...it allows you to use the following phrases in official documents with a totally straight face:

1. "flame nexus"
2. "unwanted globules"
3. "gently squeezed"


That is all.
 

First, boil a pot of water (say, four chunky mugs worth) and brew some Darjeeling in it. After a few minutes, take out the teabag/ball and add the following,

• a lemon, thinly sliced


• a chunk of ginger, chopped into wee bits


• a stalk of lemongrass, torn up


• a star anise


• one small green chili, split lengthways a couple of times


• some green peppercorns


• two heaped spoonfulls of Tasmanian Leatherwood Honey

Or, in other words, some lemon, honey, ginger, and whatever weird-ass shit you can find that might be vaguely applicable.

Leave to simmer gently for oooh, a while, before straining out the bits; leaving a pot of surprisingly effective home-made Lemsip with an extra kick.
 

I did not go to the German qualifier round for the international Battle of the Year break-dancing championship. You can't prove anything.
 

So I had an extremely odd brain incident earlier and thought I'd share it before I forget.

You know that way where you're half asleep, and you know if you don't consciously rouse yourself that you'll be late (well ... more late) for work? Well, I had that. So I did rouse myself, got up, and looked at the clock and saw that the time was after 4pm. Given that I was so late I lazily went about my usual morning routine - no point rushing given that it was already the afternoon.

Around this point I noticed some stains on the carpet, which annoyed me because I couldn't remember making them, and didn't know where they'd come from. More to the point, I now realised that there are no carpets in my flat, that I couldn't have possibly slept in that much and even if I had it'd be impossible to verify on the clock - because I don't own one.

Things now fell into place - I was still dreaming. Not only that, but I was lucid dreaming. "Aha!" thought I, "now I'm in charge - I'll simply command myself to wake up properly". Which I did. Into another weird-ass dream reality. I realised more quickly this time that things weren't right. The first place had been dark and somewhat ornate, and this new flat was like an amalgam of my previous homes; but still, you know, not real. I was now starting to get a bit worried that I was genuinely in a coma or something, or at the very least that I was going to be rather late for work.

Finally I got myself into a position where it seemed I had a choice between waking up in the same place again, or somewhere annoyingly bright. Ignoring the obvious death metaphor I plumped for the bright place, which turned out to be my room in real life. I then came into work and wrote this. I'm very tired for some reason, and am not entirely convinced of the reality of anything. Possibly I require a coffee or nine.

Managed to catch a firework burst just as a tram was going by...

13: Cash. Cards. I have no idea how these things work here. Certainly, using plastic to pay for generic bumf is much less common than at home. So imagine my consternation at finding myself at the front of a card only queue in Ikea, having specially taken out >€ 100 in cash specifically to avoid potential checkout shenanigans! ... Only to have the situation then reach a fever pitch of farce when the machine refused my card - twice - while I accidentally gouged my finger and bled on my purchases, and waited for them to open a cash-only till to deal with the deranged bleeding guy whose card mysteriously wouldn't work. Why they don't just have tills that take, you know, cash and cards (stop me if I'm blowing your mind) is beyond me.

Still, all's well that ends well. And at least I now have actual bedding and won't be forced to construct a makeshift quilt using a towel, t-shirts, and a fucking mattress.
 

Greetings all,

I've just (literally) moved into my new place in Hannover. I'd forgotten how unfeasibly large it actually is. Either that or the cabin fever induced by my previous "studio" appartment has affected my sense of area-judgement ... which isn't entirely unlikely. Either way, the bedroom here is probably 50% bigger than the entirity of the last flat, and I have a fridge that actually cools things down, so all in all I'm a happy bunny.

Also, it seems that the internet is paid up until the end of the month ;)

12: Germans like to honk their horns (a lot) when the national football team wins. Or loses. Or - presumably - draws.

Also, my facial hair grows faster in this country, I'm sure of it.
 

11: Crossing the road at a non-green man is only marginally less bad than bludgeoning a wean to a mashed pulpy death with your own head while shouting "I love bludgeoning weans to a mashed pulpy death with my own head".

Waltzing across tram-lines however? Totally groovy.


I do not understand.



Also, Germans apparently have six senses, as opposed to our lowly count of five. They include the notion of balance and spatial awareness as well. So, the Bruce Willis film "The Sixth Sense" (apparently they didn't change the title) sounds like a documentary on the inner-ear.


Additionally - WHERE ARE THE FUCKING CASH MACHINES IN THIS PLACE?! It's like the entire city is stuck on the other side of the GU, and there's a big queue at the Co-Op.

Oh, and lastly - WHERE IS THE FUCKING HUMMOUS IN THIS PLACE?! You'd think a city with a sizeable Turkish community would have supermarket shelves groaning with the stuff, but - not so much. I can however recommend stoating into a kebab shop with an esteemed colleague and watching him exclaim "wo ist hummous?!" at length while you try to explain the meaning behind your "Look Up For (D)anger" t-shirt.

10: I say ludicrous things when caught on the hop, language-wise.

Example: the other day in the supermarket.

Till blokey says something with the word "karte" (or similar) to me, which I (correctly) take to mean "will you be paying with a card?". I reply in perfect [ahem, cough] German "um, neine" pointing to my cash wad. This, incidentally, is because I am incapable of saying cash (geld?) in German without actually saying cheese (käse) instead.

So, at this point we have established that the conversation will proceed in (halting, shite) German unless needs must. But no, just when I'd mentally prepared my "cheers, later ya bam" chat he whips out "thank you Sir, here's your receipt" in flawless English, leaving me mentally reeling and with but microseconds to reformulate my parting shot as:

"Awesome ... rock on"


I think he appreciated it though. Either that or he was secretly pressing a panic button under the till.

9: I am the only person in this country with hayfever. The only person! Possibly.

Also, German punk/rebel kids are awesome. I swear I'm going to be knifed (or at least forcibly mullet-ised) by a gang of them who don't take kindly to my barely contained smirks. I guess that's the danger of coming from a city with proper Neds - all other Neddish populations come across as hopeless dilutions.

Also also, I am reading lots about clamps. It is FUCKING PAINFUL.

Additionally ... I am highly caffeinated. Possibly I shouldn't be doing email posts like this. As much as it makes sense in a pretending like I'm not blatantly blogging sort of way, it does engender a non-zero risk of accidentally emailing the entire institute my latest musings on Teutonic culture. Maybe not always a good thing.


That is all.

8: Huzzah! In a typically efficient and ingenious move, it seems they have an intercom at the front door of the building here. So instead of floating about, humming, hawing, attempting to call people but not getting reception, shouting limply up the stairs etc, you can just dial someone's phone extension into the intercom ... their phone rings ... and there you have it.

Nice.

7: Many English expressions are bizarre, and do not easily lend themselves to explanation. Try explaining pigeon-hole to a non-native English speaker without looking like a complete nutter.

"you know, like a ... wee ... dookity thing - for post [insert posting mime]. It's sort of like where pigeons live [insert constrained flapping mime, depicting a pigeon in a hole] ... and is another name for typecasting - you know, like how Arnold Schwarzenegger always plays tough guys [insert macho mime]"

And in the end, I didn't even have any post.

6: Germans are capable of roller-blading without irony.

It's a good and noble thing.