Spring clean - but the full monty!

In our family we have a special expression for that feeling of being stuck: we call it "to be on a plateau". There are many occassions when one might feel this way: in parenting, in a new city, at your working place... Nothing moves, the air is leaden, something has to change, definitely...

When I feel stuck - and at the moment I do - the first thing I do (after sulking - contemplating to jack it all in - then thinking hard) is: creating order. 
When I am speaking of spring cleaning (the full monty) I am not speaking of household alone. 
As you know I have written a book about That - solely addressing young men, whispering into their ears the secrets of How to Do It). 

No, when I say: the full monty I mean spring-cleaning for home, body, mind and soul. (Not that I do it necessarily in this order). 

Today I stared at the snow on my balcony - ugh! - and howled at the pale sickle moon at night. And then I had enough. 
Enough, Enough, Enough!       Clapboard the third: Action! 

1.) I went to my smashing Turkish hairdresser at the Alexanderplatz (only very young people there, all in black leather, tattoos and interesting haircuts) - and his knowing hands shampooed and massaged and then that wizard took his scissors and performed magic. 
Never change a haircut when angry or sad, said wise Sophia Loren; and I didn't change it utterly (and as all my hairdressers before, especially the maestros, he flatly refused to dye). But I was very content with the result - thank you, Süley!  

2.) I telephoned and now it is official: after the trip to the Chelsea Flower Show I will stay for almost a month in London. I'm looking forward to that (and how I prepare I will tell you soon). 

3) I briefly thought about using house-cleaning method no. 3 from my book - the "Elizabeth-Taylor's-Who-Is-Afraid-of-Virginia-Woolf-emergency-cleaning", but rejected it - no, I wanted real spring cleaning (the rays of the March sun are merciless, on windows and face). 
So I chose method no.5: I pretended to hire myself. (It helps definitely to watch before the DVD with Lucy Eyelesbarrow (Jill Meager), that paragon of household efficiency  in 4.50 from Paddington (with Jane Hickson in Agatha Christie's Miss Marple, of course!)
When I hire myself I work like an employee - I take a timer after binding my pinny (by the way - did you notice how wide awake a lot of men become when you casually mention your interest in aprons? Really interesting subject, it seems. Try it!)  - well, and then I work, with elbow grease- and when the timer says "pling" I stop. Unbind my apron, leave the house and return tomorrow - at the appointed hour. 
See you! 

Blue Suede Shoes

So it's SNOW again. 

They told me so on the radio, yesterday morning, but I wouldn't listen. 

Put on my Blue Suede Shoes (they are black and really cute boots, made for showing-off, not walking through slush). 

Well, He that will not hear must feel. 

Which I did. 

Though: I don't need much time to adjust. Put my face up to the endless grey sky and love to look into that swirl of snowflakes. Thick, feathery ones, dancing before the eyes, caressing my face, melting oh so softly. 

I went to meet three "old girls" from my school in Bremen, here, in Berlin. One of them is my friend since school days - the other two I hadn't seen for umpteenth years. 

How come, that all of a sudden, these school pals discover the urgent need to meet each other? They hunt through Facebook, search Stayfriends and  whatsoever. 

Before: nada. Once in all that time (exactly: one year after leaving school) we had met. Then never again. 

(Except the 4 real good friends whom I see every year several times, and write, and telephone). 

Class reunions make me think of Franz Joseph Degenhard's song, "Old friends" (here is a very rough translation by me): 

"Sometimes you meet in your home town

somebody who - long time ago - has made baloney with you, 

now he stands still and asks: 

"Have you still...? Are you still...? Do you still remember...?" and "Do you still do...?" 

And though nobody wants it you are suddenly silent. 

Suddenly Time grins between you two, he's laughing out of embarrassment ... 

You count all the years and look for your own true history in the face of the other - 

and you can't find it." 

Well, yesterday it was only a 'mini-reunion', and it was nice. 

Nobody stepped on anybody's suede shoes. Only the snow. 

And in October I will see them all again, in Bremen then. 

The Busy Bees of Berlin

This photo I took last year - sitting on our balcony, watching with all my peace of mind the BBBs (busy Berlin Bees).
As I told you then in my blog 'Gardening in High Heels', a huge lot of hobby beekeepers in Berlin put the beehives on the roofs of hotels or museums, on the Berlin Dome or the house of representatives. You can buy (expensive) Berlin honey - and the bees thrive, because here in town the trees are not sprayed with insecticides, and the air in the city is warmer.
In Germany, I read, there are 94.000 beekeepers with 750.000 bee colonies.
I have a deep affection for bees, because my grandfather H.v.K. (the eccentric one) was a hobby beekeeper. As a child I followed him when he - all in white with his big hat with the net over it, and the enormous pipe in his mouth - attended to the bees. The honey he collected was wonderful - and when sometimes I trod on a bee and cried with pain he consoled me with the promise that by that I would never get rheumatism.
Today my doctor, who had tested my blood to see whether I am allergic to gnats, told me: "No, everything is fine. BUT - they found out you are highly allergic to bees." She recommended an emergency kit - and eventually desensitisation. (When I learned that for this I would have to stay 6 (!!) full night&days in the hospital Charité - and yesterday I read the article in the Guardian how to reach old age, wisely recommending "Stay away from hospitals" - I said "Thank you, but thank you no.").
Now: I am not (utterly) unreasonable: I will buy that kit. Put it into my bag.
But when today - of course it had to be today - the first bee of the year came to my balcony, I said: "Hi, friend, I'm not afraid." I know that bees - other than wasp, which I am not allergic to - only sting when irritated. (OK - one might sit on one and she will find that somewhat irritating).
Taking a spoon full of delicious honey I consider buying a blue balloon instead.

"If you have a blue balloon, they (the bees) might think you were only part of the sky (...)." 
"Wouldn't they notice you underneath the balloon?" you asked. 
"They might or they might not," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "You never can tell with bees." 

I am a Mymla!

I do hope for your very own good that you know the Moomin books of Tove Jansson.  
"What?", I hear you say, "Moomins? Aren't they children books?" 
Yes and no. 
They are the best guide to know people (Tove never drew a character only in black or white). I am convinced everyone of you knows a few Hemulen: 

 "..a great lot of enormous, rollicking, talkative hemulens who went about slapping each other's backs and bursting into gigantic laughs."  "(...) and in their spare time they blew the trombone or threw the hammer, told funny stories and frightened people generally. But they did it all with the best of intentions." 

I am a mymble. A Little My. My mother must have known that from the beginning, look at my hair. 

So Maman did everything to train and tame me. 
But though I became a Lady, I'm a wild one, always preferring Snufkins to Moomintrolls :-)  

"Yes, Moomintroll, always waiting and longing. Moomintroll who sat at home, who waited for him and admired him, and who always told him: Of course you have to feel free. Naturally you must go away. I do understand that you have to be alone at times. 
And all the times his eyes were black with disappointment and no one could help it.  

I was lucky: husband is a hybrid of both, romantic in a very male way. 
I really adored Moomin Mother - that selfless, warm, utterly unselfish broad-hipped creature with the homely apron and always a handbag at her side. But try as I might: I was not her. (And so much homeliness seems to have driven Moomin Papa into this obscure adventure with the Hattifnatts...) 

So: Do you know which of the many little characters of Tove Jansson you are? (Very unlikely that it is "that one, who is living under the sink"). 
Who is fetching his trombone? 

No Gibberish!

At the moment I have a lot of entertainment - and that moment  will develop into a span of at least two years, mildly calculated - because I am writing about entertainment. (So bear with me if I am not always quick on commenting).
It is fun - to a certain degree. It is hard work too.
Sometimes - when my ears finally get used to the Geordie accent of Northumberland that Brenda Blethyn trained for 'Vera' (Blethyn comes from Kent), I have to re-learn: now Dalziel and Pascoe bring me to Yorkshire, or Rebus is waiting for me in Edinburgh.
As long as there are subtitles: no problem. Otherwise: Oh dear! You see this woman with a fountain pen, a pad (without " i-") and a remote control in her hand - STOP! Stop! - what did he mumble?
Thankfully a dialect in TV-series is always more garnish, not the real thing (then I would be lost).
                                                      Ah -watching those beautiful various landscapes I feel my blood tingle: high time to plan my annual GB-Adventure! As always I will visit for 1 month alone a town or city, totally unknown territory, totally unknown people. The last stations were Hastings (want to join the chorus: "Why Hastings?" - it was lovely!), Edinburgh, London. I have to find a flat share again (there daily life is so much more amusing then in a hotel or B&B).
Once a year I test how good I function on my own, how easily I find acquaintences and even friends (and I always did - nobody shall tell me again that the Scots are reserved - luckily they weren't).
Before I find the region that I will go to this year (suggestions are very welcome!), I will make a shorter trip to London: the tickets for the Chelsea Flower Show and the hotel are already booked. My friend Anne and I talked about doing it so often - now it assumes shape.
Maybe we'll collect a small bunch of Rosemary & Thyme  :-) 

Cad (Welsh for fight), mael (Welsh for prince)

Oh no, you're not in Shrewsbury, nor in Budapest - where, as you might know, they built the TV set for 'Cadfael'. These (still) are Britta's letters from Berlin - and as I am writing about a tiny aspect of Cadfael at the moment, I thought: why not take a day off and look what Berlin has to offer from the Middle Ages? 
Above are the ruins of a Franciscan monastry, the building started in 1250, the three aisled basilica in 13th and 14th century, destroyed by bombers in 1945. 
The Fernsehturm (TV Tower) at the Alexanderplatz overtowers everything: also the Marienkirche (St. Mary's Church), built in the Middle Ages when Berlin and Cölln were twin towns. What wasn't destroyed by the war often was razed by the city planners of the GRD - they had not much money for restoring and wanted space and place for cars.

There is ample space now - right in the middle (Mitte) of Berlin (normal rush hour on a working day!): 

Without any hidden agenda about that they try to restore the Dance of Death in the northern tower vestibule of the Marienkirche (St. Mary's Church): 

And if you come to see the Heilig Geist-Kapelle (Holy Spirit Chapel), also nearby, built in 1300 as part of the Holy-Spirit-Hospital, and now surrounded by the Humboldt-University of Berlin, mind that you come on Thursday from 12:00 - 13:00 - otherwise (as I) you have to peep through a little window at the beautiful  'starry sky' of it: 

Very near is also the oldest church of Berlin, the Nikolaikirche (St. Nicholas Church), built between 1220 and 1230, but I was a bit frustrated because today it is only used as a museum. 

Cadfael I haven't met, and, though we have the Berlinale film festival at the moment, I am sorry to say: nor Sir Derek Jacobi (oh would I have loved that, he has such a beautiful voice!). But even that voice couldn't have lured me into the Middle Ages which I see as DARK - I have a very distinct vision what they would have done with a woman like me :-) 

Advice seeking?

"I can't understand him", Husband often grumbled when a colleague had asked him for advice. "He asks - I tell him - and never - never! - he does accordingly." 
I am adviser - so I do understand. Both. No need to follow an advice - for many it is just a way to become surer of their own opinion. Carl Rogers, who didn't give advice, quoted a student, who said (in words to that effect): "I am angry that you don't decide for me. I want an advice. When I follow it, and it doesn't work out, I know whom I can be angry with." And - as any adviser will tell you:  if it works out - it is his own doing...  
In my profession Rogers' was worn thin. I think we have also a duty to deliver information: where you can find it, speak it through, help weighing the pros and cons. Deciding is your job alone. 
But some advices don't become better only because people repeat them. A hundredfold. 
There are books and books and books on "De-Cluttering". 
"Throw out any garment you haven't worn in the last five months!", worse: "Anything that is older then 3 years: give it away!" - worst: "When you buy something new, threw out three other pieces!" 
Why??? 
Above you see a photograph of husband and I on our 10th wedding anniversary. Now: if I had followed that silly adice - and mind: I am only speaking of the second! - and had discarded him after three years -what a pity ...