What's on Your Mind?

(Excellent lesson on how to make toast. Top teacher.)

Today I discussed with some Abitur students what, and what is not, appropriate to reply with to the question; "How are you?"

It seems the common German stereotype is correct; when faced with the challenge of answering that question, they will undoubtedly tell the truth.

"Oh yes, Miss Ford, I am very tired today because my parents kept me awake all night with their loud and violent argument about who took out the gelbe Sacke recycling bag last week."

It does not just sound rather obtuse to my delicate English ears, but also completely uninteresting and awkward. I simply do not want to know the personal intricacies of a relative stranger's familial existence. Nor do I particularly care, on closer inspection, how he really is; I just want to carry on my selfish little day uninterrupted and only asked about his state of affairs that day in order to maintain an illusion of politeness.

After presenting my case to the students, they all protested that British people must all be liars if they answer the obligatory, "yeah, I'm fine thanks, you?", when they are actually thinking, "I have never felt worse, now piss off". I kindly explained that it was not lying, as such, more masking the truth with a more palatable and less socially awkward answer.

My explanation was a waste of breath. To no avail I was left flapping around in front of the blackboard trying to defend my culture’s anally polite ways.

Fast forward 24 hours, a little research and a wrestling match with the photocopier, I arrived back in the classroom armed with enough sheets to wallpaper the whole school, and plonked them on the desk with a satisfactory smug thump that only teachers and their wannabes can perfect.

Humbly, I admitted defeat (which to anyone who is personally acquainted with me knows, is nothing short of a miracle) and stated that they were right; British people, on-the-whole, are concealers of the truth, and that their pants should be continually smoking by the amount of fire they generate even by saying the daily hello etc. in the office each morning.

What I also pointed out, however, is that we Brits have a whole subculture of truth telling which has become an art form in itself. It may be socially unacceptable to pour over the details of your heart's desire with a real human person, but an anonymous note to an artistic keeper of secrets will do just fine.

So in the name of art and British etiquette, I got my students to participate in the following project aptly named What's on Your Mind? (http://whatsonyourmindblog.tumblr.com/). You send in a totally anonymous email with the hope that you will relieve yourself of an otherwise catastrophic social faux pas. Of course, they all thought I was balmy, but took part happily, and included delightful notes such as 'Lena is hot' and 'I need a piss'.

An interesting social experiment, I think. Not everyone cares or worries about the same thing, and it might make others feel a little less crazy when they read the deep dark depths of their teacher's mind...

I wonder if dogs in different countries bark in different languages...

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.

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.

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?!

Trains.

Stereo-typically, German trains are famous for working like clock work; clean as a new pin, regular, cheap and always on time. I would like to point out, that this stereotype is not entirely correct, as my adventures this week have highlighted.

On Tuesday, myself and Jonboy ventured out to the nearby city of Stuttgart. We got told to depart the train when we were one stop away from the city, travel back to the previous station in order that we may catch another train to take us into the city centre. No reason was given for this mysterious rerouting, but added an extra hour and a half to our journey. Once in Stuttgart, we had lunch in the gardens overlooking the new palace, then wandered round the beautifully renovated Cathedral. It was gutted in WW2 by bombs dropped by the Allies, and almost had to be completely rebuilt. The result of the renovation is purely stunning - the beautiful old building maintains its ancient charm and majesty, yet is fitted in almost entirely modern decoration.

We filled our trip to Stuttgart with cultural excursions to the old castle, the Vodafone shop (another story...) and a few oldy worldy bars, before jumping on a train to take us safely back home. Before too long, the ticket conductor was shaking his head and trying to rob us of all our lovely Euros. 'Wrong ticket, you cannot use this train'. My poor English head couldn't understand this supreme German logic, and I pointed out that the ticket said 'Stuttgart-Goeppingen, any route', although he retorted that this was a special train, which we hadn't paid for. No-one bloody told us. Having none of it, I hastily resorted to pretending that I did not understand anything he said, and looked as if I was going to cry. That told him. No fine was paid.

Wednesday's train to the Mercedes Museum was similarly delayed, but we minded little due to the childlike excitement we both had at seeing lots of shiny cars. If I ever needed motivation to work hard so I could afford the finer things in life, that place certainly was it.

A trip to Tuebingen to see Mark, and the wonderful medieval town, sealed the deal on my lack of faith in German transport. Saturday afternoon saw us miss every connection due to delays in the network. Where's Southern Railway when you need them? All delays aside, we had a lovely evening perusing the old breweries in the town, watching a brass band playing outside the Rathaus (Town Hall), getting lost down the cobbled backstreets, and gorging on Italian food for dinner.

Perhaps my rant on the state of the trains is duly unjust, as I feel I may have a personal hatred of them tonight. The delayed-by-five-minutes-we-are-sorry-for-the-inconvenience train, which whisked J off to the airport, left half an hour ago, and left me standing like a plonker at the platform.

And so, my true Jaunts in Germany begin tomorrow, 7.07 AM at the same platform I was left at earlier, with a train to Cologne, taking me to the place which will train me to be a language assistant.

Let's hope, for all our sake, that it's on time.

I can't speak German.

Resting my face on an open grammar page, amidst a sea of optimistic looking text books, I have the horrible realisation that I cannot speak German. 41 days to go until I board the plane whizzing me to my new Black Forest home, and I do not know the word for light bulb, pillow case or plug socket, and I have successfully told my future landlady that I want to kiss her, instead of telling her that I look forward to seeing the kitchen.

Despair at my hopeless case continued to wash over me all evening, until I happened upon a fool proof plan; post-it notes.

Much to the horror of everyone around me, I have decided to plaster post-it note labels on everything I own, with the intention of soaking up all this extra vocabulary stress free. I refuse to see a flaw to this I-don't-speak-German-I'm-moving-to-Germany rescue remedy.

After 10 long years of attempting to master this language, a neon coloured light is twinkling at the end of the tunnel.

Buying post-its tomorrow.