Awkward.

My favourite coffee shop in Göppingen is neatly tucked away down an unremarkable side street.
It is my favourite because they offer a delectable fusion of excellent cappuccino and remote distancing from my school, students, teachers and anyone else that I might know, or might know me. Paradise.

Although us Brits are internationally acclaimed for being Kings (&Queens) of small talking prowess, the nightmare that could ensue if we accidentally bumped into someone we knew, but not all that well, when out and about minding our own business and polite thoughts, borders on the traumatic.

This morning, I bordered on that trauma. There was trouble in paradise.

Sneakily I crept out of school for a coffee; I could have invited people, but I didn't. I loitered to my hiding place like the scallywag that I am, and settled down for an antisocial coffee. Then, BAM, I spotted another teacher sitting two tables away from me. I didn't say hello. He had seen that I had seen him and subsequently ignored him. Five minutes passed and it was then too late to initiate any form of recognition or, even worse, eye contact. I contemplated walking away and finding another cafe twice before I ordered, and drank my coffee so quickly that now, later, I have red bumpy burn marks all over my tongue.

Why, I ask you, was this such an ordeal?!

The problem lies in the fact that I am very awkwardly British, and that I know our lovely German friends do not have the awkward radar that we seem to possess. They don't even have a word for the emotion. (The closest you can get is 'unangenehm', which roughly translates as 'unpleasant'.) In the development of the German psyche, some bright spark realised that 'awkward' would hinder productivity, and so thereby decreed to bypass the whole scenario, preferring to battle uncomfortable situations head on without even a grimace.

I do not think this neglect of awkward is merely a German phenomenon; read any 'Welcome to Britain', or 'Britain for Dummies' guide and the rudimentary message is that you should under no circumstance known to mankind initiate any sort of conversation with a stranger on the bus/tube/bus stop, unless you want the poor Brit's bum to fall off with an overload of awkward. This means that no citizen of any other country in the world would understand the excruciating torture of deciding whether to get on the train at the same time as an old school friend you talked to once, five years ago, and having to make small talk, or else risk being known as the person-who-ignores-people; or, alternatively, walk the 5 miles home in the rain because you just can't face it.

Another colleague of mine asked my name for the 4th time, last week. Everyone has watched Mr McIntyre explain it to us; you just can't do that. The three times rule dictates that after the third time of asking, and subsequently forgetting, someone's name, no more can you ask what they are called. You must just accept the fact that you will have to call them 'mate', forever. But oh no, he laughed in the face of awkward and ploughed right on. Job done. He'll probably ask again next week and not even bat an eyelid.

What can I say - expat life, full of social predicaments.

Tea Room.

Last Friday afternoon, I was roped in as maître d’ of an English Tearoom being run by an over-excited group of Year 6s.



Every year there is a day in which parents and prospective students come and have a nosey around the school. This principle is not an unfamiliar prospect for me; the school in which I spent my teenage years offered a very similar practice of school showcasing every year. The only difference between these two fine examples of boasting is that my German school took it to levels that my English school could only dream of.

Rethink your standard school tour led by a begrudging 14 year old; enter the Germans with a ski bar. Yes, a SKI BAR. Complete with schnapps, house music and disco ball. I asked myself the same question, what on earth were they promoting apart from teenage alcohol abuse and binge-drinking? Ohhhh, the thriving winter sport syllabus of course. Silly Engländerin.

Continue your school adventure down the corridor and you find yourself confronted by toga-clad 13 year old brandishing fine examples of imitation Roman delicacies. Mmmm, sheep eyeballs, my favourite. When I asked if they were promoting the history department, said sheep eyeball was spluttered at me in a moment of sheer hilarity; 'Oh Miss Ford, you are so funny.' I found out later that they were part of the Latin crew. Of course they were. I didn't even know we taught Latin in our school.

I have no idea what the Geography group were doing. All I saw was what looked to be bamboo poles and children dressed up as gorillas. I didn't stick around to ask what they were offering in the way of refreshments.

Around the corner, up some stairs, was my neck of the woods. I felt safe there. No gorillas, no eyeballs, no schnapps.

The children (the English teachers) had revamped the classroom to a state that you would never have recognised it. Teapot, scone, sugar cube heaven, complete with silver tea spoons and white table cloths; I was very happy. Standing at the entrance of our 'Tearoom', I flagged parents and children our way by brandishing a very large Union Jack and hollering 'Getcha tea here chaps - real English tea'. Del Boy's selling tactics came in very handy here. Lie a little, stretch the truth, talk in an accent they don't understand, get their money and run.

"Oh yes Mrs Schmidt, I drink tea with the Queen every weekend."
"No, no Mr Becker, English women never drink anything as vulgar as beer."
"Ha ha, funny you should say that Miss Müller - I am actually a personal acquaintance of Harry Styles."


What a tricksy hobbit I am.

The whole point of this exercise, apart from making the school look well-mega-wicked-cool, is to raise money for the individual classes' 'Kasse', which subsidises school trips etc., etc. A rather good idea, if you ask me, as the children take responsibility for their own class' fate and funds. No credit cards for these children when they reach university. In this case, don't follow in Miss Ford's footsteps children.

All round, very fun. Well done Germany, you beat us fair and square.

Dunce.

"Hello Children,

I'm your teacher's Grandfather and I am 88 years old, so I've had a full life and seen a lot of changes in my lifetime, along the way.

Your teaching today is so different from when I was a boy. I still can't understand computers, the new type of phones and the way your taught today, so you should consider yourselves so lucky. I'm afraid I was a bit of a dunce and got the cane a few times, but it did me no harm.

So learn all you can about everything in life, and you will all grown up good citizens.

Goodbye, Jim Ford"



I received this letter today, from my Grandad, as an appendix to the letter he had sent me. Although written with the intention of inspiring and educating young German children, I see no reason why it shouldn't inspire everyone, young and old. Although grammatically incorrect, the words ring so true and clear and honest, that you cannot fail to take notice of their message.

What do you take from these five sentences of gold? Replaying the last sentence in my head over and over, guilt pangs shake through my chest. No, I'm wrong - not guilt pangs. 'Pang' suggests a nice gentle acoustic guitar rocking you to sleep; this feeling is not that. I mean a guilt trombone is blaring it's brassy tones somewhere near my heart, with an elbow in my lungs and foot in my stomach for added effect. Yes, this guilt trombone is making me nicely uncomfortable.

"So learn everything you can about everything in life" - I know it's meant sincerely. I know it means, work hard because you have been given everything and you have no excuse. It means, you are not hungry and you are not at war and you are safe and you are warm - grasp the education you have been offered and bleed it dry. It means, I didn't have your opportunities, take advantage of your youth and freedom.

An entire 88 years on this planet summarised with the line, "I've had a full life and seen a lot of changes." Take from that what you will, but if this 'full life' includes a war, raising two children (not to mention five grandchildren and two great-grandchildren) whilst maintaining a 60-odd year marriage, then I am humbled to the core that it can be reduced to ten words so nimbly, and am listening with open ears and heart to whatever advice can be exchanged.



And yes, he is my Grandfather so of course I take this personally. But no, that is not the only reason. Take away his name and there are millions of men and women with the exact same story. Our grandparents. They changed this world for better or worse; they structured the society in which we live. Their lives have given way for our lives to exist. And now they are telling us to work hard. Work really hard and be good people.

Now, if that's not a kick up the arse, I don't know what is.

Trendy, Part 2.

Hey Y'all fashion loverrrrs!

So sorry sweeties for not publishing this earlier, have been dashing around like a moron trying things out so you don't have to! I know you've all probably been dying to get your next installment on how to become the next trendsetter, but let me reassure you darlings, patience really is a virtue in this instance.

Joanna Ford: Trendsetter Part 2. 'Go on a diet'.

Now, I know what some of you are probably thinking - 'oh my goodness, she's mental' - but this diet really does work! No more nasty low-carb options, and it leaves you feeling full and content - what more could you want? I've called it The German Diet, and have compiled a typical day's menu for you to sample, because caring is sharing, fashion friends!

1st meal: Pre-breakfast snack.


Milka. Preferably the variety that is on offer in Rewe for 55 cent (it makes it all the more delicious). I advise leaving the chocolate on your bedside table, so that you don't forget to take your morning supplement before you get out of bed. Think of this ordeal as you would suncream; Milka chocolate will protect you the from world's ills. A chore, yes - but one you will be thanking yourself for by the moody mid-afternoon slump! Mood enhancing factor 30! What's not to love?

2nd meal: Breakfast.


This should include at least four types of sausage or cured meat, cheese that tastes like a foot, three varieties of bread, unsalted butter, honey and enough coffee to kill a small animal. And there you have it; ready and prepared to take on the world before the sun has even decided to rise.

3rd meal: Mid-Morning snack.


Butter Bretzel. You should purchase your butter bretzel (pretzel with butter for all you 'deutsch-phobics' out there!), in a local bakery where they are fresh out the oven and neatly stacked in orderly lines to maximise selling efficiency. At a tidy little 1 Euro - it's a snip! Not only do you receive the chewy, salty, doughy pleasure of the pretzel itself, but you are also presented with a 5mm thick layer of butter too! WHAT AN ABSOLUTE BARGAIN! Ideally enjoyed in the not-so-grosse-Pause at school, at 9am. Remember fashion friends, this is Germany! Mid-morning = 9am, not 11am; you've been up since 5am!

4th Meal: Midday Meal.

For this meal, I am offering you a variety of options - the world is your oyster. So long as it predominantly involves carbs, you are in for a winner. Here are a couple of suggestions:


- Maultaschen. Somewhat similar to Ravioli, you could be forgiven for thinking you were eating an Italian delight, that is if you ignore the fact your ravioli pieces have quadrupled in size, and are swimming around in a hearty broth! Surprisingly delicious, and perfectly filling, this is one diet option not to miss out on.


- Any Würstchen you can get your hands on, cradled by a crusty roll and enveloped in oodles of mustard. Does what is says on the tin; Nigella needs to watch out, 'cos this really is a sexy little diet option.


- Wiener Schnitzel. As do all the best things in life, Schnitzels come in a variety of sizes, and it's not always 'the bigger the better'! I, for one, have eaten a terrible schnitzel which was utterly HUGE, and I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. It just stuffed me, and left no room for some after-dinner 'Willi'.

Post 4th Meal Schnapsle: Willi.


No Midday meal is complete without your best friend 'Willi'. Aiding digestion, and getting you so bladdered you don't care what happens in the afternoon, I can wholeheartedly say that this is the secret to this diet's success. Teamed with its super cute little glass, it's any fashionista's dream!

5th Meal: Afternoon Coffee and Cake.


Any cake you choose, as long as it's 90% whipped cream. They can be found in the ever-so-quaint Konditoreis dotted around the German landscape. SO quaint.

6th Meal: Abendbrot.

See: Breakfast. You must eat exactly the same thing you ate for breakfast for maximum dieting efficiency.



And Ta-dah! Sweethearts, I can 10000% say that I'm loving this diet, and you will too!

Gunther.

There are many stages to learning a language, all of which are complex, confusing, emotional, frustrating and often heart-wrenching. For those who do not follow this perplexing lifestyle, it may often seem mad to watch those who do, put themselves through the things they do. You may not understand linguistics, but what you will probably understand is love.

Learning a language is like a tempestuous love affair.

I have two relationships which dominate my life; my real, tangible one in the form of a male human, and my hidden, sordid one with German. Let's call German, Gunther.

Gunther has been the focus of my life for ten years now. It all started as an innocent, brief flirtation which excited and exhilarated me. I would lie awake at night remembering the things he had taught me that day, and look forward to our weekly meetings. I let Gunther woo me away from the charms and allures of Francois, his French counterpart, and by-and-by; he wheedled his way to the forefront of my amusements.

By the age of 15, I had spent hours of my life obsessively memorising long love speeches to Gunther, describing where I came from, my name and hobbies, what my parents did for a living, how many bedrooms my house had, and whether I walked or took the bus to school in the morning. It was all very twee. I had to learn my declarations by heart, as in his presence my mind went completely blank, my pulse throbbed in my neck, I felt sick and my knees were weak. Years later, at 18, I was still doing the same. I was still terrified of looking a fool whilst explaining to the object of my obsessions my heartfelt opinions on abortion law and recycling policies.

Gunther had made me ill; the colder he got, the more I wanted him.

Fast forward four more years, we are still battling at our relationship. We argue more often than not; I swear to never speak to him again after bitter arguments about his fundamental rules and regulations. Yet the morning comes, and with it I find myself spending another hour of my life in a 9am Syntax lesson.

I hate him. I do not understand him. I wish I had never met him. He fills me with rage and makes me want to eradicate him from the planet, yet despite this, I cannot stop loving him and going back for more.

Gunther tells me on a regular basis that I am not good enough; that I will never be good enough. He makes me feel stupid and ignorant, but on the rare occasion that we get along, the feeling is so magnificent I instantly forget every bad thing that has ever passed between us. Yes, I have sleepless nights pondering the reasons I do not understand his complex character; yes, I have sacrificed many things in my life in order that I can further pursue him; yes, he humiliates me and alienates me; but in those short five minutes of beautiful clarity that pass between us when he says something I understand, and I utter something legible in response, there is no better feeling in the world. Pure ecstasy.

My friends do not care for Gunther; they are tired of my relentless whinging about his faults. 'Leave him', they say. 'If he makes you unhappy, leave him'. Logical, yes. Realistic, no.

I am tired of my relationship with Gunther being continually on the rocks, so I will work to extremes until we are in a more comfortable place. I do not mind that the effort is a little one sided, he can offer me things that nothing else can.

I will change.
I will watch his favourite TV programmes, excitedly hold hands with him in the cinema, eat in his local restaurants, read the books he has recommended to me, sing and dance along to the songs he has recorded (no matter how terrible they sound to my untrained ears), befriend all of his friends and strut around in his fashions.

Surely, this will seal the deal.

Take Heart.

This post is for everyone planning their year abroad, or anticipating an upcoming adventure which will take them to unknown realms, in every way possible. Change is on the horizon and you have every reason to be excited, although at present you may be terrified.

This time last year, I did not think about my impending move to Germany, land of the sausage, too much. I pushed it to the back of my mind and was neither excited, nor scared. It was something I had to do as part of my course, and was not too fussed about it.

Be fussed.

Because I was not bothered by the whole event until it was too late, I did not cash into the unlimited chances to brag about what I was doing with my life. With this in mind, I have written a list of must do things for the months before you leave. Yes, there may be 7 or 8 months left in your home country, but that is no reason not to show off.

1. Let the anticipation keep you awake at night and spend hours Googling the place you will live, imagining yourself in that environment..."And here's where I will buy icecream on sunny days, and here's where I'll be all bohemian and hip and smoke French cigarettes and drink expensive coffee whilst pretending to write my diary but actually just doodle pictures of cats, and here's the bar I'll call my local but never embarrass myself in...". This hobby is ideal for May, when you should be revising. Hours worth of procrastination.

2. Annoy everyone you meet with reports about how brave and proactive you are. "Yes, I do speak German. No, I do not want to be a teacher. Yes, I study the language for the sheer purpose of being a better and more interesting human. Yes, I will be living alone. No, I do not know anyone in the area I am moving to." There is nothing more annoying than a smug 20-something year old who's doing something useful with their life. Once you are here, you will realise that there are a lot more interesting and brave people in the world, so pre-move is your only chance to utilise this.

3. Plan your time wisely. Use the summer to earn a ton of cash, because it will evaporate into the magical money vortex before you can whisper 'Guten Tag'. You are living abroad for a year, you do not want to be scrimping and saving and worrying about whether you can afford to go on that wicked trip to the Alps next weekend. Remember, you are here so you can upload one million photos to Facebook, and be the envy of all your friends at home. Photos require a certain amount of capital, unless you steal them from someone else's travel blog and claim them as your own.

4. Remind everyone on a daily basis that, "this time next year..." you will be doing something that sounds WAY more fun than what you are all doing at that point. Make them realise they will miss you by pointing out that although this year's Christmas preparations were really fun, next year you will be trolling round Christmas markets to the dulcet tones of German choir boys singing 'Oh Tannenbaum', off your rocker on too much Glühwein. Guaranteed to tug at the heart-strings of every family member and close friend.

5. Unleash your inner, hidden hipster. In all honesty, what on earth could be more hip or arty than moving to another country?! All you have to do is look back in history to see that all the best arty types sodded off to the Continent when life got too hard in old Blighty. Take inspiration; buy a beret or bowler hat, invest in a moleskin sketchbook or journal, and do not leave the house without a small volume of Romantic poetry. Just these items alone will up your art-output by 74%.

Take heart adventurers - your move will be revolutionary.

Airports.

I loathe airports, and so it would seem, airports loathe me too.

I may have had an eenie weenie mishap whilst trying to get back into the UK last month, which resulted in me sitting, hysterically laughing for want of not crying, in the naughty girls' immigration pen at Gatwick Airport at 11pm. Oops.

After smugly trolling off of the aeroplane and gulping down fine British air (mmmm so sooty, mmmm can you smell that Sam? Petrol!), and meandering my way to Passport control, I was presented with the horrifying knowledge that my treasured passport was, in fact, not in my bag. Nor was it anywhere to be found on my person.

Running in a manner that can only be defined as elegant and athletic, I legged it back to the aeroplane. Well, in the direction I thought the aeroplane would be in. I did make it to my required destination in break-neck speed, but this also meant that I caused a major security breach in that wing of the airport; yes, I did the unthinkable. Faced with an unopenable one-way security door, knowing that my ticket to the UK was 'undoubtably' behind, and seeing a small glass faced boxed entitled, 'Break in cases of Emergency' - I broke the glass. It was an emergency.

Cue the loudest alarms you have ever heard.

Never in my life have I run faster. Blood tearing through my body and alarms tearing through my ear drums and panic scorching my chest and tears searing my eyes, I finally made it back to Passport Control and a very angry boyfriend. Passportless, hopeless, and very nearly boyfriendless, I made my sorry way to the security guards who put me in the naughty girls' pen.

Now, I know no-one will believe me, but I am a passport fanatic. I always know where it is, even when too much gin magic has been consumed. No-one else is entrusted to the honour of holding it, let alone looking after it. So, you can well imagine my absolute desperate case whilst sitting less than 10 metres from the UK Border. The men chastising me would not believe me, 'Another bloody stupid girl', and as Sam sauntered past the border to collect our bags, I felt a little bubble of whale tear material bubble up my throat.

The worst is yet to come.

Approximately 20 minutes later, we opened Sam's bag to get a bottle of water, and my passport (the promiscuous tease) was loitering at the top of it, midst magazines and other useful items. I screamed, held it above my head as if it were a prize winning lottery ticket and let a crowd of delirious American tourists applaud my find. I think it is safe to say that they were the only ones applauding my efforts that night.

Sorry Gatwick. Sorry tired security guards. Sorry Sam.

Two Weeks.

Two weeks, otherwise known as 14 days, are a long time. For the weak-willed and faint-hearted among us, of which admittedly I am one, two weeks could stretch before you like a super marathon through the Sahara desert, ending in a casual swim through shark infested waters. Cool, I can do that.

I have two weeks left of not drinking, and it couldn't seem longer. Yet when I reflect on the weeks that have foregone these ones, I am given hope. Hope that I will not fail and drown with the sharks.

Dryathlon aside, it seems as though two little weeks have the capacity to change everything, including my fickle opinions and life-lusts, and judging by the disastrous Facebook status updates over the festive period, I do not feel that I am the only one to experience these tempestuous emotions.

A prime example; home. One and a bit months ago, it was two weeks until I could go home and gorge myself in English delights that were, until that point, only the substance of dreams. I could not contain myself. Day dreams would turn into salivation fests as I imagined Bovril on toast, and fantasised about the contents of the fridge in my parents' kitchen. Big old whale tears would fill my eyes as I thought about the disgusting distance between myself and the vats of clotted cream and brandy butter I would consume.

The day in which I would go home nearly tipped me over the edge of anticipation. Sitting on a train to Munich, I wrote the following:

"He who dares". Sitting on the train to Munich Airport, tears of anticipation glistening in our eyes, we reflect on how bloody hard the last three months have been, and envisage the imminant reunification with our darling Land of Hope and Glory. Three months, that could have been three years, a lifetime; so much has changed. But we did it. We stepped out from the crowd, put our middle finger up at mediocrity and normality, and embraced the unknown. We are the luckiest people alive to say that we gambled and won; of course it hasn't been easy and yorkshire puddings seem like a distant memory, but we're going home for two weeks, and that's all that matters.

The greatest people in life gambled. I think I speak for many when I say that the most frustrating thing is people who complain about their lives being boring, or ordinary. Do something. Do something extraordinary. Whether it is bottling tap water and claiming it's spring, or moving to another country, a little bravery is all it takes.

Who cares if you fail? Does it actually matter if all you gain is a bruised ego and scorching cheeks? If no-one ever tried, what would we ever achieve.

I am so proud. Proud of myself and everyone who does something that scares them every day; and I am so fortunate. Fortunate to be a citizen of a nation where daring could lead to extraordinary things; to adventures and experiences that others could only dream of.

Del Boy, you are my idol. "He who dares" is the best advice I have ever received.

Reading back on this, then remembering the 14 days at home which would change everything, I am filled with motivation. Two weeks is nothing. Two weeks is only this week and another week, and when you think about it like that, it's easy. I can do it, sharks or no sharks.

Whatever I try and achieve this year, I will do in two week blocks. Long enough to feel like a lifetime, yet short enough to see the tantalising end.

Two weeks; the most contradictory and confusing time span in the history of mankind.
Let these two weeks be quick.

Bovril.

To someone who hasn't lived in a foreign country for a considerable amount of time before, Bovril cravings sound bizarre at best, and moronic at worst. I can assure you, as can every expat dotted across our beautiful globe, Bovril cravings (or whatever wonderfully British condiment you choose) are real and painfully poignant.

Imagine, it is a bitterly cold day in your foreign country of choice, you've got dew drops hanging from your rosy nose and you need something to warm your old cockles up. Hot Bovril is your only solution, yet you cannot get hold of this prized possession for love nor money because this fabulous European land has never heard of the sticky brown magic. Genuine whale tears fill my poor eyes just thinking of this horrid predicament.

Imagine, you wake up, fuzzy headed and blurry eyed from a night on the town with the natives, drinking booze brewed from home grown potatoes in someone's grandma's kitchen. You need toast. Toast and Bovril will save the day. You know exactly what you need and you need it pretty urgently because you might end up redecorating your bedroom otherwise, but then the fatal reality dawns on you. No Bovril. No toast.

Now, fast forward a couple of months.

Imagine, home. England. Land of dreams. Sitting in your kitchen, your stomach rumbles; you're not hungry, only peckish. What to eat? Currywurst? Brotchen? The list continues with mundane options, then with jaw dropping breath taking astounding magical phenomenal exhilarating wondrous realisation, you remember that Bovril is in the cupboard and Best-of-Both is in the bread bin. No words can describe that moment. Nothing in the world has ever tasted that good.

With panging emotions that come flooding with the beefy goodness, you remember your Grandad, cockling, long dog walks, fighting with your siblings, Norfolk, hangovers at Woolly D, Nan's gravy, Sunday lunch, midnight feasts, smoky pubs, rainy summer picnics, school dinners. Memories all over the shop with one delicious message:

you are home.youarehome.YOU. ARE. HOME.

Bovril, you are the meaning of home and I love you.

Alcohol.

Christmas time, mistletoe and wine. Well, actually, lots of wine. So much wine that today I have the mother of all hangovers, a red wine stained hat, no money and an empty bottle collection on my bedside table that would put any hardened alcy to shame.

I think I can speak for many households in Great Britain when I say, it's the same story every year. One vat of mulled wine and several G&Ts later, Grandad is merrily chewing the ears off my sister with enthralling wartime stories; the dog has nicked Mum's chocolates and has emptied the contents of his stomach on her prized Persian rug; the boys are close to a punch-up due to dubious rule breaking in the Snooker/Darts Championship and Dad has fallen asleep, open mouthed on the sofa whilst claiming to be watching a repeat of 'Darling Buds of May'.

I don't think anyone actually looks forward to this tried and tested formula for Christmas day, it's all a bit too stressful. The festive spirit is just a bit too much for us to handle, so alcohol is used liberally to lubricate everyone's moods so we can maybe start to resemble a happy, 'normal', functioning family. Or maybe just get us so blotto we don't care that Grandad's telling us for the 500th time that he liberated Jersey from the Germans, or that his false teeth keep falling out when he talks.

Pondering on this Christmas' alcohol abuse, and being fully motivated by a tequila-gin-wine-Guinness cocktail hangover, I have decided to give it all up for a month in aid of a charity that strives to help and transform lives, Cancer Research UK. It's all a bit silly really when you think about it; most of the population getting drunk because we can't handle familial awkwardness, while others are fighting with everything they've got for the chance to argue about the rules of Monopoly next year. Perspective, in this situation, is very sorely needed.

So, I'm going to do it. Friends, family, strangers; this girl is going to be G&T free for the entirety of January. This may sound like a walk in the park, but for me - this is huge. How am I going to survive a day at school without the promise of some Amber Nectar when I get home? £5 or £50, I don't care how much I raise, as long as it goes to help someone that needs it more than me.

Christ knows how well this is going to go.
Wish me luck.

http://www.justgiving.com/dryathlete-joanna-ford

Grumpy Sod.

With only ten days 'til the long awaited return home to my wonderful Heimat, England - aka magical-place-of-dreams, fifteen days 'til Christmas and twenty one days 'til the End of the World (depending on which rumour you listen to), it is all too easy to lose touch with reality and become caught up in a whirlwind of self inflicted moroseness.

It is a commonly known fact that I am a whinger - as are 99.9% of the British population. Nothing is ever 'alright', even though we insist on a daily basis that it is. It's snowing on Christmas Day for the first time in fifty years, "Bloody freezing"; it's a blazing hot day, the cricket's on and the Pimms is flowing from magical pop up springs, "Too bloody hot for my liking..."; it's raining after a four week midsummer drought, "This country is bloody awful - always bloody raining." Christmas is a prime example of just how whiney and ridiculous we all are, and I will put myself forward as the chief candidate for Seasonal Hypercondriac Syndrome.

Let's be perfectly honest, my life is fabulous, yet I fail to see on a daily basis the utter virtues of the lifestyle I lead.

Reasons my life is wicked:

1. My family are healthy, happyish, and I love them. We throw strops over monopoly, and it's cool. They are the never ever ending link between my past and future.
2. My friends are healthy, happyish and I love them. We do not argue (apart from whether sand in Fuetaventura is imported from the Saraha or not) and they are always armed with buckets loads of gin&tonic formed support.
3. I live the dream; it's snowing, there's a Christmas market at the end of my road, I live in Germany, every weekend is an adventure.
4. It's Christmas.
5. I go to University and have unbounded chances in life.
6. I am young and can get away with doing ridiculous things, such as locking myself in a toilet cubicle for 20 minutes 'cause I'm too drunk, without it having a serious effect on anyone. (Sorry and thank-you to Sam for rescuing me and paying my wine bill...)

Reasons my life is pants:

1. I miss my family.
2. I miss my friends.
3. I'm dreaming of England and Bovril and bramley apple sausages and chicken pie and Walkers crisps and salted butter and custard creams and Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and crumpets and Wispa bars...
4. I haven't bought my Christmas presents yet.
5. I have so much Uni work to do I feel like I could jump into a pool of it and have a little swim around.
6. I am 22 in less than a month, which renders it valid for me to be affectionately called 'Granny Joanney', 'Gran Attack' and 'Joan' by my friends.

As we can see from this clear layout of 'Wicked vs. Pants', wicked wins every time, yet I seem to only ever mention the negative. Is this a British psyche? Or am I just miserable?

As I look out of my little window to the torrents of snow cascading from the sky, listening to the sounds of teenage boys lobbing lumps of snow at squealing gaggles of teenage girls, my immediate thoughts are of disgust and despair at the prospect of having to venture into the icy nightmare and negotiate my way through the hoards of hormonal snowball fights. But why? Whilst reassessing this situation, I scald myself for being such a bore and grumpy guts. What would the seven year old Joanna make of my current opinions? Surely it is clear as gin that snow is perfectly beautiful; virgin white, dousing everything with untouchable silence and reverence, and that the high pitched screams are just as pure; sounds of utter delight and excitement and potential love. Shaking my head, I dismiss these thoughts as vile; snow serves one decent observation - how many people actually piss up the side of trees.

I am not sure how we tackle this Seasonal Hypercondriac Syndrome - it seems too deep rooted in our mindsets. As we hustle and bustle and jostle our way through the shops in the dying days before the day of all days, it seems that all we can think about is the immediate and impending stress of it all. In this one rare moment of mental clarity during a horrific snowstorm tucked in a remote corner of SW Germany no-one at home even cares to know exists, I think of all the people hustling and bustling and jostling for a bargain, and want to cry.

Christmas is about love - every advert and television programme and film rams that point down our throats - but what does that actually mean? I highly doubt that it is practically slapping the woman next to us in contest for the last pair of cashmere gloves in the John Lewis sale. So why do we forget? Why can't we all just wake up on Christmas morning and appreciate the loved ones we have neglected for the rest of the year? Is it so hard to forget the presents, and the money, and the food, and the stress, and see the bliss in the eye of a stranger when we do something kind for them?

There are no conclusions to my observations, only vague and distant hopes.

I hope to forget my adult cynicism and dissatisfaction. I hope to love more and moan less. I hope to one day fully enjoy the beauty of snow. I hope that everyone this Christmas forgets their made up and imagined problems, remembers everything good that has ever happened to them and has a bloody good time.

Merry Christmas you grumpy sods - Jo x

James Bond.

A few weeks ago, myself and Samuel went to see James Bond, auf Deutsch.

We went to the little cinema in G-town, and sat clutching a litre of Coke and some M&Ms. I did not leave this lovely little establishment disappointed; quite the contrary, I left pining for London and all things British.

I had never been quite able to place my finger on the exact thing that seperated us Brits from our charming German friends, until Mr Bond cracked a joke and the only cackles heard in the cinema came from the two naughty expats sitting at the back.

It is not as if German people are not funny, or do not have a sense of humour, it is just that it is starkly different from our own brand of highly ironic, tongue in cheek, take-the-piss-out-of-everyone comedic pessimism. We actively enjoy being miserable, and everyone else being miserable too. We love a stereotype, adore the underdog and hate the know-it-all, successful, smug, wholesome type. We are still in the midsts of a God awful hangover brewed by our gin swigging Victorian ancestors, and so could not possibly let our stiff upper lip waver. Heaven forbid in times of imminant life threatening danger, that we should forget to utter a joke about the weather.

(To be continued when I´m not at school...)

Positive Mondays.

Quite a lot of the time whilst trying to control an angry mob, otherwise known as a year 8 class first period on a Monday morning, being positive seems to be the last eventuality in the world. I think I can speak for a few people when I say that it is far more likely that a full on temper tantrum favoured by three year olds in supermarkets, followed by a sulking fit that would put any jealous teenage girl to shame, will ensue, rather than the more favourable smile-and-nod technique which is usually encouraged in schools.

The simple fact is, they don't care about asking for directions in New York when they are sitting in their dull classroom, with dull weather beating against the window panes, in a dull corner of Germany, at the impossibly dull time of 7.37am. It is far more likely that they will fall asleep within the next hour, than ever make it to the fabled Big Apple.

I know they don't care. They know I know. Chaos, tantrums and sulking seem the only option in this rather dire situation.

It's Sunday. The mere thought of tomorrow morning sends me spiralling into a pit of self-pity and loathing. 'Why, WHY am I here?! No, seriously, why am I even doing this...' - sinking rapidly into this unsavoury sea of despair, I question why I am bothering with German language (it's ugly expressions grate on my conscience); I question my capabilities as a teacher (envisage a riot - it is more controlled); I question the merits of even living in another country for a year (there is no marmite, or bovril) and images of my life panning out as a Hausfrau wearing Hausschuhe and sipping Apfelschorle became a delirious truth. Drowning. Drowning and choking and drowning, the only way out is another human whose sanity has not yet been effected.

You need that person to haul you out of the water, towel you dry and give you a cup of tea, whilst continually reassuring you that Queen and Country will still be there in December, and that Gold will not stop playing repeats of Only Fools and Horses and AbFab in your absence. You need them to tell you that clotted cream and walkers crisps will taste like an orgasm has erupted on your tongue and your tastebuds are having an orgy, if you just wait it out, ride the storm, restrain the urge to jump on the next flight to England, and linger a little longer in your self prescribed hell before you raid the fridge of your dreams.

Your saviour will be someone/people you have met here. The bond of mutual homesickness and adventure will never be broken; you will no doubt be lifelong friends, continually picking each other up out of the mud and rescuing each other from angry mobs of 14 year olds.

With this in mind, it is all worth it. Human companionship makes it worth it.

Make Monday positive, the smile-and-nod technique might just work after all.

Karma.

Today, the Karma police snuck up on me in my sleep, and came to bite me on the bum.

I run a conversation class every Monday for members of the sixth form in my school, and have been doing so for the last three weeks. Not one member of the sixth form has of yet turned up for said conversation class.

I have tried everything. My dignity is now on the line. I have tried to lure them with the promise of cakes, coffee, chocolate, help with English essays, gifts and prizes, with no success.

So, this is now my last resort. I am making a public apology to all of my German teachers and assistants who lovingly prepared interesting and fulfilling classes, debates and discussions, to which I never turned up. It was rude, selfish and arrogant of me, and I am sorry.

It is never good to get a taste of your own medicine, and now I honestly believe that what goes around, really does come back around. Karma, please leave me alone now. I have learned my lesson.

GO TO YOUR CLASSES.

I've got the blues...

...Because I need your love so bad.

A post about love. How could you ever sum up love? The word drives me crazy - it cannot encapsulate the myriad of emotions that it is meant to represent, so we throw it around, abuse and misuse it. "I love your dress", "I love chocolate", "I love you", "I have never loved you".

I truly believe that this last month in Germany has taught me more about that word and its emotions than the previous 21 years ever could.

Perhaps I am homesick; or maybe it's the flashes of golden sunlight streaming through yellow and red leaves. It could just be that the people I love are not happy, and there is nothing I can do about it.

The solution to all these problems might just be Fleetwood Mac.

Immigrant.

Last week I got called an immigrant. No, I'm lying, I got called a 'fucking immigrant', and got asked politely to 'go back to my own fucking country'.

Now, I'm not sure about you, but I have never really thought about the impact that word could have on someone. I recognised that it was a label, a label we use on a daily basis in the media, but I never thought of how it could make someone feel, as surely 'immigrant' is just a technical term to describe someone not living in the country they were born into? Surely?


That word 'immigrant' made me feel sick. As I stood outside my German class with a mixed bunch of foreigners all keen to learn the language, we got abuse hurled at us from a respectable looking middle aged man, who did not look dissimilar from my own Dad. He was wearing a suit, we were in his way, he was probably tired and irritable from a long gruelling day in the office, but that only made his words all the more venomous.

'How dare he? I'm not an immigrant!' - The instant rage bubbled beneath my skin; I could feel my fingertips tingling with adrenaline and my neck stiffen ready to battle with the lines 'two world wars, one world cup', but within milliseconds, this insatiable rage gave way to utter humiliation - 'Oh Christ, I am an immigrant. I don't belong here.' The heat radiation coming from my burning cheeks could have fried an egg. No exaggeration.

But why should I feel so ashamed? Because I am wholeheartedly taking advantage of the generous German FSA scheme? Or perhaps because I stick out like a sore thumb in a place where anyone wearing anything but the jeans-tshirt-converse-scarf-leatherjacket combination is considered pioneering. But most likely, it is because I am not like everyone else; horror of horrors - I am British.

Immigrant suggests that you can never wash the taint of your home country off of your skin. You can walk the walk, talk the talk, eat their disgusting food, but as soon as you're called an immigrant, your charade as a native is viciously pulled away. You are exposed for what you truly are. Naked and vulnerable to a culture that is not your own.

All of these sentiments washing through you and over you and into every part of your being, with one small word. Reducing someone to a mere label. You are an immigrant, you are nothing.

I address this post to everyone living in their native country; I beg of you, please rethink how you use this term. Don't make others feel different, I'm sure they are well aware of the many social faux pas' they make on a daily basis, and don't need you to highlight the fact that they said 'shall we kiss', instead of 'shall we cook'.

I am humbled, humiliated, sometimes hated, and my British high-horse has been firmly swept away, but that's alright, 'cos I'm a job stealing, benefit thieving immigrant, and I bloody love it.

Winning at Life.

Until a day like today pops into your life, it is very easy to believe that they do not exist, that they are the fictional produce of Hollywood and Jane Austen novels.

Today is a day which is brimming with joy, joy which is all the more delicious because you know that you are the only one responsible for such intoxicating feelings. No-one else has made you feel like this - this is the culmination of days, weeks, months, or even years worth of hard graft. And it's all yours.

Today is the day that you realise that it might all be worth it; there might actually be light at the end of the tunnel. Fulfilled dreams are not a lifetime away, they are right in front of you waiting to be snatched up and greedily consumed.

And today is the day that you recognise that 30 shit days are completely worth this one day of utter happiness and contentment, because you did it yourself, and no-one can take that away from you.

Beer.

It turns out, Germans like beer.

I know this may shock and surprise some people, but it is true; they really do love the stuff. So much so, that towns dedicate whole weeks of the calender to celebrate the majesty of the beer produced in the region - singing songs, holding hands and guzzling litres of the liquid gold, whilst parading around in leather trousers and bosom enhancing dresses.

Last Saturday, I found myself in the midst of this mayhem. Picture the scene, myself (a timid, modest young lady who enjoys a quiet ginger beer at the end of a long day) accompanied by two like minded gentleman, stranded in a beer hall where the only occupations available to us were: beer, beer songs, beer induced dancing and beer induced friendship making. Terrible. Bad Canstatt promised a 'Volksfest', rather naively I believed this to involve a tombola, merry-go-round and a tin of sweets.

After this horrendous encounter with the beer-loving masses, I decided to investigate further into this dark underbelly of German culture.

My first stop was the supermarket. Not only were there nearly one hundred varieties of beer available to take away in crates, they were priced at a maximum of 90c each, and many of them were brewed locally! In my very town! Not only that, dear Readers, but if you take your used bottles back, you will receive money for doing so - practically forcing the poor consumer to drink.

A diversion into work on Monday illuminated me to the fact that the wretchedness of drinking beer is not only forced upon adults in this country, but the teenagers too. A youth, 16 years of age, in my English class informed me that he too had been at the so-called 'Volksfest', and not just on the fun fair rides, Ladies and Gentlemen, in the beer tents too! It is legal to drink beer and wine from the age of 16; well I never.

Tired of this investigation, I arrived back to my home town to find that a wine festival had taken over its sleepy streets.
What ever will they think of next?!

Last night.

Things I remember from last night:

- Oktoberfest.
- Beer.
- Drunk Mark.
- Being really hot.
- Being really cold.
- A random hut party in the woods.
- Inviting myself and Sam to stay at someone's grandparent's house.
- Tequila.

Things I do not remember from last night:

- How we got to the random hut party in the woods.
- Who I was talking to in the random hut.
- When we left the Oktoberfest.
- Where the new German girl is now.
- Where drunk Mark is now.
- Where the Grandparent's house is.
- Why I was in the woods drinking in a hut.
- Tequila.

Dry yer eyes mate

Moving away, abroad or otherwise, is hard. There is no doubt that changing address, packing your belongings, new bank accounts, insurance, mobile number, culture, language, job, and worst of all - saying goodbye to loved ones, cause unrelenting stress and the occasional outburst of tears. I am no exception to this rule.

So there, I said it. I cried. Cried so much that my eyes stung and my breath got caught in my lungs in shoulder shuddering sobs. Cried so violently that I felt sick, and for so long, that I forgot what I was crying about. Am I ashamed? Not one bit.

This outburst of emotion at seeing an all important train pull away from the platform can only be descibed as release; the physical acknowledgement of the physical changes I have made to my life. Mourning the loss of one stage, and acceptance for the next. For better or for worse, time must move forward, and change must ensue.

This is not to say that I wouldn't kill to spend tonight in my own bed, in a corner of Surrey neatly tucked in next to the airport and motorway, midst the din of family arguments, my sister's excellent baking, and a nutty hound, but I cannot dispute the appeal of everything in my new environment.

Yes, relatively, I am alone, but that only means I have room to make new friends. No, I cannot speak the language very well, but I will just have to learn; millions of people do it every year. The weather is dismal, the fashion is appalling and to say the people are conservative is an understatement, but that does not mean I will not adapt.

In conclusion, I wanted to share this horrendously personal insight into my life for the sake of all the people resisting changes in their's, whether greater or smaller than mine, because sometimes it's good to know that someone else had a crap time too.

But, always remember the great philosopher Derek Trotter and his wise words, "This time next year, we'll be millionaires", and maybe one day, just like him, your optimism will be rewarded with riches beyond your belief.