cleaning. I remove all signs of the town of Bologna and its famous sauce. I sweep up the cockroaches. I buy milk and bread. Panting slightly, I arrive home with seconds to spare.
‘The place looks great,’ says Jocasta, walking in.
‘Oh, does it?’ I say, glancing up from the newspaper. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
The scene is perfect save for Batboy, who is lying by the back door holding his stomach and groaning. Looking quite red in the face, he keeps mouthing the words ‘the bolognaise’.
‘Is he all right?’ Jocasta asks.
‘Oh, yeah,’ I say. ‘Just feigning injury. Taking a dive. It’s offence Y35. He better watch it. He’ll be up for a yellow card.’
She looks worried but
I’m not too concerned.
The children are alive. The
house has not burnt down.
There have been no major
outbreaks of disease.
Frankly, I think I deserve
a bloody medal.
Twisted tongues
On holiday in Germany, I’d been standing in the queue of tourists outside the new Reichstag. Along with everyone else, I was becoming increasingly testy about the prim German Madchen in charge of the doors. She was allowing only a few people to wait in the spacious warmth of the foyer and seemed to be enjoying the power trip of watching the rest of us freeze in the snow. ‘ Ungefickt zum Dienst ,’ muttered my German friend through chapped lips, and others nearby agreed. ‘ Ungefickt zum Dienst ,’ they chorused. My friend translated: ‘It means someone who’s doing a boring job but also hasn’t had sex recently, and is therefore taking it out on everybody else. You would say she is “unfucked for work”.’
It’s a fantastic concept and in the weeks that follow, it warms my heart to be able to understand the true cause of any bad and snarly service that I might receive. And yet, for themost part, in the battle between me and the German language, I am nearly always the loser. In the Munich cafe on the first night, I summoned the waitress and demonstrated my skill in speaking German. ‘My wife will have the chicken, my younger son will have the sausages, and your son, I think, will have the schnitzel.’ Perhaps she’s used to tourists advising her what to feed her children. I don’t know. She didn’t say anything but looked a little grim. Now I come to think of it, I may also have demanded a large beer be immediately served to her husband.
Another problem. It’s our first trip overseas for twelve years: my knowledge of all the languages has fallen apart, and so has the binding on our travel dictionaries. I discover a whole chunk of the German one is missing—everything from ‘cheap’ through to ‘thing’. I can ask for directions to the art gallery or the zoo but not much else. A visit to the cinema would have been nice…but I see we’ve missed out by just one or two pages. And how strange to discover that all the very best food and drink lies somewhere in the middle of the alphabet. I know the kids want hot chocolate or Coke with their meal, but wouldn’t apple juice do? Or maybe some tonic water? And what to eat? Their choice: anchovies, artichokes, veal or vension.
The dictionary probably fell apart on the plane while I made my last-minute revisions. Some other Qantas customer is, no doubt, travelling Germany right now armed with a chunk of my book, gleefully attending football matches, ordering cocktails, gulping down mugs of hot chocolate and asking directions to the mixed nude sauna. I hope he’s having a good time, the bastard.
Disgruntled, I purchase a cheap German phrase book. This one is intact, but reflects a somewhat dodgy morality.There’s a whole section on dating, for instance—‘Are you free this evening?’, ‘Are you waiting for someone?’ and ‘Can we go back to your place now?’. It all seems a bit forward since, by very use of the book, you’re admitting you can’t understand a word she is saying. As you haltingly read these phrases from the book in the middle of the nightclub, will she really
‘The place looks great,’ says Jocasta, walking in.
‘Oh, does it?’ I say, glancing up from the newspaper. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
The scene is perfect save for Batboy, who is lying by the back door holding his stomach and groaning. Looking quite red in the face, he keeps mouthing the words ‘the bolognaise’.
‘Is he all right?’ Jocasta asks.
‘Oh, yeah,’ I say. ‘Just feigning injury. Taking a dive. It’s offence Y35. He better watch it. He’ll be up for a yellow card.’
She looks worried but
I’m not too concerned.
The children are alive. The
house has not burnt down.
There have been no major
outbreaks of disease.
Frankly, I think I deserve
a bloody medal.
Twisted tongues
On holiday in Germany, I’d been standing in the queue of tourists outside the new Reichstag. Along with everyone else, I was becoming increasingly testy about the prim German Madchen in charge of the doors. She was allowing only a few people to wait in the spacious warmth of the foyer and seemed to be enjoying the power trip of watching the rest of us freeze in the snow. ‘ Ungefickt zum Dienst ,’ muttered my German friend through chapped lips, and others nearby agreed. ‘ Ungefickt zum Dienst ,’ they chorused. My friend translated: ‘It means someone who’s doing a boring job but also hasn’t had sex recently, and is therefore taking it out on everybody else. You would say she is “unfucked for work”.’
It’s a fantastic concept and in the weeks that follow, it warms my heart to be able to understand the true cause of any bad and snarly service that I might receive. And yet, for themost part, in the battle between me and the German language, I am nearly always the loser. In the Munich cafe on the first night, I summoned the waitress and demonstrated my skill in speaking German. ‘My wife will have the chicken, my younger son will have the sausages, and your son, I think, will have the schnitzel.’ Perhaps she’s used to tourists advising her what to feed her children. I don’t know. She didn’t say anything but looked a little grim. Now I come to think of it, I may also have demanded a large beer be immediately served to her husband.
Another problem. It’s our first trip overseas for twelve years: my knowledge of all the languages has fallen apart, and so has the binding on our travel dictionaries. I discover a whole chunk of the German one is missing—everything from ‘cheap’ through to ‘thing’. I can ask for directions to the art gallery or the zoo but not much else. A visit to the cinema would have been nice…but I see we’ve missed out by just one or two pages. And how strange to discover that all the very best food and drink lies somewhere in the middle of the alphabet. I know the kids want hot chocolate or Coke with their meal, but wouldn’t apple juice do? Or maybe some tonic water? And what to eat? Their choice: anchovies, artichokes, veal or vension.
The dictionary probably fell apart on the plane while I made my last-minute revisions. Some other Qantas customer is, no doubt, travelling Germany right now armed with a chunk of my book, gleefully attending football matches, ordering cocktails, gulping down mugs of hot chocolate and asking directions to the mixed nude sauna. I hope he’s having a good time, the bastard.
Disgruntled, I purchase a cheap German phrase book. This one is intact, but reflects a somewhat dodgy morality.There’s a whole section on dating, for instance—‘Are you free this evening?’, ‘Are you waiting for someone?’ and ‘Can we go back to your place now?’. It all seems a bit forward since, by very use of the book, you’re admitting you can’t understand a word she is saying. As you haltingly read these phrases from the book in the middle of the nightclub, will she really
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