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.