Snow-woman, no cry

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

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

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

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

High winds

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

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

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

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

Basil in winter?

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

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

The Nativity - live

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

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