Two's company

I am sitting at work in a near-empty office on a day when most other (sensible) people have taken holiday and are currently sunning themselves at the lake.  Wow, what a long sentence.  As usual, there are various things I could blog about, but I would like to start with Maurice (remember - Gaia's first boyfriend).  As I had feared, Gaia was up in arms about my choice of pseudonym, and I must admit that it doesn't suit him as well as I first thought.  He is doing less lurking now and the Bavarian sun has tanned his milky complexion, and I must note that he - unlike many boys his age - does like a bright red or green hoodie, rather than the habitual grey or black.  I'd like to stick to M, so I will rename him Maximus.  Surely Gaia will be happy with that. Meanwhile Titus continues to nurse his crush on a certain-girl-in-his-class-who-must-remain-nameless.  I am sworn to secrecy.  When I offered to give things a little nudge in the right direction by asking her round to play, he went bright red (a bit like Maurice's hoodie) and declared that if I did, he would stay in his room and ignore her. Hedda, thank goodness, shows no interest in the opposite sex and is wholeheartedly looking forward to her next (all girls) school, where she will finally be rid of those annoying things called boys. 

Writing about attraction and relationships makes me think of our ducks.  You may know that ducks pair for life - one could call this romantic, but I suspect there are other biological reasons for this.  This means that if one half of the happy couple kicks the bucket, the other is left to roam the world alone.  It so happens that we have such a webfooted widower in our street, and I found it most amusing to observe how he (I called him Derek - I like to give things names, as you may have noticed) tried to elbow in on our ducks' coupledom.  At first I thought they were kindly tolerating him, taking him under their wing in light of his recent bereavement, much like the trios of old people you sometimes see out and about, where you know that a good old friend would once have made it a quartet.  Then I realised that Derek's intentions were not only about companionable food-searching but more about getting his end away with the fair Sophie.  Several times I caught him in the act, Johann standing by quacking in a muted, futile way.  Last week, though, Johann finally lost his patience.  Head down, beak raised, he charged at Derek again and again until the latter gave up and padded away lonesomely to spend the night in solitude (ducks seem to conduct their sexual activities at dusk).  He has not returned, and I swear that Johann has become more assertive and self-confident since this victory.  Not that I am one to anthromorphise, you understand. 

Ripples of excitement

Barmy old April.  Rain, rain, and more rain.  Three weeks have passed (or more) since I blogged within these hallowed virtual portals, and on awaking from my post-prandial nap this afternoon I realized that if I didn't write now, I may never again.


So much has happened, yet so little.   It is all so wonderfully Bovinian and predictable.  Luckily there are the occasional ripples of excitement on the calm mill-pond of village life.  Titus 'did' parts of the body - that is to say ALL parts of the body - at school.  Some mothers were up in arms, saying the little innocents are far too young.  Titus shrugged his shoulders and claimed to have known it already (HOW?  I blame Gaia for letting him watch her Inbetweeners DVD).  Hedda's teacher - a delightful young woman - announced that she is expecting her first baby - conveniently, just after the summer holidays have ended.  How nice of her not to disrupt the school year.  And Gaia has got her first boyfriend.  I'm going to call him Maurice, but you shouldn't read anything into that.  He had been lurking around for a while, staying in the shadows, cigarette cupped in hand, just a shape passing by our window.  Last week, we finally got to meet him properly.  CG shook his hand jovially - not a word one can often apply to CG - then spied the giant love bite on his neck.  "Quite a mole you've got there" he says.  Maurice's face aflame.  Gaia (matching love bite) a-cringing.  Then the punchline - "just make sure you're always kind and nice to Gaia, and everything will be alright".  It put me in mind of the Godfather; I am still not sure why.  So Maurice retreated back to his shadows, and Gaia is hardly to be seen inside the house these days.  Her interest in the forest floor is such that she washes her coat three times a week.

An influx of visitors made for a busy Eastertide.   We were prevented, however, from hiding the little foil-wrapped eggs in our garden by six inches of snow.  Two days later, it had all melted and we were climbing a mountain wearing t-shirts (us, not the mountain).  And so it goes on.  Extreme weather conditions - at least from a European perspective.  The biggest news from Bovinia is that they moved the recycling depot shed ten metres sideways to make room for another building.  It was like a miracle.  One day it was there, standing solidly with its containers and skips and pile of rotting Christmas trees.  And the next we were blinking in amazement to see it relocated.  It reminded me of those cards you get when moving house, showing a trailer with a whole house on top of it.  I'll have to get the number of whoever did it, as it would sure save a lot of hassle.

After a week bumming around at home I shall be back to work at the drone factory on Monday.  Quite excited, as they are finally letting me loose on their unsuspecting employees to give English lessons.  Ha!  How I shall enjoy putting some of those crusty old so-and-sos through their simple/continuous paces.  I have already thought of the three cardinal rules I shall enforce.  One, absolutely no German to be spoken within lessons.  Two, naughty ones are not allowed to sit together (there are, unbelievably, a couple who have threatened to disrupt proceedings with paper aeroplanes).  And three, no slippers.  You may laugh, but many men lounge around our office in birkenstocks.  It's an international business, surely, not a drying-out clinic.

Fine rants enjoin!

'Fine rants enjoin' is one of the many possible anagrams for Jennifer Aniston, who happens to be one of my role models.  I was reflecting on her only this morning, and came to the conclusion that, however charmed her life may seem, I'd much rather be myself.  CG reprimanded me for my rantings about female aging two posts ago.  He finds it all rather pointless.  In his opinion we should all come to terms with it, avoid plastic surgery like the plague, and get on with life the best way we can.  Because we all die in the end.  Thanks, Mr Doom.  Oh, and he also told me that some 'famous' German actress is about to appear in Playboy at the ripe young age of 47, so there's hope for me yet.

I don't know if you are familiar with the game Old Maid, but it is one of our family favourites.  In case you are not, it is a scintillating card game involving pairs of professions (butcher, baker, teacher etc) and one Old Maid (apparently profession-less).   The aim of the game is to collect as many pairs as possible and leave the game.  If you end up with the Old Maid, you can't do this and are therefore the loser.  Now I've told you before that Titus is an incredibly bad loser.  So any game played with him is automatically fraught with tension.  Firstly, you can tell immediately whether he has the Old Maid in his hand.  Secondly, you can spot the card anyway as it is beaten and battered from being tossed across the room in contempt, on the many occasions he has lost the game.  I thus decided, yesterday, that it would be amusing to play without the Old Maid card.  Perfect!  Nobody lost, and there were no tantrums.  I thought Titus might get cross when he discovered our trick, but he cackled with laughter, so loudly that the ducks outside in the garden quacked in terror.

Here in Bovinia it is suddenly warm and sunny, and just like the flies that are emerging from every nook and cranny, so are the tourists.  The winter is not yet over, but the roads are packed with cars and motorbikes, and the country trails are once again full of cyclists executing their reign of terror over the humble walker.  Not much longer, and you know what will happen - yes, because it is the same every year.  The cows will be released, blinking, into the sunlight.  Herr NN will be back to his prime spying perch on the veranda, commenting on our every move.  The lawn-mower chorus will once again serenade me when I try and nap in the afternoon, and I'll no doubt soon see my first naked bather of 2012 at the local lake.  Can't wait.

A severe case of bumpkin-itis

Last weekend saw the Reluctant Housewife back in her homeland for a few days.  I just had to check out the preparations for the Queen's diamond jubilee celebration and, of course, the olympic games. Not.  I made a mental note to avoid the whole of England during them, as it will quite clearly be chaos.  A country that can't deal with a few snowflakes is unlikely to be able to handle the influx of people from all corners of the globe, although numerous amounts of them already seem to live there on a permanent basis.  Before you start thinking I've gone all xenophobic and right-wing, please understand that this last observation relates purely to my complete and utter country bumpkin-itis.  In German, country bumpkin translates as country egg, somewhat weirdly.  Bumpkin or egg, call it what you will - as I alighted from a bus onto the crowded streets of Brixton in south London, I nearly keeled over in shock.  The place was heaving with people of all ethnicities. And most of them were shouting.  They were certainly all in a hurry and had no qualms in elbowing me out of the way.  I was reminded of my first shopping trips in Germany, where I was shocked at the lack of excuse me's and please could I just get pasts.  (I take it all back.  People are just as rude in Blighty as they are in Germany.)  Then, the next day, I saw a transvestite sitting a few seats away from me on the underground.  I kept looking at him surreptitiously.  Obviously, I have caught the Bavarian virus of staring at anything slightly out of the ordinary.  Had I all the money in the world, I would have paid the transvestite to fly over here and saunter round our village shop.  The open-mouthed gazes and whispering behind farm-work calloused hands would be worth every penny.

When I got home I was greeted with rapture by my husband and children.  They all looked so relieved and beautiful.  Once we'd all hugged each other and established that I had indeed got everyone a present,  I asked CG what was new in Bovinia.  He thought really hard for a few minutes.  Well, he said.  There's an abandoned trailer in our street.  Nobody knows where it's from.  It's been sighted at several locations around the village.  The police may have to take action.  Hmm.  Is that all, I asked.  Well no, he replied. Also, the muck-spreading season has started again.  Sure enough, when I stepped outside the next morning, I was nearly suffocated by the pungent and unmistakable aroma of cow dung.  Suddenly, the dirty streets of London didn't seem so bad.

It's just not fair!

Amazing how confusing new formats can be.  Since Saturday I have been using a Mac Lion compatible version of Word, and I feel like a little old lady trying to adjust to a computer.  The old lady thing is a sore point right now.  I keep dwelling on the aging thing.  I think it is since I watched the BAFTA awards a week or so back.  George Clooney was there in all his craggy splendour, and I found myself reflecting on the unjustness of this - men can get craggy and wrinkly (as long as it is in the right places - say no more) and people swoon over their mature good looks.  They can even be bald, or greying at the temples, or a bit of both.  I am forced to admit that some men really do improve with age - Christopher Plummer is a notable exception, however, but he really is past it.  But apply this principle to women.  Take one in her prime, let's say Natalie Portman, resplendently smooth-skinned and sleekly brunettish.  Give her a bald patch, crow's feet and marionette lines and do you really believe she'd still be the face of Chanel (or wherever)?  I think not. There are some women in the spotlight today who may be seen as on the verge.  Still clinging on to youth, but they are over 50 and can't seem to throw in the towel.  And why should they?  The 'looking great at 70' examples that are thrust upon us on a regular basis - Racquel Welch is one - have quite clearly been under the knife. Well, I can enlighten you.  Apparently, there is nothing more invisible and lacking in clout than an elderly lady.  Unless you are a queen (think Elizabeth, Beatrix and Margerethe of Denmark) or Mother Theresa, nobody takes any notice of you whatsoever.  I read an article recently by an old woman who claimed she never got served in the pub.  People make jokes about Granny cars, Granny clothes, especially Granny pants (and I mean the Brit version).  There is nothing to look forward to for us women, is there.  Unless, perhaps, you are a grand RSC dame, like Judi Dench or Maggie Smith.

A quick subject change might be good before all my female readers over 35 go off and start contemplating their dismal future.  I haven't blogged for over two weeks, which is simply shocking.  An anonymous and impatient follower of mine alerted me to the fact yesterday evening, deploring the 'complete lack of activity' in this forum and daring to deduce that I might have been busy.  You know who you are (even if I don't). True, I have, but I am always busy, but the last fortnight particularly so, as we were seeing out the 'fifth season', as it is known here (Fasching, or carnival time, which in spite of its comic undertones is taken extremely seriously).  The season culminated in a parade through the village, which was actually quite spectacular, but I would have enjoyed it so much more if it hadn't been blizzarding the whole day long.  In an attempt to enter into the spirit of things I went along in fancy dress, but after half an hour was forced to retreat and put on my full winter clothing, and even then I was freezing.

Then I was ill and off work for a few days and thought it might look too jolly if I blogged from my sickbed.  One's employer might get the wrong impression, and we all know how careful we have to be in these days of social networking.  As I really was ill I would have had a clear conscience, but goodness knows there are enough people out there who have been caught out being hyperchondriacal or even worse bad-mouthing their employer.  There are those who argue for our rights to express ourselves on Facebook. That if we wanted to make our feelings known about our boss, we should be able to do so without fear of retribution.  Some report I read compared this right to Speaker's Corner at Hyde Park in London, where anyone can go and stand and rave about whatever bee is currently in their bonnet.  The report maintained that one could be heard doing this, so what was the difference between ranting in public and online?  To which my answer is, a great deal.  The written word can always, always come back to haunt you.

I must leave you now.  Max is playing with the mop bucket, which is full of dirty water and liable to capsize.  He would get the shock of his life which would be amusing, but then I'd have to clear up the mess.  Not worth it, really.

The Glorious Game

Today a small boy's dream came true.  He was at the famous luminous-blue Allianz arena in Munich to watch the sickeningly successful football team, FC Bayern-München, play Kaiserslautern.  I am pleased to say the result was 2:0 - not so much for the team, who are probably used to it, but for his parents (particularly the one with him right now on the way home, and it isn't me), who are thankfully not required to dry tears of disappointment, rage and injustice.

The whole operation was fraught with tension from start to finish.  The tickets were a Christmas present from me to my male nearest and dearest.  So expensive were they that I nearly had to sell Max at the advent market. (He was saved by a kind benefactor.)  The price was exorbitant when you consider that the seats were practically outside the stadium.  But Titus didn't care - he just wanted to 'be inside that amazing place' and 'say hi to his favourite players - maybe they'll even sign my shirt'.  Well, I hope the players had long arms, because they were an awfully long way away.  Anyway, having transferred the money to some suspect website, I then had to wait for the tickets to be delivered.  They were promised a week before the game, but actually arrived the day before yesterday, by which time CG and I were making panicked plans about how to let the boy down gently in the event of them not materialising. But the God of football was smiling down on Bovinia, and Titus appeared this morning in all his red and white splendour, only to find his father inspecting the tickets with a grim look.  Not that unusual, I admit, so I only glanced casually over his shoulder, but immediately saw why.  The seats were in the Kaiserslautern section.  The red-white regalia had to come off, in order not to provoke the enemy.  Titus was crestfallen.  I suggested he wore his Bayern-München watch, carefully hidden under a glove.  Too afraid of bucking the trend, he must have been.  I found it hidden under a sofa cushion after he'd gone.

Fighting tears (he is such a sensitive child), off he went in the car, armed with hot tea, a blanket, sandwiches and who knows what else.  At three this afternoon the phone rang.  With trepidation, I answered, fearing Mr Doom announcing that the tickets were fake.  A little voice screamed out 'I'm there, Mummy!  I can see all the players!!! They're - (German English alert) warming themselves up on the place!'  I could hear faint roaring in the background and asked how the Kaiserslautern people were. 'They're just normal, Mummy!   Some are even smiling!'  I bet they aren't now though.   

Skating on thin ice

It's hovering around -20°C, our ducks are freezing their butts off, and Titus, CG and I went out for a walk this afternoon in the glistening snowscape.  We came upon a little lake - actually chance was not involved, but it sounds better that way.  At first glance it looked like a very flat snow-covered field.  Only the scores of people zipping around on ice-skates and the rim of brown reeds betrayed its true status.  I couldn't remember if I'd ever walked on a frozen lake - at least not without my heart in my mouth and listening out for ominous creaking sounds.  I reasoned that two hundred people couldn't be wrong and sauntered out onto the ice.  As we approached the middle, Mr Doom asked me if I'd 'seen the large crack'.  There it was, like a halloween pumpkin's grin, leering at me.  Nobody seemed concerned, but I felt a strong compulsion to leave the lake ASAP.  There's a health and safety inspector lurking inside me, that's for sure.  Others would call it cowardice, perhaps, or kinder people a heightened sense of self-preservation?

When we got back to our warm house I sent Gaia out for some fresh air.  I'm all for liberal parenting, but too much central heating and facebook is bad for the soul.  Her idea of fresh air turned out to be sitting in the shed (albeit with the door shut) for 20 minutes.  Quite resourceful, I thought, although our shed is really no great shakes.  It's piled high with garden furniture and straw. Still better than a freezing walk round the Bavarian block, apparently!

My last words today concern Bovinia, our adopted village.  People - even locals (though not Bovinians, obviously) tend to chortle when I tell them we live here.  It seems that the fun factor is sorely lacking and that things tend to revolve purely around dairy farming, log cutting and societies.  Where they get this idea from I cannot imagine.  Lying in bed this morning, however, listening to somebody warming up their chainsaw, I reflected that we are lucky to live in a place devoid of violence and crime, with streets safe to walk at any hour of the night, and neighbours who may drive you nuts with their curtain-twitching, but would drop anything to help you out in a crisis.