about spending all day in the open air that makes us crave fast food.  Knowing the fridge was empty was also a contributing factor.  For the record, I don't recommend the spicy cheese sticks.

Cat gets legless

The sadistic hay-maker of the other day has just run over a cat in the field behind our house.  The poor creature was waiting for mice, hiding in long grass, when along comes Farmer Pickles in his tractor at some breakneck speed - oops, he notices the mower has got stuck and cuts the engine.  Too late - the cat has lost a leg.  I can't tell you any more, for I wasn't at the scene.  Hedda was though, and reliably informed me that the cat was transported to the nearest animal ER.  As I keep telling you, life in the country is deceptively dangerous.

Tomorrow is Mother's Day in Germany.  My children are disgusted that, unlike "other, normal mothers", I don't want breakfast in bed (I've never liked it - lukewarm tea, then toast crumbs in the sheets for days afterwards) or a nice lunch in a restaurant.  No.  We are going to climb another mountain, forge another stream, and so on.  I spent hours picking the right peak.  It is tricky in these days of exaggerated health and safety.   Any description you might read includes warnings - "do not attempt this climb unless you are absolutely vertigo-free and completely sure of foot" (bad German translation - sorry).  After some hours of contemplation I chose the Teufelstättkopf (Devil's place-head, or something) which, at 1758 metres high, should meet all our needs.  The deciding factor was the rocky summit with footholds and a handrail.  Nice of them to think of all the old-aged pensioners.

Quick subject change before I sign off.  We've been getting many disapproving looks from our neighbours over the last week.  As they have nothing to do apart from keep their garden spick and span, including vacuuming the lawn and dusting the birdhouse, they are naturally intolerant of young flibberty-gibbets like us with jobs, children and other small and insignificant responsibilities to tend.  It was clear that our pretty lawn, dotted as it was with daisies and dandelions, was a real eyesore for them.  Well, they should be happy now.  CG and I toiled for hours this afternoon, turning our little patch into an oasis of which the Royal Horticultural Society would be proud.  And were rewarded by approving nods from Herr NN as he sunned himself next door.  Or maybe he was just dropping off to sleep.  It's tough having nothing to do at all in life.

I have spent a fortune on vegetable plants.  They had better flourish, for I could have spent that sum on a piece of designer clothing, which would look good straightaway and would NOT need watering or fertiliser.  I also had to plant the obligatory geraniums in the window boxes.  They look so small and weedy (I refer only to their physical size).  But we can't not have them.  Round here, a house without window boxes triumphantly trailing geraniums is as rare as a Bavarian dinner without pork, or a farmer without a felt, feathered hat.  It just doesn't bear thinking about.

More to life than housework

Isn't it funny - I started this blog out of pure boredom and frustration with my new role as 'housewife' (the inverted commas speak volumes).  Nowadays I hardly ever mention housework.  This doesn't mean I don't do any, of course; merely that I consider what does get accomplished not newsworthy.  I truly believe that when you are stuck with a situation, there is absolutely no point in complaining about it.  We can't afford and don't want the intrusion of a cleaning lady, so we have to make do with my efforts.  Life is so full and getting fuller.  I've thus pared the essential tasks right down to free myself up for jolly social occasions, such as the Mother's Day breakfast from which I have just returned.  It was at Titus' kindergarten (where else) and I was up at the crack of dawn making quiche and tomato/mozzarella salad (in itself no great feat, but it took ages to milk the buffalo).  I swear, I really tried not to be cynical, and to gaze fondly at forty kids stomping around in gnome hats singing out of tune at the tops of their voices.  It was hard, as Titus was glowering at me - he considers himself far too mature for such ventures.  The twenty-minute long entertainment ended with each child locating his/her mother - there were some honorary grandmas, too - and giving them a hand-crafted present (always the best).   I found it interesting to observe how different mothers responded to this.  Most were genuinely delighted, hugged and kissed their little darling.  But a couple of mums shook hands instead, which I thought most curious.  I didn't have time to ponder, as the buffet was then declared open and a herd of hungry kids stampeded towards the food.  Slight injuries were sustained. My quiche was regarded with some suspicion but those who did brave it were most complimentary.  This comment I overheard, and I quote: 'who knew you could do so much with spinach?'  Indeed.

Yesterday I was gazing out of our kitchen window at a meadow brimming with buttercups; butterflies and birds swooping overhead catching flies, cows grazing tranquilly beyond.  I sighed at the bucolic beauty of it all and quite forgot about de-scaling the kettle.  Then came the ominous growl of a tractor engine, and before I could say 'Weisswurst', a farmer with sadistic grin on his face mowed the whole lot flat.  I couldn't help but admire the exactness of his lines - the field could have passed for a bowling green afterwards. I suppose he was just earning a crust, as we all have to.  Beauty counts for nothing in the brutal world of dairy farming.  Grass means hay means milk means MONEY.

Now for the real wedding

The royal wedding was all well and good, but now we have a real, commoner's ceremony to look forward to.  That means no pomp, no beefeaters, no archbishop, but front row seats and we get to keep our mobile phones during the service.  Yes, Sister B, who I always think is around 17 but turns out to be much older, is to tie the knot in Beverley Minster, two weeks on Saturday. I haven't thought of a pseudonym for her husband-to-be yet - I can only say he's very lucky, and he knows it.

Gaia and Hedda are to be bridesmaids, and Titus is going as a 'Bavarian boy' and will hand out orders of service.  CG is dithering between a normal suit and a military black tie ensemble.  I picked out my dress for two reasons - (1) its length, maxi, to hide my varicose veins and (2) its colour, sea-green, to match said veins if I should whirl a little too fast on the dancefloor and give everyone a flash (God forbid - I shall stick firmly to diet Coke!!!)

Oh, I know, I'm terribly self-deprecating.  It's in my blood.  That's probably why I ended up with those veins.  But never mind.  The wedding is sure to be perfect, even though my ma keeps fretting about the food and asking me weird questions about my vegetarianism.  Here's an example: so, you don't eat parmesan any more? No, I don't, it contains rennet.  Oh.  But smoked salmon is ok, isn't it? Erm... I'll pick it off the blini.  Thanks Mum.
I jest, of course.  As a vegetarian one gets used to function food (which is entirely different from functional food).  There is usually very little one can eat with a clear conscience, but rather than complain I like to view this as a natural brake on my otherwise greedy, pile-my-plate-as-high-as-possible tendencies.

I'd like to see a Bavarian wedding.  Just think of all the bizarre, folklorish rituals that must be involved.  I can see that I'll have to hunt around for some engaged Bavarian couples and then angle for an invite in order to experience it all first hand.   I know that in Northern Germany the wedding is more of an obstacle course than an enjoyable occasion for the bride and groom.  Customs differ, but generally speaking the family and friends contrive to make things as difficult as possible, setting little 'challenges' that must be met before the next step can occur.  For example, on exiting the church, the newly-weds might have to saw a huge piece of wood in half.  Or the bride gets 'kidnapped' from the reception and the groom has to rouse himself from his post-prandial stupor to go and find her.  Wedding presents, which are usually in the form of bank notes, might be buried deep in a lump of concrete, to be smashed open with a hammer.  What fun they must all have, and how pleased I am that CG and I didn't get married here!!!!

Maybe ignorance IS bliss

It takes effort to live somewhere like Bovinia and still remain informed about the rest of the world which, as far as most people here are concerned, does not exist.  Yesterday, while elsewhere swathes and crowds and whole nations jubilated over the demise of OBL, business continued as usual.  Cows, maypole, food, beer, gardening.  Only the observant and enquiring mind would have noticed the (out of date) local newspaper headline screaming 'Gaddafi's Son Killed by NATO'.  And overheard two people talking about it: I didn't know that OBL was Gaddafi's son.  Brief flicker of interest - oh, was he?  Back to the important stuff - so what colour geraniums are you having this year?  Hmm.

The throngs of people dancing on OBL's watery grave made me feel very slightly sick.  I am not sure why - perhaps they served as a caustic reminder of the vengeful nature of the human psyche.  In the words of a child - Titus - although he was terribly, terribly bad, was it 'right' to kill him and his family?  I had no answer.

The West would be wrong to attribute too much importance to OBL's death.  Who knows, really, how many of his lethal deputies are lying in wait, their ire only further incensed by disproportionate triumph over this one, albeit huge, catch.  Comeuppance, yes. Good job US forces, yes. Reign of terror over, no way. Retribution, here we come.

I usually like to sign off on a lighter note.  Deluded as I am, I persist with my reports on the bovine population.  I think we can safely say that they are all 'out' now.  And from what I can see, they are feeling pretty cheated.  Up until May 1 the weather here had been glorious for weeks, sunny day after sunny day, flowers and birds and butterflies in abundance.  You get the picture.  But now that the cows are back on the scene, it's a permanent downpour.  Everywhere I go I see them huddled under trees (stupid, as there's a lot of lightning - still, I guess they'll find out the hard way), looking doleful and... wet.  Bet that barn seems mighty inviting now.  Oh well - the grass is always greener, as the old saying goes.

A fine pair

I had planned to start with a jaunty little anecdote about our village maypole, but then I read that OBL has gone to join the great compound in the sky, so to speak, which rather put the dampers on my levity.  There isn't really much to say about him, though, that we don't all know already, and my own thoughts are probably best kept private.

Please do look at my new profile pic.  I hope I won't get sued for publishing it - I just couldn't resist.  I snapped it yesterday at the Maypole Decorating Ceremony.  As hairy pink legs are two a penny round here I'm assuming the owners of my picture's legs will be assured anonymity.  Check out the natty calf-warmers.  Did you ever see such a thing?  They look like an easy sock pattern for knitters who can't manage the foot bit.  Aren't his feet cold?

After that little digression I must now admit - once again - that I was wrong.  The old maypole was not removed for essential maintenance.  Maypoles are replaced by a new model every two years, which is probably a very good thing, considering the weather-beating they get in such a fluctuating climate.  This made yesterday's erecting ceremony even more meaningful, as it was a brand new pole, and the scent of resin pervaded the breezy May evening, along with the smoke from countless cigarettes and wafts of deep-fat frying from the local pub.  A small crowd had amassed to watch the band serenading the pole and hoisting a pristine, blue and white flag up into the air.  There were the dirndl/lederhosen wearers and the jeans wearers (Hedda blended with the former, the rest of us with the latter); there were proud little old ladies visibly moved by the sight of such staunch Bavarian feeling and the tunes from the beer-bellied trumpet players, or it could have been all the muscly hairy legs, I'm really not sure.  After a long-winded and completely unintelligible speech, the whole assembly was invited by the head Bavarian-looking person to join the band in drinking a few jars.  I am pleased and relieved to say that we demurred, preferring to shuffle home and sip lemon tea.  Once bitten, twice shy.