I only came in for some baked beans

Supermarkets here appear to be arranged on aesthetic grounds rather than on anything approaching logic. Dispensing with those annoying aisles whose only function is to help you shop quickly, they also appear to group products together by some other method than the obvious one of similarity of contents. I’m not sure what the criteria is but I suspect it might be the colour of the packaging.

Festive cheer

Christmas approaches fast. Though generally more tasteful in their decorations, the rundown to the period of over consumption is reassuringly like home, with the same endless loops of Cliff Richard and the Pogues with Kirsty McCall playing in every arcade, and unconvincing Santas waylaying you outside department stores. The Christmas markets are just like the one in Manchester, except with more alcohol. On top of the ever present gluewein it seems that you can get a heated version of just about any known alcoholic drink. A favourite seems to be a hot caipirinha, but as I associate caipirinhas with sitting on a beach I can’t believe that this is quite right.

Had our work party in a bar hired specially for the occasion, complete with deaf and dumb bar staff. This didn’t make much difference to me, as I tend to order drinks by pointing at them anyway. My German is getting better though; this week I learned the expression ‘inner Schweinhund,’ which of course translates as ‘inner pigdog.’ Everybody has one, seemingly.

While doing a spot of Christmas shopping in Neukoln it occurred to me that there is some irony in the fact that the name Karl Marx Str. should be applied to a street which is one long strip of cut-price emporiums filled with plastic goods covered in badly glued-on glitter, made in the sweatshops of capitalism’s eastern colonies. I’m sure he is a-spinning in his grave.

In the background the economic depression here deepens. This week I walked past a factory on whose perimeter fence were tied old pairs of shoes. Next to each pair was a notice stating the name, years with the company and amount of dependent children of every worker who’s just been told they are to become arbeitslos. There were quite a lot of them.

But the real burning question in Berlin at the moment is whether or not the new White Trash is completely rubbish, and a sad sold out spectre of its former fabulously filthy underground self. Consensus seems to be that if the same cool crowd go who’ve always gone then it will stay cool, but that will be in spite of the similarity to a theme pub in Tunbridge Wells, rather than because of it. The burgers are still great, of course.

Vodka is not my friend

Some of these Berlin hangovers beggar belief.

A sign from above

Today as I stood at a bus stop outside one of the Christmas markets, a pair of glasses fell at my feet. I put them on and found that the bus map I had hitherto been squinting pointlessly at swam clearly into view. My brother was with me at the time, and the only explanation that either of us could come up with was that a passing cyclist had somehow dropped them. We both decided it was a sign of something deep and meaningful, not least that I can't read without glasses, and I kept them.

Home thoughts from abroad

I had an excellent weekend in London visiting old muckers and celebrating birthdays, but I have grown accustomed to efficient public transport and I didn’t much care for its antithesis. Within 10 minutes of setting foot in the city (the time it takes to walk from the Thameslink platform to the underground at Kings Cross) I counted no less than 7 different announcements of delays or cancellations to tubes or trains. Feelings of nostalgia were no further aroused by walking into a shop to see a new range of ‘amusing’ gift cards, one of which had the charming design 'Happy Birthday Bitch.'

George Best – legend or love cheating lush? Both, I suppose. Quite droll that amidst the hyped sentimentality his erstwhile team (whose name escapes me, but they used to be quite famous) will be the only one of the British foursome not in the final stages of the Champions' League, or indeed even in Uefa. And did anyone else notice that Benfica’s goalie is called Quim?

Cutting edge of fashion

Got surprised by my first overheated building in Berlin today. Accordingly had to shed many more layers than I’d planned on doing when getting dressed this morning, and ended up giving a class wearing one of my Dad’s old thermal vests.

Relieved to see on BBC World that although Mongolia is bitterly cold, Saharan Africa is dry and fine.