Nie wieder Matratzenlager. OR: down with dormitories!

Those of you who are on Facebook will have seen my post there the other day. I didn't have the strength to write any more than that. Having promised some people to elaborate, here goes. 

Beneath you see a photograph, sneakily taken by me, from my niche in the corner of the so-called Matratzenlager (literally: mattress place; usual translation: dormitory) in the Schachenhaus on Tuesday morning. For the uninitiated amongst you, this is a (small) room within a hut, with multiple bunk beds, which means a bunk for eight people has four mattresses on the bottom and four on the top. There was also a four-person option in our room. Having stuffed a small room full of bunks, it is clear to see that there is space for little else, so add twelve adults, twelve backpacks, assorted waterbottles, slippers and other necessary accoutrements and the room starts to look a little overcrowded. But none of this matters at first, as you deposit your few belongings on your allotted pallet, and hurry off to get the first beer of the day. All seems well. Seated on an uncomfortable but authentic rustic bench or chair-with-a-heart-in-the-back like Heidi had, you sip away and peruse the 'menu'. Sighing with relief that there is only one dish you could possibly stomach, thus doing away with any silly dithering which might irritate your partner, you order a bowl of stodge with cheese and, just for the hell of it, another beer. An hour later you investigate the 'facilities'. Both toilet cubicles are occupied. You decide to wait. Someone rushes past you with a sense of urgency. If they had been a small boy, they'd have been clutching their behind. You decide to postpone your visit and have another beer. 

After all this beer, you are feeling quite jolly and well-disposed towards your room-mates and, as darkness falls (which it does remarkably early up there), there is not much option but to prepare yourself for bed. This you do in the gloom, stumbling around on the one square foot of floor remaining and wondering where you put your toothbrush. But you manage it, and you even get to the loo before the next shift arrive to perform their ablutions. Safely installed within your sleeping sheet, you sigh with contentment (or something). A bat flutters at the window, a waft of alpine air tickles your nasal hairs, a goat farts somewhere on the meadow. This is what you came for!

In ones and twos, the rest of the party blunder into the room. The drunk ones switch on the lights and dig around in noisy plastic bags and have stage-whispery discussions about where the towel is. But you remain patient. Pleasantly tired, you wait for sleep to transport you away from this alien situation.

Well, my sleep dumped me right back in it after ninety minutes. Dreaming that a giant warthog was lying next to me, I woke with horror to find it was true. The warthog had a wife, and both had serious phlegm issues. The word snore does not do it justice. Earplugs were a waste of time. Always a light sleeper (why was I there in the first place, you ask), I spent the next six hours alternating between rage, fury, frustration and extreme fatigue. A small break in the snorting chorus meant I dropped off around five a.m. Half an hour later, someone's alarm went off, and the day had begun. The sun rose, and I lay there, exhausted, watching as people in various stages of undress (not a pretty sight) emerged from their cocoons. See picture below (a naked backside would have been the next shot). 

Resigning yourself to the fact you will be exhausted all day, you shuffle off to breakfast, having 'freshened up' with thirty other people in the two-sink washroom beforehand. You chew on some stale bread and drink a cup of Muckefuck.

So why was I there, and why indeed does anybody pay for this experience? CG and I mulled this over from the comfort of our wide and spacious bed the following evening. What possesses grown men and women, with good incomes (they were all wearing The North Face or such like - a reliable indicator) to shun comfort and privacy and hygiene, and lie cheek-by-jowl with the very people they spend half their lives trying to avoid, in other words, everyone else? We decided that it reminds them of childhood. Scout camp and the like. Getting back to basics. A mini-break from the materialist, consumerist trappings of daily life.

I hope I haven't put you off, though I dare say the Alpine Association is unlikely to recruit me for advertising purposes any time soon. As CG always said, I'm a spoilt city slicker with a penchant for luxury.  But at least I tried.

Make me a German what?

Despite Gaia's assertion that I have 'reached the end of the road' with my blog, I plod on. Inspiring comments from other, more erudite readers urge me forward. So here goes. The other night, CG and I watched a TV programme. Nothing unusual in itself. The rather ambiguously named 'Make me a German' was about a Brit journalist and his half-German (yet non-German speaking) wife who decided to try out life as a typical German family for a while. (I say ambiguously as 'German' could mean a kind of cocktail, or beg the question a German what? Wouldn't 'Make me German' have been more appropriate?)

The next day's review in the Guardian neatly summed up the show's highs and lows - full of cliches and contrived situations. Father goes out to work on shop floor of successful but small, family-run pencil factory. Mother stays at home doing housework and looking after the children, one of which goes to a Waldkindergarten (in the forest) and gets to play and poo in the great outdoors. The parents have to eat a specified amount of pork and potatoes every week in order to match average German consumption thereof. Father gets ticked off for arriving late to work and for sending a text message during work hours. (We are told this is greatly in contrast to British office life, where people spend the whole afternoon on Facebook.) They get reprimanded by a neighbour for making too much noise on a Sunday. The same neighbour displays thinly-veiled racist tendencies towards the prominent Turkish population in the area. There was lots of hand-shaking, sausage eating, and all the shops were closed on Sundays - shock, horror. And so on, and so on. As is often the case with stereotypes, I was struck by the programme's ability to simultaneously hit the nail on the head and generate so prolifically. We asked ourselves: is life really that bad here?

British people make much of the numerous laws in Germany, and it is true, there are many. What is more, Germans tend to know of them, cite them word-for-word, and even obey them. However restrictive this may sound, I have yet to encounter a law that doesn't make sense in some way. To understand the most obscure ones has required intensive consideration at times, but I have always found the solution. And it really is better to do what the Germans do and toe the line. The irony of all this is that there remains here a sense of freedom, particularly with regard to children. The health and safety law epidemic gripping Britain has not reached the fatherland and hopefully never will. Young Germans are still free to roam the streets and climb trees and build dams in the river. The finger of blame would not be pointed at the parents or teacher if something were to happen (unless, of course, they were clearly to blame).

There is also a marked lack of materialism and consumerism here. Debt is not a desirable state to be in, and people do not mention their credit cards, if they even have one. Mortgages are seen as millstones, rather than milestones. It is cool to live within one's limits, unostentatiously, and respect the laws of the land and one's fellow man.

If it weren't for the odd occasion where Germans throw caution to the wind and/or sink gallons of beer and stand on the table singing, life here could be rather boring. But it isn't, and what's more, I think Britain is catching onto the fact that Germany gets quite a lot right and is not only a force to be reckoned with, but something to be envious of.

None of this means I wish I wasn't British. Oh no John no. I go about my ordered life and smile politely at all the remarks about British weather (rain), British food (fish and chips), the Royal family (Prince Charles' ears) and the British pound (no comment). But inwardly I relish the fact that I get to enjoy what Germany has to offer whilst knowing I am from a much cooler, quirkier place.

And the thought of living there again terrifies me.

PS: I write some of my most profound blog posts when I am supposed to be writing other profound things, and this is no exception. I now have five weeks to complete my master's thesis and progress is SLOW. Just let me clean out my kitchen cupboards and dust the skirting boards, then I'll get started...

Pig trough racing and a nasty dose

For a couple of months now, I've been on the verge of officially closing down this blog. My first three years in the Free State, as they like to call it here, are nearly up. I've regaled you with hundreds of strange and occasionally funny anecdotes. Each year follows its pattern, the seasons merging into one another, marked by this or that festival, the cows going outside, the cows going back in, et cetera, et cetera. But something has stopped me from making this definitive move. Every now and again, something will occur to make me think ooh, I have to put that in the blog. Just when I think life is in danger of becoming humdrum, I will chance upon something so bizarre that I have to share it. Like yesterday. When you are bored in Bovinia and it is Sunday afternoon and you don't know what to do, fear not! You can hang out out the local swimming pond, where the Bovinians are holding their annual pig trough race - (Sautrogrennen, so literally sow trough) - which involves, no less, pairs of villagers rowing their craft - a trough - across the pond and round the little island and back again, to the sound of Bavarian 'hits'. I had seen it advertised last year and the one before, but had somehow always had a prior engagement - perhaps watching paint dry, I forget now what. Yesterday, though, I decided to give it a whirl, so to speak. I took Titus along. As with any kind of event in Bovinia, there were already hordes of people milling around or sitting at those uncomfortable beer tables. The stench - sorry, aroma - of bratwurst pervaded the air. Benches had been set up around the pond and were already lined with enthusiastic spectators, fanning themselves with their dirndl aprons.Titus and I were forced to sit in the sun, not something I usually mind, but it was extremely hot and there were numerous flies who were also trying to watch, annoyingly from the same spot we were sitting at. Anyway, the race commenced. It was frighteningly uneventful. The only amusement factor I could derive was that the participants were mostly 'quite chubby', as Titus has been taught to say, and struggled to keep their troughs from capsizing. Sadly, they succeeded. Having established it wasn't going to get any better, and been bitten three times by horseflies, I told T we were off back home.

Hours later  I cycled past the pond, on my way up the mountain to find peace and maybe myself. They were all still at it, sausage chomping and beer swilling, although by now the troughs lay forgotten and upturned on the muddy bank. Until next year, of course.

So that was something and nothing, mostly nothing, but I had to admire their creativity and, as always, the gung ho with with they approach any kind of public event.

The other reason I don't want to stop blogging is PSFT, or people saying funny things, which they always do, and which in my opinion should be noted. No matter how much I think I will remember something, my capacity is slowly dwindling, and I find that if I don't write that thing down immediately, it will, at some point, be gone, never to return.

Here's today's funny thing: CG sent me an email from work, in response to my hi how are you kind of wifely missive. In it, he told me (among other things) that his assistant is off sick with VD, following a trip to Morocco. I was shocked. The guy in question is a devout Christian, a married man with five grown-up children, who travels 60 miles just to worship at the church he feels most at home in. I write back, how awful, are you absolutely sure? (Because let's face it, even if you have VD, do you really tell your employer??) To which CG replied, well, he's got whatever you call it when you can't stop vomiting and going to the toilet. Ah! You mean D&V, I wrote, hope you didn't tell too many people, his reputation will be in shreds. Luckily for the stricken man, CG hadn't told a soul. You bloody Brits with your silly abbreviations, he wrote back to me. No wonder the Empire is on its last legs! I laughed fondly. Brit-bashing is a popular pastime over here in the Fatherland. Secretly, they are just jealous, having no such things as scones or Kate Middleton's pending baby to boast about.

The reluctant gardener

It's official. We are the last in our street, if not the whole village, to mow our lawn. Up until last weekend, we were safe. Resting on our winter laurels for just that little bit longer. Because even though some overly keen mowers had already been heard, our next door neighbours, Herr and Frau NN, still had dandelions and daisies and ankle-high blades instead of a neatly-shorn emerald carpet. (And they do everything at the right time. Follow them, and you won't go far wrong in matters of Bovinian etiquette.) But then they did it.

I started my tactical approach to CG early. (It is always he who mows the lawn. Something that, like tinkering with any part of a car apart from the radio or glovebox, I absolutely refuse to do.) Like getting out of bed on a Sunday, or packing his bag for the gym, such things take him a looonnnggg time and you can practically see him floundering in the face of no more excuses, it's got to be done now. His discomfort is palpable. Hence my stealth tactics. Tradition - our own, I mean - dictates that I must ask him to do something at least three or four times before he does it. Taking this into account, and not wanting to rock the marital boat, I positioned my questions far apart.  Other wives and girlfriends may be familiar with my method. Some of my 'questions' do not end with a question mark. Rather, they are light remarks, dropped into the moment like a feather from a balcony. They drift gently down, and eventually come to rest, where they get blown away again, to be forgotten about straight away. Which is exactly what CG does with my questions/remarks.

I'll give you an example:

Me - I see the NNs have finally mowed their lawn.
Him - Yes, I saw that. Would you like a cup of tea?

Or:

Me - Look! The people on the other side have done theirs, too.
Him - Yes, I suppose we are the last now. Do you know where my grey polo shirt is, by any chance?

I didn't let him get away with that last one, though. Partly, I admit, because I hate the grey polo shirt. It reminds me of everything I hated about school uniform in England. I said, we really ARE the last. Do you think you might, like, do ours soon? He put on his palpably uncomfortable, floundering for an excuse face. Then enlightenment hit him and joy lit up his khaki coloured eyes. I will, but not today, he said. Today is a public holiday.

I had to surrender. Nobody, apart from the weirdo down the road who likes playing with his chain saw at strange times of day, dares disturb the peace on public holidays and Sundays.

I am going back outside now to frolic in the dandelions while I still can. Every cloud, and all that.

Out of Office Reply

My mother, it was actually, suggested that I write just a teensy-weensy message to let anyone who might still be trying to follow my blog know that I am not dead. Nor have I decamped to warmer climes, tempting though that may be. I am simply very busy trying to keep up with my master's degree work. Should you ever hear anyone saying it is hard to combine a postgraduate degree with job, family and household, do not doubt them, it really is. Hard. And you don't want to know how the household is looking right now. My spiders have been given carte blanche and have set up home in all sorts of previously forbidden corners. There are curious dustballs that float out from under various pieces of furniture. I stick to the most essential - cooking, food-shopping (oh joy), washing, ironing, cleaning the bathroom, kitchen, hall, living room... and just for fun, I iron too. Do I sound like I feel sorry for myself? Tosh. But having failed one of my assignments - the humiliation - I decided that I had to pull up my Bavarian calf-warmer socks and start working damn hard, or else I am going to have spent nearly two years in the pursuit of nothing at all.

In terms of Bovinia, everything is as it should be - the farmers are gearing up for the muck-spreading season, the cows are getting restless, people have hung plastic Easter eggs on snow-covered branches. Crocuses and snowdrops battle to hold their weatherbeaten heads above icy slush. Max the cat has caught his first mouse of the year and left it on the patio, entrails and all. The neighbours have started chatting in the street again during brief moments of sun, only to scuttle back indoors again when a sideways wind and stair-rod rain comes out of nowhere.

I will be back.

Shopping mad

The concept of a 'five items or less' till has yet to occur to German supermarket owners. Or so it would appear. Regardless of how many things you wish to buy - and this ranges from the old guy with one cabbage, one salami and a bottle of cloudy apple juice (why??) to the stressed mother with heaving trolleyful of family-orientated groceries (me), you are forced to queue up at the one and only till that is open. This, I have observed, has led to the evolution of most aggressive and selfish behaviour amongst German shoppers.

Firstly, if it is you with the full trolley, you must resign yourself to hatred from all sides. You are entirely to blame, for why don't you adopt the little and often motto, like a good housewife should? Secondly, people pick their moments to queue up, and when they deem the line too long, they simply carry on perusing the fine goods - and there are many to be had - until there is a lull in proceedings, at which point they charge to the till like a buffalo fleeing a lion. Once in the queue, everyone eyes the other, as yet unmanned, tills, knowing that sooner or later, an assistant will come back from their fag break and utter the hallowed words "anyone want to come to me?" When this happens, a split-second decision must be made - do you stay or go? Hesitate too long, and the decision is made for you, as half your queue dashes over there, not caring who or what they damage in their quest to be first in the new queue. And you are left standing, with bruised toes, experiencing a strange sense of loss.

Let us not forget the customer who, indeed, has five items or less. For some reason, the German shopper believes this entitles him or her to jump the queue. Now, we've all been there. You pop in for a bag of apples and a lightbulb, only to find yourself queueing for ten minutes behind people with heaving trolleys. The uninitiated, stupid or altruistic of us - and tourists - will simply accept our lot and wait our turn. Most people, however, will either ask outright if they can go in front of you - and it takes guts to refuse them, believe me - or they deploy indirect but intimidating threat tactics, which can involve sighing, glaring, complaining to the person behind them, or a mixture of all three. There is only one way to deal with this. Avoid all eye contact, stare fixedly in front of you, and ignore them. Even a tiny chink in your armour will be exploited, so stay strong and focus on the thought that you have EVERY RIGHT to pay and escape first.

To compensate for this, there will be days when you are feeling magnanimous, and there might be someone behind you who is NOT trying to jump the queue. Here's what you do. Turn to them, smile benignly and say something along the lines of, oh, is that all you've got? Please, go in front of me - I have so much and you so little, to which they will say, are you sure??? And you nod, and they beam gratefully, and all the people in front of you feel compelled to let them past too. The last glimpse you have of the five-items customer is them skipping happily back to their car, marvelling at the generosity of human nature. And that more than makes up for the other people hating you, doesn't it?

You may think me bitter and twisted. Perhaps you have popped into a German supermarket once or twice and had a rare old time, and cannot for the life of you imagine how I can spout such cynical claptrap. But you see, the above observations are based on years of patient study, and thousands of trips to all the main supermarket chains. Believe me, I know my onions.

Home Thoughts From A Broad

Blogging is a bit like cleaning windows. The longer you leave it, the more of a task it becomes. Until one day, you think RIGHT. Let's get to it. And once it's done, you feel so much better! Well, I haven't cleaned my windows, but I was getting weary of prods from various people and complaints that I hadn't written a thing in over two months.

The thing is, I am not a reluctant housewife any more. I squeeze bits of housewifery in between other, more important tasks, such as going to work, or writing about computer-assisted translation tools. I have frosted glass windows that were previously transparent. I look out at the garden (with some difficulty) and sigh with relief that the enduring icy temperatures render any horticultural activity impossible.

Furthermore, I have more or less got used to Bovinia. There is nothing of amusement to report. The cashiers in the village shop are as unfriendly as ever. I got such a shock when, after two weeks in customer-orientated England, I popped in there to stock up on mango chutney. Scrabbling for small change in my purse, I remarked to the male unfriendly cashier that I still had pennies abound, and wouldn't it be great if the UK joined the euro? To which he gave me a blank look and held his hand out, wordlessly. Yes, that is one thing the Brits do really well. Chatting at the till. Niceties and smiles and all those things that make you feel you've had a pleasant shopping experience. You like it so much that you go back the next day, and they say oh hello, how are you? And you smile, and the old lady in the cake and biscuit aisle smiles too, so you buy some more fattening delicious products and while you're there, would you be interested in our three-for-the-price-of-one Cadbury's offer? Love it.

While in England, I got to wondering why I like it there so much. Particularly in December, when even the most bucolic of scenes looks grey and uninspiring. The rain and wind were buffeting the fairy lights and everywhere I went people were wearing dreadful Christmas jumpers and Santa hats. It would be unfair to even try to compare it all with the pure, wild beauty of the alpine scenery here. I worked out that my criteria for enjoying a country are:
1) can I get fresh hummus nearly everywhere I go; 2) as a vegetarian, am I regarded as a normal and valued citizen; 3) do people in general smile and make jokes (even lame ones: it's the thought that counts) and 4) do I have to pay every time I use a public convenience?

Talking of public conveniences, these are a phenomenon I usually avoid like the plague. But when you are on a long car journey, there are times when needs must. You may or may not be familiar with the Sanifair system in German motorway service stations. Let me enlighten you: the (recently increased) price of 70 cents allows you the privilege of relieving yourself in a clean, musak-pervaded environment, including toothless assistant and one of those hand-dryers that makes your skin look like that of an eighty-year old's. Children under a certain height can get in free, and there is a child-shaped hole in the turnstile for this very purpose. Of course, not everybody wants to pay the 70 cents. As I stood waiting for my family to reemerge, I caught several people squeezing themselves through the child hole. This makes life tough for the toothless attendant, who must divide his or her time between disinfecting the bowl and policing the turnstile (because even the most brazen of adults cannot really pretend to be seven years old.) The funniest thing I saw, however, was an elderly lady exiting the ladies'. Baffled and probably thinking she had to pay to get out, too, she contorted herself through the kids' exit. Her husband - thought himself a bit of a wag, obviously - said (not unkindly), those days are long gone for you, old thing. They shuffled off together to be verbally abused at the shop counter.

Let us remember them - all

It is Remembrance Sunday in the UK. The 11th day, of the 11th month, and at the 11th hour thousands of people across the country gathered to remember those who have died or been injured in military service, and of course those who are out there, somewhere, far from home, devoting their lives to a cause they may or may not understand. 

However long I may have been away from Blighty, I have not yet lost that sense of mourning and respect that is evoked by sombre scenes of veteran service men and women marching or being wheeled along to lay wreaths at war memorials on 11th November each year. The royals and politicians, dressed in black, the solemn tones of military bands playing Eternal Father, strong to save, and above all, the poppy, the emblem of remembrance, worn by everybody, it seems these days, even Felix Baumgartner on the Graham Norton show. 

Here in Bavaria, the 11th of the 11th means something completely different. It marks the start of Fasching, or the carnival season. Today we have been out and about, and the radio stations have been ablaze with 'party' music (more of the same tired 80s numbers, if you ask me) and presenters exhorting us to get in the mood and celebrate. It was all so at odds with my own thoughts. Tempting, I found, to see it all as vastly disrespectful, until one remembers that it isn't meant that way, and the Germans have another day to mark their own war victims. Indeed they do, but it cannot be compared with that of the UK. Sadly, this reflects what I see as a general lack of respect for the German forces, who, although might not be as near to the action as other nations, are still putting their lives at risk and doing a great job. I often hear people making jokes about the Bundeswehr. Even the soldiers themselves affect a rather non-German self-deprecatory attitude towards their job. I think this is sad, and ask myself why it is so. Could it be rooted in the years of compulsory national service, or is it founded deeper, in Germany's aversion to military pride as a long-lasting result of the two World Wars?

Over the twelve years I have been in this great country, I have witnessed a visible change in the way Germans address their sense of nationality. One of the most telling arenas is the international football tournaments. Fans will nowadays bellow out their National Anthem with pride, rather than the timid mutterings I saw during the European Championship of 2000.  I hope to see this new-found confidence extend to the way soldiers, sailors and air men and women are regarded in Germany. What has past is past, but there is still work to be done, and most of us would not care to swap places with any of them. Let us salute every one of them, and in the same way that we have World Poetry, Pasta or Grandparent Day, perhaps add the Armed Forces - wherever they come from.

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. 

Top of Germany

It struck me that some of you might like to know how my trip up to the Zugspitze summit was, or even whether I made it at all. Well, I did. But I can't think of any amusing way to describe it. The satisfaction lies entirely in the achievement of having done it. A bit like giving birth. Not at all pleasant, and you often feel like giving up, except you can't, as it is a non-reversable situation. While it is true that with mountains, you can always turn round and go back the way you came, the fact that it would mean another 6 hours on your feet is a real deterrent. (Maybe I am being melodramatic - after all, it wouldn't be the first time.) Anyway, the weirdest thing about it all was, on finally arriving at the top, we were suddenly plunged into a whirl of tourists. The air was pervaded by swirling smoke from sausage stands and cigarettes. Before I even got time to draw breath, a row of chubby ladies asked me to take their photo 'to mark the occasion'.  I was too tired to ask what the occasion was, and to be honest, I didn't really care. We sat shivering on a bench and ate our battered sandwiches. (By battered I mean bumped about, not deep-fried, although it would actually have been feasible to get the sausage seller to throw them in his pot of spitting fat.) After 10 minutes we made our way to the cable car. For once, I was unaffected by the sensation of hanging hundreds of feet above a sheer rock face.  Even Titus' last words the night before "I hope the cable doesn't snap when you're sitting inside Mummy" didn't bother me. We swayed gently down to the bottom, had a coffee and went home. And there, a herd of cows was slowly making its way along the road, plopping out green pats here and there, and the jolly farmer was busy spreading some more muck on the field. As always with Bovinia, on returning there you get the feeling that it is a microcosm, the people within it totally disconnected from the outside world and brighter, more scintillating experiences than queueing for bread or watching the recycling lorry reversing out of the car park. 

Farmer Pickles' Revenge

I think the local farmer read my blog yesterday. I awoke to the sound of him cranking up his engine and revving in that way only tractors can. And then the ominous sound of splattering liquid manure hitting wet grass.  Within seconds, the stench filled the room. It was no longer possible to lie in bed, at least without a gas mask.

Having been forced from our olfactorily-challenging bed, we were in the process of getting dressed, and I casually remarked to CG that he was yet to try out our new vacuum cleaner. I mean, we've had it six weeks or so now, I said. For a split second, his face registered complete disinterest until he realized the consequences this might have, and hastily rearranged his features into what he thought was a regretful, humble expression. It was priceless. Hmm, he sighed thoughtfully, in a way that implied that the very next thing he did would be to haul out the said vacuum cleaner and vroom round the house. I laughed inwardly, in that tolerant, benign manner that wives sometimes have when the husband is behaving really well in most other areas, and it thus doesn't matter, at this particular moment, that he never touches the damn thing. Ask me again later when I'm in a bad mood, and the tolerant benignity (great word, I just discovered it) will be but a distant memory.

I am telling you all this partly for the benefit of my dear brother, whose comment on my last post was something rather cutting about me not being either reluctant or a housewife. He has a point, in that I spend far less time complaining about housework than I used to, but this does not mean I don't do it. Oh no. Far from it - but it simply doesn't feature in the top three of my what-I-love-doing-list. I am getting more and more resigned in my old age, and have taken to delegating wherever possible, in order to train my children for life in the big bad world of adulthood. They moan and groan and roll their eyes like the monsters in Where the Wild Things Are, but I stand firm. They declare that they don't want to be grown-ups, if cleaning is such a big part of life. (For some of us.) We were looking at photos of me in my early teens - Hedda needed a picture of children in school uniform, and I was glad to oblige - and Gaia said, wow, you looked so different then.  How so, I asked, apart from 27 years of wear and tear? Well, just ... young, and carefree, and full of hope, she mused.  Apparently I now look as if I have given up. Honestly. Any more comments like that and I'll be off to nightclubs every evening, not wearing a coat in winter, and culturing mould in assorted vessels in my bedroom. 

In July, the sun is hot

... is it shining? No it's not! People here are up in arms about lots of things at the moment. One of them is the lack of a decent summer, so far anyway. The beer gardens are only staying afloat with the help of giant umbrellas. The place is full of disgruntled tourists driving slowly and dolefully looking at mountains half-enveloped in cloud. The thing about Germany is, the school holidays differ from one Bundesland (state) to the next. And let's not forget that, unlike the UK, you always know where cars are from, thanks to the helpful registration system. Wherever you happen to be in this great country, you are immediately identifiable from your number plate. If you don't have a well-known one - B for Berlin, M for Munich, HH for Hamburg and so on - people will scrutinize your car for other evidence of your place of residence. (I know, because I do it myself. Categorizing is a national pastime. It goes hand in glove with nosy neighbours and twitching curtains and who is that person walking down our road, I've never seen him before.)  We used to have UE (Uelzen), and this was obscure enough for strangers to approach us on the street and ask. Anyway, the Bavarian radio announcers kindly prepare us for the next influx from the far-flung North or East, and for two weeks, all you see are these holiday-makers, with a few Dutch, Austrian and Italians mixed in, and the latter are probably just lost. Then we have another dangerous breed, the cabriolet-on-a-fine-day-driver. Maybe I am just bitter, but I cannot see the appeal of a car with no roof. Clearly lots of other people do, however, and it only takes a few rays of sun for them to hop into their vehicles, hatted and scarfed or whatever, and drive around purposefully and carefully (the cars always seem to be old), oblivious to anyone behind them who might be wishing to overtake. Who else do we have - now how could I forget - king of the road, the tractor driver. A bit like lorries on motorways, tractors roar around content in the knowledge that they are much bigger than you and could quite easily flatten you if you got in the way. Far from the jolly smiling Farmer Giles of my childhood storybooks, the drivers here stare aggressively out from behind mud-spattered windscreens as they chugger past, scattering hay, or straw, or liquid faeces, or whatever else they might be transporting from one place to the next. Often there'll be a couple of children sitting in the cab, and even they gaze unsmilingly, insolently almost, as you wait, sinking into the wet verge in your new running shoes that you were hoping to keep dry but your life is worth more.

Yesterday I was returning from my glorious local supermarket in my shiny red car with a roof.  Goodness me, was I glad to be on the ball. You know when you are learning to drive, or what you see in road accident prevention handbooks, or whatever - a ball rolls into the road - slow down!  A child is sure to be coming after it. Check. Large vehicle reversing out of side street, check.  Motorbike coming towards you at 120 kmh on your side of the road. Check. Lone cow trotting around confusedly, buffeting between parked cars. Check. (I actually never saw this one in my learner driver manual.) Careful old man driving very smart car at snail's pace, slowing down before every turn. Doesn't know where his indicators are. Brakes sharply and turns very, very slowly off the road. Check. He looks back, astonished, at the line of cars behind him, some people waving their fists. What, he says - I'm not the only one on the road?  Chaps like these still talk about 'motoring' and don't believe in navigation systems.

In a couple of days I hope to achieve one of my goals, that is to climb the Zugspitze, Germany's highest mountain. Believe it or not, I am doing this with the hairdresser neighbour of whom I once was so afraid. We are 'only' climbing up, as to save time, we are coming down in the terrifying cable car (which is actually a glass and metal box on a long string). I have no problem with 7 hours of climbing, but the thought of being stuck in this box for 20 minutes with 49 other people brings me out in a cold sweat. 

Orienteering - the other way

This is yours truly the Reluctant Housewife and her beautiful friend Salima, on the eve of our belly-dancing debut. I wouldn't have said that black velvet is exactly the right material to wear in 30° heat, but it was that or purple chiffon. Anyway, the hour had finally come to display our skills in semi-public. Women of all ages, shapes and sizes, attired in every colour of the rainbow, were gathered in an stuffy upstairs dance studio to commune with each other and celebrate the art of belly-dancing. I sound like I ate the brochure for tea, don't I, but 'twas really so. My plan only to dance our rehearsed piece fell flat right at the beginning, when we were rallied together and told to join hands. In an enormous circle we swayed this way and the other, then into the middle and out again. I felt like I was doing a kind of oriental hokey-cokey. Being passionately against audience participation I was heartily relieved when the music stopped - I had to fight for a chair - and some of the 'good' ones took to the floor. Eventually our time came, and I managed not to (a) laugh (b) trip over and (c) turn the wrong way. All in all, not too bad. It only went a bit pear-shaped when we had to dance with a veil.  It looked so simple when the pros did it.  You had to sort of swish the veil around your head really quickly and back in front of you, remembering all the time to look mysterious and sensual.  I, of course, managed to wrap the veil over my face - luckily it was transparent - couldn't get the damn thing off in time. So I must have looked pretty mysterious. Not sure about the sensual, though. Gaia advised me not to post the above pictures on Facebook - "too revealing", she said, and "you never know who's looking". Funny - exactly my words to her about her black ribbed belt, sorry, I mean mini-skirt. Anyway, the whole evening was an inspiration, and ever since I have been clandestinely practising my new moves. As most people already think me somewhat strange, they won't bat an eyelid at work when I shimmy my way to the photocopier or squeeze in a few hip figure-of-eights while waiting signing for a delivery. 

A spot called Frank - and other delights

Here I am again, on a grey, rainy Monday, when the English football team have once more failed to impress. Nothing new there, then. Titus, bored by the lack of action during the game, turned his attention to his darling mother's face. Mummy, you've got a spot growing, he told me. I know, I answered, through gritted teeth.  It is my pet spot. I've had it the last twenty years.  Every couple of months it rears its ugly head anew, ruins my complexion for the best part of a week, I muck about with it ineffectually until it subsides again, biding its time. Titus decided to give my spot a name.  Frank. I hadn't the energy to argue. I felt Frank literally glowing with pride, and stuck some ancient nappy-rash cream on it - sorry, him - to keep him down.

Meanwhile, CG came home from work today with a curious set of apparatus under his arm.  Encased in a snazzy blue bag. I swear he oozed excitement when he told me that this was a snore-monitor. Pretending it was a real drag, he told me that he has to wear this contraption from 10 pm tonight (actually, in 3 minutes, I realize in horror) until 6 am tomorrow morning. Various sensors will supposedly note his equally varied nocturnal noises and breathing disturbances. He must surrender the recording tomorrow morning for analysis. Thereafter, a sleep expert will tell him what we both already know, namely that he makes weird noises in the night. I don't care, because I have already found a solution - ear plugs. But I didn't like to tell him that I've been sleeping like a baby since this discovery, as it was me who forced him to get medical help in the first place. He's just popped his head round the door to remind me that it's "nearly time" - I can hardly wait. I bet neither of us gets a wink of sleep.

My last comment has to be on national anthems. I only really like four - GB (naturally), France, Germany and the USA. When you watch international championships of any kind, you get a taste of other, weirder anthems. Not once have I heard one that I could hum again the next day. I truly believe that the newer the country, the more complex and long the national anthem is. Take the Ukrainian one, for example.  It is nearly a whole opera. And nobody knew the words, least of all the president.