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.