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?!

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.

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

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.