A German Sojourn
I might be going to Germany next week. A friend of mine has just got a job over there, so I might be going over for a week to sleep on an inflatable mattress. A holiday from my holiday. Not gardening while on Garden Leave can be so wearying.

Germany, huh? I love Germany, I really do. It's all so... German. People wear leather jackets and hang around speaking earnestly about politics. They really care.

I spoke to Justin today. He seems to be enjoying his new life. He says that he is having few problems getting by in German. He did some contract work over there a few years ago, and his girlfriend is German, so in theory he should be alright. In theory.

"Last night, we went out drinking and I spent the entire night talking in German. I had no problems."

Yet I worry.

Justin used to tell us how well he spoke Spanish and French too. Then we went to Callas, and he called the waiter Garcon. Another time we went to a Spanish restaurant in Brighton and all he did was speak bad French and point a lot. What Justin actually speaks is a sub-dialect of Menu.

Anyhow, a week in Southern Germany, drinking huge Steins of German lager, and avoiding neo-facsist organisations. How bad could it be? I do all my job-searching online anyhow, and I can do that just as well from there as from here.

Tweaky deaky
After much tweaking, I think I finally have my template in some sort of usable state. It's amazing how easy it is to get in trouble. Has anyone else had problems with Archives? They have become the bane of my existence, and my blog is only a week or so old.

Ideally I'd like to leave the template alone for a while, apart from adding the odd link. Unfortunately I have this pretty well constant desire to tweak.

What would Dr Freud say?

Quote of the day
"I don't know much about being a millionaire, but I'll bet I'd be darling at it."
(DOROTHY PARKER)

Why I like Cicadas




I admit it. I like Cicadas, and I'm not alone. A recent search of the web turned up numerous pages devoted to, or in some way sympathetic to our chirrupy, sap sucking friends. One of the most devoted, with more links than you can poke a pointed stick at, is Cicada Mania. There you can listen to recordings of Cicada song, read scientific articles and even send Cicada Postcards to a friend!

Before I go any further, just in case you didn't know, yes, I live in the UK, but I'm originally from Sydney, Australia, although I haven't been home in years. It's a bit pathetic, really.

So, last weekend I was watching a documentary on my old home town, a bit of history, a bit of travelogue, you know the kind of thing. It was all pretty hokey. Just as I was about change channels they showed a night shot of a Sydney beach and, in the background, under the narrator's voice, they played a few seconds of the Sydney Summer Cicada Chorus. Try saying that ten times quickly. I was amazed by my reaction to this all too brief sound. There I was, sitting in front of my TV, gripped by the massed mating calls of a thousand libidenous insects. I swear I misted up. Each type of Cicada has its own unique song. Only females of the same species are supposed to respond. I'm sure that my reaction, as a beefy, hetrosexual human male, could only surprise and shock even the most hardened and cynical Cicada.

The memories came flooding back: The long, hot summers; the intoxicating aroma of Eucalyptus, newly-mown grass and car fumes; chasing the milk truck as it made its way up and down the side streets. And The Eternal Question, as I'm sure it has been asked by children since the dawn of man:

"What do you wanna do?"

"I don't know, what do you wanna do?"

The question was rarely answered, but when it was, as often as not, it would involve climbing trees. And, of course, catching Cicadas.

Why I am listening to a Sarah Vaughan CD
Playing on my less expensive than you might think Dolby Digital, Surround Sound home entertainment system is Sarah Vaughan's A Touch of Class. Very nice, you say, so sophis! Gosh yes. So let me tell you why I bought this CD. There's an ad playing on TV at the moment for a certain over-priced department store. It's spring, or nearly spring, and they have a Spring Sale to plug.

Spring, huh? If it's Spring, why are my feet so cold?

This ad makes use of Come Spring, a song I'd never heard before. An adorable song I'd never heard before. Bliss. So, of course, I got straight online, found the song and purchased the cheapest Sarah Vaughan anthology I could find that carried it. It arrived this morning and I really couldn't be happier. I love the whole disc. This is the first Sarah Vaughan CD in my collection, but I promise you it won't be the last. I guess I'd always thought of Sarah as a kind of second-tier Ella. I am so glad to be proven wrong.

I wonder how many people buy CDs just because they heard a song used in an ad? It seems to work for Levis, doesn't it? Remember Spaceman, that definitive one hit wonder from '95-96? That started life in a Levis ad. And do you really think The Dandy Warhols would be top of the charts all across Europe if it hadn't been for that Vodaphone ad which used Bohemian Like You?

Anyhow, there's a site which exists to help you track down those elusive songs. Click here to find out everything you ever wanted to know about UK TV advertisements, but were afraid to ask.

Why I am no longer on the cabbage soup diet
Before I go anywhere on this post, I want to point you somewhere very special. Every wondered what the squareroot of -1 was? Click here to find out.

Well before I made the soup I did a few web searches and synthesised what looked like the best recipe. What surprised me was that all of the recipes seemed to call for incredible quantities of produce. Well, what do I know? Mosty of my meals spend about 7 minutes in the microwave as a kind of holiday camp/way station between my freezer and my stomach. My condiment of choice is Tabasco sauce!

So, like the good little boy that I am, I chopped all that cabbage and those onions and the crispy celery and that poor forlorn green capsicum (which I will continue to call a capsicum instead of a bell pepper, despite what three quarters of the English speaking world seem to think). And all of a sudden my biggest pot was full and I still had a good deal more vegative matter to deal with. So I went to the middle pot and filled it too. Just to make sure all the ingredients were fairly distributed, I added more stains to the stove top by spooning the contents from one pot to the other.

Now I had one very big pot and one quite big pot of cabbage soup. That night I ate a lot of soup and felt very proud of myself indeed. I then put both pots in the fridge and went to bed.

The next day was day two of the cabbage soup diet. I was really doing well. On waking I opened the fridge, full of my own virtue, to get a glass of juice. As the door opened I immediately smelled the soup. I closed the fridge.

Twenty minutes later I re-opened the fridge, grabbed my pots of healthy cabbage soup and carefully poured them into the bin. I finished breakfast with a couple of scoops of Mars Bar flavoured ice-cream and went back to bed. The cabbage soup diet was over. Hooray!

By the way, no matter what your English teacher told you when you were thirteen, healthful is no more correct than healthy. You can look it up!