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.

Blogger's block

I've been dragging my heels blog-wise recently, as can be seen from the fact that I last posted on 26th August. How much things can change within a month. High summer moves imperceptibly into autumn, a period of time which always seems bittersweet to me. The flowers are still in bloom, the balconies of Bovinia riotous with geraniums (and other things I don't know the name of), but the first snow is lying on the Zugspitze and the tree-covered foothills are gently turning gold, with patches of red and brown here and there. Herr NN is starting to get twitchy, awaiting the arrival of the BGC (the big green container - I wrote about it last year, so I won't elaborate).

Another month, and the cows will be consigned to barracks until May next year, which right now seems an amazingly long time away. My tomatoes have still to turn red - I've practically given up hope now - and the swallows and storks have hot-winged it back to Africa, can't say I blame them with the summer we've had, I'd gladly have joined them, although it does rather depend where in Africa.

For many, this time of year means only one thing - Oktoberfest*. Yes, the world's biggest beer festival that has retained its original name, though it actually kicks off in September. This is now our third autumn in Bavaria and we are yet to visit, much put off as we have been by tales of people vomiting in the street and peeing where they stand (which also applies to a marathon starting line, might I say, except the participants there are sober) and the kind of general pandemonium and revelry that quiet village-dwellers usually try to avoid. (There's quite enough of it going on here, anyway.)

Still, some good friends from across The Pond are there this weekend and if they are still alive tomorrow, we are meeting them to see the spectacle for ourselves. I debated dressing up and merging with the be-dirndled masses, but have instead opted to take my camera and gather photographic evidence of whatever I might come across - you will see the results in a montage SOON.

There are, in our chaotic, time-pressured and teutonically-ruled family life, odd moments when all seems as it should. Take now, for instance. I am calmly instructing Hedda in the art of ironing her dirndl, and why puffed sleeves are a nightmare and thank goodness they aren't really in fashion any more. Meanwhile, Mr Doom is in the basement with Titus, painting a model of the Titanic (yes, the obsession continues). Max the cat is licking himself on the garden bench, for lack of a willing partner, the kitchen smells of freshly baked cake, and the church bells are all chiming six, nearly in unison. At times like these one should take a deep breath and enjoy it, for it won't be long before the peace is shattered by screaming or the smashing of a valuable ornament. Ah, there it goes. The whine of a neighbour's chain saw shatters my reverie, but at least I've broken my blogger's block.

*Of course, nobody around here refers to it as the Oktoberfest, rather, they call it the Wiesn, as it takes place at the Theresienwiese in Munich. (You never know when you might need this information - I'd jot it down somewhere if I were you.)

Classic Bovinia

A little splash of classic Bovinia.  My mother, buying groceries in the village shop yesterday morning. She looks at my list. Mango chutney. Not knowing where to find it, or the word for chutney in German (there isn't one, but that is by the by) she asks for assistance. The first shop girl is flummoxed. She goes to get her boss. A rigorous search is carried out, only for Mum to be told that they're out of mango chutney, right now. The boss lady, no doubt wishing to keep the customer satisfied, says that if Mum had a fresh mango, she could make her own chutney!  Genius. So do you have any fresh mangoes, asks Mum. Actually, no. Right then.

Half an hour later CG goes back to the shop to get some cheese. He runs a practiced eye along the 'ethical and exotic foods' shelf (it is not very long, but most eclectic in range).  And what does he see? You got it - mango chutney. Jars of the stuff. Situation rescued.

On another tack, Sophie the duck died on Friday evening. We have no idea how. Her body was found in the dahlia bed. Johann cut a sad figure yesterday, mooching around quacking faintly (because drakes can't really quack) and poking his head into every corner, looking for his mate. The consensus was - having consulted with the neighbours, who take a keen interest in all things horticultural and animal - we needed to get a replacement, fast. Feeling slightly guilty, I looked in the local newspaper and sure enough, a lady in the next village was giving away runner ducks for free. We thought it best to wait a decent period of time - two days perhaps - to allow Johann to mourn, but when we rang her she said today would suit best. And so it turned out that, with Sophie's body still warm in the grave, Dolly was introduced to Johann. They are currently getting to know each other in a sectioned off corner of the garden. I hope she settles in soon, because her distressed quacking is - to say the least - rather disturbing, and I wouldn't put it past some of our ruthless farmer types to shoot her. Or complain to the mayor.

The day Tony Blair dropped in...

... to Bovinia, of all places. Yes, I am happily eating my oft-uttered words about nothing ever happening here. How do I explain - I just met Tony Blair at our local hillside hostelry, shook his hand, had a jolly little chat in that forced British way that we all do so well, and got my picture taken (to follow). Word had reached me that he would be dropping in - quite literally, as he arrived by helicopter - to a private American event to give a speech. I never voted Labour but hey, he's a Brit and world famous and he was coming here - this was a chance not to be missed. With the help of the hosts at the Kreut-Alm (go there - eat, drink and be merry, it's wonderful) I got to masquerade as a be-dirndled waitress.  I had to work for my prize though. For over an hour I made my way from group to group of kind Americans, plying them with croissants and danish pastries. (A couple of them registered my accent and asked me if I worked for the Secret Service, to which I replied, no, but then again, if I did, I wouldn't tell you.  Loud guffaws all round.) The minders were giving me suspicious glances as I tried to position myself in assorted vantage points. Just when I was about to give up and chuck my pastries over the wall, a shout went up in the kitchen and I was instructed to make my way, pronto, to the private room inside where Mr Blair was having his photos taken with various dignitaries. I introduced myself to him and he fixed me with his sparkling public persona grin and asked me a couple of questions. The camera flashed twice, then I was whisked out again and that was that.

It was cute though. On my way out, some of the kind Americans asked me 'did you see him yet?' and I was happy to affirm. I wondered how it would be if 900 Brits were gathered together and Bill Clinton, for example, was the VIP. I guess they'd be craning their necks and jostling for a glance in just the same way.

Tomorrow we are setting off for a week in South Tyrol, and I dare say I will not be blogging from there. In any case, I need a week off after all my recent adventures. For a quiet village, life here can be quite exhausting. My neighbours are going to have to find something else to observe in our absence. They are never happier than when the sun is out, and they can sit in their garden and watch our every move. I was spotted this morning going off in my Bavarian finery. Frau NN said her perfunctory good morning, and went to carry on with her business, but I could see that she wasn't going to be able to resist. And where might you be going, all dressed up so beautifully, she asked. When I told her, her jaw nearly hit her freshly-washed paving stones. I've promised to go and tell her about it later.