I’m home. I was at the doctor this morning because I just can’t seem to shake this lingering thing I’ve got and in a weak moment let her convince me that I need to rest and not go to work today. Of course instead of really resting I’m working from my laptop. I was home last week on Wednesday for the same reason and the same thing happened. Only difference was that we had fabulous weather, mildly warm temperatures and blue ‘bavarian’ skies dotted with fluffy white clouds. Not a bad change of scenery, although the fact that I am sick home today is testament to the fact that it didn’t work its magic.
Today it’s pouring and that isn’t nearly as interesting. Fergus likes it just fine however thanks to Ollie. After some nervous moments where Fergus did not show sufficient respect for gravity and inspired from an incident where a certain little fuzzbutt took a stab at flying and failed, Oliver went to the baumarkt the other day and bought some pigeon netting which he then wove onto the outside railing of our balcony so that Fergus could finally go out unsupervised and off the leash without me constantly hovering. Since then he has pretty much set up permanent residency. As soon as we’re home he begs for the doors to be opened and then rushes out to the net to peer at our neighbors. The netting doesn’t look too bad (we plan to switch it out for clear net just as soon as we can find it) and as long as Fergus doesn’t shatter his hip, I’m willing to let him play “Rear Window” whenever he wants.
Here’s a picture of the balcony from last Wednesday (nice weather):
See? The net doesn’t look that bad and it’s only on the fence, not the covering the entire space. There is nothing greater than being able to open the doors in the spring time, sit outside and not have Fergus throw himself at the glass, bleating and whining for egress.
Another amusing bonus to sitting at home last week during the nice weather was neighbor-watching, in particular our new neighbor with apparently no day job and plenty of time to work out. See him? Look in the top left corner. Now you see him? Squint harder. Ok, try having a look-see here:
Doesn’t really do justice to his overly built up biceps, very American frat-boyesque. I have a feeling I know who’s been leaving all the Playboys in the trash instead of putting them in the recycling.
So Fergus is enjoying the balcony, did I already mention that?
This is even despite a tragic incident on the weekend where we lost a chair. It was Sunday, early evening, and we were having dinner on the balcony, sharing a bottle of wine when, without warning, with a huge crash the chair completely gave way underneath me. One minute I was sipping wine out of one of our ‘good’ glasses (wedding present, so damn expensive I won’t even blow in their direction without padding the floor with towels) and the next minute I was sitting on a pile of firewood, glass held high in the air. I was successful at saving the glass and so thrilled about that, that I didn’t notice for a second that Fergus was buried in the rubble. I felt this squirming and wriggling underneath me and then this orange blur of bristling fur ran into the bedroom and under the covers. He needed a nap to get over that one. But he was back within four hours like a champ. It may take me longer to get over it as every balcony in the building was occupied at the time, providing many witnesses and much fodder for gossip.
Being a German who believes in quality craftsmanship, Oliver insisted on hanging onto the corpse with the intention of taking it back to the store.
At least now they can’t claim that the weight of our asses is what broke the chair. We’ve been dieting. Successfully! We’ve pretty much shed all the weight that we packed on last Fall (plus a few extra). Three cheers for the 1950’s housewife diet! Naked we look pretty damn good. I say that because none of our clothes fit anymore, but since we’re still going we don’t want to buy any new one. That means my workable wardrobe is down to three pairs of pants and a skirt. Everything else either falls off or has a ridiculous case of saggy grandpa butt going on.
When we get closer to the final digits, I’m hauling all the clothes we want to keep to a really good tailor at Sendlinger Tor downtown to fix the grandpa butt problem. I’m going to be a little embarrassed taking pants from Zara to guy who works on Dolce, but I’m hoping the novelty of it will amuse him instead of insult him.
Time for a conference call, ‘scuse me.