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.

Dry yer eyes mate

Moving away, abroad or otherwise, is hard. There is no doubt that changing address, packing your belongings, new bank accounts, insurance, mobile number, culture, language, job, and worst of all - saying goodbye to loved ones, cause unrelenting stress and the occasional outburst of tears. I am no exception to this rule.

So there, I said it. I cried. Cried so much that my eyes stung and my breath got caught in my lungs in shoulder shuddering sobs. Cried so violently that I felt sick, and for so long, that I forgot what I was crying about. Am I ashamed? Not one bit.

This outburst of emotion at seeing an all important train pull away from the platform can only be descibed as release; the physical acknowledgement of the physical changes I have made to my life. Mourning the loss of one stage, and acceptance for the next. For better or for worse, time must move forward, and change must ensue.

This is not to say that I wouldn't kill to spend tonight in my own bed, in a corner of Surrey neatly tucked in next to the airport and motorway, midst the din of family arguments, my sister's excellent baking, and a nutty hound, but I cannot dispute the appeal of everything in my new environment.

Yes, relatively, I am alone, but that only means I have room to make new friends. No, I cannot speak the language very well, but I will just have to learn; millions of people do it every year. The weather is dismal, the fashion is appalling and to say the people are conservative is an understatement, but that does not mean I will not adapt.

In conclusion, I wanted to share this horrendously personal insight into my life for the sake of all the people resisting changes in their's, whether greater or smaller than mine, because sometimes it's good to know that someone else had a crap time too.

But, always remember the great philosopher Derek Trotter and his wise words, "This time next year, we'll be millionaires", and maybe one day, just like him, your optimism will be rewarded with riches beyond your belief.