We had to keep a very low profile this morning - tricky, when nothing one does here seems to go unnoticed. Last week we'd received, along with every other household in the village, an impassioned plea from the mayor himself. The Great Bovinia Spring Clean was to take place today at 0800 sharp. A white-sausage-and-bread-roll breakfast was promised for all participators. CG and I considered hard, not for too long, admittedly, whether we should join in the fun. On the one hand, it's good to do one's bit. On the other, if we start now, we'll be obliged to do it every year, as long as we live here, plus we would heighten our visibility profile and, as a result, might get dragged into more community activities. In the end, it was the horribly early kick-off time that made our minds up.
I felt a bit ashamed on my run this morning, though, as I kept bumping into little pockets of dour-faced people wearing a glove and wielding a litter-picker. I hope they enjoyed their white sausage. I sure wouldn't have. Apart from the spring-cleaners, the roads were awash with cyclists, all kitted out in those garish outfits that velophiles seem to favour. Most of them were men, squeezed into tiny black shorts. I observed that, compared to walkers or fellow runners, cyclists do not greet, as is the custom here. They whizz past chatting amongst themselves and shoot you a death stare for blocking their path.
On the home strait I was nearly run over by another cyclist who undertook me on the wrong side. Incensed, I shouted oi - you could try ringing your bell, to which he gave a little tinkle as he raced off. Pure insolence. It was a relief to get back to the relative safety of our house, where the worst thing that can happen is one of the neighbours catching you picking your toe-nail (or worse).
Still no cows to be seen!
Saturday, 9 April 2011
Thursday, 7 April 2011
Great Anglo-German relations
CG and I were talking recently about what we have learned most from each other. In other words, if we hadn't met, what would we have missed out on? Quite a list emerged, which was nice. You'll never guess what was at the top of CG's. The Sound of Music! Rodgers and Hammerstein have a lot to thank me for. Without my influence, CG would never have yodelled along to the Lonely Goatherd, or practised singing a la Do-Re-Mi (which is, actually, a very good way for not-so-musical people to learn how to hold a tune). Then came learning English, of course, for which I feel I cannot take too much credit, as he was already awfully good when we first met. (My German, those days, was rubbish. I used to try and instigate half-hour periods where we would only speak German. Invariably we ended up saying nothing at all.) Oh - another one for CG - the pepper mill. No more the grey dust in a salt cellar with multiple holes.
I guess you are wondering what I learnt from him. The first thing that sprang to mind was - sad but true - how to open and close a German window. Where I come from, you either had to heave a sash window up and down or open a casement outwards. The slickness of the German design was a delight to me, once I'd mastered it. Then, I suppose, it has to be the neat disposal of liquid food (if your kitchen sink doesn't play ball): you simply pour it down the toilet. I already mentioned the German language. It's true CG has been and remains one of my major sources. He's usually extremably reliable apart from a few notable exceptions. As someone with an enquiring mind, I am prone to over-questioning at times. I'm happy to admit this. This means that he has developed a way of fielding my queries if he doesn't feel, at that particular point in time, so disposed to answer. It's a kind of ambiguous grunting sound which can mean either yes or no. Only relentless, persistent questioning will get him to elaborate. When I was younger and naive, I often took this grunt for a yes, which resulted in me thinking that lots of things were true and only years later discovered to be completely the opposite. But as today is a special day, I'm prepared to overlook this. Even though my faux pas have oft been the subject of screeching laughter from dear German 'friends'.
We are celebrating ten years of marriage, but we've actually been together for nearly twelve. If you don't know us, you will obviously not be aware that we are - to my knowledge - the longest-running one night stand in history. I'm still waiting for him to get up in the morning and leave without saying goodbye. I love you, CG x
I guess you are wondering what I learnt from him. The first thing that sprang to mind was - sad but true - how to open and close a German window. Where I come from, you either had to heave a sash window up and down or open a casement outwards. The slickness of the German design was a delight to me, once I'd mastered it. Then, I suppose, it has to be the neat disposal of liquid food (if your kitchen sink doesn't play ball): you simply pour it down the toilet. I already mentioned the German language. It's true CG has been and remains one of my major sources. He's usually extremably reliable apart from a few notable exceptions. As someone with an enquiring mind, I am prone to over-questioning at times. I'm happy to admit this. This means that he has developed a way of fielding my queries if he doesn't feel, at that particular point in time, so disposed to answer. It's a kind of ambiguous grunting sound which can mean either yes or no. Only relentless, persistent questioning will get him to elaborate. When I was younger and naive, I often took this grunt for a yes, which resulted in me thinking that lots of things were true and only years later discovered to be completely the opposite. But as today is a special day, I'm prepared to overlook this. Even though my faux pas have oft been the subject of screeching laughter from dear German 'friends'.
We are celebrating ten years of marriage, but we've actually been together for nearly twelve. If you don't know us, you will obviously not be aware that we are - to my knowledge - the longest-running one night stand in history. I'm still waiting for him to get up in the morning and leave without saying goodbye. I love you, CG x
Wednesday, 6 April 2011
Internet killed the radio star
The other day I was idly listening to the radio, tootling along the autobahn with all the other slow drivers. My ears suddenly tuned in (geddit?) to the conversation - indeed, they were announcing a phone-in competition, subject: biology. Before you begin to cast aspersions on my choice of radio station, let me clarify - the exam season is nearly upon Bavarian teenagers, and the station had obviously thought it would be a natty idea to do a quiz or two. I can see their reasoning; done properly, this would appeal to both the older (parent) and younger (teenager) markets. And any know-it-all pensioners who happened to be listening, assuming they weren't out policing the streets.
So far, so good. With a drum roll, the first question was on air, then swiftly into a three minute commercial break. I tuned out again, but Caller One, I think it was Ushi from Pomperhofen (or somewhere) was soon on the line.... with the WRONG answer. You might be wondering where I am going with all this, but think - in this day and age, when practically everybody has access to the internet, why on earth would you, as a phone-in contestant, not check your answer on Google? Not only that - Caller Two, Hubert from Gmünd, had the right answer - cue loud applause, trumpets and circus music. He was lathered with praise and won an all-expenses paid holiday to somewhere exotic. (I forget where but it was in eastern Europe, I think. I know I was jealous.) At first I was just happy that I had known the answer, even without googling. I bathed in the glow of self-satisfaction. Then it dawned on me that there is no point in these competitions any more - none whatsoever, and before you point out that it was to generate revenue for the station, I can riposte that the calls were free.
I remain mystified. It is irrelevant whether Hubert had googled the answer or not - he's sunning himself in Slovakia right now. Either he can be genuinely proud of himself for knowing the answer instinctively, or he is secretly ashamed about hoodwinking a venerable, forty-year-old radio channel. They really should know better.
So far, so good. With a drum roll, the first question was on air, then swiftly into a three minute commercial break. I tuned out again, but Caller One, I think it was Ushi from Pomperhofen (or somewhere) was soon on the line.... with the WRONG answer. You might be wondering where I am going with all this, but think - in this day and age, when practically everybody has access to the internet, why on earth would you, as a phone-in contestant, not check your answer on Google? Not only that - Caller Two, Hubert from Gmünd, had the right answer - cue loud applause, trumpets and circus music. He was lathered with praise and won an all-expenses paid holiday to somewhere exotic. (I forget where but it was in eastern Europe, I think. I know I was jealous.) At first I was just happy that I had known the answer, even without googling. I bathed in the glow of self-satisfaction. Then it dawned on me that there is no point in these competitions any more - none whatsoever, and before you point out that it was to generate revenue for the station, I can riposte that the calls were free.
I remain mystified. It is irrelevant whether Hubert had googled the answer or not - he's sunning himself in Slovakia right now. Either he can be genuinely proud of himself for knowing the answer instinctively, or he is secretly ashamed about hoodwinking a venerable, forty-year-old radio channel. They really should know better.
Tuesday, 5 April 2011
Two countries separated by a common language
That's England and America in the words of Bernard Shaw, as I am sure most of you know, being one of his most-used quotes. I can see why, for it is absolutely true. Only the other day I decided to email an American acquaintance, who I'd met at my brother's wedding in NYC. I wrote a few niceties and generally enquired after his well-being. An enthusiastic reply bounced back. Amongst other things, how pleased he was that I'd 'chatted him up' at the party. ?????? Steady on old bean, I thought, I rather think you've misread the signals. Before I could finish my indignant internal diatribe another mail pinged up. Ah, it said. Your bro informs me that 'chatting up' has other connotations in Great Britain. Phew! He hadn't taken me for an old flirt after all.
Then there is the age-old but still occurring confusion with pants, trousers and underwear. I'll never forget the seven-year-old Gaia's look of horror when our au pair, fresh from Texas, complimented her on having really pretty pants. Or the children would be told 'mind your mother', as if I were lying in the middle of their pathway, when actually they were supposed to LISTEN to what I said. Oh, how we laughed. American friends talk about fixing their hair when it isn't broken, or they run to the store in their car, or they see a whole bunch of rain coming on the horizon. I love it.
You don't expect Brits over a certain age to use Americanisms, though. So when, whilst taking a break at an English service station a couple of years back, a little old lady approached me and said, you look very smart, I replied, well thank you madam. I feared she might be senile, as I had either snot or vomit, or both, on my jeans and was looking decidedly travel-worn. Then she said, could you help me with my mobile phone? Ha! She meant intelligent.... of course.
As an English teacher I am well-used to differentiating between the US and British varieties of our fair tongue. But it still amuses me when I hear an American woman deciding what to wear for a party. Often she'll say, oh, I think I'm just going to wear pants. And I think, woohoo - you go girl!!!!
Then there is the age-old but still occurring confusion with pants, trousers and underwear. I'll never forget the seven-year-old Gaia's look of horror when our au pair, fresh from Texas, complimented her on having really pretty pants. Or the children would be told 'mind your mother', as if I were lying in the middle of their pathway, when actually they were supposed to LISTEN to what I said. Oh, how we laughed. American friends talk about fixing their hair when it isn't broken, or they run to the store in their car, or they see a whole bunch of rain coming on the horizon. I love it.
You don't expect Brits over a certain age to use Americanisms, though. So when, whilst taking a break at an English service station a couple of years back, a little old lady approached me and said, you look very smart, I replied, well thank you madam. I feared she might be senile, as I had either snot or vomit, or both, on my jeans and was looking decidedly travel-worn. Then she said, could you help me with my mobile phone? Ha! She meant intelligent.... of course.
As an English teacher I am well-used to differentiating between the US and British varieties of our fair tongue. But it still amuses me when I hear an American woman deciding what to wear for a party. Often she'll say, oh, I think I'm just going to wear pants. And I think, woohoo - you go girl!!!!
Monday, 4 April 2011
Bikini Bottom
Today's title is, as well as pertinent to my subject (which is the purpose of a title, is it not), also an obscure reference to Sponge Bob, who, in case you didn't know, lives there. I mean Bikini Bottom. I can't usually stand cartoons, but for homosexual, gap-toothed, square-panted Sponge Bob I am prepared to make an exception. Whoever writes the script has a razor-sharp sense of humour.
Anyway, I was going to talk about bikinis. The weather here was so hot at the weekend that many people were already flaunting their flesh at our local lake yesterday. Nobody was actually naked, I'm pleased to say - perhaps they only do that in the very early morn. But there was the usual selection of faded, too-tight Speedos and futile cover-all black one-pieces. I was quite happy to just observe. As a child, it was drummed into me that you shouldn't cast a clout till May is out - which somewhat contradicts the British convention of small public schoolboys wearing short trousers all year round, but never mind, for what nation is not a melting-pot of contradictions? However, I like to prepare well in advance for most things, so I tried on my bikini this morning. The mirror didn't shatter or anything, but I got a nasty premonition of the panic that descends on me, every year, when I have to display my insufficiently-clad self in public. It never ceases to amaze me that, although most people wouldn't dream of walking around in their underwear, we are expected to parade quite unselfconsciously whenever warmth, sunshine and water occur simultaneously. Not only that, but we often spend whole afternoons, or even days, cheek-by-jowl with other scantily dressed people on a crowded shore.
It is just the initial transition period that causes me problems, though. After a while I get used to it again, as I do year after year, and am sad when autumn comes round again and I start wondering where I put my 90 denier black opaque tights.
Anyway, I was going to talk about bikinis. The weather here was so hot at the weekend that many people were already flaunting their flesh at our local lake yesterday. Nobody was actually naked, I'm pleased to say - perhaps they only do that in the very early morn. But there was the usual selection of faded, too-tight Speedos and futile cover-all black one-pieces. I was quite happy to just observe. As a child, it was drummed into me that you shouldn't cast a clout till May is out - which somewhat contradicts the British convention of small public schoolboys wearing short trousers all year round, but never mind, for what nation is not a melting-pot of contradictions? However, I like to prepare well in advance for most things, so I tried on my bikini this morning. The mirror didn't shatter or anything, but I got a nasty premonition of the panic that descends on me, every year, when I have to display my insufficiently-clad self in public. It never ceases to amaze me that, although most people wouldn't dream of walking around in their underwear, we are expected to parade quite unselfconsciously whenever warmth, sunshine and water occur simultaneously. Not only that, but we often spend whole afternoons, or even days, cheek-by-jowl with other scantily dressed people on a crowded shore.
It is just the initial transition period that causes me problems, though. After a while I get used to it again, as I do year after year, and am sad when autumn comes round again and I start wondering where I put my 90 denier black opaque tights.
Sunday, 3 April 2011
Neighbourhood Watch
It's official - Spring has sprung in Bovinia. The village has, in the space of one warm weekend, turned into a giant car park to accommodate all the pallid city people trying to get rural. Our good neighbour Herr NN has exchanged his woollen winter cap for his Tyrolean green felt hat. He's also been sporting a rather fetching pair of tight grey dungarees - for garden work only, naturally. He's been cock-a-hoop this weekend as his pet project, the big green garden waste container, arrived and was open, on Saturday, for business for the first time since November last year. I saw him nipping out just after dawn to check it was really there. Then, at eight o'clock sharp, he was off with his wheelbarrow piled high with... garden waste. He wasn't alone. Half the village seemed to be trailing there. We joined the throng only slightly later, and that was because he came over to tell us to hurry, there wasn't much room left, and the 'other side' wouldn't be opened till Tuesday! There was nothing for it - we just had to go. I hope he's happy now. Having recovered from the container excitement, he proceeded to spend the day in his garden, watching us in our garden, commenting on each and every new venture. By the evening I was getting a bit cheesed off, to be honest. I was pleased when he shuffled off inside to watch the football, or whatever it is that entices him away from the great outdoors when it's still light.
But back to the general Spring theme, which is not one I am going to focus on much, as it isn't my favourite season (too unreliable) AND it is, frankly, boring to harp on about buds on trees and birds building nests. However, warm weather and lighter evenings mean more running and cycling for the Reluctant Housewife and thus more opportunities to examine my surroundings. It struck me this evening that quite a few signs promising 'Holidays on the Farm' have appeared. Now, if you are still nursing some romantic notion that holidaying anywhere on or near a farm might make for a relaxing break, allow me to enlighten you. As a seasoned country dweller, I can assure you that farms are anything but restful. Where shall I start: the stink from the dung heaps? The flies? Some stupid rooster crowing every five minutes, all day long? Not to mention the fact that farmers like to get up extremely early, and that the cranking of machinery will drive you crazy. In my opinion, the only people who truly benefit from farmyard holidays are very young children, who, like farmers, also get up horrendously early and then proceed to be on the move the whole day long. Little children love animals - even boring ones like chickens - and tractors. By evening their parents are exhausted and won't mind that there's no pub round the corner to drown their sorrows. All they can think about is the same thing happening, all over again, the next morning. And fall into a deep, dreamless sleep until Junior wakes up screaming at 3 a.m. But the children will be in holiday heaven, and a happy child is lower maintenance than a grumpy one.
I hope you find my argument convincing and book yourself into a luxury spa hotel instead. Unless, of course, you have two-year-old triplets.
But back to the general Spring theme, which is not one I am going to focus on much, as it isn't my favourite season (too unreliable) AND it is, frankly, boring to harp on about buds on trees and birds building nests. However, warm weather and lighter evenings mean more running and cycling for the Reluctant Housewife and thus more opportunities to examine my surroundings. It struck me this evening that quite a few signs promising 'Holidays on the Farm' have appeared. Now, if you are still nursing some romantic notion that holidaying anywhere on or near a farm might make for a relaxing break, allow me to enlighten you. As a seasoned country dweller, I can assure you that farms are anything but restful. Where shall I start: the stink from the dung heaps? The flies? Some stupid rooster crowing every five minutes, all day long? Not to mention the fact that farmers like to get up extremely early, and that the cranking of machinery will drive you crazy. In my opinion, the only people who truly benefit from farmyard holidays are very young children, who, like farmers, also get up horrendously early and then proceed to be on the move the whole day long. Little children love animals - even boring ones like chickens - and tractors. By evening their parents are exhausted and won't mind that there's no pub round the corner to drown their sorrows. All they can think about is the same thing happening, all over again, the next morning. And fall into a deep, dreamless sleep until Junior wakes up screaming at 3 a.m. But the children will be in holiday heaven, and a happy child is lower maintenance than a grumpy one.
I hope you find my argument convincing and book yourself into a luxury spa hotel instead. Unless, of course, you have two-year-old triplets.
Friday, 1 April 2011
Humble pie
I'm eating humble pie - again. If you've been following this blog from the beginning, you'll know that I didn't dare go to my neighbour, Hanni the hairdresser. Her house always looked so threatening. And I was scared that if she gave me a bad cut, I'd be obliged to keep going to her just to avoid bad feeling in the street. Well, I have just made an appointment for next Wednesday. (Only for a trim, mind you - I'm not that brave.) Hanni was friendliness personified. She had an old guy sitting in the chair and he joined in the general banter, of which I understood nothing, but I'm coming to realise I don't need to understand it, most of the time.
You may wonder why I changed my mind. It's like this: more and more, I've been hearing that Hanni's a dab hand with the scissors and why don't I go there. And she lives two minutes from my door. I confess I didn't go alone - one of my Bavarian mates came with me to hold my hand. So we'll see. If she messes up, I'll take all of this right back!
Oh - I nearly forgot. It's April Fool's Day. Having failed magnificently to 'get' CG, who like Gaia was on red alert, I was reduced to hiding under the dining table and grabbing Titus' feet. It was all a bit half-hearted, admittedly. Maybe it's my age, but I simply don't feel in the mood for high jinks at six thirty in the morning.
You may wonder why I changed my mind. It's like this: more and more, I've been hearing that Hanni's a dab hand with the scissors and why don't I go there. And she lives two minutes from my door. I confess I didn't go alone - one of my Bavarian mates came with me to hold my hand. So we'll see. If she messes up, I'll take all of this right back!
Oh - I nearly forgot. It's April Fool's Day. Having failed magnificently to 'get' CG, who like Gaia was on red alert, I was reduced to hiding under the dining table and grabbing Titus' feet. It was all a bit half-hearted, admittedly. Maybe it's my age, but I simply don't feel in the mood for high jinks at six thirty in the morning.
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