I'd kill for a mince pie

I've been doing this blog thing for over a year now and it has become such a part of my life that I get a twitchy feeling when I haven't written for a few days.  Exactly this happened to me just now while I was mopping the marble floor tiles.  I obeyed my instincts and dropped the mop instantly, for wouldn't it be ironic if housework took precedence over the reluctant housewife's musings?  A large point would be glaringly missed.

Yesterday was Remembrance Sunday and I tuned into the BBC to watch the veterans marching past the Queen and the War Memorial.  We got a squizz at the other royals (CG about Duchess of Cambridge - wow, she's aged since the wedding; me about Prince William - he looks better in a hat) and enjoyed the music of the massed bands.  At the national anthem I got a lump in my throat and had to leave the room.  This would never happen if I actually lived in England, of course.  Lately, though, I've been getting increasingly homesick and the slightest little thing will set me off again.  Silly really, as I've been abroad now for over eleven years and you might think I would have got used to it.  I attribute this new wave of nostalgia to the Bavaria effect.  The Bavarians are very good at behaving as if nothing beyond the borders of the Free State matters much.  Beautiful though it is here, unless you travel a lot (which I don't) your life starts to consist only of mountains and onion-tower churches and pretzels.  You meet people who have never left here and never will.  The unhurried, unchanging rhythm of rural life lulls you into a state of false security.  Then you watch British TV and see a commercial for a mince pie and remember that where you come from is a long, long way away.  Not that I even like mince pies that much.

I wanted to drivel on a bit more about this but a cacophony of quacking from the garden has made me lose track.  Probably just as well.  The other two duck couples have discovered Johann and Sophie and the six of them are currently engaged in a vicious battle of hierarchy, involving lots of pecking and ducking (sorry) their heads and running around in circles.  It is clear to see that Johann is the weakest - typical - but Sophie is quite the tyrant and, I have to admit, a little too fast and free with the other drakes for my liking.  I wouldn't want her to get a reputation.

So I'm off now into the fog, shopping list in hand, to the Aldi lying in the shadow of a mountain where I'll be more likely to meet Simon Cowell than find a packet of mince pies.