Where the hills were alive with the sound of my coughing

Tuesday to Friday morning last week I was in Salzburg. It was good. We hit a couple of the Christmas markets in the dark, going to the Residenzplatz one evening and to Hellbrunn the next, where H bought me a star decoration for our tree, a musical carousel, hot apple juice that burned my tongue and made me eat a variety of pastries. The first one was my favourite, a light doughnut-like pastry with sugar and raisins, called a Something-Zimt-Golatsche. And if you think it’s not driving me insane not being able to remember all of its name, clearly you’re new here.

Incidentally, the carousel? I took it home in my crammed rucksack, wrapped in bubble wrap, flying about 630 miles across Europe at 30,000 feet above the ground and it did just fine. I took it wrapped in bubble wrap in my shoulder bag about 5 miles in the car to Suzy’s and back and consequently had to glue one of the horse’s legs back on.

I learned a couple more mountains while I was in Salzburg. I think I am able to identify the Untersberg now without needing to be where I was first told its name. Stauffen is the pointy one, which I might get next time and Watzmann is the huge one that you can see from outside the computer shop. And probably from some other places too.

I managed a bit of German here and there, but it’s difficult to dare to venture into the world of der, die, das, den, dem when everyone else around you is speaking great English. I’m pretty sure I didn’t start any diplomatic incidents though. Unless of course I offended the pastry guys by only saying goodbye to one of them with “Pfiat Di”, instead of all of them with “Pfiat Euch”. I always got into the right side of the car and I didn’t get wanded at airport security this time, so there was no opportunity for me to proudly proclaim “BH!” as the officer’s wand beeped over my underwire. Not that I’ve done that before or anything.

This two language business is totally confusing though and I’m finding more and more that I’m losing the ability to speak English. H’s daughter got some candy floss and I was asked what it was called – cotton candy? “No, that’s American; we call it candy floss” … Ten minutes later: “what do you call it again?” Me: *blank stare* *panic*. And I swore blind to H there wasn’t a verb for doing reconnaissance. But reconnoitre is a stupid word und darf mich ruhig am Arsch lecken.

Click for the set

Green manure

A clever gardeny thing to do is to sow a crop of something such as mustard or rye, so that lovely things such as nitrogen and, oh, I don’t know, tiny tiny unicorns maybe, are held in the soil ready to help out during your next growing season. You sow the seeds, the plants grow and you dig ‘em back into the ground before they have a chance to seed down and become your new least favourite weed.

After a lot reading and umming and aahing I ordered a bag of forage rye seed from www.sowgreenmanure.co.uk as I wanted to avoid sowing a legume that would mean I couldn’t grow any legumes of my own the next year.

The seeds turned up in a gorgeous little paper bag with the instructions printed on the outside. “Excellent on clay” and “broadcast seed” are both things I like to read with regard to my garden. “Rake soil to a fine tilth” on the other hand is not and so, as it’s winter, wet, cold and raking is hard work, I raked to a rough, bobbly tilth. Good enough.

I threw the seed down on the two thirds of my patch that is clear – two rows of carrots still remain -, surveyed it a while and then threw out barely another handful of seed, as if that was going to make all the difference.

Now we wait. It’s going to rain tomorrow. So I guess we’re just waiting for the seed to rot. But maybe, just maybe, we’re waiting for the rye grass to grow and at the end of February I’ll cut it down, cover it in black plastic for a few weeks to give it something to think about and then bitch and swear about what a stupid idea this was as I try to dig it in.

We’ll see.

Things I can’t do yet

1. Get dressed up for going out on Sunday evening

2. Pack for my trip on Tuesday

3. Open my Lindt advent calendar and eat the chocolate

It’s all dreadfully frustrating.

Happy to help

When you come to pay for your wares at our local branch of WHSmith – a stationery and book shop – the queue to the tills is led carefully through a steep-sided valley of half-price Terry’s chocolate oranges.

Oh-ho, Mr and Mrs Marketing Department, I saw what you did there with your impulse buy chocolate orange psychological warfare.

So I bought two.

And Mum and Dad got another.

Yesterday’s birthday cake

It’s what’s for breakfast.

I had a good day yesterday, pottering about, spending all afternoon making chocolate brownies, talking to friends, listening to music, being serenaded in person and on the phone and having curry at a restaurant with my family. So, this is 28.

Whereabouts

I had a post half-planned that involved the sunflower seed head that I harvested a couple of weeks ago. And indeed I’d write the post could I just find the damn sunflower. It was on the window sill in a paper bag for ages and now it’s not there. I don’t know where it’s gone.

Similarly, I don’t know the whereabouts of that little piece of black plastic that slots into the flash horseshoe on top of my camera. I’d put it on the windowsill while using my big flash to take the photo of the plaited wreath I’d made. Anyone else think my windowsill is working against me here?

But anyway, I hope these things might turn up, or rather that Mum might find them for me, as that is what she does. Meanwhile, I have other jolly things to think about, as suddenly my whereabouts is being plotted on my calendar, here, there and überall. I’m having a massage on Wednesday, for I am very much in favour of having my back rubbed for an hour and really must make this a regular thing. Then the next day is my birthday and I will be 28, but I might just leave my age on the “About Me” page here as 26 a little bit longer. It can’t hurt. The fambly and I are going to have curry at a great local restaurant and John has bought some fireworks with which to annoy the neighbours.

Further birthday celebrations with my friends will be on Sunday the 22nd, when we go out for food and entertainment at a local music club. Suzy, The Social Butterfly of Kent, made this suggestion and in the end had to book it for me, as all I’d managed to do was book a table for four at the wrong establishment, which would have made watching the bands while we dine decidedly tricky.

Then on the Tuesday I’m off again to Salzburg, returning Friday morning. Even though there’s no point, I’m already watching the weather forecast, willing it to snow. At the minute they’re saying “Warm, with a morning shower” for that Tuesday. No! Bad weather forecasters, try again!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and do some weight-training to prepare for lugging my heavy rucksack through Stansted Airport. Or maybe I’ll just take a screwdriver to my laptop and see if there’s anything heavy inside it that I could take out.

Parcel delivery

I open the front door to a lady who has come to deliver a parcel.

“Hello, are you Mrs Marchant?”
“No, daughter, but close enough.”
“Yes, close enough,” she agrees, handing me the console to sign.
“You work down the road, don’t you?”, she asks, adding, “I’ve seen you.”
“Ah, no you’ve seen someone like me,” I say, realising she means the woman with achondroplasia who works at an office on the outskirts of the village.
“Oh, sisters.”
“No, no, same condition.”
“Mmm, same colour hair!”