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.