Godliness is next to taxliness
Germany wouldn't strike you as a deeply spiritual country, but there are some hidden levels of religiosity that can jump up and surprise you. On the tax registration form they ask you for your religion. I know of other auslanders who have made the error of thinking back to childhood and writing Catholic or Protestant in that space. They have then been forced to pay the named organisation a monthly tithe, if you please. And the only way to stop paying is to formally excommunicate yourself from the church you've said you belong to, and to get a certificate to prove it.
Berlin - hotter but better
Just back from an ill timed weekend back in London, a city which doesn't do heat well. Stuck inside the sixth circle of hell, otherwise known as the northern line, I had plenty of time to reflect that although I missed the place initially, any desire to move back has by now disappeared. In fact I find myself muttering out loud 'how on earth did I live here' as I traverse the city. What is that law of physics that says every single time you do a journey something in your washbag has to leak all over the entire contents of your luggage?
No more football
So, goodbye then, Weltmeisterschaft 2006. We got to see nasty little Ronaldo cry, the Germans discovered how to wave flags, the Italians scraped the cup on penalties, and we all still love Zidane. Not really the best football - fear on the pitch and the bench saw to that - but it certainly was a great party.Dealing with withdrawal symptoms by attempting a return to normal life, I went to see Match Point again at the Freiluftkino at Marienenplatz. On the way there I assured my friend that yes I certainly did know how to put up a deck chair thanks, and easily at that. But what does pride come before? Arrival at the venue soon led to a lengthy period wrestling with said piece of fiendish apparatus, trying not to get in a rage. Finally all appeared to be as it should, so I sat down. Only I didn't, instead I quite unexpectedly lay down on the ground, with the offending 'chair' lying flat beneath me, and the surrounding punters unable to stifle their guffaws. The shame.
Let France wipe the floor with them
The word Ronaldo is obviously Portuguese for cheat.
