Frank Sinatra Times

Is it that late in my life already? Is ist, if not mine, the autumn of my dad's year yet? You know, sometimes, I feel really young. Then I realize that I am indeed not as young as my occasional lack in manners would have me think, and then I feel really old. But is it time yet for my parents to start getting funny? Like, in the head? Or rather, for my dad, because talking about my mother would probably require a whole blog for itself. (www.ineedashrinklikeseriously.blogspot.com)

So, ok, my dad. Wunderful person, tought me to accept whatever sort of of people, I inherited his eyes, his obsession with harmony and his tendency to tell the same pointless stories over and over again. (A quality which will feature prominently in the following account.) But sometimes I think he IS going funny.

On Sunday, I discovered that he had called me on my mobile and left a message on the mailbox. Having told him I would be in Edinburgh until this wednesday, I though it must be pretty important, so I ground my teeth and spent about five quid checking the message, which went as follows: "Hello, daughter. Where are you? I never reach you! I just wnated to tell you that I finished the little text I wrote for Ingeborg's birthday and that I sent it to you. The red parts will be yours to read out." And so on and so on. Aaaargh. Not only was it a mesage of let's say limited importance, I also knew everything it said already as I had talked to my dad about that matter not so long ago.

Ok, what the heck. So I sent him a text saying "I am in Edinburgh, calling is rediculuosly expensinve, coming back on Wednesday and calling you then."

Then, on descending from Arthur's Seat on Monday evening, my mobile rang again, betraying the caller's identity by displaying the words "Papa Festnetz". So I thought, "Now this must be really important, after all I just sent him a text last night to say that I'm abroad." So I answered the phone and here is the ensuing dialogue:

"Where are you? I never reach you! I just wanted to tell you about this littel text..."
"IknowIknowIknowIknow all about it...!"
"Gee, child, where are you, the reception is something dreadful!"
"I am in E-DIN-BURGH! and it is reallyreallyreally expensive to talk on the mobile!"
"You're in Scotland? Since when? When you coming back?"
"Dad, I told you I would be in Scotland until wednesday. You just HAVE to start actually reading the text messages you get!"
"I didn't get any!"
"You must have, check your phone again!"
"Child, I can hardly understand you, I will call you at home when you return."
"Yes dad, that is a really really good Idea!"

It is like you have to write him little notes for important things so he doesn't forget. You shouldn't do that to people younger than 80, and he's not even 55.
And the story goes on.

Due to not having slept enough during the past week AND the fact that I had to get my head round the pseudo-problems of the Froggies this morning at eight, I went to bed at half nine. At eleven, the telephone rang and tore me out of a rather pleasant dream. It was my dad. I was still half asleep and couldn't even pronouncce my name, so I answered the phone with a simple "Yes?".
"Hello, daughter! Did I wake you up?"
"Yep."
"Since when are you in bed that early?" (What's wrong with those people? Bad enough that my mother thinks all I ever do in my life is party hard, but now my dad starts the same shit!)
"There's this funny place I go to... 'S called Uni or something and I have to be there at eight tomorrow, so I have to get up at six, so that's why I went to bed early and why I was asleep and why I am really really tired."
"Alright. So, you were in Scotland, were you?"
"Yes, so I was and I know for a fact I told you about it."
"Aha. Well, maybe you did. Ok. (leisurely) I just wanted to tell you about the text I wrote..."
GEEZUZ! "Yea, I know all about it, Dad, the red passages will be mine to read out. Why didn't you email it?"
"Oh, you know, I had to print it out anyway"(?)"so I thought I might as well send it per mail."
Surrendering, and also very tired: "......Hmmm............Fair enough."
"Did you talk to your sister yet about when you are planning to come to Hannover on Saturday?"
"No, didn't, but I gather that will take about fifteen seconds to organze - Heya, we're leaving Berlin at noon. - Fine, suits me well. - Good. - Good. - Seeya the morrow. - See ya."
"Ok, it's just that you have two options. One is going to Ingeborg's place first..."
"And the other is going to the hotel directly. I know. It's all in the invitation."
"No, it isn't."
"Then how come I know about it?"
"Hhm. Might have told you already."
"...Yep... That might be an option."

He the proceeded to tell me something I absolutely cannot remember, as I was constantly on the brink of falling asleep again.

On the other hand, I am sure he will tell me again when I see him on Saturday.
So, here's to you, Dad. For your next birthday, I will give you a bunch of post-it notes.

Touchdown

I've literally just landed back in Berlino, after spending a really short week in the land of the deep fried Mars bar, so let me tell you how this went.
I spent the better part of the week in this lovely room (now occupied by an Australian cricketeer called Luke who is MASSIVE, musclewise)

with THIS Gentleman, who, for some reason or other, KEPT ON MENTIONING THE WAR!!!
We undertook a trip to the Highlands with this here young fella (Ian is the name), who was very pleased about having lit the self-lighting barbecue.
We went to Findhorn to watch a very good play in the theatre of the local and well known Hippy-Commune and after that had a barbecue on the beach at night.

We then proceeded to a remote carpark near Aviemore, that boasted not only beautiful landscapes, but also a sign saying "No overnight parking or camping".
We parked overnight and camped there. This is the view from my luxurious room to that of the boys (yesyes, yaaw, I slept in the spacious comfiness of a Vauxhall Vectra Estate, but how that came to be is a different story):
And in the morning, I had breakfast on the shores of the rivulet:
Apart from that, Edinburgh is pretty much still the same: the Crags are where they used to be,
Scotts Monument; still there,

Portobello; the same, apart from the toxic sewage that got into the sea and contaminated the Estuary,

The Mound and castlehill: yep, still there,

The Meadows and Arthur's Seat: check (although they look a bit jepanese right now),

Roslyn and the Pentlands: lovely as ever.



And now, I am going to indulge in the packs of Tunnocks Caramel Wafers and McVitie's chocolate digestives I brought, and apart from that, probably sleep until June...
10-4 for now,
FF

Can life be any better?

I've had a coronation chicken sandwich and a cup of tetley tea for breakfast.
I went to Craigmount High.
I breathed the Edinburgh air.
I had a baked potatoe at the Baked Potatoe Shop on Cockburn Street.
I walked down Princess Street.
I bought some crisps and chocolate brownie cheesecake.
I walked down Leith Walk.
I've been to Tesco on Nicholson Street.
I rode a Megabus.
I will go to Silverknowes today.
And tomorrow Dave and I are driving up to the Highlands, staying in a hostel and watching a play in Findhorn.

Now CAN it? Hardly.

Phillip saves the day ... again!

Damit ihr wisst, wie ich es schaffe, mich an einem Montag, 42 Stunden vor Abflug in ein Land voll Purple Heather dazu zu motivieren, zur Arbeit zu gehen:

Iche: Und wenn es Hebung-Senkung-Hebung-Senkung ist, dann nennt man das Versmaß...
Phillip: Warum gibt Bluetooth eigentlich Hodenkrebs?
Iche, meinGesicht in meine Hände versenkend: Ich weiß es nich ich hab mich damit noch nich näher auseinandergesetzt das betrifft mich nicht direkt.
Phillip, einlenkend: Na, dann eben Muschikrebs. Oder wie heißt das bei Frauen?

Zur Auflösung der Versmaßfrage kam es glaub ich nich mehr.

Home sweet home, Ala-frickin'-...nglistik

Da war ich wieder, eingekesselt in einem hoffnungslos überfüllten Raum voller Saskias, Lehrerkinder und Leuten mit Mundgeruch, die Altgriechen zitieren können und dies auch unaufgefordert tun, dafür aber arge Probleme mit der Beherrschung des Langhaarschneiders haben, mit dem sie sich anscheinend selbern den Haarschopf am Hinterkopf stutzen.
Das Thema war Gothic Novels aus dem 18. und 19. Jahrhundert und der Dozent, ein mir vorher unbekannter, weißhaariger Kugelbauchbesitzer, kannte sich mit Marilyn Manson und Nightwish aus.
Verrückt. Und das alles noch vor dem Frühstück.
Hello, Angelistik, nice to be back!

Sieben Klammeraffen und ein Arschgeweih

Aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh,

endlich Frühling! Darauf einen Dujardin!

It's the simple things in life

that really matter.

The simple things in life are those, that really, truely, madly, deeply render you blissfully happy. Theoretically, we all know about this eternal truth, but from time to time, it takes destiny's buttkick to make us understand the whole weight of it again.

It so happened to me last weekend, when we FINALLY inaugurated the barbecue-season in Görlitzer Park and after an hour I found myself happily stuffed with bits of grilled animals (sorry, Oma) and several luke chilled beers. And the latter ones were unconveniently trying to make their exit again in the designated way.

Now it has only just turned April and though spring may be on it's way, it has not yet arrived, so the bushes still stand naked, shaking their fists in the air. Plus it was onlly seven p.m. and still light out, so the obvious choice of disappearing behind some piece of shrubbery was no option.

What could I do?? I decided to just go home and hope that I would be quick enough to avoid any kind of embarassment. Tieing my shoelaces was a challenge already and I hadn't yet left the park when I realised there was no way, NO WAY, that I was ever ... gonna ... make it. I needed a pee, I needed it badly and I needed it NOW! Prontissimo! I was desperate, as I am too much of a chickening weirdo to just step into a bar, use the loo and be off again. This is what you may call a sac-de-cul dilemma, when there is just no way out and you are too stupid to turn around.

But suddenly, and without further warning, I was saved! I was turning the last corner on my way out of the park and BEHOLD:




GOD BLESS HANS WALL and his children. And his children's children. And his children's children's children!
I had never used one of those before, unwilling to pay half a quid for a pee as I am. But 50 cent seemed no sacrifice at all and after inserting the coin, OPEN SESAME!, the sliding doors glid aside for me, a gentle music starting to play after they closed again behind me.

Oooohhh, it's bliss!

Minutes later, I left my little refuge happy as a badger, thinking to myself:
It really is the simple things in life that really count.

So, children, always remember this wee lesson! The simple things!!

Und dann war da noch...

...der Tröter. Verzeihung, der Alphornbläser, welcher Aysegül und mich, an unseren Cookies knabbernd und unseren Heißgetränken schlürfend, mit seiner Version von "Freude schöner Götterfunken" erfreute. Dieser akustische Hochgenuss wurde umso besser, da im Hintergrund die kleine Osteuropäische Akkordeonspielerin verzweifelt und doch ganz relaxt versuchte, gegen das Geblase anzuquieken. Quasi Rumänien meets Ösiland in your middle-ear. Ach, so Multikulti und doch so schmerzhaft.

A day out in March

Spam-Poesie

Activating ten times whatever reason! Uneconomic, drivers, anyhowthat acceptable, slate wiped additional? Dude curtaining storage encryption hey whatr byte fdisk. Social nor individual wipes? Token kindred dead quickly freequot earnest plea him glad. Stuck loopwhile visiting download. Simple right race dying bondman. Hard death been an afric. Untrue genius, spirit bringing into own political ranks. Steals opens huddle colorjack sphere palette.

Tcha. Das is eben Kunst, Herrschaften. Einfach mal sacken lassen. Ich mag besonders die Stelle mit whatr byte fdisk. I, too, sometimes feel stuck loopwhile, don't you?

Naja. Nich Rilke. Aber ... dafür kurz.

There's hope, isn't there?

Looking out of the window, I find it utterly comforting that, if I wanted to, if fancy took me to act on an impulse, I could change this ghastly, dreary, tiring, frustrating pile of poo of a weather against sunbathed beaches anytime!

This is due to the fact that I have been receiving several wedding proposals of late. Wedding proposals from guys I don't even know, who sent me messages on the internet in barely intelligible englisch, most of who come from places like Ghana or, in 90% of the cases, Turkey, some of which look like this:



or,OK, I admit, sometimes like this:



Hmmm...
Some more weeks of spring time pish Berlino Specialwedder and I'll seriously consider.
OK, maybe not.

Aye, that's how it must've 'appened!

Saddest thing I've ever seen

As some of you may already know, at some point last year, a ladybird mum laid her eggs some place in my room. Consequently, my room is filled with the perpetual flutter and spatter of ladybird babies and adolescents flying around and bumping into things, preferably my paper lamp and preferably at night.

Their lives are short and, as I may say, eventless, as not even MY roam boasts enough organic bric-a-brac to keep them entertained a long time, let alone fed.

Most of the time they die quietly and unnoticed, only when they've been sitting in the same spot for all too long and their wings start dropping of you realise that they're actually deceased.

Most of the time.

As it happens, I have just finished springcleaning my room. Hoover in one hand, my shisha in the other, I came across a small group of ladybirds. They were all dead, sitting next to the heater and huddled together as if trying to put off the inevitable. Their heads were tucked together as if seeking comfort in each other's company in the last minutes of their tiny lives. It looked to me like one of those elephant graveyards, only much smaller and heart warmingly polka dotted.


This wee death scenario gave me the same feeling that these good old german "children's songs" have always given me, you know, the ones where Heitschi Bumbeitschi's mother has died and is waiting for him in heaven or the other one with the beetle that is to fly to Pomerania but he can't because it has fuckin' burnt down and everybody has been raped and killed by the Russians, so tough luck! (Well, the song doesn't actually say that thing about the Russians, but that's what's written between the lines.)

I was shaken to the core and couldn't go on cleaning but went for some ricecrackers.
After that I came back and sucked the ex-ladybirds into the hoover.

End of story.

Ah, jetzt hab ich's!

Frau Zwilling, Herr Leinemann: In der Rubrik

"Wissensmüll des Tages"

präsentiere ich den Celebrity Big Brother Gesichtsunfall

Pete Burns (so heißt der nämlich):

Eigentlich Peter Gezzepe (some sources say Jozzeppi) Burns,
war in den Achzigern Front-damals-noch-mann der Gruppe Dead Or Alive, die '85 ihren Knallerhit hatten: "You spin me right round, baby, right round, like a record, baby, right round, round, round..." oder so.
Damals sah der allerdings noch ungefähr SO aus:



Now that you know I'm humbly asking you to immediately forget.

Ist der Ruf erst ruiniert...

David F, seineszeichens Rotschopfträger aus dem illustren Örtchen Polmont, West Lothian, unterstrich sein Bestehen darauf, ich möge doch anlässlich meines anstehenden Edinburgh-Aufenthaltes bei ihm nächtigen, mit den Worten, er habe auch das Badezimmer geputzt.

Und das mir, die ich mir meinen Ruf als Freizeimessi in jahrelanger Arbeit herangezüchtet habe. Der Dank geht an: Pav(el Nikolajewitsch Marceux aber das ist wahrscheinlich falsch geschrieben), der mir beigebracht hat, das nich sauber machen noch ekliger ist, wenn man es immer macht.

Ich werde mir nun also eine Glatze rasieren, meine Augenbrauen weiß färben, meine Bizepses ordentlich ausdefinieren und nur noch weiße Unterhemden auftragen.


Fat is fat and fate is fate.

For Lady Rach

If you behave, maybe you'll get the DVD for your birthday... Maybe. ;)
(Can YOU see a weddin' ring??)

The road goes ever on and on ...

Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.





.

Zwei Knirpse (ca. 10 Jahre alt) im Bus richtung Grunewald

"Man kann mit 16 mit der Schule aufhören, aber dann hast du halt nicht dein Bac. Und ohne Bac wird man dann Holzsäger oder Müllmann. Oder eben Sportler. "

Tcha, ihr Lieben. So einfach ist das Leben. Entweder Großverdiener mit deutsch-französischem Abitur ...
...oder eben Holzsäger.

The Future's Bright!

Ich muss mir keine Sorgen mehr machen.
Ich habe vollkommen ausgesorgt.
Und das Beste: Ich musste noch nich mal was dafür tun. Außer anscheinend den Eindruck von wilder Verzweiflung und Torschlusspanik bei meiner lieben Großmutter zu erwecken.

Diese hatte am Wochenende Geburtstag, also fuhr ich hin. Begrüßt wurden My und ich von Damianka, der 73jährige Freundin meiner Oma (leidet seit ca. 12 Jahren an Lungenkrebs, mit dem sie noch höchstens ein halbes Jahr leben kann; konsequenterweise ist sie Kettenraucherin) mit den Worten:

"Ach, schade, dass ihr nicht früher gekommen seid, dann hättet ihr noch den David kennen gelernt. Der sucht eine Frau und da haben wir überlegt, wer von Annemaries Enkelinnen frei ist und sind sofort auf DICH gekommen."

...swell!

Meine Oma fuhr fort: "Er ist 36, Zahnarzt und hat vor kurzem die Esslinger Praxis seines Vaters übernommen. Er hat gesagt, er sucht eine warmherzige, lustige Frau" ... und jetzt, Ladies and Gentleman kommt der Knaller: ...

"Sie muss auch keine Schönheit sein, ich bin schließlich auch keine."

Wer bin ich, der Buckelfips??

Meine Oma sieht mich also schon an der Seite eines verzweifelten, hässlichen Mitdreißigers, der bis vor kurzem noch bei Mami und Papi wohnte. Was mach ich mir eigentlich noch irgendwelche Gedanken?

Die gute Nachricht: mein Zukünftiger fährt Porsche, der nach der Scheidung natürlich MEIN sein wird. Ich als Zahnarztfrau habe schließlich Ansprüche.

Also, wenn ihr mich in Zukunft im Fernsehen Werbung für Zahnkosmetika machen seht, wundert euch nicht.

Schön, wenn die Familie Anteil nimmt.
Es geht mir gut.