Nosy neighbours

That's what we call the people next door, who are one of those identikit, German OAP couples... you know the type - white haired, beige/pale green/brown unisex clothing, glasses, stout shoes etc. You can set your watch by their habits and they are meticulously clean. They seem to wash everything immediately after use, as far as we can see (I'm sure they're equally, if not more, hygenic indoors). Most people wouldn't consider it necessary to hose down a bike after a 5 min turn around the block, especially in fine weather. But when you've got all the time in the world, as they have, why not?

When we first arrived in mid-September, the weather was fine every day and our every move was observed by the nosy neighbours, who like nothing better than to sit on their patio watching the world go by. To their credit, they smile and chuckle and couldn't be more friendly. They even pretend to understand me when I talk to them. Nevertheless, it is unnerving to have to reverse your car down a long, narrow driveway under their scrutiny. I'm yet to crash into the gatepost, and they always give me a reassuring wave once I've made it out onto the street.

Now the days are getting colder and their terrace is a little chilly for people-watching, but I'm sure I still see the curtains twitch whenever we leave the house or return home. One thing is certain - we do not want to get on the wrong side of these guys; they are the mayor's parents, no less, and as anyone who has experienced German village life will testify, you don't mess with him!

Novelty cakes

Ever since Gaia was little, we've had a Jane Asher Book of Children's Party Cakes floating around. I bought it when I was still in good old England, where ready-roll icing and all the other essential ingredients are readily available. The years in Germany have seen me bitterly resenting the purchase of this book. Try as you might, you cannot find good alternatives here - marzipan does it's best but it's just not white or smooth enough for these creations. Yet my children still persist in leafing dreamily through Jane's designs, picking out a novelty cake for their next birthday. In Germany, novelty cakes are such a novelty that noone's started doing them yet - or at least, not to my knowledge. So I guess it is a combination of pride and stubbornness that keeps me trying, each year, to create some confectionierial delight that will put a smile on the faces of my darling children.

This year, Gaia thankfully requested Banoffee Cheesecake (Delia) - no icing in sight and it doesn't have to resemble anything other than what it's supposed to be. Titus, however, had grander plans and that is why I have just spent 2 hours creating a 'mountain with snow, pine trees on the edge and a cable car'. It could have been worse actually; he wanted Mount Fuji first but then changed his mind when he saw the Bavarian Alps.

The mountain doesn't look too bad, considering. I used green marzipan for the grassy bit and royal icing for the snow. The only tricky bit was trying to make a peak - it looked more like Tintin's quiff. To a visually impaired person, the cake definitely resembles a mountain. I know, because I squinted my eyes nearly shut, a bit like when you look at impressionist paintings, and I was convinced. The only thing I cannot do is make the cable car (which is not edible - normally I make a rule of only using edible ingredients; I suppose a goat would eat it though) actually move up and down the mountain. Oh, and the pine trees are plastic.

Ironic

It's ironic, but since starting this blog I haven't touched the mop even once. Nor have I lifted a duster or vacuumed. I'm starting to lose my touch, clearly.

Yes, what with one thing and another, I've just been too busy to clean! But that small voice that nags you to get something out of the way is getting louder. So I'll be off to go and polish those marble tiles...

Hills and dead ends

Just a little gem of information for any of you who might one day find yourselves in a similar position...

Let's say you decide to go for a bike ride, and you look carefully at the map and think you've found a good route. You set off purposefully. All is going well - the sun is shining on the mountains, the river flows majestically alongside, you marvel at the various other sights and sounds of nature. You jolly along for a couple of kilometres and feel at one with the world. Then the asphalt peters out and becomes a stony track. Not one to be easily deterred, you carry on, although you can't help but notice that your chosen path is ascending sharply. Eventually you have to get off and push, and it is normally at this stage that you pass someone on their way down (who, by the way, is never on a bike but is wearing stout boots and carrying a stick). Invariably this person will give you a strange stare. You tut and continue, as staring is a national pastime here and you've become hardened to it. Then you reach a stile and have to lug your bike over it. You scratch yourself, and your bike, in several places. The path gets steeper and narrower. Still you persevere as you know the path is part of a circular route and can't realistically get much worse. It is at this point that (a) you land in a field of young, energetic bulls, no path to be seen and a worrying lack of electricity in the fence (b) you nearly fall off a cliff or (c) you turn a corner and realise that even you cannot drag a 30 kg bike up a vertical shale mountain goat's track. So you turn around and wearily go down again, trying desperately to stop your bike wrenching itself free and careering down the hill. At the bottom, you see the hiker from earlier, sitting calmly on a bench chewing a brezl (pretzel). They acknowledge you with a mixture of disdain and amusement. You cycle back home, looking as if you've been dragged through a hedge backwards.

Don't be me. When you are accosted by the questioning stare, pretend you have dropped forgotten something (or whatever), turn yourself around and find yourself a nice, flat road. It's really not worth the hassle.

Pseudonyms

Hedda has decided that she doesn't like her pseudonym, so I've been looking up other Roman girls' names beginning with H. All I could find was "Horatia", "Hortensia" and "Honoraria", none of which suits her character and anyway, they take too long to type. She felt better when I showed her how Hedda was spelt, as this meant she could no longer confuse it with a football move.

Don't ask me why I've chosen Roman names - I guess watching the series "Rome" on DVD just before we moved here left a lasting influence. Plus I did a project on the Romans at primary school.

Masquerading as Belgians

It's no wonder that the blending in with the locals isn't going that well. Not that we've really tried - we've a cat's chance in hell of actually looking like we belong here. But it would definitely reduce the stare-o-meter scores if we changed our car number plates. I discovered the other day, quite by chance, that most of the kindergarten community think we're Belgian. Now, you know I got pretty fond of the place while I was there, but heaven forbid that anyone should think I am one. I quashed the rumour immediately and explained our somewhat complicated status. (Anything that isn't born and bred in this village is viewed as complicated.)

I find it touching that, three times in the last few days, people have asked me where I have come from (those who haven't seen my car number plate, of course). When I tell them, they make sympathetic noises about fitting in, finding doctors, dentists etc. They're not from here either, they understand exactly how it is, they say. So I ask them in return, and in all three cases, they've moved from a village not more than 30 km away! That speaks volumes, does it not...

Why you don't go to the local hairdresser!

Just got back from Murnau where I had my hair done by a very able and pleasant 'girl' (I sound like my mother!). What a relief. I knew before we moved here that I would have to find one soon and it was weighing on my mind, in all senses of the word. A few houses along from us in the village is a large sign advertising 'Hanni's Haarstudio'. How practical, I thought first, a hairdresser within walking distance. In fact, I can even see it out of my living room window. But something - caution, instinct, I don't know what - stopped me going there. Eventually I asked someone who lives down the street. Apparently, she's never been there, and nor has anyone else in the village that she knows of. Bizarre! But you know why? Nobody dares, because if Hanni were to give you a mullet, and you wished never to darken her salon doors again, she'd know about it. And in a village, that would cause no end of trouble. No, the trick is to go to a neighbouring village or town, which guarantees anonymity and reduces the risk of ever seeing the hairdresser again. Hence my decision to go to Murnau!

Turns out that my hairdresser knows Hanni, who apparently shares her premises with her husband the slaughterer, her brother the mechanic, an Oma and several cats. I feel I've had a lucky escape.