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.

Trendy, Part 2.

Hey Y'all fashion loverrrrs!

So sorry sweeties for not publishing this earlier, have been dashing around like a moron trying things out so you don't have to! I know you've all probably been dying to get your next installment on how to become the next trendsetter, but let me reassure you darlings, patience really is a virtue in this instance.

Joanna Ford: Trendsetter Part 2. 'Go on a diet'.

Now, I know what some of you are probably thinking - 'oh my goodness, she's mental' - but this diet really does work! No more nasty low-carb options, and it leaves you feeling full and content - what more could you want? I've called it The German Diet, and have compiled a typical day's menu for you to sample, because caring is sharing, fashion friends!

1st meal: Pre-breakfast snack.


Milka. Preferably the variety that is on offer in Rewe for 55 cent (it makes it all the more delicious). I advise leaving the chocolate on your bedside table, so that you don't forget to take your morning supplement before you get out of bed. Think of this ordeal as you would suncream; Milka chocolate will protect you the from world's ills. A chore, yes - but one you will be thanking yourself for by the moody mid-afternoon slump! Mood enhancing factor 30! What's not to love?

2nd meal: Breakfast.


This should include at least four types of sausage or cured meat, cheese that tastes like a foot, three varieties of bread, unsalted butter, honey and enough coffee to kill a small animal. And there you have it; ready and prepared to take on the world before the sun has even decided to rise.

3rd meal: Mid-Morning snack.


Butter Bretzel. You should purchase your butter bretzel (pretzel with butter for all you 'deutsch-phobics' out there!), in a local bakery where they are fresh out the oven and neatly stacked in orderly lines to maximise selling efficiency. At a tidy little 1 Euro - it's a snip! Not only do you receive the chewy, salty, doughy pleasure of the pretzel itself, but you are also presented with a 5mm thick layer of butter too! WHAT AN ABSOLUTE BARGAIN! Ideally enjoyed in the not-so-grosse-Pause at school, at 9am. Remember fashion friends, this is Germany! Mid-morning = 9am, not 11am; you've been up since 5am!

4th Meal: Midday Meal.

For this meal, I am offering you a variety of options - the world is your oyster. So long as it predominantly involves carbs, you are in for a winner. Here are a couple of suggestions:


- Maultaschen. Somewhat similar to Ravioli, you could be forgiven for thinking you were eating an Italian delight, that is if you ignore the fact your ravioli pieces have quadrupled in size, and are swimming around in a hearty broth! Surprisingly delicious, and perfectly filling, this is one diet option not to miss out on.


- Any Würstchen you can get your hands on, cradled by a crusty roll and enveloped in oodles of mustard. Does what is says on the tin; Nigella needs to watch out, 'cos this really is a sexy little diet option.


- Wiener Schnitzel. As do all the best things in life, Schnitzels come in a variety of sizes, and it's not always 'the bigger the better'! I, for one, have eaten a terrible schnitzel which was utterly HUGE, and I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. It just stuffed me, and left no room for some after-dinner 'Willi'.

Post 4th Meal Schnapsle: Willi.


No Midday meal is complete without your best friend 'Willi'. Aiding digestion, and getting you so bladdered you don't care what happens in the afternoon, I can wholeheartedly say that this is the secret to this diet's success. Teamed with its super cute little glass, it's any fashionista's dream!

5th Meal: Afternoon Coffee and Cake.


Any cake you choose, as long as it's 90% whipped cream. They can be found in the ever-so-quaint Konditoreis dotted around the German landscape. SO quaint.

6th Meal: Abendbrot.

See: Breakfast. You must eat exactly the same thing you ate for breakfast for maximum dieting efficiency.



And Ta-dah! Sweethearts, I can 10000% say that I'm loving this diet, and you will too!

Trendy, Part 1.

It is becoming increasingly apparant that I am actually a fashion guru. The world might not be ready for my radical styles yet, but one day they'll see the light and the masses will be flocking to 'Joanna Ford' shops all over the world, and religiously going to lifestyle seminars run by yours truly.

I realised my hidden talents this morning, whilst compiling another outfit ENTIRELY composed of items from H&M. I am not kidding, this is the 4th day in a row I have done this. And when I say everything, I actually mean everything, which is in itself, quite an achievement.

Joanna Ford: Trendsetter, Part 1. 'Get Your Look'.

In order that you may achieve my 'look', I have thrown together my 'must-have-it-list' for the upcoming Spring months. As we all know, it is essential to copy someone else's 'look' for the new season, and as imitation is the greatest form of flattery, I will let you all try out my sensational style at home.

Let's start with the socks, the absolute basis of any stunning outfit. My particular socks are from H&M, from the sock and bra section of the establishment. They are glittery in design; gold and silver thread on a background of black. A little scratchy in texture, but you soon get used to this slight discomfort when you see how absolutely STUNNING they make your final outfit look.

Next, we'll look at the trews. My particular trews are from H&M, from the Jeans and Trousers section of the establishment. They are 'Super-Skinny', so they hug your curves in all the wrong places, but really embrace this season's 'it-style'. I chose the black Super Skinnys, as they really are as versatile as you think! Team with some pumps for 'laid-back-cool', with heels for a stunning, glam evening look, or with boots when you want to get down with nature and tramp through the snow. Really girls - you need these wonderful trews.

For the upper half of the body, I am sporting several looks all combined into one fabulous fashion bonanza. Let's first look at my 'boyfriend shirt', recently purchased in H&M, in the sale section of the establishment. Blue in colour, loose in fit and made of breathable cotton fabric, this is one wardrobe essential you simply cannot live without! Team this with my pink-and-brown Seventies inspired acrylic jumper, and you have 'could be boyfriend, but could be walk of shame' chic down to a tee. Throw a replica tweed blazer over both of these items, and you have your 'I'm too cool for this office' look sorted. Both the acrylic jumper and replica jacket are warm in nature, and are ideal for the often changable spring weather. Both items can also be found in the sale section of the H&M establishment.

Now for the face and hair; your crowning glory. It is important to follow these stages carefully if you are to fully achieve the 'I couldn't give a toss' look, so favoured by myself. Wake up late. Do not shower. Wash your face. Brush your teeth. Scrape your hair back to hide the birdsnest. Put your glasses on to distract people from the spot on your forehead. And, TADAH! You have your perfect Spring outfit, teamed perfectly with matching hair and makeup.

I know you may find it a little intimidating trying to become as fashionable as I am, but don't worry fellow fashion lovers - you'll get there one day! Just keep saying 'stunning', 'I'm loving this...' and 'this looks great teamed with' and people will start believing that you too are a fashion guru. But more on how to speak next time...

Next Time... I will be dealing with those all-important lifestyle choices which will really make you look cool.

Watch out fashion bloggers; I'm stealing your glory.

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.

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.

I've got the blues...

...Because I need your love so bad.

A post about love. How could you ever sum up love? The word drives me crazy - it cannot encapsulate the myriad of emotions that it is meant to represent, so we throw it around, abuse and misuse it. "I love your dress", "I love chocolate", "I love you", "I have never loved you".

I truly believe that this last month in Germany has taught me more about that word and its emotions than the previous 21 years ever could.

Perhaps I am homesick; or maybe it's the flashes of golden sunlight streaming through yellow and red leaves. It could just be that the people I love are not happy, and there is nothing I can do about it.

The solution to all these problems might just be Fleetwood Mac.

Immigrant.

Last week I got called an immigrant. No, I'm lying, I got called a 'fucking immigrant', and got asked politely to 'go back to my own fucking country'.

Now, I'm not sure about you, but I have never really thought about the impact that word could have on someone. I recognised that it was a label, a label we use on a daily basis in the media, but I never thought of how it could make someone feel, as surely 'immigrant' is just a technical term to describe someone not living in the country they were born into? Surely?


That word 'immigrant' made me feel sick. As I stood outside my German class with a mixed bunch of foreigners all keen to learn the language, we got abuse hurled at us from a respectable looking middle aged man, who did not look dissimilar from my own Dad. He was wearing a suit, we were in his way, he was probably tired and irritable from a long gruelling day in the office, but that only made his words all the more venomous.

'How dare he? I'm not an immigrant!' - The instant rage bubbled beneath my skin; I could feel my fingertips tingling with adrenaline and my neck stiffen ready to battle with the lines 'two world wars, one world cup', but within milliseconds, this insatiable rage gave way to utter humiliation - 'Oh Christ, I am an immigrant. I don't belong here.' The heat radiation coming from my burning cheeks could have fried an egg. No exaggeration.

But why should I feel so ashamed? Because I am wholeheartedly taking advantage of the generous German FSA scheme? Or perhaps because I stick out like a sore thumb in a place where anyone wearing anything but the jeans-tshirt-converse-scarf-leatherjacket combination is considered pioneering. But most likely, it is because I am not like everyone else; horror of horrors - I am British.

Immigrant suggests that you can never wash the taint of your home country off of your skin. You can walk the walk, talk the talk, eat their disgusting food, but as soon as you're called an immigrant, your charade as a native is viciously pulled away. You are exposed for what you truly are. Naked and vulnerable to a culture that is not your own.

All of these sentiments washing through you and over you and into every part of your being, with one small word. Reducing someone to a mere label. You are an immigrant, you are nothing.

I address this post to everyone living in their native country; I beg of you, please rethink how you use this term. Don't make others feel different, I'm sure they are well aware of the many social faux pas' they make on a daily basis, and don't need you to highlight the fact that they said 'shall we kiss', instead of 'shall we cook'.

I am humbled, humiliated, sometimes hated, and my British high-horse has been firmly swept away, but that's alright, 'cos I'm a job stealing, benefit thieving immigrant, and I bloody love it.

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.