Der Himmel über Berlin

I'm so excited. Today I'm getting a new bike. I have been searching for the perfect bike for over two months now, ever since my last one was stolen. I was having no luck though, nothing quite matched my specific ideas on what I wanted.

But then, Berlin, like it so often does, provided me with a wonderful surprise. A new bike shop opened around the corner from me, run by a dirty-looking hippie dude who builds bikes from old bits and pieces he find lying around. And right now he's builing my custom-made bike for me, with the frames, handlebars, pedals, gears, wheels and tyres that I picked out myself. And he's only charging me €55 for it. And the sun has just come out. And I can't bloody wait.

I have been going through a bit of a zombie phase lately. Not quite sure what provoked it, but I'm pretty sure it was the breaking-up-with girlfriend incident of a few weeks ago (now, thankfully resolved - nice and back together again). However during those few weeks, I was shuffling around forlornly, focussing mainly on eating enough to survive, but not really caring what it was.

Naturally, I watched an obscene amout of zombie movies in order to ascertain for sure that I wasn't one. First up was the really odd Aussie gore-fest Undead. It actually kinda confused me, which is pretty irregular for a zombie film. Cheesy, fun and silly as hell though. Next up was Resident Evil, so amazingly stupid but plenty of fantastic zombie action. The zombie dog scene is about the funniest and most wonderful thing I have ever seen in my life. And then, to round off the marathon was the best of the lot, the frightening and amazing 28 Days Later. Technically, they weren't zombies, but people infected with a rage virus was close enough for me.

So after this trio, I concluded that I wasn't a zombie. And I got my girl back.

But, worryingly, if there ever is a zombie incident here in Berlin, I'm screwed:

32%

Yes, I bloody do. Under all circumstances.

Unlike you lucky Brits, and my lucky Irish brothers who started the whole thing, smoking everywhere is still acceptable in Germany.

Acceptable to the extent that no-one even asks if it's OK if they smoke. Except people you know - acquaintances, work colleagues and the likes, presumably out of some warped sense of politeness. And those are exactly the people that you cannot tell to feck off with their filthy dirty cancer sticks. You have to smile politely and try to communicate through your polite 'No, not really' that you would rather eat a bowl of fetid Sauerkraut than inhale their rancid, loathsome vapours.

Let's just ban smoking everywhere, no exceptions. Then the world can be a better place and I can be a better person, since I will have just a little bit less twisted rage inside me. Not to mention a general upturn in the general health of human beings in general. But I'm not so terribly concerned about that.

Yesterday morning I got back from another week on English camp and ran straight to the nearest bookshop to pick up the new Harry Potter book. I did a marathon 10.5 hour reading session, with only one 20 minute break. I can't recommend that anyone do this, as I think I might be blind now, and I'm pretty sure that my neck and back will never fully straighten out again.

But was it worth it? Er, yes. But only in the same way that I thought Star Wars Episode 3 was worth it. I just had to know what happened at the end, and even though pretty much the whole first half of it was dreadfully boring (apart from the riveting first few chapters) I was pretty satisfied with the way things turned out. Apart from the utterly cheesy epilogue, that is.

Now I just have to convice everyone that I have met over the last month that Harry Potter is not representative of my usual literary pursuits. Or maybe I have to convince myself. Since I really want to read it again.

Where did I put Crime and Punishment?

Well, finally. He's not a cute little ball of snuggly white fur anymore. He's a big, nasty, aggressive polar bear who bites his daddy.

Hopefully that means that life can return to normal here in Berlin. No more fecking cutsy-wootsie bear being rammed down our throats everywhere we look.

Little asshole. I always resented him for being so cute, it just didn't seem fair. Now he's a big nasty predator and the status quo has been restored. Now we can go back to thinking actually cute things are cute, like little baby socks, children and puppies that don't grow up desiring to eat people.

Bah.

I never understood people who broke up with their partners, despite claiming that they were still in love with them. I always considered them to be idiotic, melodramatic twats with very little grasp on their own feelings. Love is the most important of all, isn't it? Once it's there, nothing else matters, right?

Isn't it funny how opinions like that often come back and bite you hard on the ass? Because I'm one of those people now. I'm an idiotic, melodramatic twat with very little grasp on my own feelings who just broke up with his girlfriend despite still loving her.

I just realised that today is July 9th - this day last year was one of the best ever. I watched the World Cup Final here in Berlin, celebrated with the joyous Italians and felt that I was really at home here. One year on, I so nearly managed to improve on that. But because of my idiotic melodramatic twattishness, I feel like I have almost nothing.

Well this post is a ray of sunshine. But I don't care. I want everyone to feel as miserable as I do.

The other day I brought an umbrella with me for the first time ever in my life. I had always been opposed to the things, having once had my eye nearly poked out by one. I also believed that umbrellas were only used by losers, idiots and continental Europeans.

What luck then, that I had it when I got stuck out in the heaviest rain I have ever experienced in my life. Granted, my feet got so wet that I had to borrow a pair of socks and a terribly ill-fitting pair of trainers from my student, who, in typical teenager fashion, immensely enjoyed the fact that his English teacher had got soaked to the skin on his way to the weekly English torturing.

Still though, I think it was worth it - I got to help a little old lady across the river that had ten minutes previously been a road. What is it about helping little old ladies that fills one with an enormous sense of well-being, even when one is wetter than one has ever been before, despite the efforts of one's new best friend, Mr. Umbrella?

It really bothers me when I wake up in the morning and I need to both pee and drink some water.

Can't my body see an easy solution to the necessity to both expel and imbibe liquids?

This is especially frustrating on my wonderful new high bed, on stilts 1.5m above the ground. I have absolutely no desire to climb down to do something as ridiculous as putting liquids both in and out of my body.

Now, don't get me wrong. I have never and will never drink my own urine out of sheer laziness. I just think my body should come up with a solution.

Just noticed something, well, disturbing really.

The name of a major brand of toilet paper here in Germany is called 'Happy End'.

Yes, 'Happy End'. But a happy end for who? Or what?