Lost in translation

My Beloved recently remarked that he'd quite like us to go on holiday to Germany next year, so I thought I'd better start learning a few useful words and phrases.  OK, so I can already say 'the polar bear is in the fridge and he's eating all the cheese', but how often is that likely to come up?

Actually, I was pleased to realise that I appear to have picked up quite a few words in German over the years.

 {Although, to be fair, the dog probably knows more than I do, having sat through rather more hours watching the History Channel with my Beloved than I have.}

In the 1970s my mum had a German boss, and when he happily agreed to teach the language to his co-workers in the Accounts Department she used to wander round our flat pointing at things and muttering random numbers, so I can count up to 100.  A teenage holiday with friends taught me how to ask about trains, and the polar bear turned up many years later when my daughter was revising for her GCSEs.

Since I'm probably going to need a bit more than that to get by next year, {drei Eisbären im Kühlschrank, aber kein Käse} I've found a free online course that seems quite good so far.  After only a few days, I can confidently inform any German speaker who might be interested that I'm a woman, I'm eating bread and reading a book.  Although that ought to be obvious and, if I was doing those things, it's unlikely that I'd want to start talking to anyone.

As you'd expect of a writer, I rather like words, and I did an online taster course in Welsh a couple of years ago.  The presentation was similar to the German course, but the order in which the vocabulary was taught was completely different.  I wonder if this has anything to do with the respective cultures of the countries concerned?  I can ask the whereabouts of a number of things in Welsh - keys, cases, the bank, the hospital {but, sadly, not understand the answer}.  In German, however, I can so far only make statements about people's gender {and, to a limited degree, species} and what they're eating, drinking and reading.

Are the Welsh geographically challenged, or constantly losing things?  Or do they just take delight in hiding things from foreigners?


Do the Germans not care where anything is, so long as they've got something to read and know if you're a man?



This apparent difference in basic philosophy might explain a mystery in my own family background.  My great-grandmother was Welsh, and her husband was German.  When he filled in the 1911 census, he recorded her as a lunatic!

In French lessons at school, the first verb we were taught, after 'to be' was, 'to have'.  In German, however, whilst 'to be' still comes first, 'to have' is only the fifth verb I have encountered.   Eating and reading appear to be much more important.  And the second most important verb?  To drink!  I'm starting to look forward to next year's holiday!

Going undercover

I was following a woman in Hull this morning.... that sounds bad!  I wasn't stalking her, just happened to be behind her and going in the same direction.  Anyway, she looked a bit different {Honestly, I've never seen her before - I mean different from other people that I've seen recently} and I realised that it was what she was wearing.... a chunky-knit woolly cardigan.   And she wasn't the only one - other people were wearing them too.  Suddenly it's autumn!

Perversely, for someone who feels the cold as much as I do, I love this season.  It's still warm enough to go outdoors occasionally, but with a sharpness in the air that's just enough to make you remember you're alive.  It's a time of fresh starts, and new exercise books and, yes, woolly jumpers.  I no longer have to dither about getting dressed or packing to go away, wondering if I'll need to take a jumper; I'm already wearing two.

{Interesting semantic point here; what I, probably quaintly,  call a jumper, others would call a sweater or possibly a pullover.  Although I suspect that, if we're being picky, pullovers don't have sleeves.  Now 'sweater' and 'pullover' I understand - the names make sense in terms of the garment in question.  But 'jumper'? The only connection I can come up with is that it refers to the sheep that the wool came from.  Not that sheep jump a lot, except when they're very young, and then it's more like bouncing.  I suppose it could lead to all sorts of unfortunate misunderstandings if we called those garments 'bouncers'.} 

Picture: © Copyright Derek Harper and licensed forreuse under this Creative Commons Licence

Another reason I don't have to think about what to put on is that I have a new job, for which I have to wear a uniform - and it includes a lovely thick sweatshirt and a fleece.  I've never had a fleece before.  I'd seen them, obviously, but never felt the need of one; they're what you wear for hiking, surely, and other general outdoorsy stuff.  And then there are the other kind of fleeces... one of my most surreal experiences was when I went to see a Queen tribute band a few years ago, and noticed that most of the audience were wearing fleeces with pictures of animals on them.

So I've tended to dismiss the idea of ever owning one myself, but I have to admit I'm a convert.  It's so cosy! And it has pockets to keep my hands warm in!  {You will be relieved to learn that my fleece is plain dark blue, and the only picture on it is a discreet logo.}  I don't want to wear it all the time though,  so now I'm home for the day I've wrapped myself up in my blanket rather than put the heating on.  It is only September, after all!

{After I wrote this I tried cooking some pasta sauce, but that didn't feel like a good idea to be doing while wrapped in a blanket.... so I gave in and switched on the heating.}

 

Two B's

I was rather worried a few weeks ago, when I awoke to a loud buzzing sound.  No, not.. um.. electrical equipment. "It must be a bee", I thought.  "At least it can't get in." I have the sort of windows that you can lock open, leaving just a tiny gap. 

Nothing can get through there, especially the giant bees we get here in the north.  They're probably wearing three extra jumpers under their coats, to keep warm.  I know I have to.

When I woke properly, about an hour later, there was an enormous furry bumble bee sitting in the aforesaid gap.  It has been unseasonably warm this summer, so  perhaps this one wasn't wearing so much.

Now, you have to understand that I have a horror of anything with wings.  {Including planes, and those rather creepy armchairs you find in gentlemen's clubs.  I can just about deal with owls, so long as they're folded up.} so it took a few minutes of me going "Eeeew!" and flapping my hands about before I could bring myself to summon up all my courage and open the window properly.  The bee didn't move.  Perhaps it was dead, but I still wasn't going to touch it.  I huffed and puffed for a bit, but eventully managed to blow it out of the window.

OK, so what were the chances of something like that happening again?  Pretty slim, I thought, so I decided to risk leaving the window locked open.  It is only a very small gap, after all.  Also, I have fairly substantial roller blinds; even if another insect did get in, it's unlikely to get past that and actually into the room while I slept.

Imagine my feelings, then, when I glanced at the candle lamp on my windowsill the other morning....

 ..... and saw a little furry bat lying in the sand.
 {I know, I know, I should have taken a picture at the time.  I was a bit preoccupied.}

Surely it couldn't have got in through the window? It was about the size of an egg, for goodness sake!  With wings.  However, a rapid survey of the ceiling confirmed that there were no holes, and the bedroom door is such a tight fit that I have to use both hands to close it.  That left only one possibility - a bat, an actual bat, had clambered in through my bedroom window in the middle of the night.  Eeeeeeeee!  I managed to get close enough to slide my tea tray over the top of the vase, then called my Beloved to take it all away.

Hmm... so that's two occasions on which something brown and furry has climbed in through my bedroom window in the night, and they do say that things come in threes.  At least burglars aren't generally known for being brown and furry, so I can only hope that the next thing isn't a bear!

Life's little mysteries

Now I like a balloon as much as the next person {rather more, in fact, than a former colleague who had a genuine phobia of them} but I find it difficult to believe that they'd be appropriate for ALL occasions.  Surely not at  funeral? Mind you, I've seen black ones with a skull and crossbones on in Wales {Conwy, I think - they're big on pirates there} but they'd probably be a bit too Gothy for most people.  On reflection though, I rather fancy white balloons for my funeral - the gathered multitudes could release them all together... ooh, and maybe tie a card on each one with my picture, and give a prize for the one that went the furthest!  Ok, praps not.

Anyway, when I pointed out this sign to some friends the other night, we found it surprisingly difficult to think of an occasion that wouldn't be enhanced by a balloon.  I did wonder about grocery shopping but was told by everyone, very firmly, that this is not an 'Occasion'.  {My friends get out rather more than I do.} Besides, shopping is such a grim experience, anything to cheer it up gets my vote.

Which brings me to Mystery Number One: Why do most of us find balloons so attractive?  And are there any occasions where they would always be wrong?

We went on to the pub.  {Yes, we did have the previous conversation when we were all stone cold sober.} After a while, one of our group went to the Ladies, and came back giggling.  "You've got to see this," she told me.  And she was right.  It was a bit tricky trying to get far enough away to take the picture, but I knew I had to share this.

Mystery Number Two:  If you were in the toilet looking for the paper, however drunk you might be, why would you not look in the dispenser first?  More worryingly, what else would you think might  be in the large metal box on the wall of the cubicle - snacks to appease the Toilet Monster?

After all that excitement, I decided to clear out my carrier bag drawer yesterday.  {Don't mock; you know you've got one as well.}  I'm not talking about the flimsy, supermarket bags that I use as kitchen bin liners; they're under the sink. The larger bags are supposed to share a drawer with the teatowels but, since I could no longer open the drawer fully I've had to poke the teatowels in with my fingertips, so the drawer didn't shut properly either.

This is what it looks like now.

You will note that I have kept a few bags; these were the more attractive and unusual ones, for when I have to use a bag and want to look as if I shop in interesting places.

And this is what I've taken out.  {My floor tiles are a good 30cm square.}

18 'bags for life'.  This is probably an accurate prediction, as they never get reused.
4 similar bags which make no claims for their durability, but seem pretty sturdy.
7 thinner bags of average size.
7 small ones from interesting shops, including 2 transparent ones- why did I ever think I'd use those again? If I use a small bag it's because I don't want people to see what's in it!


Mystery Number Three: Why do we all keep so many carrier bags?  And why is it such a wrench to throw them away?

Oh, and Mystery Number Four:  What in the name of all that's portable did they expect to need carrier bags for in this establishment?

I really don't want to know... unless, of course, it's for balloons!

Scraping the surface

This is my £15 rescue table, after two hours' work and an entire sheet of sandpaper.  And you really don't want to see my fingernails!  Perhaps next time I should wear my gardening gloves - the big stiff suede-y ones that are useless for gardening in.
Yes, I know, it would probably be much easier to slap on a load of chemical gloop, and then scrape the varnish off, but I have my reasons for not doing that:

1. I'd need an awful lot, and I can't afford to buy it.  I'd need a scraper as well, since I don't think it would be a good idea to use cutlery, but I can't afford one of those either.  That's why I only spent £15 on the table.
2. I'd have to work outdoors, or with the windows open, so as not to be overcome by the fumes.  I don't think so!  It's autumn now, and damn cold; I don't intend opening my windows again until at least June next year.  Besides, sandpapering has the added bonus of keeping me warm while I do it, so I can turn the heating off for a bit.  I did need a bath afterwards, so I suppose that was no real gain in terms of cost, but at least I might have lost a bit of weight.
3. My beloved suggested that the surface of the table might be veneer, rather than solid wood, so it might lift off or corrode if I used the gloop.  However, he did treat me to the sandpaper.  He really knows how to show a girl a good time!

Why am I trying to renovate an old table anyway? Well, it's part of my plan to transform my spare bedroom.  When the table flaps are open it'll be a good size for working on and, when they're folded down, it'll make a much better dressing table than what I have in there at the moment, which is a mirror on top of a small laundry basket on top of a couple of wine boxes.
 The top of the mirror is only three feet off the ground, which is totally impractical unless you really want to know how big your bum looks.  Which I don't.

Incidentally, if you try sandpapering varnish off wood, do not, on any account whatsoever, wipe the dust off with a damp cloth, even if you dry it immediately.  Why not?  Because it will turn into snotty gunge that makes the sandpapering even more difficult.

 My friend's husband owns an electric sander which I could have borrowed to do the table, but I didn't think that would be a good idea.  I have enough trouble with the soup blender.

I thought it would be funny to draw an evil face on it, but now it won't wash off.  Perhaps I should try the sandpaper.  Or maybe I should make some soup, and see if that does the job.  Oooh, I wonder if my spicy homemade soup would dissolve the varnish on the table!

Surprise ingredients

Now that's what I call a well-balanced lunch, with something from every food group!  Yes, I know a banana isn't an animal, so there's no protein, but I'm not planning on doing anything this afternoon that would require using any energy, so that's ok.  Oooh, I've just checked, and bananas do contain protein!  Only about 1.1g per 100g apparently, but that's allegedly 2% of my daily requirement.  And there's protein in the biscuits too!  One biscuit has the same amount of protein as a banana, so I'm up to 10% now.  Only another 45 bananas to go then, although it would be much easier {sadly, far too easy} to eat 45 more biscuits.  Mind you, I'm now up to 40% of my recommended daily intake of vitamin B6, so perhaps I'd better not have any more of either just yet.  Although it would be a good excuse, if I were to be arrested for staggering around in an uncoordinated way in a public place. {No, of course I haven't been drinking, Officer.  I've just overdosed on bananas.}

So that's fruit, fibre, vitamins and carbohydrate taken care of.  More fruit in the yoghurt and, of course, fat and dairy.  Except that, now I come to read the side of the pot, the yoghurt is fat-free.  How can this be?!  It's so creamy!  More to the point, why can't I buy it in England?

To be honest, I'm not sure that there's any milk in the yoghurt either, because I've thrown away the cardboard from the multi-pack it came in, and it was in French anyway.  However, I did have some milk in my tea, so that's alright then.  I shall just have to force myself to have some chocolate later to boost my fat intake for the day.

Wash & go

I've just been in the bathroom, and there are a load of black hairs all over the floor.  Not surprising really, as there are a load of black hairs all over my head.  {Although fewer than there were before, evidently.}  The worrying part is that the last time I was in there I got down on my hands and knees with some tissue and cleaning fluid, and wiped the floor very thoroughly.  It was completely hair-free, so where did the new lot come from? Now, I know there's a cocoa fairy and a cheese fairy in my house, because quite often in the evenings these refreshments appear next to me, as if by magic.  But I don't think I want a hairy fairy going round collecting up random strands and spreading them on the bathroom floor.  She probably thinks that's where the hair belongs, as there's often so much there.

{Oh my goodness, Hairy Fairies actually exist!  You can find anything on Google!  Caution: I have no idea what the app is like, or even if it's safe; I just like the picture.}

I've been away from home quite a lot lately, so it was rather nice to be in my own bathroom again.  {When I say 'bathroom', I mean the room with the bath in it.  I'm English.}  My friends are all very hospitable, with perfectly nice bathrooms, but I never feel really at ease using someone else's facilities.  For one thing, you can never be entirely confident about the lock on the door, however substantial it appears.  I don't have a problem with nudity - regular readers will know that it's clothes that I find difficult to deal with.  There's a TV programme called 'How To Look Good Naked'.  I'd prefer one called 'How To Find Clothes That  Don't Make You Look Lumpy, Frumpy Or Grumpy'.  No, planned nudity in an appropriate place is fine by me.  Being surprised in an unflattering position isn't.

So when I'm in someone else's house I tend to rush a bit, and don't stick to my normal washing routine.  {Yes, I have a routine.  That's because I'm rarely fully awake first thing in the morning, so it's easier to be on automatic.}  Stepping into an unfamiliar and unpredictable shower I take gel and scrubby net thing, but forget to take soap as well so I can't wash my face.  {I learned this time-saving trick from a friend, who also brushes her teeth in the shower, but I feel that wouldn't be advisable with an electric toothbrush.}  I'm then so keen to get dressed that I forget to use toner on my face as well, so my moisturiser sinks in to my open, grubby pores and clogs them up even more.  Then I realise, when fully dressed, that I've forgotten to use deodorant.  My face can take its chances, but I won't risk being smelly, so that means taking at least some clothes off again, and I can hear footsteps outside.... aaargh!