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.

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.