COLD! COLD! FREEZINGFUCKINGCOLD!

Oh good lord ladies and gents of Berlin, Winter ist da, oder? I've just come from checking out the betrothed and my new pad and Rathaus Neukoelln looked like a swirling, Siberian wasteland. But, but, BUT my pretties, I have very possibly cracked the winter dressing code. I, who am usually a wimpering wreck in anything less than freezing, was quite cosy all day. And I am willing to share my glorious warming secrets of joy with you, dear readers. It is all in the LAYERS. Layers and wool. Like an onion made out of a sheep.

Layer number one- Obviously normal underwear, and then THERMAL VESTS. There should be two layers, an actual vest and a long sleeved t-shirt type affair.

Layer two- LONG JOHNS. The fancier the better. I have lovely Merino wool ones that my mummy gave me one year we went skiing. I may never take them off.

Layer three- two pairs (at least) of socks. DISCLAIMER- I am not saying that any of these undergarments are going to give you a very sexy final result, but a) warmth trumps sexy (I mean, in the context of spending-all-day-outside-or-on-public-transport) and b) I have a ring on my freakin' finger, bitches. If he's gone this far, he can probably deal with the 'johns.

Layer four- a normal outfit. Ie. trousers, top, jumper. What we'd all be wearing, basically, if we were sensible enough to being living somewhere not totally Arschkalt.

Layer five- Extra Cardigan. I cannot stress the importance of Extra Cardigan. It should be as wooly and large and offensively unflattering as possible. Trust me, it's worth it. If in doubt, think ONION SHEEP.

Layer six- Coat and Accessories. Again, as oversized and bulky as possible. Mittens are better than gloves (because your fingers can rub against eachother for sweet love-warmth), and remember that if your fingers  retain any dexerity at all in them then they are too thin. Hats should be ridicluous (my large flappy monstrosity gives me terrifyingly static hair, and no peripheral vision but I LOVE it). Unfortunately my extreme vanity disallows me from really proper winter boots and coats, but Operation Onion Sheep properly executed actually removes a lot of their importance.

Okay, Leute, that is all my warming wisdom. I have to get back to reading my wedding blogs. And yes, I know it's pathetic, and no, I don't care. I'm getttttiiiiinnnnng maaaaarrrriedddd!!

Ah, November in Berlin!

What a joyous, joyous month. Piss-rainy, cold, and I'll eat my fucking hat if anyone's seen the sun for a week. Oh, and Sunday doesn't count as I was hungover and didn't leave the house. Anyway, I think it's high time I started thinking about ways to Combat the Grey.

CTG Plan Nummer Eins: DRINK. I am now on my third winter in Berlin, and I feel it's going to be another of vaguely toying with alcoholism, which is not to be confused with my Daily Summer Drinking Plan, which is celebratory and social, and therefore not in anyway lamentable or worrying. Oh no, Winter Alcoholism is an entirely different show pony because it is born not out of joy and sunshine but cold, hard necessity. Seriously, I have not seen the sun in DAYS, all the kids are snotty as all get out and my umbrella has not dried out for four days straight. The only thing for it, literally, is to drink. I am trying to keep myself off the Gluehwein until atleast the third week of November but if this weather doesn't pick up I ain't making no promises.

CTG Plan Nummer Zwei: listen to weird Berlin and Brandenburg Radio stations. Namely Berliner Runkfunk 91.4. Seriously, it plays the HITS. Though, ironically, not at this very moment. Ha, no, total lies. Tom Jones, She's a Lady. Hells to the yeah.

CTG Plan Nummer Drei: Hot chocolate and knitwear and good books.Often it's good to go with the classics.

Read this...

...it's good. He's super talented, my fella.

On being engaged.

So being engaged is lovely. Just lovely. You get to prance around with a sweet ring on your finger and an even sweetner feeling of smugness that you'll never again have to worry if he's ever going to caaaaaaaall???? People bring champagne to your house and all your girlfriends treat you like a princess. It is freakin' awesome.

Planning a wedding in four months, however, slightly less lovely and smug-making. Not the actual ceremony, food and party bit, that's fun and, you know, not too difficult unless you happen to be demented and care about things like colour schemes and having everything fit into your "romantic/casual Parisian rose garden in June" theme. No, that's the stuff I'm enjoying thinking about, other stuff not so much:

Other stuff like the fact I'm marrying an American. I mean, obviously, I love that my betrothed is American (not least because he sounds very sexy when he sings country songs and also deeply understands my appreciation for all things pie-related) but dear God and sweet baby Jesus, does it ever complicate things. We are currently in the midst of his marriage visa application, a process devised to inject your special day with the romantic thrills that can only come from endless paperwork and fingerprinting. Hurrah!

It is also proving staggeringly difficult to find (even a picture of) a wedding dress that isn't horrible. Or covered in seqins. Or feathers. Or bows. Or ALL OF THE FREAKIN' ABOVE. Seriously, so many hideous merengues, only so much time to wade through all the crap and Swarovsky. However, on my daily trawl of the few wedding themed websites I can stomach, I might just have happened upon something. Obviously, it will only be stocked in some silly boutique in Williamsburg (hipsters get married too!), so I shall have to get it made. I also want to tweak it a bit anyway, for added individuality and, if I'm honest, SEX APPEAL. So if anyone knows a Berlin based dress makery type person, hit me up. Please.

I've just come to the horrible realisation that I've written a whole paragraph about my search for a perfect wedding dress. For strangers to read. On the internet. If you'll excuse me I have to go lie down in a darkened feminist novel. Good night.

A little ray of sunshiny light...

...in the stream of sporadic moaning and rambling that this "blog" has become:

I AM ENGAGED TO THE BEST MAN IN THE WORLD.

That will be all.

BBQ! BBQ! BBQ!

So on Friday the Boyfriend (who is from El Paso, Texas, of all places) was wandering aimlessly round Gruenau (as we English teachers are wont to do. Seriously, the places they send us...) when he stumbled upon a place claiming to be an authentic Texan bbq joint, namely Wright's BBQ.  Intrigued, he snoops around until discovered by the owners (the place is still closed), who invite him in for further snooping and chatting. Turns out that not only are they Texan, but they are from El Paso, of all places. The Boyfriend's excitement is barely to be contained, and arranges for us to go out the next day for lunch.

Suffice to say we ended up staying there for about seventy-nine hours.  And oh sweet Jesus Lord was it ever good. We went for lunch on Saturday and started with brisket and ribs, with a variety of delicious sides, and then got so drunk on tequila and whiskey we had to stay for dinner, which was brisket (the BF's) and chicken (mine, and SOFUCKINGGOOD) sandwiches on homemade bread. Then we drank more.

So yes, go go GO! Go say hello to the lovely Thomas and his sister Claire who run the place (and will listen to you mumble and bumble on endlessly for hours whilst cheerfully refilling your drinks). Go eat brisket and chicken and ribs and beans and Texas style potato salad and AWESOMENESS.

Sugar in my tea.

Means I have a vague hangover. Vague, yes, but a hangover nonetheless. After no less than four beers. FOUR! Who the fuck am I? The Virgin Mary? But anyway, I have tea and gross yet delicious pastries and an afternoon of doing very little and then some mad rock party in Neukoelln to look forward to today, so all is not lost. Add to that the fact that yesterday was AWESOME and it's shaping up to be a very good weekend indeed!

So yes, yesterday. It started out sunny and awesome, particularly as I was assesed teaching a class and it went superbly well. The children were ANGELS, and I was so, so proud of them. A special shout out goes to Julian (4) for yelling "Ha, ha, you're touching his willy!" when I was helping Jonas with his fly. Good times. Then I took myself off to Potsdam for the afternoon as the weather was so glorious and I had never been there before. And well golly, aren't I glad I did. I was only there for a wander and coffee and cheesecake amount of time but I really felt that I'd been away. And it is so, so pretty. Go, go I cannot recommend it enough.

And then, to top it all off, I spent the evening with some good people, sitting by the canal (complete with full moon and about seven million swans) and in a bar, drinking delicious German beer and shouting about things.

Happy weekend!

To try to counteract the disgusting levels of depravity reached last weekend*, I am having a quiet one this time around. It's going well, I'm in my amazing lesbian jimjams already, and it's only 21.55! I am busy downloading season one of Glee, and am about to stream the shit out of some It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Tomorrow, unfortunately, I shall not be going on an exciting mullet-themed adventure as my bastarding work are dragging us all in for a workshop. Whoopee. Seriously, I work for such an unbelievable shower of fucks. They literally have no idea how to manage staff, and their reasoning is, eternally, that as long as it's in our contract, and they pay us on time, they are in the clear. In fact, as long as they do that they actually don't understand at all why we get angry with them when they give us extra classes at short notice, few holidays, and barely any fucking money. It's almost pathetic watching their funny little minds pack in when confronted with requests for courtesy, respect or humane treatment. "But the money is in your account every month, why don't you trust us?". Oh sorry, yes, well done, sirs. We're pissed off with you, to a man, but you haven't mistreated us to the point of actual breach of contract. Excuse me while I heave the medal of Employer of the Year around your weird scrawny neck. Seriously, both of my bosses have weird necks. Like chicken necks but on backwards or something.

Good Lord, sorry, this was supposed to be a happy post! Which it is. Will be. Trying to think of happy things....fuck it, go watch the episode of It's Always Sunny wherethey go to the Grand Canyon. If that doesn't make you happy to be a human you're a lost cause.

* At one point on Friday night my contact lense fell out. I found it some time later, stuck to the top of my shoe. I spat on it, and put it back in. Oh yes.

Ooooh la la!

I was in suuuuuuch a good mood today. That's what an enormous coffee on an empty stomach before going to dance around for an hour with a sweet group of kids in a lovely, tiny Kindergarten way down in the wilds of south Neukoelln will do for one. In an attempt to balance out the CRINGING HORROR of the last post, here are some other things that will make you happy:

Making delicious (almost, I need to tweak it about somehow...) apple and blueberry crumble because it's cold and piss-rainy outside.

Sharing homemade apple and blueberry crumble with someone (definitely) delicious.

Planning weekend adventures somewhere exciting (or even somewhere totally shit, it's all about the attitude, Leute) where you're going to run around like a tourist and have delicious picnics and drink beer in weird places with people with mullets.

Realising that when you have the above planned already, you can move on to planning the day's OUTFIT.

Reading this blog and wondering, since you've never been to Texas, WHY THE SWEET HOLY DICKENS YOU MISS THE FOOD SO DAMN MUCH?

Spending hours youtubing American comedians. This dude is freakin' hilarious:

Oh God, take me away.

You know, I think my love affair with Berlin may have come to an end. There, I said it. It's painful to admit, but its purpose for me has been fulfilled, namely allowing myself to drink and party my way into listless stupidity, teaching me the valuable life lesson that I don't, in fact, want to be an alcoholic It-Girl. With this accomplished, I am left stumbling round a city that can offer me very little in terms of career advancement, and that has started to feel less like home the more I live here. Subsequently, I am bored out of my mind and miserable. I am also soooooooo broke, wie immer.

Oh, Gott. Woe is me. How horribly, horribly self-indulgent, moaning on about one's problems on a blog, of all places. It's disgusting, and I apologise. What I need is to do is to start doing some stuff to entertain myself. As the Boyfriend (who is both wise and sage) says "only boring people get bored". And the irony is not lost on me that I am posting this on a day when I have actually failed to leave the house. Shame on me, I'm going to make a list entitled "Things to do to avoid being bored and getting so whiny that you end up losing all your friends not to mention what little self-respect you have left", and follow it to the letter. Lists make everything better.

Brokety, brokety, broke.

Again. Seriously, I have no idea how I do it. And no, I'm not one of those fools that says that whilst fondly gazing at the new 80 euro boots she just bought herself. I swear to you, I do not really buy things unless absolutely fucking necessary. I had to force myself two weeks ago to buy some jeans and flats because my other jeans and flats had two holes apeice in them, and had done for months. I haven't had a haircut in about seven years and God knows, I barely spend money on things like cosmetics (I only really wear foundation and mascara as, in the words of many who have tried to get me "into" other eye make-up, I look "um...yeah..really fucking weird" wearing much else).

All of this then begs the question WHERE THE HOLY HELL IS ALL MY MONEY GOING? I have racked my brains and racked my brains and still have no idea. Which leads me to the uncomfortable conclusion that my lack of funds is still down to the worst of all financial pitfalls, the Drunk Withdrawal. You know the one, the "ish only two a.m, and I wansh more vodka ansh stuffs, so fucking wash if there'sh no Postshbank cashpoint in the Naehe, I'll jussst fucking use thisssh one, fuck the six euro chargsh". SIX EUROS? Are you fucking insane? That's a delicious Vietnamese feast at Hamy PLUS icecream after, you drunken nutbag.

Oh well, I figure being broke keeps me qualifying as living on the edge, despite my steady job (as a teacher, ffs) and steady beau (do I miss the days of actually having to entertain the thought of going home with the maniacs only I seem to attract in clubs? HA!). And, as we all know, living on the edge keeps one hip and attractive and away from trouser suits, which is bound to be a good thing.

Happy Weekend Everyone!

This weekend happiness is being sent my way from several quarters. Hope yours is too.

1. The weather is all lovely and sunny and warm again. But also BREEZY so not GODDAWFULLY SWEATY. An important distinction, that.

2. The Boyfriend and I (I say "and I", I will be having little to do with it, really...) are making carnitas today. I have never eaten carnitas before but anything to do with Mexican food, tender pork and the Boyfriend's cooking is bound to be good.

3. Glee. If you haven't started watching it, do. Show choirs singing and dancing to uplifting and jazzy songs, teen drama and the struggle of committed teaching staff to do right by their pupils? It's like it was freakin' MADE FOR ME.

4. I'm back at work so I got to spend the week in the company of hilarious minature people who tell you endless stories about their Grandma and the time they saw a crab.

5. Fantasing about taking Alexa Chung out for cake. Such, such a pretty girl, and I think she could actually be quite cool and we could hang out and talk about music and clothes and stuff, but such, SUCH a great need for cake.

I have to go and shower now, in preparation for a nice sunny stroll to Hermannplatz for the purchasing of a pig's ass meat. Unless the BF has been using my limited grasp of the technicalities of Mexican food/what happens in the real world to mislead me for his own amusement, that is what we are actually doing today.

Life Administration.

Sucks. Big time. You know what I mean, all the boring useless crap like sorting out health insurance and opening and closing bank accounts and general useless boring crap. And Sweet Baby Jesus Lord, is there a lot more of it to do over here. I'm never moving house again. Except of course that I am. Again. In two weeks. Or at least I will be if I ever find a fucking place to live.

Hopefully, hopefully I have a place sorted, though that might not be avaiable til mid-October, by which point I'll be so bloody fed up I'll be ready for the hills. I'm just hoping it'll be okay becuase I think any time I spend on Wggesucht is damaging to my health. Seriously, will noone, NOONE, pick up on the irony of writing a three paragraph description about how "unkompliziert" their flatshare is? Christ Almighty, it's enough to make me miss the mad estate agents of Dublin who used to show us round flats (after the initial wait of an hour whilst he went back to the office to get the right keys) that had knives in the toilet bowl.

On the plus side, the weather is still nice, I'm going to tapas in a bit, and someone wonderful made me a yummy burger yesterday. All is not lost, all is in fact going pretty okay.

Holy Sweet Jesus Lord.

It is HOT. I am going through cold Club Mates and cold showers like they're going out of fashion. And today, I swear it, is lake day. I have yet to get my lake on in Berlin, but the time has come to submerge myself in some cold Wasser. So, so sweaty.

Another fantastic advantage of the soaring temperatures is the fact that Berlin customer service reaches a whole new pinnacle of unpleasantness. A few tips, if I may, to New Waitresses Everywhere; I know it's a million degrees, and starting a new job is stressful but, and here is the key thing, none of this is actually MY fault. If you're not ready for my order don't bark the customary "bitte schoen" at me and then, upon hearing my order of THREE, not twenty, THREE ITEMS, growl "uuuuh, klein Moment"whilst rolling your eyes manically at me as if I just asked to fellate your boyfriend rather than have some waffles. If you're new, just smile, say sorry for being SO FREAKIN' SLOW, explain your newness and then everyhting will be nice and I won't feel like punching you or crying or both.

Ahem. Lake time it is.

Oh My Goodness...

So I was reading this blog, which linked me to this post on another. And now I'm crying. But in a good way. Read it and have your faith in humanity do a wee jump. It's made me feel all yummy and happy and I'm going to spend te rest of the morning drinking tea and looking at cottages in the west of Ireland so things are only going to get BETTER.

Have spent the weekend...

...stony, stony broke as I won't get paid 'til the morrow. Subsequently, I have spent my days lusting after things I cannot at this very moment have. Some of these things are mere pipe dreams, and others are things I may very well treat myself to tomorrow, or as soon as I locate them.

CAKE. Now, anyone reading this who actually knows me will point out that about 90% of my time is already taken up with lusting after cake, but when I can't actually literally afford any cake this creeps up to around the 98% mark. Particularly as I recently discovered the Brezel Company on Lenaustrasse in Neukoelln. Oh but their cakes all look delicious and I can vouch for the chocolate and pear tarte as genuinely being so. Their waffles also will make you (well, made me..) make incomprehensible but very appreciative sounds for a lengthy amount of time. Do it, you won't regret it. Unless you are some sort of dreadful anorexic/bulemic type person, when you might well regret it, in which case, go away, this blog is NOT FOR YOU.

SAILOR DRESSES. Goddamn you pretty sailor-dress clad girl that I saw at the clothes-y type market where the Turkish market usually is, you have made my day a hell of wanting. Well, not really, but it was a damned fine sailor dress and now I can picture myself in nothing else. Seriously, is there anything more cuter and flimflammerier than a big collar and a blue-and-white colour scheme? I think not.

A REALLY GOOD LOOKING BLOG. Like this one, which is delicious looking and shows a million lovely things in its posts. I will never have such a thing, of course, due to the frequently referenced lack of computer savvy and general laziness*, but a girl can dream.

A COUNTRY HOUSE WITH A GARDEN BY A LAKE. I don't think this one needs any explaining, as I sit here gently sweating as I type. Oh, what I wouldn't give to spend this muggy night skinny dipping and lying on a lawn looking at the sky with just the moon and some very select company looking on.

Happy Summer, everyone.

* And also possibly the fantastic eye for style and design that this girl has.

Flip flopping.

I love summer in Berlin for many reasons. I have spent most of today flip flopping around in flip flops (well, not really flip flops. I hate flips flops, but like how the word sounds. I'm mad for a bit of onomatopoeia, me. They're just sandals, really. Or "jandals" as my New Zealand friend inexplicably refers to them) as I had loads of classes cancelled (another reason I love summer, the kids' desire to learn is wilting like a wilting thing). I did lots of nice things like enjoy the sun and drink a refreshing Club Mate by the canal with New York Giulia and generally wonder at the loveliness of Berlin in Sommer.

Enjoy it Leute, for it is wonderous.

SOMMER IST DA!!!!!!!!!!!!

Endlich. And with it comes a whole host of pros and cons. Mainly pros. I love Berlin in the summer, but I swear to God they lie when they say the buses are klimatisiert. Particualy in Spandau. I have sweated more in my life on the buses in Spandau than I have in any gym. Gross, gross, gross. But then it is Spandau, so I don't know what I'm expecting.

But oh the pros! The biggie is the weather, obviously, and I just checked weather.com and it's going to be like this for ten days at least! Oh the joy and wonder of an Irish girl looking at a forecast that states "chance of precipitation: 0%". La, la, la and LA. I am going to wear shorts today.

Scrap the shorts, I just tried them on and they are too scandalous for non-holiday wear. Seriously, I looked like the Gaga, which is all very well but time and place and all that and a Sunday afternoon helping the boyfriend move house is neither the time nor place for Gaga-emulation. Summer dress it is. Nope, not dress, different shorts. More floral, less Gaga.

Jesus Christ, I need to leave the house. This post has descended into nothing more that me babbling about outfit changes. Sorry. It may be sunny, but I seem to retain the unfailing abilty to digress and dress inappropriately. Sigh.

101 Posts.

It would appear that my posts, much like the dalmatians, now number 101. Hurrah!! And my readers are now in double figures which is most gratifying for a blog which is largely unreliable, verbose and pointless. In the spirit of this milestone, however, I shall here by deliver a post that actually corresponds to this blog's actual supposed purpose. Namely, what to do when you're BROKE IN BERLIN.

EINS. Revel in the fact that everywhere, from bars to bakeries, has somehow managed to set up a big screen for the WELTMEISTERSCHAFT (yet another German word it is impossible to pronounce without SHOUTING). I have yet to see any matches as a) I am not a fan of sports, as such, anf b) I am piss-lazy but it looks mighty fun. I figure if I do decide to get involved I'm going to eschew paying for overpriced beer at some swanky Biergarten and just rock up to my local spaeti. I don't know the Turkish for "oh, you have a vagina ergo I won't even bother explaining the off-side rule to you" so there's a lot less chance I have punched someone in the face by half-time.

ZWEI. Go on one of the New Berlin free tours. Yes, even if you live here. Yes, even if you think Chris Sandeman is an evil shithead. I am about to drag my cousin, my cousin's boyfriend, my sister and my boyfriend on one on Saturday and oh boy, are we going to have fun. Don't forget to tip as a) the guide has to pay a few euros to the company for every tourist they take on their tours and b) they are really good. You will feel informed and exercised, and so are justified in spending the rest of the evening in the best state of being, smug drunkeness.

DREI. Go for an evening stroll around the canal. I did and I feel damned good for it.

That's all for post 101, I know that you know it's been chock-a-block with interesting and relevant facts and snippets, spread the word lovely people.

So I haven't had time for blogging...

...as I've been busy running around being a productive and contributive member of German society for weeks on end.

Well, no, obviously not. But I have managed a impressive number of feats, almost entirely without trying. Take yesterday, for example when I literally scraped my nail down a blackboard (by accident, obviously. It will seriously make you want to throw up) AND somehow stood on a tomato on the U Bahn steps, making it violently explode all up the back of my leg. Thursday was equally brilliant, the highlight being the clump of unclaimed blonde hair I found on the floor after a cutting and pasting session with twelve five-year-olds.

On Wednesday though I did go to the KRANKENHAUS (which is word that must always we spoken at a slightly higher decibel level) as I desperately needed some antibiotics at night. And for something that I had envisioned being awful it was incredibly pleasant. Everyone I met was super nice and helpful and it was no problem at all that I didn't have my EHIC card, a Krankenkasse card, or in fact any form of I.D at all. I have yet to receive the bill, to be fair, but in terms of people being kind and nice and understanding it was right up there with....I cannot think of a single example here in Berlin. Not that I don't LOVE Berlin but a bit of a smile wouldn't kill them, is all I'm saying. Speaking of which, if you're reading this, please join my campaign MAKE THE BUS DRIVERS OF BERLIN NOT SUCH A MISERABLE SHOWER OF FUCKS. All you have to do is greet them with a warm smile when you get on the bus and REFUSE TO BE ABASHED WHEN THEY GLARE AT YOU. There is only so long even a Berlin bus driver can glare at a continually smiling visage without feeling like a dick. VIVE LA REVOLUTION!!!

So I'm going to Crete for a week...

...as of next Saturday, to visit the mothership. This is exciting on many counts, not least that I might actually see the sun. Seriously, Deutschland, the fuck is wrong with you? So cold, so grey, so piss-miserable. Upon my return I want sunny skies, rising temperatures and some form of street carnival*. Get to it, B-lizzle.

As a result of my impending vacay I am about to head off bikini shopping. This is likely to prove difficult for several reasons. The first is that I am stony, stony broke. The second is that it is so cold outside the thought of a garment such as a bikini seems both terrifying and laughable. The third, and most overriding, difficulty in the Megan-swimwear equation is the fact that I am, and forever have been, so pale as to be translucent. And no, not in a luminous, could-be-an-extra-on-the-next-Twilight way (I freakin' WISH), just the bog standard, Irish, just-crawled-out-from-under-a-rock way. Le sigh.

* Not necessarily in my honour, though that would be a nice touch.

I keep forgetting all the AMAZING ideas I have for posts...

Seriously, I do have 'em, like some mothers, but they just disappear as soon as I have to get off the train/answer the phone/think about cake instead. So here is a random assortment of the thoughts I CAN remember from recent times.

What is UP with these weird "wet-look-fake-leather" leggings all and sundry seem to be sporting these days? Fucking HID-E-OUS. They make you look like you've done a really long pee in your trousers. Ditto harem pants which just make me look at otherwise nice-looking, grown women and think "she wants her nappy changing". None of this is good, girls, and deep down you know it.

I really hope Whitney Houston isn't back with ol' man trouble Bobby Brown. Come on Whitney, RISE ABOVE. You sing How Will I know, ffs, you can rise above ALLES.

Why oh why do Germans love making cakes out of Quark so much?

What IS Quark?

I really like Kate Nash and wish she was my friend. Her new video is so poppy and snappy and fun. And she just looks so cute and pretty in a very unpolished way. As a very unpolished girl myself I find this comforting and happy-making....Somewhat annoyingly I've just had a closer look at her in the video and she does look very polished indeed make-up wise. But you know what I mean. She's not one of these American maniacs who looks like they've been varnished. That and she advocates reading a book or hanging out with oneself instead of agonising over rivals in LURVE. Wise words, Kate my liebe.

Right, I'd best be off. Have to shower before bed as they're turning our hot water off at 7.a.m tomorrow. Thanks guys, you rock. Particularly when you empty the bottle bins BEFORE SUNRISE (seriously, how is that normal?). In the spirit of grooming and wanting to be pretty and so forth I am going to try to plait my hair wet and then let it dry into lovely crinkley waves for the morrow whilst I get my beauty sleep. In all probabilty though this will fail and you should keep an eye out tomorrow for a woman who appears to have stapled a Yorshire terrier to her head. Say hi. Oh and here's Kate:

Flat-hunting, flat-hunting. II.

Jesus, I'm just about to giveup. The Dream Flat is leider not available and God knows everything else is shit. Berlin, I love you but I draw the line at at living in a space that looks like it's been cobbled together out of spare bits of appartment block. Half a room here (seriously, HALF A ROOM IS GOOD FOR WHAT EXACTLY?), hardly any kitchen there (Mr Estate Agent Man you are very nice, and your gold trainers very snappy but I refuse to agree that my dining table would go nicely IN THE HALL). Please, Immobilien Gods, take pity on me. There's only so much more I can take.

And, while we're on the subject, this provision nonsense has me about ready to kill a puppy. The system seems to go something like this- someone wants to rent their flat out, they go to an estate agent, they receive a service, then the new renters, who have found the flat THEMSELVES, ONLINE, pay for this service. And not just a nominal amount, oh no, about 800 euros on average. It is alarmingly similar to the logic that allows out-going renters to say things like "oh and there's an extra 500 euro we'd ask you for, should you want the flat, because 18 months ago we made some decorating decisions that you should pay for, natuerlich und logisch". If anyone can point out what the fuck is logisch about that I'll be mighty bloody ueberrascht.

Flat-hunting, flat-hunting...

...is boring and crap and I'm sick of it. You have to spend ALL YOUR WAKING HOURS on the FUCKING INTERNET looking at ad after ad and PHONING PEOPLE and getting up at stupid o'clock on a Saturday when you're really TOO HUNGOVER and going to look at damned flats and having to pay 30c for the damned priviledge of vomiting in the loo at Neukoelln Arcaden. Ugh, ugh ugh and UGH.

But yesterday, and then again to today, I visited the loveliest flat I've seen in a long while. Hopefully, hopefully we will get it but, not being German, we haven't got all our Unterlagen sorted out. Damn them and their obsession with paperwork. But fingers crossed...

God, I may well have drank my own weight in vodka last night. I blame the Polish*. We went to Fire Club on Zionkirchestrasse which was fun but not amazing. Odd music. But fun was had, to my hazy recollection. Shapes were thrown, etc etc. Ugh, too drunk. Must grow up, three drinks maximum, like Gweneth Paltrow would do. Paltrow, I am willing to bet, has never been forced to pay to get sick in a public toilet.

* I mean the Polish people I was drinking with, not just the population in general. That would be rude, and they've enough on their plate at the moment without me sticking my oar in.

So my lovely ex-flatmate...

...and her new flatmate have started an awesome blog all about make-up and stuff. It's great, and lovely and pretty in a way mine will probably never be as I don't understand computers. Aaaaanyway, it's got me thinking on the many ways in which I fail to live up to modern grooming standards. I mean, you shouldn't think that I am running the streets of Berlin looking like some total hog with a mustache but my eyebrows are definitely more Brooke Shields than well, anyone with really shapely, dainty brows, and my methods of "shaping" my nails often involve the highly glamourous and not at all gross "biting and chewing" approach. And when it comes to make-up my relationship with that is best described in the immortal words of my mother, "Good lord, Megan, you look like a child with finger paints". So yeah, read lovely, elegant Clare and Jade's opinions on such matters and leave me to my vague, incoherent ramblings.

Speaking of vague and incoherent,I'm going out tonight. First my lovely friends are cooking me dinner and then we're going to Kleine Reise which has reopened in its usual and amazing location. I intend to be merry but composed as have a flight to get tomorrow and if I arrive hungover (again) my mother may actually kill me. On the off chance that any of you see me tonight, heading out of the realm of the merry but composed, please, please send me home.

No News Is Good News.

I have been trying to read the news this morning, which has culimated in me reading no actual news but many interesting articles and interviews (many, I am not going to lie, concerning themselves with fashion). The reason I can't read the real news is that it's all so horribly depressing and awful that I can't even bring myself to click on the headline links on the Guardian website. Who wants to read something entitled "Bengal viallagers pay with blood for steel plant" or "'Day of Wrath' brings Russians on to the streets"? Not me, that's for sure. Even the relatively safe ground of "Life and Style" is today peppered with potential horrors; close friends dying of cancer, parents with MS, and acting classes for those post-botox.

Have resorted to reading the Food section. Yummy, comforting, apoltical layer cake, I salute you.

BIRTHDAY!!

I haven't blogged in a while, ostensibly because I have been busy, mainly because I have been lazy. But two weekends ago I had one of the best birthdays ever, ever, ever. The fact that I managed to drag it out from Thursday to Monday evening was in itself amazing, and allowed for drinks, dinner and drinks, dancing, brunch, more dancing and a post-Berghain afterparty that lasted for about twenty hours (no, really). High points, in vaguely chronological order:

Getting AMAZING gifts such as a ticket to the National in May, a My Little Pony and my own personalised, rewritten version of the Very Hungry Caterpillar.

Dinner at the new, bigger Maria Bonita (it's not called that, it's called Maria Something but I can't for the life of me remember what. Skalitzer Strasse 81, at any rate). Loads of amazing people showed up and were lovely to me and I got to get all drunked up on margaritas and tequila.

Dancing at Kleine Reise with, I'm pretty sure, more or less everyone I know in Berlin. I particularly enjoyed dancing to this, watching my good friend draw another good friend's portrait on the toilet wall (with me explaining to all "she's a really talented artisshht"), and witnessing an impromtu harmonica solo in the bathroom. Good freakin' times.

Berghain on Sunday is probably best explained in a series of soundbites:

"I KNEW she was going to do this! I knew she was going to make this a technofest. I'm too old for techno. I don't understand it any more. Doesn't anyone still listen to Dylan?"

"What the FUCK is that?!" (looking at a very pretty floral tissue I had give her but a few hours before)

"Jesus, you know you're wasted when you look at the back of someone's head and think 'That's weird, why haven't they got any lips?'"

Our Flat on Sunday night/Monday is probably best explained with a brief summary of the main conversations that took place:

Approx. two hours on the relative merits of the Kings of Leon albums 1 through 4. Ditto Snow Patrol.

Roughly the same amount of time comparing the feminist messages of Dirty Dancing and Pretty Woman.

Some time past the point of reason on the motives, morals and techniques of Las Vegas strippers.

Recurring Theme of the Day- if your dad is a knight, but a knight on merit, how posh are you?

So yes, an awesome birthday was had. Thanks to all involved, you are amazing.

SICK.

I've been sick all week. It's been exciting and also gross. I've just been festering away in a pit of my own snotty tissues and those sticky wee caps from medicine bottles that you can never be bothered to rinse. I am have the sexiest cough this side of emphesyma and today I had to force myself to take a shower for the first time in days. I have been consuming Vitamin C by the truckload, ditto paracetemol, Haribo and Ritter Sport. Ugh, ugh and damn. On the plus side it does seem I am over the hump and hopefully normal working service will be restored tomorrow. Not least as I really need the money. Us freelancers can't just malinger endlessly, you know. no work, no pay and so on and so forth.

On the plus side, when one is sick one can indulge in certain behaviour that would otherwise be deemed "slackerish", "sluttish" or just plain "unseemly". This is fun, as any slacker, slut or general layabout will tell you. If only I had the balls to just all out join their ranks. But no, it's stupid social conformity for me. At least for the time being...But yes, stuff one can do when one is sick that one otherwise cannot:

1) Not get dressed all day. One can wear amazing outfits at will. Like the all-black-leggings-and-thermal-vest-ninja-suit I am currently rocking. I can also heartily recommend the cashmere jumper'n'tights look. But the KEY thing here, ladies and gentlemen, is that as an invalid, when you should need to leave the house (for provisions like Ritter Sport and DVDs), you can simply put on your coat and cardigan and NOTHING ELSE to go to the shops. You're sick, it's totally acceptable. What kind of society judges the ill? Exactly.

2) Watch amazingly soppy films like "My Sister's Keeper" and bawl your face off the whole way through (seriously, it will BREAK YOUR HEART) and blame the resulting swollen face and depressed demeanour on your illness rather than your succumbing to Hollywood tug tug tugging on your heartstrings in the most predictable of manners.

3) Listen endlessly to terrible, amazing mid-nineties American "alt" rock. Oh the joys. And, again, illness = NO JUDGEMENT.

So yes. Being sick does, to an extent, suck. But all clouds have their silver linings and what have you, and I've got Night Nurse for later. Hurrah!

You know what sucks?

Winter. I am so sick of the fucking weather. It's so bloody cold. It takes you about a million years to get dressed because leaving the house without at least seven layers is unthinkable. Today it felt like I was wearing, give or take, everything I own. I could barely bend my elbows or knees. I was wearing longjohns, for the love of God, which means, of course, that I will probably never get any attention from the opposite sex again. Though, to be fair, it takes so much energy just to get undressed these days I'd probably have lost any desire to do anything but lie there and go "gee, it was cold today" by the time I got down to the nitty gritty/longjohns anyway. Le sigh.

Less drama, more dance routines.

Yup. It needs to happen. Less time spent endlessly analysing one's life over and over again until it all seems meaningless (like when you say your name out loud over and over) and more time spent choreographing. Thanks to Mark who, however briefly, went along with the impromtu routine I started about 3 a.m on Saturday morning. Note to self, simply screaming "MAAARK!!! DAAAAANCE ROUTIIIINE!!! NOOOOOW!!!" and sort of repeatingly bashing him with your shoulder so that he roughly follows the direction of the moves you're doing is not exactly "being a choreographer".

Speaking of Friday night though, it was freaking awesome. We all (literally, ALL. Was there anyone I know that wasn't there? And if so, why the hell weren't you?) went to Kleine Reise, which is fast becoming one of my favourite places in Berlin. It's a really good size, has speakers in the toilets and is run by some really nice boys. Plus, pretty much everyone there is Irish which means PEOPLE TALK TO YOU IN THE QUEUE FOR THE TOILETS/CLOAKROOM/BAR and YOU CAN GET AS DRUNK AS YOU DAMN WELL PLEASE. Victory in our time.

Another awesome piece of news was told to me on Friday night by a lovely Texan (at least I think she was Texan. God love her, I think I was incoherently rambling on and on at her for hours. Thank you, whoever you were, for not punching me right in the face. I would have done.) and that is that another Mexican place is opening on Skalitzer Strasse 81 (or has opened. Details hazy...). Better still, it's an extension of Maria Bonita which I have previously ranted and raved about. Oh I am going to go there soon and eat lots of things and drink beer and be HAPPY.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go eat some waffles in Kauf Dich Gluecklich. Happy Sunday!