I took a frisky Titus to Penny Markt this evening, against my better judgment. He only ever offers to keep me company because his little - but considerably able - brain thinks 'sweets' and, knowing I'll be busy browsing the array of luxury goods, there is a good chance he will get some. Today, however, I was on the ball and only allowed him a miniscule treat. Afterwards he was sulking, big time. We had to wait for Gaia at the station, so there we were, sitting in the dark car, twiddling our thumbs. I became aware that Titus was muttering expletives. I couldn't be sure what he was saying, but I knew he didn't dare to say it aloud, so it must have been bad. Look, I said. I'll give you ten minutes to utter as many rude words as you can think of. Get it out of your system. He looked suspicious and said 'arse' really, really quietly. Oh come on, I said. Surely you can do better than that? He took a deep breath and shouted a string of three or four swear words. I admit, it was strange hearing this from the mouth of my seven-year-old, and for a moment I questioned my parental wisdom. I mean, do other mothers do that? Is it cool or just barmy?? Anyway, he ran out of steam after the four words and was reduced to 'normal' insults like 'dwarf'. Don't you know any more, I said. You've only used up 40 seconds so far. No, said Titus. Could you teach me some please? I had to draw the line at that, and luckily Gaia appeared just at that moment and jumped into the car. Titus wanted to show her all his swear words but, in typical big sister style, she remained completely unmoved and merely remarked that children these days are much more precocious. At Titus' age, she maintained, she only knew 'scheisse', which doesn't even count.
It's Föhnwetter again - that unseasonally warm breeze that makes November feel like May. CG and I were out in the garden tidying up for winter. We were observed from both sides; by Herr NN, which is nothing unusual, and by the new neighbours in the upstairs flat and all their visitors. We only ever see these neighbours when they go out on their balcony for a smoke, and today it was apparent that they need to invest in some more garden furniture if they are going to have regular visits from fellow smokers. It was standing room only - even the visiting dog was out there sniffing the breeze or passively smoking, I'm not sure which. In any case, all eight of them stared down us, and our ducks, who were making a horrible noise as they could sense the dog.
My last words today concern our dear web-footed, feathered friends. If you are the kind of person who craves affection and devotion, don't make runner ducks your pets. 'Runner' clearly refers to their need to flee from you as fast as possible whenever you come within 3 metres of them. One could get quite paranoid. It doesn't take much to make them anxious, and this they display by making their heads go up and down and increasing their quacking volume. Only Sophie can quack, though. Johann just makes a sort of muted, strangled noise. He really is the underduck in the relationship - he can't fly properly either, so whenever they get seriously spooked, Sophie takes to the skies and leaves him standing, ineffectually flapping his tiny wings, helplessly watching his wife as she seeks refuge in another part of the garden. If we had chickens, too, there's no doubt he'd be a hen-pecked husband.
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