YA: Sadly, Dat Really Is Duisburg.

As a follow up to yesterday's post, the reason I'm sad that the markets will soon be leaving is that Duisburg will once again be like this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3tMwRiqKGpM

This music video was made by a local band and basically explains about how crap Duisburg really is (thanks to the other Duisburg girls for introducing me to it). Keep your eyes peeled for the colourful vulture (which, during the summer months, revolves and shoots water out of its wings) and the aforementioned boat bar, which, to be fair, is pretty damn cool.

For a translation of lyrics for you English bods, another Duisburg blogger has helpfully provided them. Here's the link.:

http://duisburgbunny.blogspot.com/2008/03/dat-is-duisburg.html

I assure you, every word is true.

YA: Weihnachtswunderland

Well, hasn’t it been a disgustingly long time since I posted anything? The reason for this is simple: I’ve been having far too much fun.

From my repeated whinging you might be wondering how I’ve achieved this. Again, the answer is a straightforward one: GERMANY AT CHRISTMAS ROCKS! You may think we go to town at home, but you’d be wrong. We have nothing, NOTHING, on the Germans.

Germany, much the same as the Brits, starts getting into the spirit of Christmas round about mid-late November. But rather than installing garish Santa Clauses in shopping centres and putting Slade on repeat in every shop, bar and club, Germany begins to whack out their infamous Christmas markets. I’m lucky enough that my walk to and from the station every day takes me right through the centre of Duisburg so I could bear witness to the gradual construction of the Weihnachtsmarkt, from erecting the stalls to the building of the ice rink to wrapping every lamppost with a real Christmas tree.  I have to say, for all my complaining about Duisburg and its (at best) mediocrity, the result was stunning. Trees strewn with lights, German delicacies galore and a full size sailing boat in the centre, the sides of which open out to turn it into one of the many bars serving hot and scrumptious mulled wine.  And that’s just Duisburg, a city considered overly-industrial (ugly) even by Ruhrgebiet standards. Can you imagine Düsseldorf, Cologne, Münster, Dortmund, Bonn and all of the other wonderful cities NRW has to offer? The result is breath-taking; even the most committed Scrooge couldn’t fail to enjoy the festive atmosphere.

I’ve visited a fair few markets in the last few weeks and I won’t bore you with my rapturous details of them all. My favourites were definitely Cologne Heumarkt, a gnome-themed (??) market much less crowded and much more traditional than the one offered near the Cathedral, and also the various markets of Münster, which set amongst scenery of stone buildings and cobbled streets can almost fool you into thinking you’d stepped right into the pages of Dickens. I've eaten Bratwurst upon Bratwurst, crepe upon crepe and drank a vast quantity of Glühwein* (and one Feuerzangenbowle - Glühwein served with a sugar cube and doused in a shot of unspecified alcohol, which they then set on fire). I've sampled traditional German Stollen cake, listened to carollers and brass bands and purchased a lot of hand-carved wooden decorations. And all of this under the bright German stars. 

Even though I've been enjoying the Christmas season almost throughout, there are definitely some highlights which I think deserve a mentioning. First and foremost is the weekend my mum came to stay. It started of badly to say the least, with her plane having to return to East Midlands due to cabin pressure failure. However, she arrived in one piece only two hours late, and one sleepy train journey later we were tucked up in my little flat drinking tea and having a good old catch up. To say I had missed her would be a vast understatement. The next three days were just brilliant. I took her around Dusiburg and Düsseldorf, and we visited Münster and Cologne. We ate lots of lovely meals, purchased lots of lovely things and she developed a distinct liking for Glühwein. It was a wrench to say goodbye again at the airport, even though I knew I would be seeing her again for the Christmas holidays in less than a fortnight. 

Another highlight was Christmas dinner at Carol's. For someone who hadn't eaten a roast dinner since sometime in September, it was an absolute dream and I fell on those carrots with all the decorum of Keira Knightly when she's told to eat the chicken in Pirates Of The Caribbean (ie. none). We had crackers and cake for Ally's birthday, and then we proceeded to drink our way through a copious amount of alcohol whilst simultaneous creating a small club in Carol's room with fairy lights and a laptop. It was a great night and I had a most jolly walk home (sloshed, head phones in) at 4am through a deserted and snow-sodden Duisburg city centre.

Oh, dear, this is turning out to be lengthy post again, isn't it? In this case, I'll name one more highlight: Cologne last night. This isn't to say there aren't many more I could pick (seeing a Christmas Carol, present shopping in Münster with Lyndsay - an event which gave rise to the knowledge of the Christmas Cucumber - and a truly bizarre night out in Oberhausen to name but a few) but I feel I should give this one a bit more credit because it was my last proper time at the markets that have made me so happy these past few weeks. It was fairly standard really; I met Sophie and we went to Heumarkt to enjoy bratwurst and Swiss cheese and Glühwein (there's always Glühwein). However, it was especially lovely because, as I wandered around, I realised how comfortable I felt; it was nice to discover that it is possible for me to feel at home here and not just like a confused tourist. The markets will be gone in a few days, but I hope that the homely feeling I felt last night remains. I will miss Christmas Germany very much and I feel so glad that I have been able to live here and enjoy it.

Look at me, getting all sentimental. I should be worrying about packing and flights and snow and other such nonsense. I'm heading home tomorrow and I can't wait! Don't expect any blogs in the near future, I'll be too busy having a bloody brilliant British time with my friends and family, something which I can barely contain my excitement for. So, until next time, I hope you enjoy the festive season - remember to laugh, get pissed and eat until you explode. Merry Christmas!

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* A fact proven by how many mugs I've stolen. Each market has it's own Glühwein mug (and sometimes more than one) and because you pay a 2Euro deposit on each one you don't necessarily have to give it back. I have a grand total of eleven. Heaven only knows how I will get them home. 

Creative Writing: "Carry You Home"

This was written for the Folktales Christmas Special (3-4pm every Sunday on LSRfm.com). It's written to "Carry You Home" by the Lancashire Hotpots, which is the best Christmas song of all time, no contest. It's the first piece I've written in ages with dialogue, and I'm crap with dialogue, so go easy on me. Merry Christmas, everyone. 
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“I’m back!” I shouted as I came through the front door, stamping snow off my boots. No answer. It was the night before Christmas and all through the house, no creature was stirring, not even Jessie. I pushed the door shut and shouted again.
     “Jessie! Where are you?” I paused, waiting for her to shout back. When there was nothing, I tried again. “I have pizza!"
     “I’m in the living room!” came the muffled reply. Pizza always gets a response. 
      I kicked off my shoes and padded down the hall. Sure enough, there she was, huddled next to the radiator by the window and wearing one of the hideous jumpers her grandma knits to keep warm. She’d been looking at the old photographs again; there were piles of them surrounding her feet and she clutched an empty wine glass between icy fingers. I didn’t need to look at her rid-rimed eyes to know that she’d been crying. 
I disentangled the wine glass from her grip and replaced it with a pizza box. “You look like you need something stronger than Chardonnay,” I told her.
     “Mmmm.” She looked at me blearily. “What’re you offering?”
     I opened my jacket to show her what I had picked up from the off-licence on my way back to the house.   “Why if it isn’t our good friends Mr Rum and the good Lord Whiskey, come to warm our cockles this cold winter’s night!” I sounded like a reject from a Dickens novel, but it made her smile all the same. “Which one do you want?”
      Jessie raised a weary arm. “Eenie, meenie, minie, mo, catch a – no, you know what, just give me the whiskey.” 
     I handed her the bottle and watched as she took a good long swig. “That’s the spirit,” I said cheerfully as she grimaced, the alcoholic burn obviously hitting her throat. 
     “Spirit?” Jessie grimaced again, but with humour this time. “That’s a terrible pun, even for you, Mickey.”
     “Ah well, it’s Christmas Eve, you can let me off my lack of wit and charm just for one night.” I plonked myself on the floor opposite her and helped myself to some pizza. For a while we both chewed out slices in silence, listening to the distant rumble of traffic from the street outside. I stared at the photos that littered the floor, all those smiling faces looking up at me, frozen in time. God, we were beautiful. 
     There’d been a whole bunch of us in the beginning. It was going to be fantastic, the best idea we ever had, heading south to live the dream. But they’d all slowly fallen away, some more tragically than others, and now it was just me and Jessie, alone in the Big Smoke and far from home. James, four months back, had been a terrible shock. When I close my eyes I can still see his face, pale on the crisp white hospital pillow, looking strange behind an alien mass of tubes and scars. We watched him slip away without saying another word. I often wonder if he felt it or if he heard the bang when the lorry hit. We’ll never know. 
    A picture caught my eye; a picture of myself, head down and looking terrible, being supported by two laughing girls. Beth and Katy: both brilliant, both gone. Beth had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time that fateful July when the terrorists had hit the Underground, and Katy… well, who knows where Katy was now. She was never the same after Beth died and one day we came home to find her stuff gone and a note on the kitchen table that simply read “love you guys.” She’d never got back in touch. I hoped that wherever she was this Christmas, she was happy. 
      I waved the photograph at Jessie. “Remember this?” I asked. “God, what a night!”
Jessie took the photo and laughed, igniting for a moment that spark of joy that had always been alight in those blue eyes before it was doused by too much sadness and loss. “Do I! Man, you were so wasted! We had to drag you out that club, you kept trying to dance with the bouncer!”
I took a gulp of whiskey and shook my head. “I think you made that up. I don’t remember that happening.”
Jessie rolled her eyes. “Of course you don’t remember it, drunkard. You’d had at least twelve JD and cokes.”
     “Alright, alright,” I conceded. “But people have done worse things under the influence. I remember when a certain someone got too happy with the Lambrini and ended up half naked in the fountain in the middle of the village…” Jessie tried to protest but her mouth was too full of pepperoni, extra cheese. “You know,” I continued with mock seriousness, “you could have been arrested…”
Jessie swallowed her mouthful. “Whatever, Mickey…” We lapsed into silence again, occasionally passing the whiskey bottle back and forth. After a while, Jessie gave a dry little sob. I took her hand.
     “I know, Jess, I know…” I couldn’t think of anything to say, any new words of comfort. I’d said them all before. “I miss them too…” I held her close as she cried, her tears flowing down her face onto my shoulder; I’d lost count of the amount of times we’d sat in the same place recently, doing the same thing. I felt so damn helpless…
     Wait, I could do better than this. I could take her mind of this empty house that was too full of memories. I leapt to my feet.
     Jessie looked up at me. “Mickey, what is it? Did you hear a burglar?” Her tone suggested that she thought that would just be typical. 
     “I’ve had an amazing idea,” I said excitedly. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? It made so much sense! “Come one, grab your stuff, let’s go.” I began pulling her to her feet.
     “What are we doing?” Jess asked bewilderedly, allowing me to drag her from the room and upstairs.   “What’s your amazing idea?” I didn’t answer until I managed to pull her all the way onto the landing and had started to root through the piles of stuff, looking for my rucksack. 
     “Why is it,” I said, abandoning my search and running into the bathroom instead to seize both our toothbrushes, “that at Christmas, at this supposedly festive and joyous time of year, we’ve confined ourselves to this miserable house with its miserable memories and committed ourselves to having a miserable time?”
     “Because we’ve got no where else to go?”
     Time for the big reveal. “But we do, don’t we!” I said triumphantly. “We can go home!”
     I saw the realisation dawn behind Jessie’s eyes. “But home’s miles away! Hours and hours! It’ll be Boxing Day before we get there!”
     “Not if we drive all night. We’ll get coffee and take it in turns driving.” I thought about the battered old Ford that stood on the driveway. “The car’ll probably make it. And if it breaks down, well… I’ll carry you home this Christmas! Because there’s no way we’re spending it here, not like this.”
     Jessie was laughing now, for the first real time since James’ accident. “You’re mental. You realise how angry my mum will be when I turn up on the doorstep and she realises she hasn’t cooked enough potatoes?”
I thought of my own mother’s hysteria when it came to orchestrating Christmas dinner. My sudden arrival would put a real spanner in the works. She’d be furious. I couldn’t wait. 
     “She’ll get over it,” I said. “Jess, it’s been a crappy year, but by God it’s not going to be a crappy Christmas too. Christmas isn’t a time for being sad and alone. It’s a time for laughter and getting drunk and eating till you explode. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t think either of us are going to get all that from a bag of crisps for lunch and watching re-runs of Only Fools and Horses on TV.”
     I could see in her eyes that I’d convinced her. She didn’t want to be sad this Christmas any more than I did. I’d won. We were going home. Jessie grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight. 
     “Alright, crazy Mickey. You’re on. I’ll meet you by the car in five minutes.”
     “Five minutes,” I repeated. And, grinning like a loon, I ran into my room to pack for what was hopefully going to be an unexpectedly very merry Christmas.

Film: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1

I'm sure I'm not the only ardent Potter fan who found the screen adaptation of the sixth instalment a horrendous disappointment. After a roaring and action packed fifth film, the sixth seemed sloppy, with a story-board that was apparently hastily hacked together, an infuriating and nonsensical fight half-way through and an ending in the form of one fat anti-climax which screamed "we ran out of money!" In short, they ruined what is, in my opinion anyway, the best book of the series.

In light of this, it was with trepidation that I set out to watch Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. You may wonder why I bothered, what with holding the preceding film in such contempt, but the truth is I sobbed like a baby when I closed the seventh book some twenty-four hours after its release in 2007, and I'm not ready to let my favourite franchise go just yet. In any case, I am happy to report that the penultimate Potter is well and truly a return to fifth-film form, and my doubts evaporated almost as soon as Bill Nighy in his role as Minister for Magic uttered his opening lines.

This is the only story in the Harry Potter series that is not set within the confines of Hogwarts. Instead Harry, along with his unshakeable best friends Ron and Hermione are on a quest, a quest to capture the Horcruxes, scattered pieces of evil Lord Voldemort´s soul, in order to destroy them and ultimately bring about an end to him and his reign of terror. That is, if the Death Eaters, Dementors, rogue bands of  "Snatchers" and the enormous snake don't manage to kill them first. Armed with nothing except their wits, wands and some cryptic gifts left to them by the deceased Albus Dumbledore, Harry and his two friends set about discovering not only the whereabouts of the Horcruxes, but also a new mystery in the form of the tale of the Deathly Hallows, undertaking the most important and terrifying adventure of their lives.

And it is terrifying. This film is much darker and more brutal than any of those that have predeeded it, scenes of torture and death pushing the young actors to new emotional depths. There are scenes when even the most unshockable adult will jump backwards in their seat. However, that isn't to say that there is none of the usual trade-mark Potter joviality in places; Ron still has his humorous moments, whilst the return of Dobby the house elf should raise a smile or two. The Deathly Hollows is also particularly moving in parts, most noteably when Harry and Hermione, alone in the wilderness, share a dance to Nick Cave´s "O' Children", finding a brief moment of happiness amongst a world of fear and hurt.

Whilst the focus of the film is undobtedly on the main three characters and their battle against their nemesis, there is, as ever, a great network of supporting actors, with the likes of Robbie Coltrane as Hagrid, Helena Bonham-Carter as evil and twisted Bellatrix Lestrange and Rhys Ifans as the eccentric Xenophilius Lovegood adding a vibrancy to an already excellent film.

For once, the people responsible for whittling down over 600 pages of novel into two two-and-a-half-hour cinematic chunks have turned in a stunning performance. They've succeeded in cutting down dramatically the vast expanse of plot given over in the book to Harry, Ron and Hermione sitting around the countryside whinging, and concentrate instead on the action scenes, allowing the film to roll along at such a pace that you'll be wondering how the end managed to come around so soon. There are perhaps a few too many scenes involving Daniel Radcliffe sitting moodily about in forests, but not so many as to make the audience switch off. In any case, there's always another battle just around the corner and the action never stays dormant for long.
 
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is undoubtedly the best film in the series so far and for the first time, I can say that avid fans such as myself will be able to feel that the book has been done justice. It just seems a shame to have to wait until next year before finding out if Part 2 is just as good as its predecessor.

Creative Writing: "Over The Hill"

As ever, I wrote this for Folktakes, broadcast every Sunday 3-4pm on LSRfm.com. It's written to "Over The Hill" by Alessi's Ark. 
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Envy’s a funny one, isn’t it? I mean, no matter how much you try and control it, no matter how much you tell yourself you’re not the jealous type, it still finds a way in. It creeps around those barriers you build for yourself, burrowing its way under the wire and niggling away at you with a persistence that means you’ll soon be engulfed and drowning. A real green-eyed monster.

That’s what I am now. Envious and hurting, riddled with pain. I knew when we started this that I wasn’t the only one. That I wasn’t even the real one, that I was just your bit on the side. I thought I’d be ok with it, I thought that I could cope with the knowledge that all the time you weren’t with me you were with her, because I had you, or at least some of you, sometimes. 

But I’m not ok. I’m not ok at all. I’m seething with anguish. I can’t bear the thought that she gets to touch you, to hold you, to tell all she meets that you’re hers, whilst I… I get shadowy corners and late night messages and secrecy. I want to stand on the roof tops and scream that you’re mine. I want to write it in ten-foot letters on the side of buildings. I want to take you to places, to meet my mum, to show you off to my friends and have them all know that we’re in love. This, I would tell everyone, is my boyfriend. Isn’t he marvellous? Instead, I’m here biting my tongue again. Keeping secrets, keeping your secrets so you can keep her. Why am I doing this? I don’t want you to keep her, I don’t want to share you anymore! But if I betray you, you’ll leave me, and that hurt would be worse than any jealousy.

I think I’m tired of this. Tired of being second best, of living for your call. I hate the front I put on every time I see her hold your hand or stroke your hair, the pretence of indifference when all the while I’m dying inside. I barely remember the time before you, but then, I’m sure, I didn’t have to beg someone to love me. I’m sure that before you, I thought I deserved better. Not for the first time, I think of ending it, of cutting you off to stop you ripping me apart. But then you’re there, smiling, and I’m falling once again into the abyss.

YA: Yes, I DO Speak German!

If there’s one thing I’ve found since being in Germany, it’s that it’s actually bloody difficult to speak to German. I don’t mean that I’m finding it difficult to articulate myself (well, a bit); I’m referring more to the fact that EVERYONE, the second they find out you’re not German, instantaneously switches to English.  

It’s frankly getting on my nerves. Apparently “Können sie langsamer sprechen, bitte?” does not, as I thought, translate as “Can you speak slower please?” but rather as “Please talk to me in English, I am a retard.” Slightly stumbling over your words, be it in the bakery or asking for directions, automatically results in a sympathetic head tilt and an English reply. Even if you then respond in German, they cannot be swayed from this patronising course and persistently talk at you in English whilst you desperately wonder if you absent-mindedly hopped on the 19.30 to Heathrow and are now on Oxford Street instead of Königstraße as you originally thought. Even those who have shitter English that I do German (very few) still manage to do it. It's driving me mad.

I know that the Germans that do this probably think they’re being helpful, and to someone who didn’t speak German, they most certainly are. However, to those of use who can speak German, albeit badly, it’s just a pain in the arse. Hence why I angrily shouted at the man in the 02 shop in a conversation that ran thusly:

Me: “Hallo, ich will Guthaben für mein Surfstick kaufen.“

Man: “You know, I can speak English if that’s easi—“

Me: “ICH BIN IN DEUTSCHLAND UND ICH MUSS MEIN DEUTSCH ÜBEN!“

I do feel bad, because he was a nice man who did not deserve to have my pent-up aggression unleashed at him, but I was at the end of my tether. I’m relying on this year abroad to pull my ailing language skills up to scratch, and that’s never going to happen unless I actually get to speak it.

So I want this blog to act as a message to all Germans (and any other nationalities I may happen to come across during the course of these nine months). Feel free to pass it round should you be suffering from the same Year Abroad based problem. My message is this: HERR GOTT NOCH MAL, KEIN MEHR ENGLISH MIT MIR SPECHEN! (‘For God’s sake, don’t speak any more English with me!’)

Thank you. 

YA: With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility

Or at least in my case anyway. Since I've been back after Herbstferien, my workload seems to have crashed down like a tonne of bricks. Not only am I teaching the hour-and-a-half Cambridge classes entirely on my onesy savvy three times a week (and I mean entirely - I research the work, I plan the lessons, I teach the lessons, I set the homework) but I find myself with new responsibilities too; a Nachhilfestunde (which, admittedly, is ten extra Euros in my back pocket every week, though it still demands a certain amount of planning), a much more active role in a Klasse 5 group (involving taking half the class for speaking practise whilst the others learn their grammar, something which means yet more time given over to planning) not to mention the other timetabled classes I assist in. I've attended two teacher conferences so far, a full faculty one and one just for English,* and soon I'm also going to start helping Klasse 6 with learning their lines for an English play, to be performed at various school functions early next year. This is something I'm particularly excited about, as I believe it will give me chance to explore my hitherto unexplored dramatic depths.** Also, it's about Robin Hood, and as a proud Nottingham lass, I believe this is a subject in which I can seriously kick some arse.

So, yes. A lot to keep me busy, wouldn't you say? And to be honest, I think I'd rather have it this way. Initially, after speaking to a couple of my friends who don't consider themselves to have been asked to do anywhere near as much work, I was slightly indignant. How come I wasn't getting such an easy ride? However, the more I thought about it, the more I considered myself lucky. Though the workload seems a little heavy at times, I don't think I'd pass it up for hours of sitting at the back of classrooms and wondering why I was there. I know that a few people subjected to this feel a bit useless and undervalued by their schools; at least I can say that mine is bothered that I'm there. It is nice to feel like I'm a proper member of the faculty and it's good to be valued, to have the responsibilities of my own classes and to find myself being actually useful. I'm not by any means claiming that I do an amazing job*** but I do feel like I'm earning my keep. The other teachers, for their part, have gone out of their way to make me feel completely involved in school life; I've attended a BBQ for the Klasse 9 and Klasse 10 student mentors, been invited to the Kulturabend (an invite which, unfortunately due to another engagement, I had to turn down) and this Wednesday I'm going out for a meal to celebrate one of the teachers' birthdays.

And it's not as if I'm entirely snowed under by test papers and English grammar guides. I mean, this week is unusually hectic work wise because, due to the compulsory language assistant conference between the 22nd and the 24th, I'm having to plan lessons for a couple of weeks in advance so nobody misses anything, but normally I can get everything done before Thursday's out, leaving me plenty of time at the weekends to enjoy all NRW has to offer. The latest addition to my cities-visited collection is beautiful Cologne, where I spent a cracking couple of days with Sophie, shopping, eating sushi and generally hanging out, and despite my hefty to do list this week, I'm still hoping to hit Bonn at the weekend. Who wants to live the lazy life, anyway?

All in all, I think I've definitely landed on my feet at Heinrich-Heine; I've got the perfect balance of work and play. In fact, I'm so busy, I've almost forgotten to be homesick! And now I best go; as you may appreciate, time is of the essence these days and I can't spend all my time blogging. After all, I've got lessons to plan!

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* Before you ask, I didn't understand a word.
** If I used smileys in my blogs, I reckon this would be the perfect moment for the one that comprises of a colon and a slanty line.
*** I'm a photocopying beast, but I still stumble my way through pages of notes and plans in my lessons in an attempt to make it appear as if I'm at least vaguely in control of the situation

Creative Writing: "My Year In Lists"

This piece was originally written for Folktales, your slice of story time and folk tunes 3-4pm every Sunday on LSRfm and hosted by the lovely Charlie. It was inspired by "My Year In Lists" by Los Campesinos! which Charlie very kindly deigned to play despite the fact that she hates them. I, however, love them and think you should love them too.
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Here is a notebook. Brown cover, brown pages. Blue writing. Page after page after page of neat cobalt letters, looping under and over and round, putting words to a year. A year in a life in lists. 

Flick through the pages, watch the words blur and smudge…

Stop! Eighth page - to do this week: call Marie, wash red dress, buy Debbie a present (three exclamation marks), pay window cleaner, find umbrella, write article (in capitals, five exclamation marks), see Dave (smiley face, two hearts). A doodle of a monkey eating a banana and a nameless phone number. 

Please turn over. And over and over. Sixteenth page now, entirely given over to the reminder that baking is not something to be attempted ever again. The seventeenth is for shopping (milk, cereal, bread, cheese, pesto, noodles, biscuits, toilet paper). Eighteenth, the letters to post that were probably never posted. Nineteenth, some train times. 

Peel back more pages. See the dates line up and march; one diary entry, two diary entry, three diary entry, four. Two lines each for that which slides from memory lest you pin it down forever with nails of ink. The recordings of important unimportance, written here to stop your mind letting them slip away like sand through a sieve. It’s a good job you’ve got this little brown book with its solid brown pages and sturdy grey lines. You can’t always trust that head of yours. 

Watch the words flash by. The things I should do and the things I should remember, punctuated by the books I should read (Catch 22, The Great Gatsby, The Midwich Cuckoos) and the bank details I shouldn’t have written in here but I’ll forget them otherwise. The people I should call. The albums I should listen to. Dates stretching from November 10th 2009 to… when?

To now. There’s a blank page, right at the back. It seems a shame to waste it. 

Blue ink flows. 

November 8th 2010. To do today: call Mum, call Marie, get ingredients for meal on Tuesday, pick up boots from the menders, take books back to library… 

Pause. I’m sure there’s something else, something important. Just think… 

Oh. Yes. In the same careful blue letters, I write the last three words of the year. 

Buy.
New.
Notebook.

YA: Halloween (The Münster Mash)

First, an announcement. People may be excited to learn that I have finally explored Duisburg beyond Koenigstrasse, and there is actually stuff in it! There's a lovely old Rathaus and the Salvatorkirche and some archaeological digs of old, old buildings. There's the very attractive Altstadt and the Kultur-und Stadthistoriches Museum, which isn't much fun.* There's an amazing children's adventure play area, which is very much fun indeed and the Legoland Discovery Centre, which looks like it could rival Disneyland as the happiest place on earth (at least, if the life-size Lego giraffe outside is anything to go by). There's also the Innenhafen, which is very lovely and full of nice places to eat and look at the boats on the river.** So with all that to attract you, why aren't you all on the plane right now to come and see me?

So, yes, Halloween. Well, I was told before I came here that the Germans party like nobody else. However, whilst it's true no one falls out the club here much before 5am, and they can drink copious amounts whilst remaining upright (unlike me), I just don't think they compare to us on what I consider to be, frankly, the most integral part of a good night out: fancy dress. Hence this Halloween, safe in the knowledge that we all had the following day off work thanks to an amazingly well-timed Bank Holiday, we took it upon ourselves to set out and show Germany exactly how these things are done. 

I've got to say, we did the fair isle of Binge-Drinking Britain proud. As ambassadors for our beloved student culture, we got "hammered whilst dressed as a tit" down to an absolute tee. First, we all donned our costumes in Cerys' fantastically spook-bedecked flat (the Smurf shaped Marshmallows and Haribo Halloween Mix made my life). Everyone looking lovely apart from me as I chose to do something unspeakable to my hair involving turning it into a purple haystack. Oh, and then I painted myself green. Not very attractive, but pretty darn scary, no?

After we were suitably costume-ified and had nipped off to the takeaway for pizza dressed thus, we decided the best course of action was to play Ring Of Fire. From what I recall, Matt led the game in a fairly dictatorial fashion, waving the rules written on the lid of a pizza box like the they were Ten Commandments, but then I downed a glass of wine for apparently no good reason other than everyone was shouting "chug!" and the rest is a blur. I don't remember at what point we decided it would be a good idea to make our way to a club, but I know that at some point between leaving Cerys' and getting a taxi, Matt somehow managed to accidentally punch Kelsey in the face and we decided the only appropriate punishment was to beat the crap out of him with a devil's pitchfork and a broom, our Halloween props. Good times. 

Unfortunately, the club we were aiming to go to, the one with the Halloween themed night, was full. So we went to another, much smaller club (called 'Klup'), where I believe we were the only people in costumes. Well, maybe there were a couple more, but they'd gone to comparably no effort, so they barely count. The club itself was amazing - teeny tiny with an excellent range of tuneage, a range so wide that I don't think I got of the music once. I won't go into a great deal of detail about the whole experience, as you probably don't care, but I will give you my top three highlights: singing Mumford & Sons at the top of my voice and jumping around in a circle, doing the Mr Brightside dance entirely on my own and not giving a shit and the sword fight with the now broken broom and pitchfork, even if I did sustain and injury. 

The end of the night heralded what is now becoming a Münster tradition, which was a desperate late-night search for the flat of the person we were staying with because the person we were staying with was at a location unknown. Because of these wee-hour wanderings, I've seen more of Münster than I have of any other German city, but as I'm always tipsy and confused, I still have absolutely no idea where anything is. Fortunately, we eventually found the flat we were looking for and, after waking up a very angry flatmate, fell onto our blankets around 6am. 

In conclusion, it was a good, good night. I look forward to seeing how we get lost in Münster next time...

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*In short, Duisburg was industrial and got even more industrial over the years. Something about the Hansiatic League, a type writer and some sexist banners. There, now you don't have to visit.

** I can take you to the eating establishment where we went if you like, to show you the place where some total genius has done this: 

It's the most grammatical graffiti I've ever seen. Whoever did this is my hero. 

YA: The Good, The Bad and the Odd-Bods.

I realise I haven't been posting on this as much as I would like, so here's a quickie until I find some Stunden to sit down and right up the ghouly and ghosty escapes of a Halloween alla Deutschland. It's a list of the best, the worst and, most importantly, the weirdest encounters I've had in Germany so far.* If you've had weirder (and it's possible, this is a strange country) please write your entries on a postcard and send them to me. There may be a prize.

THE GOOD

- The lovely man from Sparkasse who told me on my second day here that he wouldn't have been able to tell I wasn't a native. For this wonderful confidence-boosting lie, he receives my eternal love and undisputed position as Georgie's Favourite German.

- The boy in my Klasse 7 social sciences bilingual class who called the European Union "the Eurovision Onion".

- The girl in my Thursday FCE class told me she liked my boots. Fashion compliments always earn you a position in my good books.

- The other girl in my Thursday FCE class who gave me half a bag of gummy bears because I said they were my favourite.

- The group of Klasse 12 lads who, in a role play based around the film Juno, collectively got the word "fuck" into the script five or six times, whilst the one playing Juno  managed the sentence "Dad, Brenda... I'm pregnant" with a straight face.

- The boy in my Klasse 6 group who today did a full impression of Michael Jackson complete with dance routine in the middle of his art class. Only eleven years old and already a legend.

THE BAD (fortunately, far outweighed by the good.)

- The jobs-worth conductor on that tram who charged me 40Euro for not following a rule I didn't know existed. I was practically in tears and he still took my money. He clearly has a heart of stone.

- The boys in my Wednesday FCE class who pretty much directly laughed at me uncontrollably for reasons I don't know because they were speaking German. And no I'm not paranoid, they were definitely laughing at me.

THE ODD-BODS

- Not a person as such, but the dog in the staffroom. I turned round and there was a dog. An actual drooling, woofing, widdling dog. I mean, whaaa?

- The Amnesty International man who launched himself from the other side of the road at high speed in order to corner me. I don't understand, there were plenty of other unsuspecting shoppers for him to accost - why run all that way to preach at me? Maybe I was wearing a special hat...

- The other two Amnesty International men who danced around and around me until they had my attention. They have it in for me.

- The creepy dude from my halls of indeterminable nationality (Turkish?) who I accidentally ended up having coffee with because my German wasn't quick enough to think of an excuse not to. My biggest fear is one day bumping into him on the stairs, especially as I accidentally on purpose threw away his number with my old train tickets.

- The man in the post office who asked me repeatedly about the different types of envelopes available and which I thought he would need for his parcel whilst I wondered if I'd accidentally put a Deutsche Post uniform on when I got dressed that morning.

- The very presumptuous English man who asked me for directions to the Hauptbahnhof in English.  Either I look incredibly English, or he just arrogantly assumed that whoever he asked would both be able to understand him and also reply in the language he understood. Lucky for him, really, that he picked the only English person in the street besides himself.

- The man flyering for Deutsche Bahn who, after giving me the flyer, asked to have a picture with me. I believe it was to prove to his superior that he´d actually given me the flyer and not just thrown it down a drain somewhere, but it was still a baffling experience. I felt like a celebrety who´s been spotted by a fan with a camera whilst on a late night dash to Tesco for milk.

- And last but by no means least, the old man I occasionally see at Oberhausen train station who always wears combat trousers and a beret. Such a fashion faux pas, but what a don. Kudos to you, beret-touting old gent.

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*This list may be revised at a later date - keep your eyes peeled for Mark II.

Creative Writing: "Here's To My Old Friends"

This piece was originally written for Folktales, broadcast every Sunday 3-4pm on Leeds Student Radio (LSRfm) and hosted by the lovely Charlie. It was inspired by "Here's To My Old Friends" by Joseph and David and "Without You" by Ellen and the Escapades. Oh, and a few of my own thoughts and feelings. Enjoy.
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Here’s to my friends across the sea. I’m missing you again. It’s been years since I saw you last, though it’s not yet been two weeks. The time is not flying as we promised it would and it’s no fun here without you. I don’t like this distance… My drinking buddies and my dancing partners, my many shoulders to cry on and my cohorts in crime - I miss just chatting with you. When can we next wrap ourselves in sofa cushions and memories and drink tea and make wild plans? Icy wires don’t compare to sunny afternoons and real smiles. Your letters, full of anecdotes and imagined laughter, are like hugs with words. But I like the hugs with arms best. 

Without you, friends, what am I?

Lonely.

Here’s to my friends far away. Here’s to the one with the fullest heart, the one who always knows the right thing to say, and the one who’s just like me.  Here’s to the one who never says no to a party, the one who keeps me grounded, and the one who makes the best cupcakes. Here’s to the one that makes me laugh until I can no longer breathe. Here’s to the one who knows me better than I know myself. Here’s to the one who gives the biggest bear hugs. Here’s to you, every one of you. I should always tell you how brilliant you are because you are brilliant, always. I don’t deserve you, but I hope to God you never realise.

So, here’s to my old friends, my now friends, my always friends. I raise my glass and wait. And wait. And wait out the two month eternity until the next real smile. 

YA: Herbstferien

So, I´m back D-side after probably the greatest fortnight I've ever experienced. Let me tell you, my friends, when you´ve been away from ye olde England for a month, going back is absolutely excelent in every way; even the crappy Northern weather knocks your socks off. There's real tea and real pillows and a variety of food due to the availability of a freezer (the lack of freezers is not typical to Germany, just to my flat, where I can't even squash in a bag of frozen peas alongside all the pizzas and weird ice-bound mashed potato). If I haven't said enough in the past: I love England, I really do. I really, really, really do.

As soon as I stepped of the plane at Manchester, I was greeted to the sight of Wayne Rooney's big ugly mug blown up to colossal billboard-sized proportions. Truly, I was back in my beloved Heimatsort. There was no time to drink in this awe-inspiring sight however; my plane had been delayed in Germany by almost an hour and now I only had twenty minutes to bomb through passport control, grab my bags, find the train station, buy a ticket and throw myself on the Trans-Pennine Express bound for Sheffield. Because I am obviously super woman, I achieved all this with five minutes to spare, though I'm sure watching me half walk, half run through the airport with a laptop bag swinging precariously round my neck was a hilarious sight for all. Once on the train, I bounced around like an excited child, unable to read or even sit still, occasionally pressing my nose to the glass to see if could catch glimpses of the familiar sights that meant I was nearing Sheffield.* When I eventually hit the platform, the grin on my face was frankly indecently large, especially when a nice gent offered me help with my beast of a case (this just doesn't happen in Germany - in Duisburg at the start of my journey, people were content to watch me topple backwards onto an old man through the weight of all my stuff rather than stick out an arm and help me on board). Bags in order, I careered across the station towards the taxi rank and hit my waiting mother full in the chest with a bone crushing hug that probably knocked all the wind out of her. My dad, after he brought the car around, received similar treatment. I don't think I've ever been so happy to see them both.

The first couple of days back were mostly spent dossing around my room, drinking many cups of tea and catching up with vast quantities of television online. Though I should have been spending every single moment with my 'rents, they were packing for their own holiday and didn't really need me under their feet giving them sporadic hugs and bewailing how much I'd missed them. It was nice just to sit quietly, listen to the customary bickering which accompanies any holiday preparations in our house** and feel comforted that they were, well, there. We did have an excellent meal out at the local italian where we've celebrated every birthday/ anniversary/ new job/ set of exam results since I was tiny (and probably before that as well), a meal which included steak and my parents' first ever limoncello. The verdict: good. Very good. Unfortunately I didn't get to hang out with Mum and Dad for very long because of their jet-setting ways (I'm joking - they've been planning this holiday to Australia for damn near two years) and it felt a bit soon to be saying bye all over again. It's a good job really, then, that I went and stopped with my grandma where there are hugs and homemade pie in abundance; I spent a wonderfully chilled out night and day there before beginning my ultimate floor tour of the UK.

I say UK. Nottingham, Sheffield and Leeds. I say floor tour as well, but I only slept on the floor twice (not including the two air beds) in the whole eleven days. My friends are very generous with their mattresses. My first bed-partner was Bex, who treated me to an overly classy night at Forum (vodka from mugs, sambucca shots and shoe removal) and cooked me bacon sandwiches the next day. Then, stocked up on this hearty British breakfast, I waved goodbye to Nottingham until Christmas, and headed back to good ol' Sheffers and the student lifestyle. Within the first few hours I'd already pulled in a trip to Cav, a Forge Radio show and a takeaway curry - it was like I'd never left. The following night, things got even more back to normal, in that I got well and truly Corped. Blue pints and terrible vodka galore, all I really remember is stealing geek glasses off people's faces, Gemma giving me a piggy back down the road and Heli holding my hair back whilst I was... well, you get the picture. Needless to say, I was horribly hungover the next day, something which delayed my arrival in Leeds by about four hours.

Leeds, once I got there, was an absolute blast. Ruth met me at the station, we dumped my stuff at hers and then headed out for one of the nicest meals I've had in a good long time (thank you, Student Beans, and your two for one Strada offers). Lemon baked sea bass with rosemary roast potatoes - it was so good I nearly died. Then, because we're party animals, we headed back to Ruth's and snuggled up in bed with a bag of chocolate buttons and a not-entirely-legal copy of Toy Story 3. The next day witnessed the reunification (like a nation - her phraseology, not mine) of me and Charlie. There was laughter (in abundance), tears (not really) and country music (LOTS). There was also fancy cocktails and dancing the night away to sexy motown tunes and the discovery of our unfortunate ability to attract strange bald men. Ah well, life can't be all win. Then, on the way home, I positively demanded takeaway, something which Charlie declared to be awful until I actually had it, whereupon she stole half my chips.

After this, it was once again back to Sheffield.*** Pop Tarts beckoned, an amazing night in which I drank fancy cider under the Concourse with Heli and watched Matt rugby-tackled to the ground by some of the 418 boys (a dramatic show of birthday love from drunk strangers, that). The next day I headed back to Spesh and Gem's and indulged in interval food because the chip shop was closed. We then watched DVDs and drank copious amounts of tea; it's the little things like that that makes me love being a student so much. Monday was equally lovely; Flat 19 were altogether for the first time in months (something which was made all the better with fancy sandwiches and cakes at Twenty Two A) and I kipped down at Mike and James'. I succeeded in talking Mike out of seminar prep in favour of 'Get Him To The Greek' and realised my attitude to work has not changed one jot over the summer. Tuesday saw the arrival of Sarah from Newcastle and my first ever night at Crystal (it wasn't as hellish as I had predicted it would be). We made dodgy cocktails from a suspicious Pina Colada pre-mix. They did not taste good.

Then arrived my last proper day, a day I mostly used to spend chill time with Katie; I introduced her to the excellence of Zooby's soup and we went on the park on the way home like the big kids we are. Unfortunately the crazy swing made me feel a bit sick, but the zip-wire was awwwwesooome! Spesh came round in the evening and there was more chocolate, tea and filmage (and a crafty three-way spoon, for tradition's sake), and then that was it. I slept, I got up, I packed, Katie dropped me at the station, I went to the airport, I got on the plane (despite threatening that I would just live under somebody's bed forever)...

And now I'm back in Germany. After such an action-packed couple of weeks, I'll be honest, it's currently a bit of an anti-climax. However, when the weekend rolls around and I start doing things again, I reckon my enjoyment-o-meter will be looking a bit more healthy. I hear talk of good old British binge-drinking Halloween shenanigans and I'm holding out great hopes for that. So, finally, I think that all that remains to be said is thank you to all my fantastic friends and family for giving me an truly lovely holiday. You are the best. You hear me? THE BEST. I love you all more than I could possibly articulate, and I hope that I can return the favour one day. Take care, stay cool, and I'll see ya'll soon. These nine weeks'll fly by. You just watch.

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*"Bloodaxe" graffiti, anyone?
** "How many pairs of shoes do you need, woman!?"
***Apparently all roads lead there, or at least all roads that I happen to be on.

Creative Writing: "Misty Lights"

This piece was originally written for 'Folk Tales', which is broadcast 3-4pm every Sunday on LSRfm and is hosted by the wonderful Charlie. Like music? Like stories? It's your place to be of a Sunday afternoon. This piece was inspired by George Linton's "Misty Lights", and has a much happier tone than the last two I've written. Really, I don't know what's gotten into me. 
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I’ve been travelling for over twenty six hours. Two flights, three trains and now a hire car collected at Dover to carry me the rest of the way. It’s just gone half past two in the morning and I’ve stopped on the M1 for petrol and what feels like my millionth cup of coffee. It’s from grubby fast food restaurant and tastes foul but I drink it anyway, needing the caffeine kick. I can barely keep my eyes open; perhaps I should just give in a catch a couple of hours sleep before I hit the tarmac again. It seems silly though, when I’m so close. I should just plod on through, clear the last few miles and then when I do sleep it can be between deliciously soft white sheets that smell of lavender and with pillows as crisp and as cold as the frost outside. There I can drift off, happily, with my arms tightly wrapped the person I’ve been missing the most since I boarded the plane out of Edinburgh all those months ago.

As I sip my insult to the world of hot-beverages, I glance about at my fellow travellers. I’ve always loved service stations; even at night they remain full of life, half-way houses for hundreds of people trying, like me, to be somewhere else. I watch a lorry driver, alone in the corner, ferry a dubious looking bacon sandwich to his mouth whilst he absent-mindedly thumbs through a copy of yesterday’s Daily Mail. A few tables away is a young father, looking exhausted to his very bones and cradling his tiny daughter on his shoulder. She is sound asleep and wears a pink bobble hat that has slipped slightly so that it obscures one eye, giving her the look of a miniature blonde pirate. Next is a dishevelled business man, chugging the same horrible coffee as I am and, despite the early hour, talking loudly into his expensive mobile phone about stock prices or some other such business nonsense. Over by the door is a group of teenagers looking barely old enough to drive, all wrapped up against the fierce November air and laughing as they pass round a steaming hip-flask. Last but not least, the cleaning lady, her pinny slung over the back of her chair as she sneaks a crafty break with a magazine and a packet of custard creams.  Oh, and me, all puffy eyes and crumpled skirt, sleep-deprived and in desperate need of a shower. I wonder what I look like to these people? Do I just look dog-tired, or can they tell, perhaps by the way I’ve been smiling into my coffee, that I’m uncontrollably happy?

I drain the dregs from my cup, pick up my coat and scarf and head for the door. The business man, still shouting into his phone, follows me out. He slams off toward his sleek Mercedes, business jacket and briefcase flying, whilst I wander serenely over to the rented Fiat and clamber inside. I drop my bag onto the empty crisp packets on the passenger seat, laughing at the crunch, buckle my seatbelt and kick the engine to life. I say good bye to the service station and pull out of the car park and onto the motorway, full of bustle and noise and a blaze of light. And as the miles fall away behind me, I find myself drawn, with a smile, to the tiny pin-pricks that are the street lights stretching all the way into the distance, forming a glittering gold path in the sky. They dance, twinkling, in front of my tired eyes, giving me a lease of life the coffee never managed to, and they pull me towards them, inviting me onwards to join them in the stars…

They are my own private path of light, my very own yellow brick road, but they’re better than that because they lead somewhere much, much more magical that the Emerald City. They lead to the most important place in the whole world. They lead to home.

Creative Writing: "Choices"

This piece was originally written for 'Folk Tales', which is broadcast 3-4pm every Sunday on LSRfm and is hosted by the wonderful Charlie. LISTEN, it's ace. It was inspired by Tim and Sam's Tim and the Sam Band's song "Choices", as well as a touch of Trainspotting and a dash of Forgetting Sarah Marshall. 

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Choose to wake at noon. Choose to call in sick to work for the fourth day in a row. Choose to wear only joggers and T Shirts that no longer fit and not to shower. Choose to stay indoors with the curtains drawn and eat nothing but frozen pizzas and increasingly stale biscuits that leave crumbs on the carpet and down your front. Choose to ignore those missed calls from your friends. Choose to ignore, too, that text from Jeff or Dave or whoever inviting you to the pub. Choose, instead, to spend your evening alone again, pouring too many whiskies and watching terrible late night television. Choose to venture out only for cigarettes, occasionally buying a DVD or two from the bargain bins beside the till. Choose to watch these DVDs repeatedly despite their mediocrity, and even choose to cry at the weepy bits. Choose to cry about other things too, things you’d rather not talk about just now, or next week, or ever.  Choose to spend hours just staring at a picture of her face. Choose to drunkenly burn that picture before bottling out at the last minute lest it feel like losing her all over again. Choose to realise that it was your fault she left, your own stupid fault. Choose to acknowledge yourself as the architect of your own misery, and pour yourself yet another drink. Choose to drain the bottle because that’s the only way you’ll sleep. Choose to end your day when the birds begin theirs, falling onto your mattress as the first thrush sings. Choose the engulfing arms of sleep, even though you know, you know, she’ll be there still, haunting your dreams. 

Choose, eventually, to break the cycle of lonely self-loathing. Choose to leave the whiskey in the cupboard. Choose to accept that invite to the pub, to see people. Choose to put on a clean shirt for the first time in what seems like years.  Choose to smile wanly at the cheers that greet you as you arrive, accept the slaps on the back without comment. Choose to lie to their grinning faces when they ask how you are and say that you’re fine, that you’re doing ok. Choose to order a pint. Choose to sit quietly and drink it. Choose to quash your desire to bolt for the door when the conversation inevitably turns to your consolation. Choose to nod in meek agreement when Jeff says that she was never good enough for you - even though you know deep in your wasted heart that she was far better than you’ll ever be - and listen as your friends tear apart the woman you love before your eyes and ears. Choose to wish you were anywhere else, anywhere but here. Anyone but you.

Choose, then, to order another beer, then another, then another and another. Choose watch the grins turn to grimaces as you sink pint number twelve, the note of false cheeriness in your voice becoming louder and more slurred with every sentence. Choose to remain oblivious to the increasingly nervous atmosphere, ordering drink after drink, knowing that happiness will be at the bottom of the next glass. When the room begins to revolve, choose to stumble from the pub to the street, the cool air hitting you like a fist, worried shouts from your friends still ringing in your ears. Choose to shake Dave’s concerned hand from your arm when he follows you outside and set off for home at a run, just wanting to get away, from the pub, from yourself, from everything.

Choose, after to ten minutes, to sit, head spinning, on somebody’s front wall to catch your breath. Your phone is ringing – Jeff – choose to reject. Instead, stupidly, choose to call her. Choose to believe in your desperate drunken way that, this time, begging her to take you back again will actually work. Choose to dial her number. Choose to listen to the ringing on the other end of the line as you clutch the handset to your cheek, breathing harsh and ragged. Ring ring. Ring ring. Choose to gasp with fear and hate and anguish when the sleepy voice that answers is not hers at all, but his. He’s there, him, in your place, where you should be. With her. Choose to let the phone slide from your face to your lap, still wrapped in your shaking fist. When the sleepy voice says ‘hello’ once more, choose to frantically mash the call-end button with drunken fingers. Then silence. Then rage. Hot, boiling, venomous rage. Choose to hurl your mobile phone against the curb, choose to watch it shatter, slow motion, into a million tiny fragments, shattering just like your heart shattered when she told you she was leaving…

Choose to sit on that lonely wall until dawn, not moving, making no sound. Numb. A statue. Choose to watch the sun rise over silent suburbia without actually seeing it at all. Then, as the world around you begins to wake, choose to make a decision. Choose to collect the little that remains of your phone, to pick yourself up, to walk unsteadily home, to find your keys, to go inside, to shower, to have a decent breakfast, to get ready for work, to face the day, and the next day, and the next. Choose to clean the house and to wash the dishes, to sort the mail and to take out the rubbish. Choose to start answering your emails again. And, when you catch your own eye in the mirror, hair combed, fresh shirt, clean-shaven, choose to know that, finally, you’ll be just fine. 

Creative Writing: "We Could Pretend"

This piece was originally written for 'Folk Tales', which is broadcast 3-4pm every Sunday on LSRfm and is hosted by the wonderful Charlie. It was inspired by Ruth Moody's "We Could Pretend", and though it was inspired by the title only, but I urge to listen to the song as well, because it is beautiful. 
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When we were kids, we could pretend. We could pretend for hours and we would never get bored or tired. We could pretend for hours, shunning food and water, our appetites satisfied and our thirst quenched by the sparks in our own synapses as we quested for make-believe adventure. We could pretend for hours and hours and hours and our imaginations, our wonderful, youthful, vibrant imaginations would never fail us, never let us down.

What could we pretend today? Let’s pretend, yeah… let’s pretend we’re astronauts! Yeah, and we’ve got this huge spaceship with a thousand rocket blasters on the back, shooting us through space, past the moon and the planets and far out into the starts. We’ll whirl past Jupiter and Saturn, dodging asteroids and clouds of mysterious space dust and we’ll wave to the tiny blue men who live on Pluto who eat nothing but ice cream because it’s so cold there. We’ll stop for tea with them maybe, and tell them about our little blue planet far away full of lush green plant life and bustling cities and thunderous seas, and they’ll tell us about the Plutonian ice mines deep underground with walls that are as smooth as glass and that sparkle like diamonds…

Or we could pretend, right… we could pretend we’re pirates! Vicious, blood-thirsty pirates, wielding cutlasses and touting pistols, feared throughout the Spanish Main! We’ll be captains of our own vessel and it’ll be the fastest ship on the entire ocean, with rows and rows of cannons and a polished mahogany wheel at the helm and a fierce carved dragon leading the way as we plough through the water. We’ll raid merchant ships, stealing their gold and their silver and stuffing our hold with swag. If anyone is fool enough to attack us we’ll show them no mercy, running them through with our blades or slitting their throats and taking their ships for our own. We’ll be on the most wanted list in every port, constantly evading capture by the skin of our teeth, and at night we’ll sit on deck and reminisce about our last daring escape, swigging rum from the bottle and laughing so our gold teeth glint in the moonlight…

Or how about we pretend… no, listen! How about we pretend that we’re explorers? Yeah, yeah, explorers, hacking our way through the jungle in search of a legendary tomb that has been lost for over two thousand years, and that is said to be cursed... We’ll carry guns slung across our shoulders and knives at our sides to protect ourselves against the dangers that may befall us, such the poisonous snakes disguised as vines that hang precariously from the jungle canopy, or the spiders the size of dinner plates that hide, poised to strike, in the undergrowth. A tiger will emerge suddenly on the path ahead; a fierce, snarling tiger, its beautiful orange and midnight fur speckled with drops of blood from its last kill, and we’ll run, faster than we even knew we could run, stumbling over roots and rocks until suddenly we’re falling, falling down into darkness… We’ll land with a jolt that knocks their air from our lungs, not on cold earth but on cold stone – we’ve found the tomb! We’ll prize open the ancient door, coughing as dust millennia old finds its way to our throats, and peer deep, deep into the darkness beyond…

When we were kids, we could pretend a million and one things, for a million and one reasons: because we were bored, or afraid, lonely or in pain, for fun or to escape the real world. Our imaginations would never cease to create new scenarios in which to immerse ourselves and every Saturday afternoon saw the birth of a new favourite game, games that always begin with the words “let’s pretend…” But as we slowly slip into adulthood, into rental agreements and nine-to-fives and coffee, as responsibility settles on our shoulders, at first like butterflies but then like bricks, we discover we can no longer pretend. We can no longer retreat back into that shining world behind our eyes where we’re heroes and where we could control our own destiny. Imagination, our childhood protector, saving us always from tedium or anguish, is gone, leaving reality, a brutal, unrelenting force as a poor replacement. And throughout every test of reality - a bounced cheque, a lost loved-one, another broken heart – we can’t even count on our own minds to wrap us in the comforting blanket of make-believe and, for just a couple of hours, make everything ok. Some say this makes us stronger, better people, that pretending never helped anyone, that action is better than words and that memories and other substance-less imaginings are a waste of valuable time, are childish and nonsensical…

But is it so wrong to cherish those substance-less imaginings, those memories of when the line between reality and pretence was precariously thin and when we used to dance, laughing, along its edge? Is it so wrong to want, occasionally, to be childish? To want to forget in times of sorrow, to be a hero for a little while? No, it is not. It is natural regret that we can no longer be a pirates or a spacemen or a cowboys or any number of fantastical things. It is understandable to mourn for our deceased imagination that means we must always be an adults and boring, accepting this one existence that is sadly lacking in mysticism and excitement. Our imagination has poured away through our fingers along with the sands of time, and it is a shame, a terrible, terrible waste. We miss it, always, and look on jealously at those still youthful enough to be able to construct another, more brilliant reality for themselves, a new reality every day. And, most of all, at those moments in life where we want to escape, when we feel suffocated by our surroundings or when the pain is too much to bear, we wish with all our hearts, that as adults we, too, could create a new reality. That we, too, could pretend…

YA: No, I've Not Died...

I'm aware it's been a while since I last posted. So much for the "twice a week" goal I had when I started this thing up. In my defence, I've been a very busy bee recently. Since starting to actually teach, my evenings have been taken up with researching Cambridge Language Certificates, planning lessons and making handouts. Meanwhile, though I am now sitting in less lessons at school I'm spending vast amounts of time acquainting myself with the photocopier. I've done so much photocopying this week I could rival John Bellamy (joke for the Sheffies there).

Because, yes, I am now doing the exact thing that the powers at be in Altenberg told us not to do: I am planning and teaching lessons entirely on my own. I think the only reason this is sort of allowed is that I am tutoring pupils for a voluntary exam, and am not actually in charge of anything that may affect their curriculum-based education. However, it's still pretty damn nerve-wracking, and I can't help feel that it's a pretty large responsibility for entirely untrained newbie such as myself. My first lesson was for the higher level exam and was frankly a disaster; due to various sporting commitments, only two pupils out of sixteen could actually make the class and I spent most of the time chatting to two said pupils about how I had little idea about how to go about teaching them the stuff I'm pretty sure they already know anyway. Fortunately, the two lower level classes I have since taken went much more swimmingly, mostly because it's easier to teach people from basics because there's no threat of patronising them. The Wedneday class of twenty or so students was a bit more raucous than Thursday's fourteen (and Thursday's class are already by far my favourites as one of the girls gave me half a bag of gummy bears) but I plodded resiliently through and hopefully didn't make too much a pig's ear of the whole thing. I now have two weeks of Herbstferien to panic about how to teach them the next bit.

That's the work update. Now for the social side. I have, since I last posted, experienced my first proper German night out. It was one of the most bizarre nights out I've ever had. Deprived of our binge drinking student lifestyle for so long, we all went a bit bonkers, downing Lidl's bargain wine and beers with gusto, shotting neat vodka and sampling large quantities of Satan's hell-water itself, Obstwasser.* The result was brutal: we were all ridiculously smashed, and I can't speak for anyone else but I remember next to nothing of how we got to into the club (other than managing to muscle our way in without apparently having to pay or give proof of ID) and even less of what happened inside it. I know I liked it, even though I have since discovered from a Referendarin at my school that "it's the place you go when everything else is closed". I know we accidentally split up into two groups, reunited only when the club closed at the stupidly early (for Germany) time of around 3am**. I know I moshed to Papa Roach, and acquired two beers that I'm fairly sure I didn't pay for. I know, too, that I somehow managed to lock myself in the toilets, and stood there panicking for a while before I realised I just hadn't pushed the door handle down properly. The walk back to Matt's is even more blurred, save for Sarah taking a detour through the fountain, and to this day I don't know how we managed to make it back there - Amelia apparently has a superhero like sense of direction when sozzled. We eventually crashed out at about 6am (some of us with our head on our arms at the table) and awoke early the following afternoon nursing horrendous hangovers and trying to piece our memories back together. Absolute insanity. I can't wait to do it again.

That was Saturday. Fast forward to Wednesday and a German BBQ. I still don't really know why I was there, because it was for the Klasse 9 and 10 mentors to swap stories and advice and nothing to do with the English department at all. But, as ya'll know, I'm never one to turn down a social invitation particularly when there's the promise of free sausage, so I trundled happily along and had a nice time. Thursday promised yet more opportunities for social buttiflication in the form of Stammtisch (for you non-German types that essentially an excuse to meet up and drink beer under the pretext of speaking German). I went along with some other lovely English Fremdsprachassistenen from the Ruhrgebiet area, and though due to a late arrival we unfortunately failed to locate the actual Stammtisch with all the other nationalities, we had our own we Stammtisch auf English which proved to be just as much fun. I unfortunately had to leave just as the party was getting started (not before getting me a proper German Erdinger Weisbier though) but I hope we have a repeat at some point where I can stay longer.

And now, unbelievably, I'm back in England. I know it seems like I've hardly been in Germany five minutes, but it's the Herbstferien for two weeks, so I thought it's be an idea to come back and have a catch up with my homies. To be perfectly honest, I think I needed this break - Germany has been excellent so far, far surpassing my expectations (which were, let's face it, pretty damn low), but it's been both a difficult and hectic month and I just needed some good ol' comforts of England. I've already had a cheese sandwich, drank a million cups of tea (or so it seems after my stringent rationing) and given both my parents several bone crushing hugs a-piece. Over the next couple of weeks I'm staying on several different floors and in several different beds, all the while in the company of those I've been a-missin'. I'm very, very, very excited about it, and I'll be sure to give you a low down on my antics once I'm back D-side. For now, stay cool, amigos and enjoy your Autumn as much as I'm going to.

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*Think tequila but mixed with armpit and that smell you get when too many different dinners are cooking at once in a busy block of flats. Vile beyond belief, it burned my throat all he way down and I could still sense the foul aroma on my tongue days later.
** Direct and melodramatic quote from me to Lyndsay: "I thought I'd never see you again!" I'm such a drama drunk.

YA: A Very Merry German-Birthday To Me! (To You!)

It happened! I finally turned 21! I’ve become an actual proper grown up, a real adult, and with adulthood comes obligation. I’m supposed to understand mortgage rates now, and how to do complicated things at the bank without calling my dad. I should be able to buy light bulbs and use the iron without burning a hole in my jacket. I have to start cleaning once a week and airing things and stop putting posters on my wall in favour of nice pictures of sunsets and replace my ‘vintage pictures with rude captions’ calendar with one featuring pictures of puppies peeping out of wellington boots. Oh God, I can feel the weight of responsibility crushing down on me as I type… But less of this existential nonsense; I didn’t begin this blog to debate my existence. I want to talk about how I celebrated my birthday, which is much more fun, wouldn’t you say?

I certainly did my big two one with a bang. Several bangs in fact. Party time began way back in July with the customary and always awesome family BBQ, in which I had the most amazing chocolate cake baked for me by my cousin. It had a firework candle and it tasted like melted dreams if dreams were made of solid Green & Blacks. Celebration number two came in the form of a surprise party thrown by my delightful friends, something which I knew absolutely nothing about until they were popping party poppers over my head and showering me with balloons. Another excellent day, filled with love and another impressive cake and wine in teapots. As if that wasn’t enough, towards the end of the summer and about a week before I left for Germany, my mum and dad took me for the fanciest of fancy meals at Langar Hall as an extra birthday treat. Twenty one has certainly been an excellent birthday.

However, even though I’d already celebrated to the max, I still got my very own Germany birthday. Last Saturday I took a trip to Münster for what was most definitely the best day I’ve had in Germany since I got here. First off, as my present, I got treated to a trip to the zoo, which was nothing short of amazing. I mean, with a sea lion that could do handstands, a ‘Guinea Pig Opera’ in the petting zoo and a shop called “Zooverniers”, how could it not be? We fed tropical birds from tiny cups of nectar, saw the cutest baby orang-utan, laughed at the dedication of the Germans to their massive cameras, pissed off some Germans with massive cameras by jumping on a wobbly bridge, played British Tourist Spotting* and watched one penguin give another penguin a cuddle. I also got my very first German birthday card (‘to the Chocolate Monster’, thanks guys).

After the zoo, the night was still but young, so we went and bought cheap alcohol from Lidl and got drunk. Hilarity and pizza ensued, but I believe that some things, such as the terrible German brandy, the three -way spoon in a single bed and the candle penis should really belong only to that night. I’ll say this, however: I haven’t laughed that much in a good long time. My actual birthday was understandably less raucous, what with having to go to work and things. I still had a lovely selection of cards to open though, as well as a long-awaited Skpye chat with Charlie and one or two nice surprises. Apparently there are still more in the post, so my birthday hasn’t stopped even now.

I originally thought that my twenty-first would be a washout, that I would be sad and alone in Germany and that it wouldn’t get celebrated at all. As it happens, I’ve never celebrated a birthday so much in my life. So all that remains to say is thanks to everyone who sent me a card, or a gift or a facebook message. Thanks to the Münster lot for a wicked day. Thanks to everyone a home who took the time over the summer to celebrate with me. You’ve all made me feel so loved and so special and I hope I can do half as much for you all on your birthdays. Lots of love to you all. Peace out. :)

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*In the first group of Brits we spied, one man was taking a photo of a diagram depicting elephants having sex. The second group we saw were clutching cans of Stella and wading into the children’s petting zoo. I’ve never been so proud of my nation.