An extra shower

I wonder if this has ever happened to you. This morning I forced myself out for a run in the dank mist, the first time in 6 days. On returning I jumped into a hot shower and put on clean clothes (as is customary in such situations). It struck me then that the bathroom was looking a bit dirty, so I grabbed my bottle of Mr Muscle and a pink sponge cloth and started wiping down surfaces. The shower was the worst of all; in fact, I had to stand inside it to clean the metal bits properly. And guess what happened? I scrubbed too hard and in doing so unleashed 50 litres of cold water - at least that's what it felt like - all over my newly dried and dressed self. Spluttering expletives, I squelched away to get another set of clothes. It was a high price to pay to have the shower clean again. Only Max the cat was around to witness my apoplexy, and he just gave me one of his disparaging 'if you ain't offering food I don't give a damn' looks. Pah.

Monday morning at 5 a.m.

I think the song is actually called Wednesday morning at 5 a.m. But who cares? It is very, very early in the morning here in Bovinia. I have given up trying to go back to sleep. It is bucketing down with rain outside. In one hour my family will be awake and the whole machine of school, work, kindergarten and everything that this entails will crank into action. Imagine the pistons moving really slowly on a giant steam locomotive. You think it will never get started, but then momentum is gathered and off it puffs. So it will be here, too.

Titus is starting a skiing course today. I only hope it isn't rained off. On Saturday we bought him a ski helmet, which he proceeded to wear for the whole afternoon as we ambled round a beautiful town called Bad Tölz. This was a welcome decision as it meant nobody had to carry it, but we did attract a few curious glances, I have to admit. We must have looked like really, really neurotic parents as we stood at the playground watching our helmeted son cavorting around with - I want to say gay abandon, but I'm not sure one can use that expression any more??

I'll leave you with a last impression from my weekend. Saturday afternoon, on the way home, we stop at the ATM for Uncle T to get some cash. On the wall outside a lady is sitting, picking at the sole of her hiking boot with a stick in a futile attempt to remove some kind of turd (presumably dog). She and I exchanged glances. Hers rueful and resigned, mine sympathetic. A very old lady was waiting for her in the car. We drove off. She was still scraping away, shoulders bowed, as I looked out of the rear window.

Every cloud has a silver lining

... or so they say. I do apologise for my positively suicidally gloomy post yesterday. I hope you were able to function normally after reading it. It's ok for me - I let off steam on here, feel immediately unburdened, chuckle to myself as I click on 'publish' and go to have a cup of coffee. True, yesterday was rather grey and uneventful (apart from consigning our Christmas tree to the compost heap), but the flip side of it all was that I didn't leave the house once, not even to put something in the bins or throw crumbs on the lawn or feel if it was raining/snowing/sleeting. I stayed inside the whole day, reading an amazing book*, which I have now finished. Of course I leaped up to do bits of housework in between. CG is still on holiday though, so I have been lazy over the last two weeks. Am going to get a dreadful shock when he goes back to work on Monday! Who is going to make me cups of tea and load the washing machine and tell me to put my feet up??

*The Kindest Thing, by Cath Staincliffe. Finished Jilly Cooper the day before yesterday - finally.

Adios, Christmas tree

Unadorned pine trees growing in their natural environment are beautiful. Decorated, illuminated Christmas trees in a house are beautiful. But a stripped naked, dried out tree on January 6th is plain depressing. We took it upon ourselves to pack away all the Christmas ornaments by lunchtime today, but at 3 p.m we are still at it. Not because we have that many; it is just that we detest the task as it truly symbolises the end of Christmas. It is dreary weather, three more months of winter await, our teenager with chronic sulkitis got back yesterday from a week away and the mood here is quite downcast.

Lucky, then, that jolly Uncle T arrives tomorrow for his first visit to us in Bovinia. He is bravely flying into Innsbruck - up till now, all our visitors have come from Munich. Either way, the train connection takes a while, so he will have ample opportunity to lap up his new surroundings and exchange his air of urban chic for rustic charm.

Must go, I just heard the sound of a bauble shattering into smithereens on the marble floor.

The Taj Mahal

I have to admit that, if I were of Indian descent and were looking for a suitable place to start up a restaurant, Garmisch-Partenkirchen would not be the place that immediately sprang to mind. In fact, I think I'd leave Bavaria out of the equation altogether. Not so, however, for the good proprietors of the originally named Taj Mahal, our chosen lunch venue to celebrate CG's birthday yesterday.

CG and I, both big curry fans, or should I say big fans of curry, are always on the lookout for an Indian-style restaurant in mainland Europe that lives up to the likes of those one can experience in London. To this day, we have never found one. The Taj Mahal looked promising online, though, and we had high hopes as we ensconced ourselves at a table next to a tapestry of Buddha with an elephant's nose. But the dour service let the place down. And the fact that the onion bhaji could have been a portion of onion rings from Burger King, save the fact that the batter was a little more spicy. Worst of all, what we really, really hate in a restaurant is when we place our order, and the waiter in question responds with, are you really sure you can manage all that?? To which we reply, yes. And then sit there indignantly - after all, he is the one sporting the beer belly. And then they bring the stuff and out of pure stubbornness you feel compelled to devour the lot, just to prove your point, and feel nauseous for the rest of the day. So it was at the Taj Mahal.

After giving them an over-sized tip and a forced friendly auf Wiedersehen, we set off into the city centre to stock up on winter clothing. Sad to say, Hedda's snow trousers are already in tatters - she has a penchant for lying in the snow and kind of rubbing her legs around - we nabbed the last pair at H&M. Titus insisted that we buy a Spiderman hat which was two sizes too small, but we gave in like the weak, modern parents that we are. He has spent the last day pulling it down over his ears repeatedly. CG did have a wonderful birthday, however, and - much more amazingly - LOVED all his presents. Wow! I have finally hit the jackpot and made my husband happy on his birthday. It only took 12 years. But where do I go from here?

Is Max possessed?

Max the cat, having behaved relatively normally over the Christmas period, has developed a nervous tic. Either that, or he is possessed by some evil feline spirit. It may just be attention seeking, because he will appear perfectly fine, snoozing on 'his' red sofa, until I go along and try to reclaim my patch (which I do very kindly and gently, without disrupting him in any way). Then his back leg will start to twitch up and down, and he erupts into a cacophony of strange miaows that don't seem to signify physical discomfort, rather a mental disorder of some kind (that's all we need - an insane cat). Even putting a hand within 30 cm of him evokes this violent and - quite honestly - freakish reaction. CG, who is not renowned for his love of cats, gets concerned by these attacks and asks Max what is wrong. The cat sticks his head forward, pupils dilated (think Puss in Boots from Shrek, and I realise that is not the first time I have referred to the film series; I must be more intellectual than I thought), tongue slightly out. You may wonder why we don't rush him to a vet. Firstly, I would feel really silly explaining all this in German to a German vet, based on my previous record of making a fool of myself in this country. Secondly, the attacks rarely last longer than ten minutes and all the rest of the time he displays absolutely no symptoms. So I can only deduce that he has the rare qualities of a cat medium. Somewhere, out there in feline purgatory, there's a Felix or an Albert or a Pussywillow or whoever, trying to contact their mortal friends. When I have finished all the things I vowed I would do this January (namely the tasks that accumulated during 2010) I will see about interpreting cat messages from beyond the grave. Don't hold your breath though. You know I am an arch-procrastinator.

Back in the saddle again!

That's how it feels after three or four days away from my blog. When I woke this morning, my fingers were twitching in anticipation of typing my first post this new year. It is day three and Bovinia is bathed in brilliant sunshine, which is all the more wonderful after four days of thick, freezing fog.

Yesterday, three boys dressed up in king costumes, one with his face painted brown, appeared at our door, as is the custom here. Their task is to recite something religious and write the date in chalk on people's front doors, in return for which they collect money for a good cause. CG and I knew they would be coming so we were waiting with our 5 euros, eager for a bit of entertainment, which we got, as two out of three kings forgot their lines completely, went red in the face (although you couldn't really tell under the brown facepaint) and just stood mouthing helplessly until they were prompted by a lady standing out of sight in our garage. Her voice made me jump. Then another offstage person - not a king, but enrobed and kind of regal looking - swung that thing with incense burning in it - I wish I knew what it's called but am sure you know what I mean - and wrapped the whole thing up with a blessing. We were vociferous in our praise, particularly CG, who is always extra-hearty in such situations.

A last word for today - the title I chose for this post was partially inspired by my rather slow progress through Jilly Cooper's new 'blockbuster'. I have read all the others and thus felt obliged to purchase and read this one. It's called 'Jump' and it is so, so boring. There are hardly any naughty scenes, which were formerly the sole reason for reading her books; just pages of blurb about racehorses, porn stars and gay tree surgeons. Furthermore, she has quite clearly based the wimpy heroine on herself, which is completely egocentric. Sorry Jilly. I'll plough through to the end and put you on the shelf where you belong.