SIPPING UP THE CITY

I'm sitting in Starbucks sipping a caramel frappucino. All around me they're speaking German, no big surprise as I'm in Munich. What a selection of breads, cakes and rolls in the bakery across the street, divinely delicious. I have 2 hours before my appointment so I take a walk down the Sendlingerstrasse, a trendy shopping street which oozes energy. The Teashop, shelves and shelves lined with hundreds of tins with any kind and flavour of loose tea you can imagine. I opt for a lemon and papaya rooibos and buy a fancy tin to go with it. Then there's truffles, biscuits and pastel coloured candied sugar sticks.

Walking away from Sendlingertor, I arrive at Marienplatz. It's 10.50am and hundreds of people are gathering in the square of the townhall to watch the famous Glockenspiel which comes alive at 11am and 5pm everyday. This is a wedding celebration explains a tourguide, to a group of eager Chinese tourists, all fiddling with their state of the art digital cameras ready to click away - I don't even think they're listening to her parrot like explanation. The Glockenspiel is one of the city's major attractions (I have yet to work that one out) and celebrates the marriage of Wilhelm V with Renata of Lorraine. The bells and the figures come to life, everybody looks up and oohs and aahs.

10 minutes later I walk on to the Viktualienmarkt. This is the traditional farmer's market and dates back to 1807. It's a colourful square crammed with characteristic stalls exploding with fresh produce, cheeses, meats, pickles, homemade goodies, sausages and more sausages -
a gourmet's paradise. Huddled in various canopies and stalls, one can find the locals who have gathered to be cheerful and have a beer. Prost they say and clink their mugs (probably would be more accurate to say jugs).

Over the street is the Schrannenhalle which means grain market in german and it was here where the original building was constructed in 1853 by Karl Muffat. Made from glass and steel, it was noted as the first of its kind in the world. In fact, the Eiffel Tower, using similar construction techniques was built 30 years later. Inside it still has a market feel, a mix of culture and speciality crafts. Different booths feature the works of local artisans, glassblowers, bookbinders, silversmiths, basketmakers and it is also used as a venue for events and concerts. One can eat at the Bavarian Hall on the east side or simply order from any of the inside restaurants which serve all different kinds of cuisine and cultures. I obviously pull up a chair at the Sushi Bar and tuck into some california rolls for lunch. Ichi, ni, san ... Arigatou!

This article should not be viewed if you are under 18 years of age: Seems as if the blogs are getting progressively worse but this one is about as bad as it gets, so no worries.

As many of you know, I have been doing fertility treatment over the last 2 years. It's been a tough and trying journey, mentally and physically, with 3 pregnancies which all resulted in 3 early miscarriages. It is during this time that I started to write a book ( the title remains secret), probably to take my mind off things and to keep me cheerful and sane. The blogs that I have written are extracts from this, I don't want to include too much because when I have finished putting everything together, I would like to approach a publisher.

With all fertility, comes a sperm test. And a funny little box. So let's talk turkey. My darling husband has to have his swimmers there by 8am and he can't get it there later than 25 minutes after the start of the race. The alarm is set for 6.45am, far too early for me, so I pretend not to hear. Hubby gets up and he's acting as happy as Larry until he remembers the task of the day. So he gets all formal, as if it's going to sway the result (speaking of which came out the lab as above average, thought I'd just mention that). Deep down he is panicking, what if his swimmers aren't good enough to swim the length of an Olympic sized pool?

This is far too early for me, and I mumble that he needs to do it buffet style i.e. help himself. A few minutes pass and he is worse than an overcooked noodle, an absolute CRIME for an Italian. Must be al-dente, must be al-dente, I hear my Italian grandmother's words. I can see him getting into a panic over the time because he needs to drop off his little box and get to an early morning meeting.

And so I decide to offer him an annual treat, as a good, devoted wife should (you know I am taking the mickey, dont you?) He snaps back at me, asking me if I am off my head, shouting at me that I haven't brushed my teeth yet and that I would contaminate it with bacteria!! Snappish! He is far too serious, I roll over and go back to sleep.

Off he runs to catch the tram with his precious little box, hurry hurry I screech after him, don't be late!

I shudder at the thought of my family reading this, wondering if they'd be able to swallow it!!

Back in Italy for the weekend, and I find myself at the local bar in my village, sitting and chatting to my Italian girlfriend over lunch. She tells me, or rather asks me, do you know that bleaching your anus is all the rage? I've just put a forkful of penne arrabbiata into my mouth, I am telling you I nearly choke. She goes onto explain, it's called anal bleaching, you can even buy creams but they really recommend that you go and have it done professionally. Why that, a chance of over bleaching, what would happen then? So I just am trying to picture it, so you arrive at the salon and you announce, I have an appointment here to um, er, well, bleach my bum, er anus and then I'm thinking to myself if one has to lie with their legs in the air or is it necessary to bend over? She's totally into explaining this to me. Apparently it makes you all the more sexier.... and younger too. Giving it a thought..... what a bargain, where can I sign up? And then these are the statistics. As you get older, so does your anus, it gets darker, I have to cover my mouth with my hand as I don't want to spray my penne all over the cloth. This is all so enLIGHTening! ..... Just what I need to regain my self-confidence, a pristine, lillywhite arsehole!! Next time people ask for my age , I'll just bend over and ask them to judge for themselves.

My mind is racing, does one self apply it or do you ask a friend? My friend from Paris says she'll only come and visit me if I bleach my anus. Who knows, maybe we can we can buy some tubes in bulk and get a discount. I say, listen mate, I need some bulk tubes for my arse alone.

Later on in the week, I proceed to explain this trend to my parents, who of course have never heard anything like this before. The people are mad, my dad says. He has recently taken up painting and so he sees and tries to explain everything like a painting technique. He's going on how it's like painting a waterbuck's bum (for those who don't know - a waterbuck has a big white ring on its rump) - my mom doesn't know what he is on about. Now thinking about my aunt on the other hand.... wouldn't this be something just up her alley?

I'm sitting outside the Schrannenhalle with my husband, his brother and my dad. They're all drinking a 1 litre beer and talking football and politics. Note to self: Never go with them again without my ipod. They drone on in Italian. My ears prick up, the table behind us, 2 women and a guy are speaking in english, one has an american accent and she's going on and on. I try to turn sideways, listening in but at the same time I don't want to make myself look obvious. I feel for the guy, he looks about as bored stiff as I did a couple of minutes ago, he doesn't know what to do with himself but he sits and puts on a smile, forcing a grunt every so often. On she drawls, In my French class the girls bla bla, it's so fantastic bla bla, I strain to hear everything that I am forced to lean over even further. My side of the table the conversation has turned to Berlusconi and then the Grand Prix.

The American asks the other woman, I mean how do you find the winters here compared to your country? Well, here it isn't as cold she answers bla bla and they continue. Then a bit of more conversation which I can't quite pick up. Then all of a sudden, the other woman starts to speak louder, obviously getting excited about the topic. I try to close my right ear to ferrari this and ferrari that, and this is what I hear. You know when I was in France, one day I suddenly realised, the french women have thick ankles. Now I'm curious, and I don't give a hoot now if they think I look like the leaning tower of Pisa. And then I started to ask everybody why the women have thick ankles, she continues, you know what I found out, it's from the water there, the tap water that they drink! Ohhh really, the other says her eyes nice and wide. I nearly fall off the wooden bench, trying hard to keep a straight face, I got to hear more of this. Yes, it's something in the water so when I go to France I refuse to drink from the tap, I mean, you really got to be careful. I always go for bottled water. The American all serious now makes a point, but what happens if you're cooking with the water? Then you're going to consume it anyway, aren't you? The other pauses to think about this, a few seconds later, yes I didn't think of that, and then, well that's okay because then you're boiling it and that makes it safe.

Bit of discussion goes by and then, yes, I used to have a crust says the other woman whose english isn't mothertongue. Just on the side here, I mean my hair's clean, it's not here now. I think I am hearing things but I want to hear more. Like I'll wash my hair today and it will be fine, but then the next day, it comes, this crust, right here, look. I think oh god, do I have to hear all this now, how gross, is this the kind of thing to talk about at the table, what must the guy think, does he have to be subjected to this kind of woman's talk? Please let her stop now, it's revolting now. But for some reason, she doesn't stop, she goes on and on, really getting into it. In fact, she's getting so into it that she's almost shouting and I find myself leaning the other way now. Yes it right here and when I touch it I can feel it and something falls off. Shudder. Then her friend eventually admits, yes me too, she's all excited now, it sometimes happens to me too! Oh I'm so glad to sit here and talk to you, I didn't realise how much I miss you, it's so nice to be able to talk about these things, and they have a bonding moment. I don't know what to think, besides the fact that I am highly amused. She continues, at this stage she is almost shrieking that almost everyone trying to enjoy an evening's beer can hear, I think I have a mushroom. What? Is this woman for real? And she, for some absurd reason needs to clarify it again to herself (and to everbody else around), a few times, I THINK I HAVE A MUSHROOM, YES, IT'S A MUSHROOM, pause, YES DEFINITELY IT'S A MUSHROOM. My god, I need to listen to the politics on my side of the table rather. Thankfully, two minutes later the men decide it's time to get the bill and leave, to which I react to really enthusiastically, and off we are trotting down the street and saying our goodbyes!