Pete's Teeth

Pete’s Teeth is my new colorful expression of annoyance, surprise, horror, etc. not just du jour but at least du mois. It sounds like this: Pete’s Teeth!!! with the emphasis clearly on the teeth part. I don’t know who Pete is and I care less about his teeth but these are the words that have just automatically been coming out of my mouth the last few weeks, usually when I get stuck in traffic behind some person who finds driving a car a challenge – in my experience these are often elderly gentlemen in hats and young women who are nattering to the person in the seat next to them, but I won’t get it into that.

I’ve always used colorful, off-the-wall expressions of my own making and I think Pete’s Teeth is a mixture of God’s Teeth and For Pete’s Sakes. One day it just popped out of my mouth when I was trying to say all of these at the same time (no doubt cramped up behind some slow person in a parking garage) and it just stuck.

The Sleeping Dali Exhibit

I am spending a few days in Berlin and yesterday I thought I should go and visit the Dali exhibition. Not because I am by any stretch of the imagination interested in Dali, but because sometimes I feel that I should broaden my cultural horizons by taking on topics that hold no attraction for me. You could also call it the result of a British all-girls’ school education.

The Dali exhibition is at the Potsdamer Platz and I found it easily after enquiring at the Film Museum (which I really should have visited instead). The Dali exhibition has large red banners with the word Dali in big letters, so it can be seen from far and wide, or from about a hundred meters away. It has lots of lip-shaped sofas, inside and outside, and the people at the entrance desk are very helpful and polite.

I did find the entrance fee of 11 Euros, plus extra for a guided tour and more extra for leaving your coat, quite steep and I communicated this. The man at the entrance desk told me it was because they are a private museum and receive no state funding. So if you are really interested in Dali, or like me, feel the need to sometimes do things that you don’t like, you might cough up and pay it.

Peep Show

We Cupcakes get irritated by lots of things. One of these is noise. More specifically, disturbing noise that encroaches on and penetrates one’s private sphere. A type of penetrating noise that particularly annoys this Cupcake is when people don’t turn off the tone on their phone keys, so that when they text, they might as well be sending the message in Morse code.

What is the point of having a tone on phone keys anyway? I could just about understand if you were stuck in an elevator during a power failure and the lights went off, then you might be reassured by the peeping of your phone as you were penning a quick text message for help. Other than that, I can’t think of a good reason for the key tones other than to irritate people like me.

The first thing I do when I get a new phone is turn off the key tones. It’s an easy thing to do, but sometimes I wonder if the reason that some people haven’t turned them off is because they don’t know how. If you’re using a Nokia, then go to Settings -> Tones. It’s the same menu where you choose your ring tone.

A couple of months ago I went on a long-distance trip on an ICE train. It was several hours to the next stop and the train was packed. Consideration for your fellow passengers is required. I was seated next to a pleasant-looking lady in the window seat, and next to me across the aisle was a lady, probably around 40, with a Blackberry.

Where Do We Go From Here?

In their latest issue, the magazine Vanity Fair addresses a topic which, for many reasons, is close to my own heart. They write that during the 20th century, there were dramatic differences in the cultural landscape - art in most of its forms, music, fashion, etc. over 20-year periods. Thus the outward appearance of our world and our peoples could be distinctly recognized as belonging to a particular era. A person living in 1952 could not be confused, for example, with a person of the era of 1932, at least not in a photograph or on film. Likewise, the image of a person living in 1972 could be immediately distinguished from a person esconsed in 1992.


However, over the last 20 years - 1992 to 2012 - there are very few perceptible differences in the outward appearance of popular style and culture, despite the vast leaps in technology and science. It is as if we are stuck in a groove of a culture and constantly looking to the past, rather than trying to create a new future.

The Glass History Museum

Another excerpt from my unpublished novel Lizzie Goes to Japan

Colin was tall, as tall as Richard. He was also slightly overweight, a little portly, but it seemed a nice sort of size to Lizzie. He was blond. She had never found herself attracted to blond men, which was probably why she really had not noticed him all this last week, and why he was not making much of an impression on her now. He was just terribly nice. And he was taking her out. He had said, Eight o’clock at the elevators, and he had been waiting there.

Inside the elevator, he looked down at her and said, “Would you like to go back to the hotel before we go somewhere? You know, I mean, to freshen up?”

I must look awful, Lizzie thought. Of course, I have been crying. How thoughtful of him to put it like that, not: your mascara has run and you do look a bit of a mess.

“I'm so sorry to be like this,” Lizzie said. “It is very kind of you.”

“It’s no problem,” said Colin. “I just can’t bear it when women cry. I just want them to... stop.”

Camarooned (Queen Scenes Number Eight)

Scene: Buckingham Palace, the dining room. The Queen and Prince Philip are at lunch.

Queen: I say Philip, this is all simply too ghastly for words.

Philip: I’ll say it is! I distinctly remember ordering quiche with a light garden salad and we appear to be eating crab risotto! And some pieces of the crab seem to have gorne orf!

Queen: One’s not referring to one’s luncheon, Philip. The Prime Minister Mr. Cameron has vetoed a new European Union treaty to solve the Eurozone crisis, thus potentially isolating Britain from the rest of Europe.

Ask Your Pharmacist (And Be None The Wiser)

I am taking anti-inflammatory medication against pain and inflammation in my broken toe, but I have been told I should take an accompanying stomach-protecting medication. Last night I went to the pharmacy to buy some.

Kanga (plonking packet of anti-inflammatory medication on counter): Hello. I’m taking this anti-inflammatory medication for a broken toe and I’d like to buy some stomach-protecting medication.

Young Female Pharmaceutical Assistant: No problem. We can offer you this one with 14 days’ worth of medication from this manufacturer, or this one with 7 days’ worth of medication from this other manufacturer.

The Mummy and Daddy Christmas Present Fund

This is an excerpt from my unpublished novel "The Mummy and Daddy Christmas Present Fund".


Thursday July 27^th 1972

I organised The Mummy and Daddy Christmas Present Fund a few years ago for several reasons.

First of all, it means that the children (my little brother and sister) don’t have to worry about ideas for buying Christmas presents for Mum and Dad because it is all organised by the Fund. Second, it means that they don’t have to spend all of their pocket money on Christmas presents, because mostly the Fund consists of my pocket money. Third, my brother and sister are not very good at organising and planning things so the Fund (that’s me again) relieves them of these time-consuming tasks.

When I say that the Fund mostly consists of my pocket money, well just to give you an idea, two years ago we bought a toolbox for Dad, it cost 17 shillings and 6 pence down at the hardware shop. We bought Mum a pair of gloves from Hinds in Eltham that cost nearly 15 shillings. Now a few days before Christmas the Fund Box had just over 35 shillings in it. 32 shillings and 6 pence came from my pocket money, 2 shillings came from Lucy and about 9 pence came from Jonathon.

Friday Night in Copenhagen

I can tell you what possessed me to travel to Copenhagen last Thursday. It was an article in a glossy magazine extolling the virtues and beauty of Denmark’s fair capital, complete with a recommended hotel.

Never having set foot in Scandinavia before, I decided to start with this pleasant-sounding, artisan-rich and friendly land, which, in my (confused) mind was both a physical and cultural extension of North Germany.

How wrong could I have been and next time I must look at a map before I go anywhere. The journey itself was probably the most exciting, interesting and pleasant part of the whole experience. The couchette train from South Germany to Hamburg in the north was nearly empty, so the very kind Swiss ticket collector (the train came from Zurich) rearranged my sleep cabin and the one next door so that they turned into a single bedroom cum sitting-room.

Three Hail Marys and Two Lady Gagas

I was brought up a good Catholic girl. This stemmed from my grandmother being a good Irish Catholic girl who sent my mother to a convent boarding school when she was four years old. My mother stayed there until she was 18, and, according to her, rarely went home in the holidays.

My Dad was not a Catholic; he was a member of the Church of England. Unlike us, he didn’t have to go to church on Sundays and Feast Days. He just went once at Christmas, and one Christmas he took me with him, as I had been pestering him for a long time to show me what a heathen, sorry – Church of England – mass, sorry – service – was like. As usual, I was very quiet and obedient, absorbing everything and joining in the hymns, etc. But later, my Dad told me that the vicar had been angry and had specifically told him he must never ever bring me again, which made me very worried and ashamed and embarrassed for a very long time, thinking that I must have done something wrong.

Now, I just think that my Dad was cross because by taking me, he had missed out on something that he always did at Christmas at his church service. Maybe he went out for a drink afterwards to a pub, or maybe he met a secret friend. Who knows?

Beatle Sings Beatles

Two nights ago I went to a Paul McCartney concert in Cologne. I know! My son had two tickets and the friend he was going with was sick, so he called me and asked if I would like to go with him. I dropped everything, jumped in my car and drove the many hundreds of kilometers to Cologne. Miraculously, my son and I found each other outside the Kölnarena where Paul McCartney was performing, despite all the crowds, found a place to have a meal and then proceeded to our seats, which, I have to say, were excellent.

Paul and the band walked out casually onto the stage shortly after 8 p.m. There was no announcement, no hype, no drum roll or loud intro music, no “Please welcome to the stage…” The entire audience, I think, rose and applauded, whistled, shouted, cheered, waved their home-made banners. I caught hold of my son’s arm and babbled excitedly, “It’s him, it’s actually him! It’s Paul McCartney! Look!” And my son exclaimed, “I know, I know!” just as thrilled.

Hola Grandma

Yesterday I went into a store of one of my favorite boutiques. First, because I love their clothes, and second because the prices here in Barcelona looked a little cheaper than in the same boutique at home.

Straight off I saw a beautiful blue dress, a class act and perfect for both visiting customers and going to the theater. I have one a little like it at home, also from this boutique. So I was pretty certain it would fit and suit me perfectly.

I stood in a line at the entrance to the changing-room with a bunch of teens and twens. It was only then that I realized I might look a little out of place here. The radio was blaring out some state-of-the-art Spanish hit and the changing-room was being managed by two guys! I mean, they were right inside the girls' changing-room. At first I thought they were someone's boyfriends who had wandered in by mistake, but I realized how wrong I was when one of them charmingly showed me to a free booth with a disarming smile and some Spanish that I didn't get, but in my imagination was something like, Hola Grandma! Good to see you made it here!

One Flew Over

Last night I flew to Barcelona. I had some tranquilizers with me (my fear of flying is übercrazy) but had no need of them as a young man by the name of Julian came to my aid. Julian, a tattoo artist with tattoos from neck to foot, was sitting next to me. He held my hand all through take-off, and talked to me the entire flight. He was successful in banishing my irrational fears only in that he prevented me from bursting into the usual tears and becoming hysterical.

My fear of flying is surpassed only by... nothing! Having flown all over the world several times, I have now developed such terror of flying that I swore 4 years ago, when I last stepped out of a plane, that I will never subject myself to such idiocy again. This business trip is partially to prove to myself that I can fly, I must fly and I will fly.

Aunty Bailout

If you've been wondering how Germany plans to bail out all those other Eurozone countries that have not been looking after their piggy-banks as well as we have, look no further. This Cupcake and others like me will be playing a major role! Yes, we are the bailout aunties and uncles of the Euro family where a couple of the cousins and nephews went out and spent their pocket-money all in one go and forgot to save a bit for Christmas, birthdays and the like.

Having made what seems now to have been a disastrous decision to become self-employed 11 years ago, I am available 24/7 for work and do in fact spend a great deal of those 168 hours working. My most recent record was last weekend when I spent 22 hours working. I did exceed that when I was younger and my children were very little and used to go to their father every second weekend. On those weekends, I used to work 24 hours.

The Energy Cookie

Every morning, I consume a vitamin supplement drink that tastes and looks like fizzy orange juice together with two capsules packed full of vitamins, minerals, cod liver oil and the like.

I follow this up with a chocolate cookie and a cup of tea.

I know what you're thinking. Why bother with the vitamin drink and the capsules?

And you're right! I just wish they would find a way to fill chocolate cookies with all those vitamins and minerals and invent tea with all the goodness of that fizzy orange juice. First, it would save me time (I am just too lazy) and second, I could eat more chocolate cookies.

The Enemy Request

Have thought of a great new feature for Facebook – the Enemy Request, which as the name suggests, is kind of the opposite of the Friend Request. I’ve even thought up a verb for it – instead of “friending” someone, you could “enemize” them. Like the Friend Request, the other person has to accept the Enemy Request for it to work.

The Enemy Request could be used for various different categories of relationship and have different purposes, for example:

a)      You could enemize someone with whom you have a kind of Cold War relationship, and with whom you would like to become a little warmer. Through the enemyship (that’s enemyship, not an enemy ship like in Star Trek) you could go through a series of procedures that would enable you to iron out your differences and bring you a little closer to friendship.

b)      You could enemize someone you’re currently having a heated row with, or maybe someone you’ve broken off a relationship with. You want to get back on good terms with them eventually, but… only after you’ve both let out all your anger at each other. This would be a good alternative to “defriending” completely and blocking them from contacting you on Facebook.

c)       Or you could enemize someone you just can’t stand, have no interest in getting back together with and want them and the rest of the Facebook world to know about it. You could hurl virtual sticks or smoke bombs at them or poke your virtual tongue out at them from time to time. Well why not. 

The Doll's House

My Dad was a furniture designer inside an accountant’s body. Particularly, he was very concerned with the future of furniture. “In the future”, he used to tell me, “There will be sliding doors and neon lights everywhere”. This was the 1960s. He did have a point.

He worked as one of the chief accountants for a very renowned old establishment company with headquarters in Piccadilly in London. He had his own large office and secretary. I know, because when I was little I used to pretend to be sick once a month so that he would take me to work. I think we both knew I wasn’t sick. I used to sit in the secretarial pool and write poetry on a typewriter. And in the lunch hour we used to buy sandwiches and eat them in Hyde Park.

Stepping Over The Neumanns

In the last few years, the memorial stones known as Stolpersteine have been laid all over Germany and Austria. The meaning of Stolperstein in English is literally "stumbling block" but it can also mean "rememberance marker". They are the project of a German artist which was at first little known outside Cologne and Berlin, but has now become well-known in other parts of the country.

The Stolpersteine are usually laid in front of the houses of Jews who were deported to concentration camps in the Nazi era. They are sometimes also laid for Jews who emigrated during this time and survivors of camps, as well as for other persecuted groups, but mostly they are for deported Jews. The stones are square and replace a cobblestone in the street. They are covered with a brass top and inscribed with the name and birthdate of the person, where they were deported to, and when they died.

Silver October

The golden October we were enjoying only a few days ago has slipped seamlessly into a silver October with suddenly darker mornings and a soft, silent, silken rain that steeps my world in a silvery encasement.

When I was at university many decades ago, the academic year started in this week and I remember it always as a little cold, a little chill with a crisp morning air and a little mist that accompanied me on my way into classes. I always felt that the cold air did something to make my pale complexion even paler, highlighting my makeup and making it seem more vibrant, and somehow making my red hair appear even redder.

October was the time when you exchanged your pretty summer dresses and t-shirts for your sweaters and pants,  you settled down and became more serious again, and like the year itself, the older year, the wiser year, you left the innocent frolicking of the summer and the long, warm, casual days behind and welcomed in the more experienced, crisper, shorter and sober days of the fall.

Good Little Girls

When I was at primary school in the 1960's, the classes were divided up into what we called "streams". Due to the vast amount of children born in the 1950's and 1960's, we had three very large streams for each year. The top ability children were placed in stream A, the medium ability into stream B and the low ability into stream C.

I was in the A stream class, which had a total of 40 children, 26 of which were boys and 14 of which were girls. From this, you might assume the following:
- many more boys than girls were born in our birth year
- the boys were cleverer than the girls
- ability was measured in a different way back then.