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.