The Superhero Convention

As I happened upon an unexpectedly bustling outdoor cafe while strolling home in the chill of the night air, I found myself overcome by the odd feeling that if I had been intending to get up to anything nefarious, this would definitely not be the time nor the place to see the plan through.

Long Night of the Museums

Mannheim.  It was my idea.  It wasn't a great idea.

Mannheim doesn't exactly have Heidelberg's charms, and what attractions it does have are more spread out and harder to find.  With a ticket valid only until 2am, we didn't have time to mess around pointing our eyes at second-rate exhibits - especially not when there was an anthropology museum, fernicular railway and castle-on-a-hill still to be absorbed back in Heidelberg.  So after a couple of disappointing hours seeing not much of interest, we headed back to the train station and escaped the city.

Nevertheless, I say 'not much' rather than 'nothing' of interest, since to have said 'nothing' would be to have done a grave injustice to the dancing nun in the synagogue.

The Reluctant Party Animal

As I looked over towards the young, blonde, fed-up-looking, four-eyed lady on the bus, I realised for perhaps the first time that even the uplifting powers of face paints and cake are not without limits.

Lordybird

Sometimes, such as when you accidentally catch the enthusiastically wandering eye of a stranger sitting beside a man dressed as a gigantic ladybird, you can just know immediately - as if by some mysterious intuition - that the evening is about to become a bit strange.

(And, when he approached our table and pulled out the lipstick, it did.)

The critic

Snowed-in in Germany for Christmas, I went to church.  More specifically, I went for the biggest, grandest church I could find, hoping that it would be easier to be timidly anonymous there.

It was. While the experienced sat on a slightly raised level from which it was possible to get a good view of what was going on, I joined the great unchurched-or-on-holiday fidgeting slightly below, craning their necks, regretting their seat-choices, and over-thinking their hand-movements in an effort not to look out of place.

A sweet-looking slightly older lady came in late. We exchanged clumsy but warm smiles and nods as we tried to figure out whether or not she would sit beside me. My smile working its usual magic, her nod became a shake, and she took the chair in front of me. The service began.

It turned out that it would be a nativity play and so there was no need to sit at the back to avoid the risk of being noisily and specifically evangelised, but by this time it was too late to move inconspicuously. The music wasn't so good from our position at the back (which would still have been the front, if only the attendance had been better). At best, the congregation muttered tunefully in a grudging response to the organ player's epic introductions. Finally the actors made their grand entrance.

Two Roman soldiers of dramatically different likely usefulness in battle appeared, along with a motley bunch of other children in makeshift costumes of dubious historical accuracy. Then came the first moment of high drama and quite moving pathos, when the shorter, more ineffective-looking soldier fell over someone's feet - probably his own.


Everything else played out presumably more or less exactly as it had two thousand or so years ago. Mary squabbled amusingly with Joseph until they finally got a room from a crafty innkeeper. Somewhere along the line, and with a minimum of noise, mess and fuss, a birth happened. Wise men followed a star on a stick to pay homage to the silent child. A narrator summarised what it all meant.

The performance closed to rapturous applause. I clapped along too, confusedly, half-heartedly, politely. The children, returning to their true selves having temporarily fully entered the roles of first century Jews and Gentiles, beamed.

The lady in front of me turned around with a look of helpless incredulity.

'That was DREADFUL!' she said passionately.

As I murmured something non-committal about not really knowing what I should expect, she elaborated on its many irredeemable shortcomings, and explained where I should go next year if I want to see a nativity play done properly, before striding out of the church in disgust.

Omphaloskepsis

Friday evening.  When the young and the hopeful throng the streets, eager to notice, to be noticed, to be noteworthy, possibly to be notorious.

There is no better place than outside McDonalds to gauge the pulse of the youth.  To see an entire cross-section of society, or at least a cross-section of one particular section of society that looks mostly the same, except for differences in shirt colour (males) or ability to totter upright convincingly (females).

Like Attenborough with the bats, it's a chance to surreptitiously observe the fashions and interests of a crowd it would probably be fascinating, but impossible, to join.  To see what they get up to.  What drives them.  What they talk about with their peers.  While trying not to show weakness or fear, I cast a glance towards a particularly intriguing group.

It's belly buttons, apparently.  Belly buttons are where it's at.

Business opportunity

Last time I was back home, I was out drinking coffee and drawing, when I suddenly felt more like a house with several bottles of milk and newspapers slowly congregating outside than usual.

I looked up to see a young man, sling-armed and unkempt, standing above me.

It's sort of nice when someone talks to me when I'm out drawing, especially when they make it so obvious where I should punch them before running off if it starts to go badly.  It turned out, he was starting a t-shirt printing business and wondered if I'd like to join in as a supplier of designs.  He looked through my drawings and asked if he could take a picture of one or two on his iPhone.  I couldn't think of a good reason not to at that moment, and I was still trying to work out whether I could get something out of this conversation beyond slightly nervy encouragement.  In the end, I had to take the pictures on the phone anyway, using my preponderance of hands to the full, so if anyone committed a crime against my work it was me.

He showed me some of his pictures.  They were fantastic.  Skulls and the like, but very cool.  "I used to be a graffiti artist," he explained, adding "if you know what I mean", which I had thought I had done before he introduced the doubt.  He asked for my contact details.  I asked for his instead, since I'd be out of the country again soon (or some such irrelevant truth), and said I'd send him an email.

"What did that guy want?" asked my man-on-the-coffee-shop-inside later.  "Seems a nice fella.  Was in last week.  Stoned out of his head."

Looking back, it would probably have been the right thing to nip any suggestions of my participation in the bud from the very beginning, rather than just never sending that email.  But I think that, as a partnership, we probably weren't really compatible, so the ultimate outcome was the right one.

Regrets

Sometimes, when I walk to work before really having woken up, I faintly catch the scent of events going on around me, but saunter sleepily on without paying any real attention to them.

Then, a few steps later - when it's too late - I suddenly realise that, actually, the scene was intriguing enough that it really would have been worth checking out more carefully.

That I will now never know the story behind the morning with the lady, the older gentleman, the brushes and the mysterious tantalising cloth is one of my bigger regrets in Germany, and in life generally.

The Effortless Skateboard

Although it is quite natural to make less effort in some (or all) aspects of life whenever one senses that a relationship is rock-solid, it should nevertheless be kept in mind that there is always a danger of pushing this reduction in exertions too far, so that the other might even begin to feel taken advantage of.

The Owner

I'm not quite sure if I saw a man with his dog or a dog with his man, but in any case a quick computation of their relative strengths led to the conclusion that the whims of only one of them could really determine whether their walk would, in the final analysis, be considered a pleasant stroll or a terrible bloodbath.

The Spectator

Even if (almost) everyone loves a good love story (provided it's not too sickening), it was striking to note, from the momentary observation of a brief flicker of an expression, that when a young lady does happen to find her handsome and (remarkably) tall prince, the whole world might not necessarily join wholeheartedly in the celebration.

Living the dream

The racing blue convertible.

The young, blonde girlfriend.

The large, green leafy plant.


Most genies offer precisely 3 wishes.

His satisfied grin as they waited at the traffic lights was the proof that, if you're clever about it, it's enough.

Maltesers

Last week, I had a delicious, if mildly unbalanced and slightly overwhelming, conversation with a very friendly girl about Maltesers.  Although, looking back with the benefit of some extra googling, it might have been about Malteser.

The musical relationship

After watching a little girl drum up quite a bit of support, I have concluded that there exists an inverse relationship between the innate cuteness of a street musician and how talented they need to be.

Ought to be able to hold a violin, more or less unaided.

Should be able to play pretty well.

Must be incredible.

Although there would then be a lower bound, below which musical talent is no longer particularly necessary.

May benefit from an ability to hold eye contact.

Safety first

Irrespective of whether or not the child is already rather well padded and protected, and independently of whether the street is actually completely dry, it seems the careful and attentive German mother doesn't overlook the additional security that only a good-quality pair of swimming goggles can offer.

The Shoe Watcher

On Saturday morning, in front of a flower shop on the road into town, I saw a shoe watcher practicing his craft.

As I approached him, on the same footpath, I thought that he must eventually look up and see me, and I was trying to decide between giving him a smile or a more appropriate look of incredulity.  But with the dedication and focus of a true professional - or perhaps someone who had already lost too many shoes through moments of distraction - he just continued on with his detailed observations, ignoring me or oblivious to me.

He picked the shoes up briefly, but as "the eye is not satisfied with seeing", so too it seems the fingers are not satisfied with fondling, and so he put them back down to ponder some more.

Two hours later, as I walked back that way, he was away.  So were the shoes.

As if it had never happened.  But it had.

The Printer Room

When I was in the printer room, gathering up my freshly printed goods, suddenly the door flew open.  There, in the entrance, stood a girl I had never seen before, clearly also with printing on her mind.

She smiled at me, with a short, delicate smile.  We were alone in that small room: just her, me, two printers, a photocopier, and a giant plotter.  One rarely experiences such poetically perfect moments.  It was fate.  She felt it too.  Probably.

In a moment, a thousand pictures of the future flashed and danced before our eyes: the shy, uncertain getting to know one another, the discovery of unexpected commonalities, the superfluous printing trips, the surreptitious letter-writing, the growing affection, the nervous exchanging of our stories, the active listening, the hair-stroking, the comforting, the perfected affection, the house on the island by the river overlooking the meadow between the forests, the forgetting of a birthday, the music wafting around the campfire, the silly argument in which I was right but magnanimously don't dwell on too long, the paint on the walls, on a canvas, on a cat, the passive speaking, the new ways of thinking, the forgiveness, the end.

But sometimes a moment is simply too huge, feelings are too strong, possibilities too deliciously boundless.  One gets scared.

This, I can only assume, is why she quickly gathered her papers, turned around, switched off the light, and left me alone in the dark with my thoughts, as if I hadn't been there.

The Offer

Recently, there were several people on the main street holding signs to indicate their participation in the Free Hugs Campaign" ('Free hug' being translated as 'Umarmung umsonst' in a less huggable language).

It's a very beautiful idea: random(ish) acts of kindness to promote connectivity and an appreciation of self and others.

It is only if one starts to assign too much worth to the identity of the hugger that the delightful purity of the empathetic endeavour is somehow diluted.  But one must admit: the hugger's identity does in large part dictate whether or not 'free' is good value or not.

Examples of instances in which sharing a 'free hug' might still be considered a net loss.

The Phone Licker

Lest there be any doubt, this really is a drawing of a man on the main street enthusiastically, but carefully, licking his mobile phone.

Then, when he was finally satisfied that it was clean as a kitten, he put it back in his pocket.

Otherwise he looked like a normal parent.  But sometimes it can be difficult to see beyond the phone-licking.

The Photographer

It looked like a normal date - maybe a first date - and she didn't seem scared at all.

But, while I am not a photographer, there is something about the appearance of a massively oversized zoom lens pointed at a girlfriend not one metre away that raises suspicion as to whether he has ever photographed a woman before.

Or, if he has, whether it was done with her knowledge and consent.