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.