Every good things are four (???)

It's a subject most of us are familiar with. The English language, in one form or another, is slowly, slowly, like a giant oilslick, taking over the planet. As a native speaker this doesn't bother me too much, in the sense that I am not inconvenienced, nor am I forced to learn another language against my will, just to increase my career prospects, for example. But what of cultural diversity and individuality and all the things that different languages signify?
In Germany, debates rage over the demise of the traditional language and the ever-increasing number of English words and phrases that are being eingedeutscht (literally, Germanised). There are deep, dark divides between those who embrace this phenomenon and those who resist, clinging on to their purist approach for dear life.
It is true that we have a smattering of German words in everyday parlance - I can think of schadenfreude, über-anything, wanderlust, rucksack, for example. All horribly mispronounced. But just watch any contemporary German TV show and you will hear people dropping in English words and phrases left, right and centre. Particularly offensive, to me, are swear words, e.g. 'shit' and 'Jesus'; the users fail to recognise the impact these might have on a native speaker. Numerous other phrases - 'no risk, no fun', 'see you later, alligator', 'ready steady go' - abound.
But what I really cannot stand is when English sayings are used, but translated completely incorrectly. You know the expression 'all good things come in threes' (or something) - well, in German this is 'alle gute Dinge sind drei'. Word for word this means 'all good things are three', and this is, verbatim, what I keep hearing on the TV, which makes me want to throw my remote control at the screen and run around the room screaming, that makes no sense at all, who on earth edits these programmes??????? Worse still, I heard a commentator yesterday saying 'every good things are four' - off with his head!
I must take a deep breath, calm down, step off my soapbox, dust it off and put it away. Things are only going to get worse, so I might as well accept it. There are a few champions of true, beautiful German (one of them the wonderfully named Bastian Sick) and they will receive my undying support.

There is one huge advantage to all this English usage. When speaking German and stuck for a word, it has always been a useful tactic of mine to simply insert the English equivalent and hope for the best. It therefore stands to reason that the more English words become part of the German language, the more successful this strategy will prove to be. Jede Wolke ist mit Silber gefuttert! (Every cloud has a silver lining; an idiom that does not exist in German - at least, not yet....)

Out of the Dark

Thanks Falco, that 80s 'rock legend', for lending me the title of your hit song. It just seems so appropriate.

I had struggled to get to sleep last night but eventually managed. I must have done, for the next thing I knew it was 12.40 a.m. and someone was knocking slowly yet persistently at my bedroom door. Who is it, I asked. Silence. More knocking. I began to get scared. Speak! I commanded. Then came a croaking voice out of the darkness. It's me (Titus said). I've thrown up all over my bed and there are bits of potato everywhere.

I suppressed my initial and most unmaternal reaction, i.e. what I am supposed to do about it, and dragged myself out of bed, upstairs, to survey the damage. You don't need to know any more. I'm sure you can imagine how gross it was but I felt so sorry for him I couldn't possibly be cross. He spent the rest of the night in my bed.

This morning, I was shot down by rays of jealousy from Hedda over the breakfast table. Why am I never sick, she wanted to know. Typical Titus - he always gets his own way!

Too tired to argue. Amazingly, Titus is looking peaky but perky and has no intention of spending the day in bed. But I can't pack him off to kindergarten, as I would only incur bad mother points and there'd be whispering campaigns about me for the rest of the week. I've caused enough trouble already with my rice-cake fetish.

The Golden Arches

Am tearing myself away from 'Das perfekte Promi Dinner' to write this little Sunday night bloggette. The week ahead beckons, with all the fun and frolics one can expect living in place like Bovinia. An influx of city-dwellers flooded our streets today - the sunshine always brings them out - and most disappointingly for the world-class downhill skiers, the snow is disappearing (again). I mention the skiers in deference to the start of the World Downhill Skiing Championship, which kicks off tomorrow in Garmisch-Partenkirchen. Presumably they'll have snow machines on the whole night to ensure a good piste.

You would have thought it was carnival time again in McDonalds* today. There were so many strangely attired people there. I honestly couldn't figure out if a couple of them were in fancy-dress, or just quirky. There wasn't anyone in a Bavarian hat; I think McDonalds isn't quite their scene. But if you are ever in this area and get bored of the same old same old, i.e. jolly rosy-cheeked caucasian people tucking into Bavarian food and chasing cows, go to McDonalds because there, you will see every sort of nationality to be found residing in the vicinity. Otherwise, you would never know that there is a thriving Turkish community, for example. Most of these seem to be actually employed there, rather than just eating and passing on, but still the fact remains that they are normally not in evidence and keep themselves to themselves. We have one Turkish guy in our village, who seems to have overcome any sort of reticence on the part of the villagers by running a successful bar and cafe. There is, naturally, not very much competition in the village itself - namely two other eateries, unless you count the one table in the bakery where you can drink coffee and watch the world go by. Anyway, his being clearly an integral part of the village community gives me hope that we too, some day in the very distant future, may be accepted by this most discerning of folk.

*Of course not here in Bovinia. Ha! Hell will freeze over before that happens. Which is probably a good thing...

Carnival mood

I can't imagine why so many of my friends and relations have a burning desire to see me dressed up as a pirate. You would think they'd never witnessed such a spectacle before! Be assured that it will be a long time, if not never, until I parade around in my Bavarian carnival garb out of context.

The context was, of course, the big kids' party this afternoon, where I was 'starring' as one of the entertainment team - say no more. As usual with such things, however, it wasn't half as bad as I thought it would be. Firstly I was glad that I had a real costume, and not a homemade put-together-at-the-last-minute one, as some of the party-goers had really gone to town, or should I say village. The motto was anything goes, from a jellyfish to a polar bear or from Cleopatra to an old lady in a nightdress (I hope the latter was indeed a costume and not an escaped senile delinquent). Secondly, the excitement levels in the room peaked 5 minutes before the start and remained on the ceiling until people were forced to leave three hours later, to enable clearing-up volunteers to hastily prepare for the next event. Surrounded by so much enthusiasm I could not fail to be infected, not only by that, but probably umpteen cold and flu viruses. Thirdly, I found myself enjoying it all, as I guess there's a child inside us all and mine doesn't get let out much.

Am now completely exhausted and will have to prise my three angels away from Wii Party in order to get them into bed. Hedda is refusing to remove her facepaint, no matter how many times I tell her it won't look the same in the morning. Ah well, she'll find out when she sees her reflection tomorrow!

A Tall Man at the Jolly Trout

Just back from the local hostelry, the Jolly Trout, with CG. Excellent Thai-style meal -practically unheard of in this part of the world! A little salty, but then I am mega-critical.

A little vignette observed during our visit. Two guys were already sitting there when we arrived, nose to nose over a glass of beer. You could tell, though, that they weren't that interested in each other, such was their curiosity about the other diners, namely us. Just when I thought one of them - the more curious - was about to start chatting, another pair of men walked in, one of whom had to duck his head to enter the room. Nosey perked up as they sat down at the adjacent table.

So how tall would you be then? (Nosey) - 2 metres 4, or maybe 6?

2 metres 10, actually (Tall Man, not meeting Nosey's eyes, which in other words means shut the f up).

Hooo! 2 metres 10! That's massive! (sniff, wipe nose on sleeve, take giant slurp of beer - Nosey)

A small salad please (Tall Man to waitress, now regretting his choice of seat but not daring to move).

2 metres 10, would you Adam and Eve it? (Nosey, to his companion, who laughed and shook his head in disbelief.)

You know those kinds of people - I have mentioned them before here. They are absolutely determined to start up a conversation at any cost and will pick on the slightest unusual thing to get the ball rolling. Never meet their eyes - they'll have you for breakfast. They might shout goodbye at you as you leave the room, and at that stage it is ok to reply, as you are nearly at your car. But otherwise, steer well clear.

Meanwhile the Fasching (carnival) season fast approaches. Bovinia is kicking off with a party on Saturday afternoon (under 12s) and evening (teens, with DJ Franzl). Guess who got roped into doing the kids entertainment? Yes, the blogger who hates to say no. This afternoon, having upturned the contents of my entire wardrobe to find a passable costume, I gave up and went to Penny Markt. Am now the proud owner of a lady pirate dress, complete with skull and crossbones headscarf. I don't think I'll be able to wear the eye-patch during the dancing as (1) it will ruin my mascara and (2) I might trip over. Interference with my peripheral vision and all that. Nor do I know where to hang my telescope from, and the wonderful, gilded curved sword. I am sure it will all become clear nearer the time.

So SAD, it's tragic

An hour ago I peered out of the window and was shocked to see a large white burning ball in the sky. Other people were looking, too, standing out on the street and exclaiming to one another. Could it be a UFO or close encounter with some unearthly being? No! It was the sun, back from its holiday in South Africa or wherever its been hanging out lately. What a transformation! Even the dog urine-spattered snow piled up at the roadsides is glinting and glistening. The birds in my apple tree are flitting wildly from twig to twig. I wouldn't be surprised to hear a lawnmower starting up (stranger things have happened).

I used to make jokes about people with SAD, but now that I am part of their serried ranks I regret my former quips and lack of sympathy. How could I have been so callous? It is a true disorder and the worst thing is that there's absolutely nothing you can do about it, apart from emigrating, which is, let's face it, not practical for most SAD sufferers, otherwise they would have already done so. Or you could try one of those solar face lamp things, but aren't they bad for your skin? You just have to grimace and bear it.

At least the jolly Bavarian radio presenters acknowledge the condition. I have the feeling that the drearier the weather, the more they ramp up their eighties fever playlists. I caught myself singing along to 'Eye of the Tiger' (Survivor - but you knew that, right?) earlier. Horrifyingly, I knew all the words. In my defence I think it is because it was the theme tune to Rocky IV, which I saw several times during my teenage crush on Sylvester-I'm-beginning-to-look-just-like-my-mom-Stallone.

Wow - there's even a patch of blue sky now. I'd better get out there and catch some rays before it's too late.

Bixnmacha!

There's a cluster of signs on the corner of our street, advertising various - I hesitate to use this quaint English word, but - cottage industries. Amongst others we have Hanni's hairdressing salon, a holiday apartment (100 m left) and the ominous sounding Meatech. Just recently a new one appeared. A roughly sawn piece of wood with the word 'Bixnmacha' sprayed on in neon pink paint. I found it tawdry, to say the least. We don't want people lowering the tone of a respectable neighbourhood, do we? And to add insult to injury, there were three or four tin cans (used: sweetcorn, catfood, Red Bull) hanging from the sign on bits of dirty string. Turn into the street and there's a little house on the right hand side. I usually walk past it extremely fast as the woman who lives there is clearly Glaring Champion 2010 and is still trying to beat her personal best. On said house is another lurid sign, announcing the residence of 'The Bixnmacha'. More horrible tin cans. (Don't know what was in them, haven't dared take a close look.)

In our innocence and distinct lack of Bavarian cultural knowledge we assumed that this was some kind of scrap metal merchant advertising his new business. Although if I want old tin cans, I'll just look in my own bin, thanks. But on asking Frau NN, we discovered that a Bixnmacha is a man who fathers a girl. 'Bixen' are tin cans in Bavarian and this charming term is also a synonym for the fairer sex. Hence, 'Tin Can Maker'. Classy. Now I'm happy to compare myself with all manner of things; for example, I often play a game with the children where we decide who resembles which woodland animal the most, etc, etc. But I fail to see what I have in common with a tin can. Most likely there is some extremely distasteful yet apt explanation, but right now I really don't want us to ponder on it. Best not to without downing a couple of schnapps first.

Looking back it all seems so obvious - the large and unavoidable stork over the front door would seem to be an excellent clue. The glaring lady did have a huge tummy and now it's not so huge. Things like that. And it's funny, isn't it, that once you become aware of something, you start seeing it all over the place. Now I see Bixnmachas everywhere I go. I am on the lookout for the male equivalent, for surely 'tis an honour to father sons, who will grow up big and strapping and will shovel manure and race tractors in that way men seem to enjoy doing around here.