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.

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.

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