The flame of Fatima

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

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

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

Duck the halls

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

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

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

A lot of us about

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

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

I'd kill for a mince pie

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

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

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

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

Achtung! Geisterfahrer unterwegs!

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

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

Swearing it well

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

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

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