I'm wiv da DJ

As you may have guessed, my boyfriend is messes around with other people's songs, and here is his new remix. Like, favourite, share.

P.S - Rabbits

During the week, I attempted to introduce some students to the art of Cockney Rhyming Slang, of which I am no expert myself. I learnt many things, they on the other hand did not learn very much and now think everyone in South London is a poet, or absolutely balmy and should stop drinking warm beer. Either way, it was a roaring success and now I have tribes of German children telling people to 'stop rabbiting on'.



When I was younger (as in, up to the last time I had a chance to speak to my Dad; 1 day still counts as younger...) he would continually tell me that I had 'more rabbit than Sainsburys', and I would secretly laugh at him despite the fact I was getting told off. I thought he was mad: 'errrrr Daddy, Sainsburys don't even SELL rabbits!', and would merrily continue with my aimless one sided babbling, much to his displeasure.

Now, anyone clued up enough to know that 'rabbit' clearly refers to 'rabbit and pork', which obviously means 'talk', will understand what my wonderful father was saying.



Older, not much wiser, yet still monopolising the rabbit market, I realised that when I'm writing, 99.9% of the time I do not know to whom I am writing; I merely just keep going on until my fingers hurt or I run out of things to write, or realise that I am just writing to myself and that the whole process is a little comical. Not only do I own more rabbits that Sainsburys, but also Waitrose and the local butcher (Tescos and Morrisons aren't posh enough to stock rabbit).

But maybe there's method to my madness. Maybe by unleashing the rabbits onto the big wide web, I will save my poor boyfriend from premature deafness, and leave reminders to my 60 year old self about what happened in my 22 year old brain. I am writing to the future me; I want to remind myself of all the fabulous things I have done and seen, all the weird and wonderful people I have met, the best and worst beers I have consumed, the reasons I should or shouldn't be allowed to drink tequila, the colour of the best sunset this spring, the smell of currywurst, the feeling of freezing snow being blasted down your neck, and the sweet euphoria of sniding a coffee before a lesson at 7.30am with 28 moody 13 year olds.

I haven't written a lot recently, because I have been having too many adventures. I'm sorry to brag, but that is the truth. One day I will have to be a grown up and earn proper money in a proper job, and it will probably be pants, so I may as well enjoy myself while I can. With that in mind, I am going to try and write about every adventure I have had since the first adventure here in Germany, and I'm going to call the whole collection:

"the Rabbit House Incident (whereby myself and Samuel woke up in a house full of rabbits)"

Just thought I'd warn ya.

- Jo

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.

Stroppy.

To put it simply, this week has been a bad week and I am now sitting in my room alone, eating 'health surprise'*, drinking wine out of the bottle and swearing aimlessly at inanimate objects.

Classy, and oh-so productive.

Pondering my rather vile mood, I thought I would take this chance to politely raise the following issues I have with the general public, and in the case that people have the same problems, urge them to forward the message of discontentment to those concerned.

(*Health surprise, for those unlucky enough to not know, is a fine concoction made of butter and sugar. It has been medically proven to promote a better mood, and stop crying in times of desperation. Also increases essay and dissertation productivity rates by at least 5%.)




Please stop pointing out the bleedin' obvious.

Namely:

"What's wrong with you today? You're well moody."

Apart from being an utterly stupid thing to say, it does nothing but make said moody person even more moody (and hate you).

Plz stp rytin lyk dis

wt u chatin brv? dere shud b no imigrints in dis cuntry cuz were british nd we wn2 stay british nd al de imigrints r durti nd smell ov curry init.

Your point is invalid, you moron.

Please refrain from Facebook photo dick comparison.

(Might I just point out, not actual dick comparison.)
I mean the endless photo comments which involve statements such as:

"Ohmigawd Jessica, can you just go and get ugly please?!?!"
"Don't even know why I uploaded this photo, I'm soooo ugly."
"Ew ew ew, I look horrible, you look so hot! ohmigod I'm ugly. Ug.Er.Lee."

And other mindless drivel.

Please stop harlem shaking.

I am out of the loop; watching the videos makes me feel old, because I simply don't get it.


Please stop making me jealous of your life.

Okay, I get it. You are wonderful. You don't sit alone drinking wine out of the bottle. You are in the gym. You can already speak 4 languages, including Mandarin. You donated all your money to charity 'cos you haven't racked up a huge credit card bill or horrendous overdraft you can't pay back. You don't cry when you stub your toe or swear when you get mascara in your eye, because you always look where you're going and don't need to wear makeup. Your YouTube videos are witty and charming, and when you sing along to your guitar, my heart really does melt. You are naturally that tanned, that blonde, that laid back, and when people say 'she's the nicest person I've ever met', they really do mean it.

I'm cool with that.

Please stop hashtagging things on Facebook.

It's endlessly annoying, and it shouldn't be. The fact I am annoyed at such a triviality is in itself annoying. I am so annoyed that I just wrote that. Why am I annoyed?! AH!

See, the complexities of my brain cannot handle any confusion between Facebook and Twitter usage.


By writing this down, I feel as though I've done my bit for society today. I am ridiculous. Ignore me.

Muma.

When I was little and ill (or not so little and horrendously hungover), Muma Ford would take pity on her eldest daughter's whimpering and bring me hot Ribena. She'd say:

Blow on it before you drink it Joanna, it's hot.

And as she'd walk away, I'd mumble how I was ill and not stupid, before preceding to burn my lips and tongue on scalding blackcurrant squash.

Today, feeling rather ill and whimpery, I made myself some hot Ribena. I burnt my lips and tongue. I cried. I then calculated the exact distance my darling mother is from me on Google maps, whimpered some more, then went to sleep.

Please, if you see your Mum today, give her a hug from me.

I miss mine.

Alive.

Smile and the whole world smiles with you.

That much, at least, is true on a sunny day. Even the resident chavs and emos in the park cracked a grin my way when I inanely flashed them my widest grin and then carried on humming to myself. On second thoughts, they probably just thought I was crackers.

As the earth warms up, it seems everyone's moods do too - even if it's just for a little while. Snow is forecast to make its unwelcome return next week, so it's as if everything is living twice as hard while they have the sun on their backs.

The birds are singing twice as loud. (As I write this I can barely hear myself think. Ducks vs. Sparrows, I have a feeling. The ultimate standoff. The ducks are winning on the noise levels, the sparrows on the quality and variety of tone.)

The old men playing chess are bellowing insults at the children with twice as much gusto.



The boys playing football are using twice as many swearwords.

The gossiping Italian women are throwing their arms twice as wide in exclamation. (Oh my God the sun is shiiiiiiiningggg!)

There are twice as many couples bickering lovingly on the streets, and I've spotted twice as many stolen kisses at the back of classrooms.



Everything has been swept up in this sudden tide of warmth, and for the first time in a long time, the world is trembling with life.

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...

McCoy's.

Sam pointed out to me the other day that his Marmite on toast tasted 100% better when I made it for him. After scoffing at him for a few minutes, and giving him the 'you are a ridiculous human' look, I had to admit that he had a point; my Bovril did taste better when spread by his fair hand. Well, to be honest, his hands have nothing to do with it; Bovril tastes better when you don't have to prepare it yourself.

Here are some other food items which also double their taste value when taken from someone else:

- Crisps.

Picture the scene: You are in a civilised English public house with your family and the kind so-and-so who is buying the next round asks if anyone wants a packet of crisps to accompany their pint. Unanimously, you all shake your heads and say, 'Oh no thank you, I'm fine', and you mean it. This isn't a sneaky English lie whereby you say you're fine but actually mean , 'Oh good Lord yes please! I haven't eaten in five hours', or other such sneaky English polite fibs. You really don't want any crisps, but as soon as one person opens their solitary packet of Flame Grilled Steak McCoy's, everyone's mouth is watering enough to make the Sahara fertile.

Once offered a crisp, you can't refuse; you know it is single-handedly going to be the best thing you have ever eaten. And it is. The rich flavours of steak and crisps and preservatives flood your mouth, perfectly complementing your fine local ale. One crisp bliss; if you had your own packet, it wouldn't taste the same.

- Peanuts.

Same principle as crisps, only nuts.

- Party food.

I'm sorry friends, I have to admit that one of the most exciting prospects of going to a party is the array of snacks that will be on offer. Why are sausage rolls put on a plate by someone else SO much more delicious?! The same goes for the carrot sticks, potted Tesco hummus, Ritz biscuits, cheese&pinapple sticks... I know they are exactly the same as the things in my fridge, but they are tantalising and intriguing. I have to sample everything on offer, just in case I never get the chance to eat such a varied array of food types again.

There are actually too many things to mention without sounding like a food obsessed thief. Please send in your favourite food-steals and why the taste so bloomin' good! All thoughts will be added to this ever growing list. I can't be the only one this obsessed with stealing food, surely?!

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.