Let us remember them - all

It is Remembrance Sunday in the UK. The 11th day, of the 11th month, and at the 11th hour thousands of people across the country gathered to remember those who have died or been injured in military service, and of course those who are out there, somewhere, far from home, devoting their lives to a cause they may or may not understand. 

However long I may have been away from Blighty, I have not yet lost that sense of mourning and respect that is evoked by sombre scenes of veteran service men and women marching or being wheeled along to lay wreaths at war memorials on 11th November each year. The royals and politicians, dressed in black, the solemn tones of military bands playing Eternal Father, strong to save, and above all, the poppy, the emblem of remembrance, worn by everybody, it seems these days, even Felix Baumgartner on the Graham Norton show. 

Here in Bavaria, the 11th of the 11th means something completely different. It marks the start of Fasching, or the carnival season. Today we have been out and about, and the radio stations have been ablaze with 'party' music (more of the same tired 80s numbers, if you ask me) and presenters exhorting us to get in the mood and celebrate. It was all so at odds with my own thoughts. Tempting, I found, to see it all as vastly disrespectful, until one remembers that it isn't meant that way, and the Germans have another day to mark their own war victims. Indeed they do, but it cannot be compared with that of the UK. Sadly, this reflects what I see as a general lack of respect for the German forces, who, although might not be as near to the action as other nations, are still putting their lives at risk and doing a great job. I often hear people making jokes about the Bundeswehr. Even the soldiers themselves affect a rather non-German self-deprecatory attitude towards their job. I think this is sad, and ask myself why it is so. Could it be rooted in the years of compulsory national service, or is it founded deeper, in Germany's aversion to military pride as a long-lasting result of the two World Wars?

Over the twelve years I have been in this great country, I have witnessed a visible change in the way Germans address their sense of nationality. One of the most telling arenas is the international football tournaments. Fans will nowadays bellow out their National Anthem with pride, rather than the timid mutterings I saw during the European Championship of 2000.  I hope to see this new-found confidence extend to the way soldiers, sailors and air men and women are regarded in Germany. What has past is past, but there is still work to be done, and most of us would not care to swap places with any of them. Let us salute every one of them, and in the same way that we have World Poetry, Pasta or Grandparent Day, perhaps add the Armed Forces - wherever they come from.

The three-legged rooster

The autumn school holidays are just around the corner, thank goodness. Seven wonderful days of no homework battles, early morning sandwich making, forgotten coats/shoes/exercise books, and - best of all - no alarm clock! We are not permitted to rest on our laurels, though, us mothers. Last night I got an email announcing the first informal parents meeting (and the fierce teacher will be there, too, her presence announced as a kind of enticement, in case any of us might be dithering about attending) for the week after next. Amongst other stimulating items of agenda, we are to discuss the idea of parents, and by that they mean mothers, going into the classroom to give fierce teacher some much-needed support with lessons. I quote - "those of you who can and will". Neither applies to me. Perhaps some of them might care to drop round and help me out on the more stressful days at the drone factory? Personally, I am worn out after ninety minutes of wrestling with Titus and his homework on a daily basis. He rolls his eyes, he gnashes his teeth, he throws his pencil to the floor, he throws himself to the floor. The child was born with an anti-establishment gene. Yesterday, he came home and proudly presented his hand-made paper lantern - should you not be familiar with this custom, it is traditional here for children to march round the darkened streets with lanterns, singing little lantern ditties, on a dark evening in November. Colourful and imaginative designs are encouraged, so I was delighted to see that Titus' creation was a festive-looking rooster-type creature. I praised the cheery red crest and asked about the three legged status of said rooster. Mummy, he said seriously, this is not a rooster. It is a monster. And that third leg is not a leg, it is a PENIS.

Will I ever learn?

Yesterday I resumed my in-company English teaching after a very long summer break. Alongside the usual suspects there were several new faces, I was happy to note, variety being the spice of life and all that. Some of them were quite clearly terrified. If only they knew that I am a person who embarrasses herself on a thrice-weekly basis (remind me to tell you about the biscuit tin, please. The post is ready and waiting to be published.) I did my best to make them feel at ease. I had placed myself at the head of a long table, and as they straggled in one by one, each of them made for a chair as far away from me as possible. The last two had no choice but to take the seats next to me, panic clearly visible in their faces. I made a little joke about my not having body odour, so it was okay to sit near me. Ten pairs of eyes regarded me with suspicion. I resolved from that point on to eradicate all attempts at British humour from the lesson. Even with advanced level students, my quips tend to go down like lead balloons, or be ruthlessly misinterpreted. I remember, many moons ago, teaching a group of rather severe northern Germans business English. The phrase 'better get your skates on' arose, and I explained that it means hurry up. One guy looked perplexed at this. But Frau Anna, he protested, for sure this complete wrong.  When you drive wiz ze skates on ze road, you will certainly need much, much longer to reach your destination. Vy zis strange comparison?  Suppose it a joke to be?
I had to admit that it was rather silly, and could only offer a weak explanation, i.e. that on ice, skating would most certainly be faster than walking. All five of them shook their heads at this banal English expression. No wonder we don't make good cars, when our language is full of such inexplicable nonsense! A couple of weeks later, same group, I committed another gaffe, telling them that something (I forget what - it doesn't matter) was better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. Blank stares. I explained the meaning of poke, sharp and stick. And then how it all fitted together. Vell yes, Frau Anna, they said. Zat is self-understandable, not true? A sharp stick must very painful be, and then direct in the eye - vot could be vorse? I floundered, defenceless in the face of such glaring logic.

I leave you with one last tip. Don't ever bother trying to explain the age-old proverb 'you can't have your cake and eat it' to a man from the north of Germany, particularly if he is a metallurgist or something equally exciting. The process will exhaust you so much that you will wish to dive into the nearest cake - assuming that you have one, of course - and stay there until all the hair-splitting, earnest, humourless, grey-suited, rimless-spectacled Herren have left the room, shaking their heads and clicking their tongues and looking for a liver-cheese sandwich to help them through the rest of the morning. 

Don't let the bedbugs bite

You could be forgiven for thinking that I don't actually do any housework any more, as I hardly ever mention it. Funny that. I just seem to have more exciting and important things going on most of the time, and there is only so much one can write about broken-down vacuum cleaners and clogged-up plug holes. I also endeavour not to use this arena to vent my frustration at various members of this household, who simply cannot or will not understand basic commands or instructions regarding cleanliness, tidiness or hygiene. For that reason you will thus be unaware that my current pet hate is Hedda and Titus' insistence on removing their pillowcases and duvet covers, scrunching them up into a ball and shoving them under a bed. It drives me nuts. Time and again I have stood over them as they ineffectually try to put the bedlinen back on - they never can, so I end up doing it for them - and sometimes, I just give up, and they get their wicked way. It isn't enough to tell them that it's unhygienic. What does this word mean to people who eat Chinese noodles on the toilet, or who think mouthwash is a replacement for brushing their teeth? Last night, though, I had a brainwave. I had said goodnight already, leaving them under their naked duvets and heads upon bare pillows, having had no energy left for getting a whole new set out and going through whole process again. I rushed back upstairs, burst into the room and switched on the light. Two sets of eyes regarded me warily. You know the real reason why duvets and pillows need covers, I said. Heads were shaken. Because there are CREATURES living in there! You have never seen two people move faster. Screams of disgust rent the air. Ughhh! Why didn't you tell us before, Mummy?? Well, I'm telling you now, I said. I am hoping that is the end of this particular bugbear.

On my way downstairs I checked the bathroom and found to my chagrin that Gaia had omitted to empty the bin (which was mainly full of her detriment, including a recent self-done haircut). I was so annoyed that I tied up the bulging bag and left it on her bed, nestling in a pile of blankets. Today I discovered that she hadn't even noticed. Which says it all. I am clearly fighting a losing battle. I tripped over a pile of dirty laundry and found a piece of chewing gum stuck to my shoe. Then I went back to cleaning the microwave. Someone had exploded a hot-dog sausage in there, and believe me, it was not pretty.

In praise of Facebook

Yesterday was my birthday, and it passed uneventfully, more or less. Much like any other day, apart from a mini-crisis at 3 a.m. when I awoke from a dream that I had grown a beard.  A bad dream, of course. Reassured myself and went back to sleep. Went to work and put my three cakes out in the kitchen. The first hour passed in a whirl of people saying mmm, delicious and happy birthday, and I was almost enjoying myself. Then the Monday routine set in and there was little to do but polish my stapler and think of happier times. It struck me that the older one gets, and I speak here as a woman (how else could I), the more people praise your youthful appearance. All three birthday cards from the children (and they were lovely ones) included the words 'you are not old Mummy' or ' you don't look old at all'. Mr Doom wrote that he couldn't see any wrinkles (doesn't count, as he has been prescribed glasses recently). One starts to hear the dreaded words tacked on to the end of a compliment - "for your age". You see it in the media all the time. Older woman, who in years gone by would have had grey hair in a bun or a blue rinsed perm, now glamming it up at 50 plus. Everyone raves about how great she looks - for her age. Funny, for unlike turning 40, I found that 41 was a bit - well, boring. What's the point of worrying now? No amount of moisturiser is going to stop my neck getting scraggy. My elbows will probably always be red and dry. (I'm thinking arid desert landscape). I blithely ignored all that stuff in my twenties. Thus all the attempts to reassure me fell on deaf ears. I am lucky, in that I have a beautiful, youthful mother, who cannot help being 25 years further down the line than I, and has seen it all before. Every time I moan to her about some new sign of ageing she can usually top it with a better one. Not that you can tell by looking at her. Yes, time will slowly take its toll, but meanwhile let's have a ball.

I often find myself defending Facebook, or at least the advantages thereof. Generally speaking, the people who claim to hate it are not members at all, or (and I sympathise with the latter) have had some kind of unpleasant experience with it. I think Facebook is great. In this day and age of no time to do anything, the FB post has replaced the traditional birthday card. Not only that, but it means that even people who would never have dreamed of sending you a card now put fingers to keyboard and write you a cheery little message. Believe me, when you live somewhere like Bovinia, the sight of all these messages one after the other, from all over the world (or at least, my world) is most heartening. Ah yes, I say to myself. The bigger picture. It's still there. So thank you, everyone who wrote to me!  The cockles of my heart are still glowing.

Blogger's block

I've been dragging my heels blog-wise recently, as can be seen from the fact that I last posted on 26th August. How much things can change within a month. High summer moves imperceptibly into autumn, a period of time which always seems bittersweet to me. The flowers are still in bloom, the balconies of Bovinia riotous with geraniums (and other things I don't know the name of), but the first snow is lying on the Zugspitze and the tree-covered foothills are gently turning gold, with patches of red and brown here and there. Herr NN is starting to get twitchy, awaiting the arrival of the BGC (the big green container - I wrote about it last year, so I won't elaborate).

Another month, and the cows will be consigned to barracks until May next year, which right now seems an amazingly long time away. My tomatoes have still to turn red - I've practically given up hope now - and the swallows and storks have hot-winged it back to Africa, can't say I blame them with the summer we've had, I'd gladly have joined them, although it does rather depend where in Africa.

For many, this time of year means only one thing - Oktoberfest*. Yes, the world's biggest beer festival that has retained its original name, though it actually kicks off in September. This is now our third autumn in Bavaria and we are yet to visit, much put off as we have been by tales of people vomiting in the street and peeing where they stand (which also applies to a marathon starting line, might I say, except the participants there are sober) and the kind of general pandemonium and revelry that quiet village-dwellers usually try to avoid. (There's quite enough of it going on here, anyway.)

Still, some good friends from across The Pond are there this weekend and if they are still alive tomorrow, we are meeting them to see the spectacle for ourselves. I debated dressing up and merging with the be-dirndled masses, but have instead opted to take my camera and gather photographic evidence of whatever I might come across - you will see the results in a montage SOON.

There are, in our chaotic, time-pressured and teutonically-ruled family life, odd moments when all seems as it should. Take now, for instance. I am calmly instructing Hedda in the art of ironing her dirndl, and why puffed sleeves are a nightmare and thank goodness they aren't really in fashion any more. Meanwhile, Mr Doom is in the basement with Titus, painting a model of the Titanic (yes, the obsession continues). Max the cat is licking himself on the garden bench, for lack of a willing partner, the kitchen smells of freshly baked cake, and the church bells are all chiming six, nearly in unison. At times like these one should take a deep breath and enjoy it, for it won't be long before the peace is shattered by screaming or the smashing of a valuable ornament. Ah, there it goes. The whine of a neighbour's chain saw shatters my reverie, but at least I've broken my blogger's block.

*Of course, nobody around here refers to it as the Oktoberfest, rather, they call it the Wiesn, as it takes place at the Theresienwiese in Munich. (You never know when you might need this information - I'd jot it down somewhere if I were you.)

Classic Bovinia

A little splash of classic Bovinia.  My mother, buying groceries in the village shop yesterday morning. She looks at my list. Mango chutney. Not knowing where to find it, or the word for chutney in German (there isn't one, but that is by the by) she asks for assistance. The first shop girl is flummoxed. She goes to get her boss. A rigorous search is carried out, only for Mum to be told that they're out of mango chutney, right now. The boss lady, no doubt wishing to keep the customer satisfied, says that if Mum had a fresh mango, she could make her own chutney!  Genius. So do you have any fresh mangoes, asks Mum. Actually, no. Right then.

Half an hour later CG goes back to the shop to get some cheese. He runs a practiced eye along the 'ethical and exotic foods' shelf (it is not very long, but most eclectic in range).  And what does he see? You got it - mango chutney. Jars of the stuff. Situation rescued.

On another tack, Sophie the duck died on Friday evening. We have no idea how. Her body was found in the dahlia bed. Johann cut a sad figure yesterday, mooching around quacking faintly (because drakes can't really quack) and poking his head into every corner, looking for his mate. The consensus was - having consulted with the neighbours, who take a keen interest in all things horticultural and animal - we needed to get a replacement, fast. Feeling slightly guilty, I looked in the local newspaper and sure enough, a lady in the next village was giving away runner ducks for free. We thought it best to wait a decent period of time - two days perhaps - to allow Johann to mourn, but when we rang her she said today would suit best. And so it turned out that, with Sophie's body still warm in the grave, Dolly was introduced to Johann. They are currently getting to know each other in a sectioned off corner of the garden. I hope she settles in soon, because her distressed quacking is - to say the least - rather disturbing, and I wouldn't put it past some of our ruthless farmer types to shoot her. Or complain to the mayor.

The day Tony Blair dropped in...

... to Bovinia, of all places. Yes, I am happily eating my oft-uttered words about nothing ever happening here. How do I explain - I just met Tony Blair at our local hillside hostelry, shook his hand, had a jolly little chat in that forced British way that we all do so well, and got my picture taken (to follow). Word had reached me that he would be dropping in - quite literally, as he arrived by helicopter - to a private American event to give a speech. I never voted Labour but hey, he's a Brit and world famous and he was coming here - this was a chance not to be missed. With the help of the hosts at the Kreut-Alm (go there - eat, drink and be merry, it's wonderful) I got to masquerade as a be-dirndled waitress.  I had to work for my prize though. For over an hour I made my way from group to group of kind Americans, plying them with croissants and danish pastries. (A couple of them registered my accent and asked me if I worked for the Secret Service, to which I replied, no, but then again, if I did, I wouldn't tell you.  Loud guffaws all round.) The minders were giving me suspicious glances as I tried to position myself in assorted vantage points. Just when I was about to give up and chuck my pastries over the wall, a shout went up in the kitchen and I was instructed to make my way, pronto, to the private room inside where Mr Blair was having his photos taken with various dignitaries. I introduced myself to him and he fixed me with his sparkling public persona grin and asked me a couple of questions. The camera flashed twice, then I was whisked out again and that was that.

It was cute though. On my way out, some of the kind Americans asked me 'did you see him yet?' and I was happy to affirm. I wondered how it would be if 900 Brits were gathered together and Bill Clinton, for example, was the VIP. I guess they'd be craning their necks and jostling for a glance in just the same way.

Tomorrow we are setting off for a week in South Tyrol, and I dare say I will not be blogging from there. In any case, I need a week off after all my recent adventures. For a quiet village, life here can be quite exhausting. My neighbours are going to have to find something else to observe in our absence. They are never happier than when the sun is out, and they can sit in their garden and watch our every move. I was spotted this morning going off in my Bavarian finery. Frau NN said her perfunctory good morning, and went to carry on with her business, but I could see that she wasn't going to be able to resist. And where might you be going, all dressed up so beautifully, she asked. When I told her, her jaw nearly hit her freshly-washed paving stones. I've promised to go and tell her about it later. 

Top of Germany

It struck me that some of you might like to know how my trip up to the Zugspitze summit was, or even whether I made it at all. Well, I did. But I can't think of any amusing way to describe it. The satisfaction lies entirely in the achievement of having done it. A bit like giving birth. Not at all pleasant, and you often feel like giving up, except you can't, as it is a non-reversable situation. While it is true that with mountains, you can always turn round and go back the way you came, the fact that it would mean another 6 hours on your feet is a real deterrent. (Maybe I am being melodramatic - after all, it wouldn't be the first time.) Anyway, the weirdest thing about it all was, on finally arriving at the top, we were suddenly plunged into a whirl of tourists. The air was pervaded by swirling smoke from sausage stands and cigarettes. Before I even got time to draw breath, a row of chubby ladies asked me to take their photo 'to mark the occasion'.  I was too tired to ask what the occasion was, and to be honest, I didn't really care. We sat shivering on a bench and ate our battered sandwiches. (By battered I mean bumped about, not deep-fried, although it would actually have been feasible to get the sausage seller to throw them in his pot of spitting fat.) After 10 minutes we made our way to the cable car. For once, I was unaffected by the sensation of hanging hundreds of feet above a sheer rock face.  Even Titus' last words the night before "I hope the cable doesn't snap when you're sitting inside Mummy" didn't bother me. We swayed gently down to the bottom, had a coffee and went home. And there, a herd of cows was slowly making its way along the road, plopping out green pats here and there, and the jolly farmer was busy spreading some more muck on the field. As always with Bovinia, on returning there you get the feeling that it is a microcosm, the people within it totally disconnected from the outside world and brighter, more scintillating experiences than queueing for bread or watching the recycling lorry reversing out of the car park. 

Farmer Pickles' Revenge

I think the local farmer read my blog yesterday. I awoke to the sound of him cranking up his engine and revving in that way only tractors can. And then the ominous sound of splattering liquid manure hitting wet grass.  Within seconds, the stench filled the room. It was no longer possible to lie in bed, at least without a gas mask.

Having been forced from our olfactorily-challenging bed, we were in the process of getting dressed, and I casually remarked to CG that he was yet to try out our new vacuum cleaner. I mean, we've had it six weeks or so now, I said. For a split second, his face registered complete disinterest until he realized the consequences this might have, and hastily rearranged his features into what he thought was a regretful, humble expression. It was priceless. Hmm, he sighed thoughtfully, in a way that implied that the very next thing he did would be to haul out the said vacuum cleaner and vroom round the house. I laughed inwardly, in that tolerant, benign manner that wives sometimes have when the husband is behaving really well in most other areas, and it thus doesn't matter, at this particular moment, that he never touches the damn thing. Ask me again later when I'm in a bad mood, and the tolerant benignity (great word, I just discovered it) will be but a distant memory.

I am telling you all this partly for the benefit of my dear brother, whose comment on my last post was something rather cutting about me not being either reluctant or a housewife. He has a point, in that I spend far less time complaining about housework than I used to, but this does not mean I don't do it. Oh no. Far from it - but it simply doesn't feature in the top three of my what-I-love-doing-list. I am getting more and more resigned in my old age, and have taken to delegating wherever possible, in order to train my children for life in the big bad world of adulthood. They moan and groan and roll their eyes like the monsters in Where the Wild Things Are, but I stand firm. They declare that they don't want to be grown-ups, if cleaning is such a big part of life. (For some of us.) We were looking at photos of me in my early teens - Hedda needed a picture of children in school uniform, and I was glad to oblige - and Gaia said, wow, you looked so different then.  How so, I asked, apart from 27 years of wear and tear? Well, just ... young, and carefree, and full of hope, she mused.  Apparently I now look as if I have given up. Honestly. Any more comments like that and I'll be off to nightclubs every evening, not wearing a coat in winter, and culturing mould in assorted vessels in my bedroom. 

In July, the sun is hot

... is it shining? No it's not! People here are up in arms about lots of things at the moment. One of them is the lack of a decent summer, so far anyway. The beer gardens are only staying afloat with the help of giant umbrellas. The place is full of disgruntled tourists driving slowly and dolefully looking at mountains half-enveloped in cloud. The thing about Germany is, the school holidays differ from one Bundesland (state) to the next. And let's not forget that, unlike the UK, you always know where cars are from, thanks to the helpful registration system. Wherever you happen to be in this great country, you are immediately identifiable from your number plate. If you don't have a well-known one - B for Berlin, M for Munich, HH for Hamburg and so on - people will scrutinize your car for other evidence of your place of residence. (I know, because I do it myself. Categorizing is a national pastime. It goes hand in glove with nosy neighbours and twitching curtains and who is that person walking down our road, I've never seen him before.)  We used to have UE (Uelzen), and this was obscure enough for strangers to approach us on the street and ask. Anyway, the Bavarian radio announcers kindly prepare us for the next influx from the far-flung North or East, and for two weeks, all you see are these holiday-makers, with a few Dutch, Austrian and Italians mixed in, and the latter are probably just lost. Then we have another dangerous breed, the cabriolet-on-a-fine-day-driver. Maybe I am just bitter, but I cannot see the appeal of a car with no roof. Clearly lots of other people do, however, and it only takes a few rays of sun for them to hop into their vehicles, hatted and scarfed or whatever, and drive around purposefully and carefully (the cars always seem to be old), oblivious to anyone behind them who might be wishing to overtake. Who else do we have - now how could I forget - king of the road, the tractor driver. A bit like lorries on motorways, tractors roar around content in the knowledge that they are much bigger than you and could quite easily flatten you if you got in the way. Far from the jolly smiling Farmer Giles of my childhood storybooks, the drivers here stare aggressively out from behind mud-spattered windscreens as they chugger past, scattering hay, or straw, or liquid faeces, or whatever else they might be transporting from one place to the next. Often there'll be a couple of children sitting in the cab, and even they gaze unsmilingly, insolently almost, as you wait, sinking into the wet verge in your new running shoes that you were hoping to keep dry but your life is worth more.

Yesterday I was returning from my glorious local supermarket in my shiny red car with a roof.  Goodness me, was I glad to be on the ball. You know when you are learning to drive, or what you see in road accident prevention handbooks, or whatever - a ball rolls into the road - slow down!  A child is sure to be coming after it. Check. Large vehicle reversing out of side street, check.  Motorbike coming towards you at 120 kmh on your side of the road. Check. Lone cow trotting around confusedly, buffeting between parked cars. Check. (I actually never saw this one in my learner driver manual.) Careful old man driving very smart car at snail's pace, slowing down before every turn. Doesn't know where his indicators are. Brakes sharply and turns very, very slowly off the road. Check. He looks back, astonished, at the line of cars behind him, some people waving their fists. What, he says - I'm not the only one on the road?  Chaps like these still talk about 'motoring' and don't believe in navigation systems.

In a couple of days I hope to achieve one of my goals, that is to climb the Zugspitze, Germany's highest mountain. Believe it or not, I am doing this with the hairdresser neighbour of whom I once was so afraid. We are 'only' climbing up, as to save time, we are coming down in the terrifying cable car (which is actually a glass and metal box on a long string). I have no problem with 7 hours of climbing, but the thought of being stuck in this box for 20 minutes with 49 other people brings me out in a cold sweat. 

Orienteering - the other way

This is yours truly the Reluctant Housewife and her beautiful friend Salima, on the eve of our belly-dancing debut. I wouldn't have said that black velvet is exactly the right material to wear in 30° heat, but it was that or purple chiffon. Anyway, the hour had finally come to display our skills in semi-public. Women of all ages, shapes and sizes, attired in every colour of the rainbow, were gathered in an stuffy upstairs dance studio to commune with each other and celebrate the art of belly-dancing. I sound like I ate the brochure for tea, don't I, but 'twas really so. My plan only to dance our rehearsed piece fell flat right at the beginning, when we were rallied together and told to join hands. In an enormous circle we swayed this way and the other, then into the middle and out again. I felt like I was doing a kind of oriental hokey-cokey. Being passionately against audience participation I was heartily relieved when the music stopped - I had to fight for a chair - and some of the 'good' ones took to the floor. Eventually our time came, and I managed not to (a) laugh (b) trip over and (c) turn the wrong way. All in all, not too bad. It only went a bit pear-shaped when we had to dance with a veil.  It looked so simple when the pros did it.  You had to sort of swish the veil around your head really quickly and back in front of you, remembering all the time to look mysterious and sensual.  I, of course, managed to wrap the veil over my face - luckily it was transparent - couldn't get the damn thing off in time. So I must have looked pretty mysterious. Not sure about the sensual, though. Gaia advised me not to post the above pictures on Facebook - "too revealing", she said, and "you never know who's looking". Funny - exactly my words to her about her black ribbed belt, sorry, I mean mini-skirt. Anyway, the whole evening was an inspiration, and ever since I have been clandestinely practising my new moves. As most people already think me somewhat strange, they won't bat an eyelid at work when I shimmy my way to the photocopier or squeeze in a few hip figure-of-eights while waiting signing for a delivery. 

A spot called Frank - and other delights

Here I am again, on a grey, rainy Monday, when the English football team have once more failed to impress. Nothing new there, then. Titus, bored by the lack of action during the game, turned his attention to his darling mother's face. Mummy, you've got a spot growing, he told me. I know, I answered, through gritted teeth.  It is my pet spot. I've had it the last twenty years.  Every couple of months it rears its ugly head anew, ruins my complexion for the best part of a week, I muck about with it ineffectually until it subsides again, biding its time. Titus decided to give my spot a name.  Frank. I hadn't the energy to argue. I felt Frank literally glowing with pride, and stuck some ancient nappy-rash cream on it - sorry, him - to keep him down.

Meanwhile, CG came home from work today with a curious set of apparatus under his arm.  Encased in a snazzy blue bag. I swear he oozed excitement when he told me that this was a snore-monitor. Pretending it was a real drag, he told me that he has to wear this contraption from 10 pm tonight (actually, in 3 minutes, I realize in horror) until 6 am tomorrow morning. Various sensors will supposedly note his equally varied nocturnal noises and breathing disturbances. He must surrender the recording tomorrow morning for analysis. Thereafter, a sleep expert will tell him what we both already know, namely that he makes weird noises in the night. I don't care, because I have already found a solution - ear plugs. But I didn't like to tell him that I've been sleeping like a baby since this discovery, as it was me who forced him to get medical help in the first place. He's just popped his head round the door to remind me that it's "nearly time" - I can hardly wait. I bet neither of us gets a wink of sleep.

My last comment has to be on national anthems. I only really like four - GB (naturally), France, Germany and the USA. When you watch international championships of any kind, you get a taste of other, weirder anthems. Not once have I heard one that I could hum again the next day. I truly believe that the newer the country, the more complex and long the national anthem is. Take the Ukrainian one, for example.  It is nearly a whole opera. And nobody knew the words, least of all the president.

The Fly

Leaning ever more towards the Buddhist way of life, I have been doing my best not to kill flies recently. This may sound nothing to you, but I can't stand them. Usually, dusting off the fly swat and making sure it is always to hand are key components of my getting-ready-for-summer routine. So today, when one really, really persistent fly just would not leave me alone, I tried to flick it away. I was cooking, and had no free hands, and had to resort to tossing my head like an impatient horse, and contorting my body in a weird dance. Anything to not feel its prickly little feet on my skin and then lose my temper and kill it. But the fly went too far and settled on the end of my nose. A particularly violent toss of the head and I lost my grip on the blue glass bowl in my hand, which fell to the floor and smashed into a thousand smithereens.  I swore - a lot. As I wearily swept up all the bits, the fly stayed cautiously on the ceiling. I am sure it was laughing at me. Anyone watching me from outside would certainly have been splitting their sides.

With horror I realized that I didn't write one single blog the whole month of May. I apologize to those of you who actually like reading it. Especially to those people in the far-flung corners of the world who, for some obtuse reason, seem particularly fond of my meanderings. I know they read it, as Google kindly lets me know.  And we are all aware of how Google likes to share personal information, are we not? Speaking of which, I think I have finally persuaded my mother - erstwhile computer-phobe - to join Facebook. Mark Zuckerberg should pay me, for she is not the first person I have enticed into his kingdom. And probably won't be the last. Anyway, it is not without pride that I announce this to you, as she has insisted for years that wild horses wouldn't drag her there.

CG is about to return from a jolly jape in Macedonia. I told him not to bother bringing me a souvenir this time. I can find better things in the village shop, and believe me, I don't say that often. No, it will suffice to see his fluffy face again and hear his prognoses of long-term doom and damnation. And maybe he can kill the flies, which keep my conscience and our supply of crockery intact.

Two's company

I am sitting at work in a near-empty office on a day when most other (sensible) people have taken holiday and are currently sunning themselves at the lake.  Wow, what a long sentence.  As usual, there are various things I could blog about, but I would like to start with Maurice (remember - Gaia's first boyfriend).  As I had feared, Gaia was up in arms about my choice of pseudonym, and I must admit that it doesn't suit him as well as I first thought.  He is doing less lurking now and the Bavarian sun has tanned his milky complexion, and I must note that he - unlike many boys his age - does like a bright red or green hoodie, rather than the habitual grey or black.  I'd like to stick to M, so I will rename him Maximus.  Surely Gaia will be happy with that. Meanwhile Titus continues to nurse his crush on a certain-girl-in-his-class-who-must-remain-nameless.  I am sworn to secrecy.  When I offered to give things a little nudge in the right direction by asking her round to play, he went bright red (a bit like Maurice's hoodie) and declared that if I did, he would stay in his room and ignore her. Hedda, thank goodness, shows no interest in the opposite sex and is wholeheartedly looking forward to her next (all girls) school, where she will finally be rid of those annoying things called boys. 

Writing about attraction and relationships makes me think of our ducks.  You may know that ducks pair for life - one could call this romantic, but I suspect there are other biological reasons for this.  This means that if one half of the happy couple kicks the bucket, the other is left to roam the world alone.  It so happens that we have such a webfooted widower in our street, and I found it most amusing to observe how he (I called him Derek - I like to give things names, as you may have noticed) tried to elbow in on our ducks' coupledom.  At first I thought they were kindly tolerating him, taking him under their wing in light of his recent bereavement, much like the trios of old people you sometimes see out and about, where you know that a good old friend would once have made it a quartet.  Then I realised that Derek's intentions were not only about companionable food-searching but more about getting his end away with the fair Sophie.  Several times I caught him in the act, Johann standing by quacking in a muted, futile way.  Last week, though, Johann finally lost his patience.  Head down, beak raised, he charged at Derek again and again until the latter gave up and padded away lonesomely to spend the night in solitude (ducks seem to conduct their sexual activities at dusk).  He has not returned, and I swear that Johann has become more assertive and self-confident since this victory.  Not that I am one to anthromorphise, you understand. 

Ripples of excitement

Barmy old April.  Rain, rain, and more rain.  Three weeks have passed (or more) since I blogged within these hallowed virtual portals, and on awaking from my post-prandial nap this afternoon I realized that if I didn't write now, I may never again.


So much has happened, yet so little.   It is all so wonderfully Bovinian and predictable.  Luckily there are the occasional ripples of excitement on the calm mill-pond of village life.  Titus 'did' parts of the body - that is to say ALL parts of the body - at school.  Some mothers were up in arms, saying the little innocents are far too young.  Titus shrugged his shoulders and claimed to have known it already (HOW?  I blame Gaia for letting him watch her Inbetweeners DVD).  Hedda's teacher - a delightful young woman - announced that she is expecting her first baby - conveniently, just after the summer holidays have ended.  How nice of her not to disrupt the school year.  And Gaia has got her first boyfriend.  I'm going to call him Maurice, but you shouldn't read anything into that.  He had been lurking around for a while, staying in the shadows, cigarette cupped in hand, just a shape passing by our window.  Last week, we finally got to meet him properly.  CG shook his hand jovially - not a word one can often apply to CG - then spied the giant love bite on his neck.  "Quite a mole you've got there" he says.  Maurice's face aflame.  Gaia (matching love bite) a-cringing.  Then the punchline - "just make sure you're always kind and nice to Gaia, and everything will be alright".  It put me in mind of the Godfather; I am still not sure why.  So Maurice retreated back to his shadows, and Gaia is hardly to be seen inside the house these days.  Her interest in the forest floor is such that she washes her coat three times a week.

An influx of visitors made for a busy Eastertide.   We were prevented, however, from hiding the little foil-wrapped eggs in our garden by six inches of snow.  Two days later, it had all melted and we were climbing a mountain wearing t-shirts (us, not the mountain).  And so it goes on.  Extreme weather conditions - at least from a European perspective.  The biggest news from Bovinia is that they moved the recycling depot shed ten metres sideways to make room for another building.  It was like a miracle.  One day it was there, standing solidly with its containers and skips and pile of rotting Christmas trees.  And the next we were blinking in amazement to see it relocated.  It reminded me of those cards you get when moving house, showing a trailer with a whole house on top of it.  I'll have to get the number of whoever did it, as it would sure save a lot of hassle.

After a week bumming around at home I shall be back to work at the drone factory on Monday.  Quite excited, as they are finally letting me loose on their unsuspecting employees to give English lessons.  Ha!  How I shall enjoy putting some of those crusty old so-and-sos through their simple/continuous paces.  I have already thought of the three cardinal rules I shall enforce.  One, absolutely no German to be spoken within lessons.  Two, naughty ones are not allowed to sit together (there are, unbelievably, a couple who have threatened to disrupt proceedings with paper aeroplanes).  And three, no slippers.  You may laugh, but many men lounge around our office in birkenstocks.  It's an international business, surely, not a drying-out clinic.

Fine rants enjoin!

'Fine rants enjoin' is one of the many possible anagrams for Jennifer Aniston, who happens to be one of my role models.  I was reflecting on her only this morning, and came to the conclusion that, however charmed her life may seem, I'd much rather be myself.  CG reprimanded me for my rantings about female aging two posts ago.  He finds it all rather pointless.  In his opinion we should all come to terms with it, avoid plastic surgery like the plague, and get on with life the best way we can.  Because we all die in the end.  Thanks, Mr Doom.  Oh, and he also told me that some 'famous' German actress is about to appear in Playboy at the ripe young age of 47, so there's hope for me yet.

I don't know if you are familiar with the game Old Maid, but it is one of our family favourites.  In case you are not, it is a scintillating card game involving pairs of professions (butcher, baker, teacher etc) and one Old Maid (apparently profession-less).   The aim of the game is to collect as many pairs as possible and leave the game.  If you end up with the Old Maid, you can't do this and are therefore the loser.  Now I've told you before that Titus is an incredibly bad loser.  So any game played with him is automatically fraught with tension.  Firstly, you can tell immediately whether he has the Old Maid in his hand.  Secondly, you can spot the card anyway as it is beaten and battered from being tossed across the room in contempt, on the many occasions he has lost the game.  I thus decided, yesterday, that it would be amusing to play without the Old Maid card.  Perfect!  Nobody lost, and there were no tantrums.  I thought Titus might get cross when he discovered our trick, but he cackled with laughter, so loudly that the ducks outside in the garden quacked in terror.

Here in Bovinia it is suddenly warm and sunny, and just like the flies that are emerging from every nook and cranny, so are the tourists.  The winter is not yet over, but the roads are packed with cars and motorbikes, and the country trails are once again full of cyclists executing their reign of terror over the humble walker.  Not much longer, and you know what will happen - yes, because it is the same every year.  The cows will be released, blinking, into the sunlight.  Herr NN will be back to his prime spying perch on the veranda, commenting on our every move.  The lawn-mower chorus will once again serenade me when I try and nap in the afternoon, and I'll no doubt soon see my first naked bather of 2012 at the local lake.  Can't wait.

A severe case of bumpkin-itis

Last weekend saw the Reluctant Housewife back in her homeland for a few days.  I just had to check out the preparations for the Queen's diamond jubilee celebration and, of course, the olympic games. Not.  I made a mental note to avoid the whole of England during them, as it will quite clearly be chaos.  A country that can't deal with a few snowflakes is unlikely to be able to handle the influx of people from all corners of the globe, although numerous amounts of them already seem to live there on a permanent basis.  Before you start thinking I've gone all xenophobic and right-wing, please understand that this last observation relates purely to my complete and utter country bumpkin-itis.  In German, country bumpkin translates as country egg, somewhat weirdly.  Bumpkin or egg, call it what you will - as I alighted from a bus onto the crowded streets of Brixton in south London, I nearly keeled over in shock.  The place was heaving with people of all ethnicities. And most of them were shouting.  They were certainly all in a hurry and had no qualms in elbowing me out of the way.  I was reminded of my first shopping trips in Germany, where I was shocked at the lack of excuse me's and please could I just get pasts.  (I take it all back.  People are just as rude in Blighty as they are in Germany.)  Then, the next day, I saw a transvestite sitting a few seats away from me on the underground.  I kept looking at him surreptitiously.  Obviously, I have caught the Bavarian virus of staring at anything slightly out of the ordinary.  Had I all the money in the world, I would have paid the transvestite to fly over here and saunter round our village shop.  The open-mouthed gazes and whispering behind farm-work calloused hands would be worth every penny.

When I got home I was greeted with rapture by my husband and children.  They all looked so relieved and beautiful.  Once we'd all hugged each other and established that I had indeed got everyone a present,  I asked CG what was new in Bovinia.  He thought really hard for a few minutes.  Well, he said.  There's an abandoned trailer in our street.  Nobody knows where it's from.  It's been sighted at several locations around the village.  The police may have to take action.  Hmm.  Is that all, I asked.  Well no, he replied. Also, the muck-spreading season has started again.  Sure enough, when I stepped outside the next morning, I was nearly suffocated by the pungent and unmistakable aroma of cow dung.  Suddenly, the dirty streets of London didn't seem so bad.

It's just not fair!

Amazing how confusing new formats can be.  Since Saturday I have been using a Mac Lion compatible version of Word, and I feel like a little old lady trying to adjust to a computer.  The old lady thing is a sore point right now.  I keep dwelling on the aging thing.  I think it is since I watched the BAFTA awards a week or so back.  George Clooney was there in all his craggy splendour, and I found myself reflecting on the unjustness of this - men can get craggy and wrinkly (as long as it is in the right places - say no more) and people swoon over their mature good looks.  They can even be bald, or greying at the temples, or a bit of both.  I am forced to admit that some men really do improve with age - Christopher Plummer is a notable exception, however, but he really is past it.  But apply this principle to women.  Take one in her prime, let's say Natalie Portman, resplendently smooth-skinned and sleekly brunettish.  Give her a bald patch, crow's feet and marionette lines and do you really believe she'd still be the face of Chanel (or wherever)?  I think not. There are some women in the spotlight today who may be seen as on the verge.  Still clinging on to youth, but they are over 50 and can't seem to throw in the towel.  And why should they?  The 'looking great at 70' examples that are thrust upon us on a regular basis - Racquel Welch is one - have quite clearly been under the knife. Well, I can enlighten you.  Apparently, there is nothing more invisible and lacking in clout than an elderly lady.  Unless you are a queen (think Elizabeth, Beatrix and Margerethe of Denmark) or Mother Theresa, nobody takes any notice of you whatsoever.  I read an article recently by an old woman who claimed she never got served in the pub.  People make jokes about Granny cars, Granny clothes, especially Granny pants (and I mean the Brit version).  There is nothing to look forward to for us women, is there.  Unless, perhaps, you are a grand RSC dame, like Judi Dench or Maggie Smith.

A quick subject change might be good before all my female readers over 35 go off and start contemplating their dismal future.  I haven't blogged for over two weeks, which is simply shocking.  An anonymous and impatient follower of mine alerted me to the fact yesterday evening, deploring the 'complete lack of activity' in this forum and daring to deduce that I might have been busy.  You know who you are (even if I don't). True, I have, but I am always busy, but the last fortnight particularly so, as we were seeing out the 'fifth season', as it is known here (Fasching, or carnival time, which in spite of its comic undertones is taken extremely seriously).  The season culminated in a parade through the village, which was actually quite spectacular, but I would have enjoyed it so much more if it hadn't been blizzarding the whole day long.  In an attempt to enter into the spirit of things I went along in fancy dress, but after half an hour was forced to retreat and put on my full winter clothing, and even then I was freezing.

Then I was ill and off work for a few days and thought it might look too jolly if I blogged from my sickbed.  One's employer might get the wrong impression, and we all know how careful we have to be in these days of social networking.  As I really was ill I would have had a clear conscience, but goodness knows there are enough people out there who have been caught out being hyperchondriacal or even worse bad-mouthing their employer.  There are those who argue for our rights to express ourselves on Facebook. That if we wanted to make our feelings known about our boss, we should be able to do so without fear of retribution.  Some report I read compared this right to Speaker's Corner at Hyde Park in London, where anyone can go and stand and rave about whatever bee is currently in their bonnet.  The report maintained that one could be heard doing this, so what was the difference between ranting in public and online?  To which my answer is, a great deal.  The written word can always, always come back to haunt you.

I must leave you now.  Max is playing with the mop bucket, which is full of dirty water and liable to capsize.  He would get the shock of his life which would be amusing, but then I'd have to clear up the mess.  Not worth it, really.

The Glorious Game

Today a small boy's dream came true.  He was at the famous luminous-blue Allianz arena in Munich to watch the sickeningly successful football team, FC Bayern-München, play Kaiserslautern.  I am pleased to say the result was 2:0 - not so much for the team, who are probably used to it, but for his parents (particularly the one with him right now on the way home, and it isn't me), who are thankfully not required to dry tears of disappointment, rage and injustice.

The whole operation was fraught with tension from start to finish.  The tickets were a Christmas present from me to my male nearest and dearest.  So expensive were they that I nearly had to sell Max at the advent market. (He was saved by a kind benefactor.)  The price was exorbitant when you consider that the seats were practically outside the stadium.  But Titus didn't care - he just wanted to 'be inside that amazing place' and 'say hi to his favourite players - maybe they'll even sign my shirt'.  Well, I hope the players had long arms, because they were an awfully long way away.  Anyway, having transferred the money to some suspect website, I then had to wait for the tickets to be delivered.  They were promised a week before the game, but actually arrived the day before yesterday, by which time CG and I were making panicked plans about how to let the boy down gently in the event of them not materialising. But the God of football was smiling down on Bovinia, and Titus appeared this morning in all his red and white splendour, only to find his father inspecting the tickets with a grim look.  Not that unusual, I admit, so I only glanced casually over his shoulder, but immediately saw why.  The seats were in the Kaiserslautern section.  The red-white regalia had to come off, in order not to provoke the enemy.  Titus was crestfallen.  I suggested he wore his Bayern-München watch, carefully hidden under a glove.  Too afraid of bucking the trend, he must have been.  I found it hidden under a sofa cushion after he'd gone.

Fighting tears (he is such a sensitive child), off he went in the car, armed with hot tea, a blanket, sandwiches and who knows what else.  At three this afternoon the phone rang.  With trepidation, I answered, fearing Mr Doom announcing that the tickets were fake.  A little voice screamed out 'I'm there, Mummy!  I can see all the players!!! They're - (German English alert) warming themselves up on the place!'  I could hear faint roaring in the background and asked how the Kaiserslautern people were. 'They're just normal, Mummy!   Some are even smiling!'  I bet they aren't now though.   

Skating on thin ice

It's hovering around -20°C, our ducks are freezing their butts off, and Titus, CG and I went out for a walk this afternoon in the glistening snowscape.  We came upon a little lake - actually chance was not involved, but it sounds better that way.  At first glance it looked like a very flat snow-covered field.  Only the scores of people zipping around on ice-skates and the rim of brown reeds betrayed its true status.  I couldn't remember if I'd ever walked on a frozen lake - at least not without my heart in my mouth and listening out for ominous creaking sounds.  I reasoned that two hundred people couldn't be wrong and sauntered out onto the ice.  As we approached the middle, Mr Doom asked me if I'd 'seen the large crack'.  There it was, like a halloween pumpkin's grin, leering at me.  Nobody seemed concerned, but I felt a strong compulsion to leave the lake ASAP.  There's a health and safety inspector lurking inside me, that's for sure.  Others would call it cowardice, perhaps, or kinder people a heightened sense of self-preservation?

When we got back to our warm house I sent Gaia out for some fresh air.  I'm all for liberal parenting, but too much central heating and facebook is bad for the soul.  Her idea of fresh air turned out to be sitting in the shed (albeit with the door shut) for 20 minutes.  Quite resourceful, I thought, although our shed is really no great shakes.  It's piled high with garden furniture and straw. Still better than a freezing walk round the Bavarian block, apparently!

My last words today concern Bovinia, our adopted village.  People - even locals (though not Bovinians, obviously) tend to chortle when I tell them we live here.  It seems that the fun factor is sorely lacking and that things tend to revolve purely around dairy farming, log cutting and societies.  Where they get this idea from I cannot imagine.  Lying in bed this morning, however, listening to somebody warming up their chainsaw, I reflected that we are lucky to live in a place devoid of violence and crime, with streets safe to walk at any hour of the night, and neighbours who may drive you nuts with their curtain-twitching, but would drop anything to help you out in a crisis.

The Big Squeeze

Gaia is doing a week's work experience in a midwifery practice and came home today completely traumatised.  The assembly already seated at the lunch table, namely Hedda, Titus and I, was agog.  What could have happened?  I wasn't expecting anything that exciting, as the programme today involved post-natal gymnastics.  It turned out that the midwife - Gaia's mentor - asked all the new mummies to repeat after her: "LIK-LAK-LOK" - sounds innocuous enough, but on LIK they were to squeeze their front bottom muscles together, LAK the back ones, and on LOK the buttocks, as tight as they could.  Poor Gaia, as yet totally unscathed by the explicit terminology and indignity of childbirth.  I rushed to console her but in my eagerness launched into a mini-lecture on the importance of a strong pelvic floor. She left her lunch untouched.

When she had recovered a little, I asked her what she thought of the noble profession.  Apparently the midwife told her that she would do everything she could to put her off the idea, and that midwifery is worse paid than hairdressing.  If we didn't have the baby swimming sessions, we wouldn't even be able to keep our heads above water, she griped.  Let's hope the babies do tomorrow though, as Gaia is on duty and rather concerned about the responsibility of being on hand at the local swimming pool where the latest additions to the local population will be introduced to the delights of floundering around in chlorine with a little water added.  Not to mention a good sprinkling of urine and the odd band-aid.

Hello Sailor

The dreaded Kinderfasching (children's carnival party) is fast approaching.  Some of you may remember my persona from last year, i.e. a female pirate.  If you don't, and even if you do, let me recap: I was dithering - something I do extremely well - for weeks as to what to wear.  At the last minute I snapped up a red and black ensemble complete with eye-patch at my beloved Penny-Markt (I should get commission from that place, although I am still annoyed that they didn't sell spiced biscuit-scented toilet paper last Christmas).  I threw myself into the character heart and soul, having to compensate for the fact that I can't say 'me hearties' and 'pieces of eight' in German by being particularly pirate-like in my behaviour.  Well, within reason, anyway.  I did all the dances and all the moves and encouraged timid children to join in and refereed fights over prizes and stopped people beating each other up when they lost a game.  At home, later, Titus confided to me that 'I think some of the children were scared of you, Mummy'.  Good or bad?  I probably alienated myself from multiple parents within those few short hours.  So this year (having been roped in again when I wasn't looking) I am determined NOT to go as a pirate.  It is easy to find costumes in Germany, but the problem is that many of the women's ones are sexy and short-skirted and I dare say that would not be appropriate for a family function.  Then I could make my own costume, but I have neither the time nor the inclination, so I have just ordered a sailor outfit and am praying it will arrive by Saturday.  Note that I am sticking to the nautical theme.  Quite a few costumes appealed to me, but I feared they might be offensive, e.g. a bavarian maid, or a cow, or a farmer, or a nun.  Disregarding the cow, there are likely to be several real examples of these at the party, and they surely wouldn't appreciate the Brit capering around in a caricature of their valued profession. So a sailor I shall be, and we shall see which children can summon up the courage to go on deck with me and do the hokey-cokey.

What kind of Mr Man are you??

Over the festive period we had more family meals than normal (good for social development, bad for washing up and argument potential).  These days, it is hard to steer Gaia and Hedda away from their current hot topic, geography.  I am all for encouraging my daughters' interest in our planet, but there are only so many times I am happy to list capital cities in Asia or quibble over the GDP of, for example, Lithuania.  All three children love to list the countries to which they have been.  Then rows break out as to whether stopping at a public toilet constitutes actually visiting a country.  I say yes, especially when you have to pay 50 cents per toilet visit to the depressed looking attendant sitting in the corner.  But others beg to differ.

Anyhow, I was looking for a new and exciting subject and chanced upon the Mr Men (who are just emerging here in a new, weirdly translated guise - not sure if they are going to be as popular as they are in the UK).  I am going to assume you know who they are.  Sometime during my adolescence, a 'Little Miss' range was added, presumably with equal opportunities in mind.  I decided it would be fun to consider which one we would all be.  I didn't even have to think about CG.  He would be, indubitably, Mr Doom.  A grey, dome-like body, down-turned mouth and furrowed brow.  The story would entail various parties or festivities being underway when a chill would fall on the room and, without turning round, everyone would sense his presence.  In deep, lugubrious tones he would ask, do I hear laughter in here?  All the kids agreed with me so I must be right.  Even CG looked happy.  For years, my pet name for him has been Voice of Doom.  Despite being the kindest and loveliest man ever, he has the ability to bring you crashing down to earth from whatever cloud of jollity you happen to be floating on.  Don't do that, you'll catch cold.  If you touch that, you'll break it.  Mmm, looks cheap.  Probably won't last long. And the annoying thing?  99% of the time, he is RIGHT!

Moving on, we decided on Little Miss Squirrel for Gaia, as she is always squirrelling things away in her Bermuda Triangle of a bedroom.  Things go in there and never come out, or if they do, they look as if they've been tossed and turned in a tempestuous sea.  Hedda is Little Miss Irrelevant.  Titus, Mr Tantrum.  Nobody could decide whether I should be Little Miss Busy, Internet or Sporty.  I like Multi-Task.  I would have ten arms and in each hand would be a different object.  Neon trainers would be on my feet, and a stick of celery hanging out of my mouth to compensate for the cigarette I would like to smoke, were I less health-conscious.  I would have a perpetually confused expression on my face.  Why am I saying would?

This conversation made a deep impression on me (obviously, or I wouldn't have remembered it).  Since then though, we've been back onto lakes, mountains, flags and capital cities.  And school and work have also intervened, so family lunches are fewer and further between and the house is, I have to admit, much more peaceful.

Dead Trousers

As a bilingual family (which sounds like something special but is actually the result of mere coincidence and a couple of Cupid's arrows) we are often asked how we communicate with each other, to which I reply with neanderthal grunts and moans and the odd bit of thrown pottery.  Ha ha, they say, we mean which language do you speak?  What is your system?  System?  While it is true that we do have a rough framework, the fact of the matter is that when both parents speak both languages, in our case German and English, it is extremely difficult to stick to 'your' language when speaking to the offspring, particularly when all of you are sitting at the dinner table, for instance.  Not only in fun do we end up mix and matching, chucking German words into English sentences and vice versa, or using direct (and wrong) translations - one of my favourites is the German expression 'tote Hose', literally 'dead trousers', meaning there was nothing going on.  And it is nice to liven up the domestic humdrum by coming home from somewhere - let's say one of our fabulous local supermarkets - and reporting that it was dead trousers.  Random visitors will prick up their ears and momentarily wonder at our curious lexical choices, then go back to their guidebook, vowing never to move to the country, if that's what it does to you.

Jesting aside, I am truly a champion of my language, and desire that my children speak it as well as I can, or at least could, before I started getting stuck in the ex-pat quagmire, otherwise entitled forgetting how to talk English proper.  The longer we all live together - and hopefully this happy coexistence will continue for some time to come - the harder it gets to keep us all on the straight and narrow.  Getting impatient with the necessity in English to refer to upper and lower layers specifically - i.e. up there, down there, upstairs, downstairs, on the top, on the bottom etc etc, it is tempting to just use the German oben and unten.  So practical!  But then I find myself asking my kids whether they have brushed their teeth upstairs and downstairs, and they stare back quizzically, as their bathroom is upstairs, as in on the first floor.  And it's not just me.  I distinctly heard CG the other day referring to trousers (uncountable noun in English, singular) as plural in German. (Are you still with me? I'm nearly done.)

Take the German verb 'sagen' - to say.  Once again, practicality prevails.  Sag es mir, they say.  Say it me.  (Purists will argue that 'mir' means 'to me' - let them).  But in English you have to say it to me.  Or, confusingly, you can tell me.  Not tell it me.  Is it any wonder our children are durcheinander?*

Oh, I could go on forever, but luckily for you, I won't, as Eastenders is on in twenty minutes.  In case you are thinking I am unusually verbose this evening, you'd be right.  I am working every spare minute to finish an assignment for my MA, and the forty-year-old brain is getting a horrible shock, actually having to think harder than what kind of washing powder to buy or how far to run.   Goodness me.  But I was so humbled by my first assignment grade (if you really want to know it, contact me privately) that I am spurred on to show that I've got what it takes, even if I do need 10 days to complete a 1000 word essay.  I've really enjoyed writing this post, by the way.  Simply being allowed to put thoughts to screen and not have to back them up with academic references is heaven.


*Confused, or alternatively, 'through one another' - an interesting thought.

Better out than in

As CG has just remarked to me that I have yet to blog this year, I am putting fingers to keyboard immediately.  In my defence, I told him that blogging, or being in the state to do so, is in some way comparable with constipation.  You need time and peace to reflect, and then it will all come out.

I do not suffer from the above affliction, I am pleased to say.  I think very few vegetable fantatics do, but I won't expand on that topic further.  I thought about posting a little happy new 2012 message yesterday but everyone was doing that.  And of course, in Bovinia, the world is ticking by slowly at its normal, cow-meandering-down-the-street tempo.  Nothing has changed.  Only spectacular (and quite dangerous) fireworks marked the end of 2011.  It is one of the contradictions about Germany: such a tidy, ordered country, yet for a couple of days a year, you are allowed to purchase vast amounts of explosive devices, detonate them wherever you like, and leave the street littered with wet pyrotechnical paraphernalia for some poor council worker to come and sweep up the next day.

In our little bilingual, non-Bavarian ghetto, we are girding our loins for the year ahead.  We have reassured our children that the world will not come to an end, contrary to certain forecasts. We have made promises to ourselves and each other, mostly regarding bad moods and temper tantrums, that we may or may not keep.  We are spring-cleaning although winter has only just got going, but only because we forgot to last year.  The Christmas tree is still presiding over the living room but you can see its spirits are lagging.  Had we mistletoe, the berries would be mouldy by now, which is exactly why we don't.  We are about to take our considerable bottle collection to the glass recycling place.  Just waiting for the neighbours to be looking the other way, so it may take a while.

I wish you all a wonderful year. x