search results

(DE) At an auction for antiques and old, well-preserved furniture from all eras, I strike up a conversation with a lady. She is completely enthusiastic about all the pieces of furniture without exception and asks me what I think of a dark living room cabinet from the 1950s. Although I have a particular fondness for old furniture, which is why I went to this auction, this bulky piece of furniture is not my cup of tea, which I tell her. ‘Oh,’ says the lady indignantly, ‘you don't like old furniture, you only like modern IKEA furniture.’ She turns away from me, because in her opinion, anyone who does not love all old furniture without exception is an IKEA furniture lover and therefore, due to their taste, definitely no longer an adequate conversation partner for her. Thinking in boxes This experience serves as a parable that mirrors the current zeitgeist of polarisation and exclusivity. People feel more than they think, are more closed off than open, and interpret more than they ask questions. Thinking in boxes is spreading. They believe they can recognise or even sense someone's mindset, that is, their attitude, based on certain characteristics. Categories! Stereotypes! Separation and division into us, the good and knowledgeable ones, and you, the bad or naive and misguided ones! The good ones go into the pot, the bad ones go into the crock. Demarcation and division into us, the good and knowledgeable, and you, the evil or naive and misguided! At the latest, with the waves of the pandemic, this phenomenon was incorporated into our communication strategies, the media, and political debate. Black-and-white thinking, stereotyping, stigmatising those who think differently and having an irreversible, morally justified opinion have become the norm in a creeping process. Anyone who thinks differently is cancelled. There is no longer any healthy debate with other views. Differentiation, balance, forming opinions through exchange, expressing doubts and asking questions to which one does not already know the answer have fallen into disrepute. Today, in 2025, these values and behaviours are dismissed as mere hesitancy, indecision, cowardice or helplessness. It is attitude that matters, and only secondarily, analytical reasoning. Gut feelings dominate and often stifle objective, controversial debates before they have even begun. Phrases that express attitude as a political concept ‘We stand firmly alongside...’ is a typical phrase used by politicians in the 2020s, first uttered at the beginning of the major conflicts of this period, namely the war in Ukraine and the war in the Middle East. An expression of solidarity without ifs and buts and without specifying who ‘we’ refers to. The government of a country? A particular party? The entire population? This phrase asks nothing and explains nothing. It does not promise action and looks neither to the past nor to the future. But this phrase presumptuously determines which side an entire country must stand on, firmly, unwaveringly, regardless of what that side does. This is ‘emotional’, even melodramatic political sentiment, and this kind of politics distances itself more strongly from other or even partially divergent sentiments or opinions. There is a particular missionary zeal in this. In Germany, the war in Ukraine triggered intense emotional turmoil in both politics and among the population when it came to diplomacy or arms deliveries. Arguments? None! Moral pressure not to abandon the Ukrainians? Yes! In return, supporters of peace diplomacy were labelled as Putin's friends, and there was hardly any argumentative debate. Not even a proposal for both weapons and diplomacy could calm the emotions. ‘You can't talk to Putin!’ or ‘You can't trust Putin!’ were responses that merely expressed a feeling. Ultimately, it all culminated in the feeling that you are an empathetic and compassionate person if you advocate for arms deliveries to Ukraine. And that you are an insensitive person if you consider diplomatic negotiations with Russia to be a solution. The more ‘warlike’ citizens and politicians refused to accept that destruction and death must be avoided. The intention to proclaim the truth and bring salvation moves people more than understanding how world events work, the causes and consequences of wars, and keeping an eye on the respective puppet masters. One is almost tempted to call out to people, in the spirit of Kant, to have the courage to use their brains. But it is moral sentiment, expressed in people's attitudes, that prevails. Hence, the secret preference for pathos and heroism, even in Germany, which was believed to be immune to such things after its history. Climate activist Greta Thunberg and Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky are just the latest examples of this. The young activist was also revered in Germany, and people shuddered with delight when the girl accused the world's politicians: ‘How dare you ...!’ Similarly, Volodymyr Zelensky’s dramatic, emotional words, rather than his arguments, earned him standing ovations in the German Bundestag and the European Parliament. The tendency towards pathos has been evident for some time. ‘Je suis Charlie’ made the rounds in 2015 after the Islamist terrorist attack on the French satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo. This kind of solidarity goes even further, is even more intense, even more captivating than simply standing by. The unaffected defiantly merge with the affected. Who is this message aimed at? At the victims, according to the motto ‘You are not alone!’? At the perpetrators, according to the slogan ‘We will not be silenced and there are many of us!’? Who is asking whether the satire in this magazine deserved criticism? Not death, not destruction, but the question of whether satire really can do whatever it wants. Hardly anyone dared to address this issue after the terrorist attack and the worldwide emotional solidarity campaign. In any case, the spirit of this slogan has captured people's hearts and minds and has also appeared on other occasions, such as the killing of George Floyd by US police officers in 2020. Instead of denouncing racism in US society and demanding a dream of equality and justice, as Martin Luther King did, people are trying to express the idea of equality as a human right with this simple slogan. It is emotional and makes one feel good, as if one belongs to the righteous, because one is exhibiting the morally correct attitude. But it is not sustainable, because the movement subsides as soon as a new, similar case arises that is treated with the same individual emotional response. Causes, solution strategies and contexts are hardly discussed. Too complex? Not emotional enough? Too factual and not morally arrogant enough? In any case, both ‘Je suis Charlie’ and ‘I am George Floyd’ ended up on T-shirts and served commercial purposes, which no one protested against. Politics based on sentiment and shock leads us astray. German Foreign Minister Anna-Lena Baerbock (Alliance 90/The Greens) apparently felt that the classic expression of solidarity, stating that Germany stands firmly alongside Israel after the terrorist attack by Hamas on Israel on 7 October 2023, was not sufficiently emotional. She sought to rekindle the dramatic torch of brotherhood, saying, ‘These days, we are all Israelis.’ Many people were taken aback by this unusual statement from a German minister. The fact that the spark did not catch on and sweep the masses may be because this statement has something to do with citizenship, rather than individual victims. Perhaps people also instinctively recognised the absurdity, even the intrusiveness, of this slogan. One can have mixed feelings about the State of Israel, just as one can about any other state. As citizens, Israelis are faceless and nameless, just like all other citizens. The victims of terrorism, however, have faces and names, and we empathise with them first and foremost as human beings and not as citizens. These Israeli victims also do not stand for a particular value, such as freedom of expression, as the editors of Charlie Hebdo claimed for themselves. The Israelis who were killed, tortured, abducted and humiliated certainly had very different backgrounds, views and attitudes. And in the months that followed, neither the German Foreign Minister nor any other politician said, ‘We stand firmly with the Palestinian people in Gaza!’ nor did they claim that we are now all Palestinians. There would have been ten thousand reasons for emotional solidarity with the Palestinian population, and there still would be in 2025. However, there is no official path for political leaders to express concern in this direction. So what is the attitude that makes the Foreign Secretary, for example, emotionally Israeli but not Palestinian? Isn't that a questionable attitude that assigns different values to human lives? This alone makes it clear how ideological politics leads to a dead end and double standards. The gut feeling that underpins ideological and emotional politics is not a reliable foundation for judgement, evaluation, and action, i.e., for politics. To show empathy, express solidarity, and stand against violence and terror, you don't need to change your citizenship, even if only in spirit. Nor is it necessary to adopt the role of a victim, which can often seem intrusive; instead, it is human and appropriate to convey empathy, humanity, grief, and horror. At the same time, every politician and every human being is called upon to use their brain to recognise backgrounds, motives, connections, and so on, and with their help to classify events and find solutions. The foreign minister, born in 1980, is a politician with conviction and concern, as is often found in her party, Alliance 90/The Greens. And she is a child of her time, our time! In today's world, people wear their convictions on their sleeves, even in the form of clichéd expressions of concern. However, those in positions of responsibility in our society, including the media and ultimately society as a whole, remain stuck in the emotional realm. In that case, it becomes increasingly difficult, if not impossible, to act according to rational criteria. This leads to the formation of the often-cited opinion bubbles, in which everyone reinforces each other's gut feelings and which are inaccessible to those who think or feel differently. And then like-minded people recognise each other by specific characteristics. Those who use gender-neutral language and ride cargo bikes are vaccinated against COVID-19 and support arms deliveries to Ukraine. It's that simple! To put it bluntly! (TA)

(De) Our teacher in the English Conversation course at the Senior Citizens’ Centre is undoubtedly a phenomenal character. He’s not only a musician but also a children's book author – yet none of that prevents him from striking exactly the right tone when engaging with older adults in the course. His appearance, however, has not been tailored to the standard tastes of the participants, aged between 65 and 92. The young man, likely in his 40s, has been wearing dreadlocks since the age of 18. And lo and behold – it works brilliantly. It’s not just that all course participants like him; no, he also commands the kind of authority many teachers in mainstream schools could only dream of. So who would still want to ramble on about generational conflicts!? – Certainly not us, the older student body! He, this almost young man, a member of the next generation after ours, has indeed uncovered some contentious issues in his senior courses – and likely in his family environment as well. “Woke” – Awake, Awoken As is the case for many of his generation, being “woke” is important to him. The English term “woke” means being awake or awakened. So, wokeness is about being alert to discrimination and social injustice. That’s why he has long been trying to raise awareness among those around him to be more mindful in their choice of language. But it seems he often encountered resistance – even stubborn insistence on problematic expressions – especially among the older generation. For this reason, he took the first step by giving talks under the title “ Surely you are still allowed to say that!”  and, in 2025, went on to publish a book bearing the same title.( Literature reference at the end of the article ) Photo/Title: Quentin Strohmeier; Used with permission from the author and publisher Andy Kuhn What is this little book about? What is the author’s aim? On the surface, it’s about identifying inappropriate terms for ethnic groups, explaining why they are unacceptable and offensive to those affected. However, it also presents alternative ways of expressing oneself. What strikes me as particularly important and commendable is the author's recurring desire to contribute to better communication. He firmly rejects any moralistic lecturing as well as stubborn insistence on using old-fashioned terms. The final sentence of the foreword is striking because it deviates from the often heated debate about correct terminology and the changes to wording in literary works that are frequently branded as censorship: “I hope this book gives you some interesting insights and new perspectives – not to demonise the past, but to work together on respectful language for the future.” (p. 9) He appeals to advocates of wokeness and consistent gender-inclusive language not to act morally superior towards those who still find terms like "Gypsy", "Eskimo", "Indian" or "Black" perfectly acceptable, and who don’t wish to replace the generic masculine form with constructions like “...innen” or “...:innen”. (Note by the translator LL: This article refers here to a controversial issue within the German language, which usually uses the generic male form and subsumes female ones; whereas the English language usually uses a neutral form of language that includes both female and male forms. There is much criticism and efforts to change the use of the language to using the female version and subsuming the male one.) At the same time, he wants to point out to those who view linguistic changes with suspicion – and who feel patronised and censored when terms they don’t mean offensively are suddenly banned – that language evolves anyway. Whether we like it or not is irrelevant. Thus, in the chapter titled “Looking Ahead” at the end of the book, we read: “…instead of thinking in extremes – either ‘everything stays as it was’ or ‘everything must change’ – we should seek common ground, through open conversations, which are best conducted verbally, not anonymously posted in some social media columns.” (p. 74) I wholeheartedly agree with the author, and I wish more people think like him and engage in controversial discussions with such openness, self-reflection, deep humanity, and tolerance. That’s why I also believe he would be open to my criticisms and doubts regarding the high expectations placed on wokeness, as well as my questions about how it’s being implemented in our times, all of which are discussed in reference to his book. One thing that struck me as odd in places is the assumption that the acceptance or rejection of wokeness is primarily a generational issue. Contemporary history contradicts that view. Woke – A New Word for Old Ideas Already in the 1970s and 80s, when today’s woke generation hadn’t yet been born – or at most were in nappies – left-wing groups in the United States began paying increasing attention to political correctness . The aim was to prevent hurtful and discriminatory language. In the 1990s, when I was the age of today’s woke generation, this approach was also discussed and promoted in Germany under the label of "politically correct" language. The academic basis for this was the thesis that a change in language would be followed by a change in thinking, attitude, and ultimately, behaviour. Language – a tool of social control? In Germany during the 1990s and later, the idea was that language could be used to steer society in a positive direction – towards respect, mindfulness, acceptance, and tolerance. I still clearly remember how the word  Gipsy  was replaced by Sinti and Roma , just as Eskimos  came to be referred to as Inuit , and how it became common practice to use both feminine and masculine forms wherever possible in official texts. It was a running joke among speakers to exaggerate this for the audience’s amusement – people would speak of leaves and leafesses , or forests and forestesses , and so on. Now in 2025, after more than 30 years of efforts to achieve political correctness in Germany, the discussion is still ongoing – and that’s quite telling. Have these well-intentioned changes in language perhaps failed to move from the head to the heart, so to speak? Could it be that actual linguistic change requires multiple generations and a host of reasons to occur naturally, and cannot be artificially accelerated or imposed? That remains to be seen. Another question is even more interesting – and can certainly be explored in our present time: Is the thesis that a change in people’s sense of justice will take place when negatively connoted terms are replaced with “innocent” terms, not as accurate as hoped? Do new terms truly lead to new attitudes? At this point, I’d like to share a few experiences and reflections that give pause for thought. In the early 2020s, I volunteered to teach German to asylum seekers in a small multi-purpose room in their accommodation facility. When I talked about it with my family and friends, I colloquially referred to this accommodation as an Asylantenheim  (asylum seekers’ home) and to the people as Asylanten (asylum seekers). Friends kindly but firmly pointed out to me that this terminology was no longer acceptable. Indeed, these facilities had long been officially referred to as collective accommodation,  and the people living in them were referred to as migrants  or asylum applicants . However, the living conditions in these accommodations were still unpleasant, and the new term “community accommodation” had nothing to do with living in a community. Changing the terminology did nothing to change the reality. Attitudes towards migrants and asylum seekers have deteriorated even further over the years and culminated in 2025 in an outright anti-migrant sentiment. The abandonment of the negatively connoted terms Asylanten  and Asylantenheim had absolutely no effect on the attitudes of many Germans towards refugees and immigrants. There’s another example that also proves, at least at first glance, the lack of influence language may have. For instance, does someone who now says Sinti  or Roma instead of Gypsy  no longer automatically hold on to their wallet when encountering a person from that ethnic group on a busy street? Would that person rent their flat to a Roma family, or at least not eye them nervously if they became neighbours? Would that person allow their children to befriend Roma children without hesitation? The answer to all these questions is clearly no. Even in 2025, although the term Gypsy  has been taboo for decades, the negative prejudices have not disappeared – in fact, they haven’t even weakened. The traditional mindset of “Bring in the laundry – the Gypsies are here!”  still applies, more or less unchanged, even if the word Gypsy is replaced with Sinti  or Roma . The new terms, which were accepted by those affected, have hardly, if at all, led to new attitudes or behaviours. I can’t shake off the suspicion that the “good people” simply grew weary of fighting prejudice and turned instead to focusing on linguistic reform. And that fight against prejudice may be one of the most frustrating of all – not only because those who are supposed to unlearn their biases often dig in their heels, but also because those who are the targets of prejudice sometimes fall into the self-fulfilling prophecy trap, thus reinforcing the very stereotypes they wish to see dismantled—a vicious cycle. “Black” and “White” The skin colour of a person, especially if it is darker, is an ancient and still highly sensitive topic. Behind this discussion lie centuries of history, centuries of oppression and subjugation, and the development of racist theories for economic and political purposes. The politically correct woke term for people with dark skin is, therefore, also complex and unclear. Even in the book “ Surely you are still allowed to say that ” , the supposedly inoffensive suggestions that are widely accepted aren’t particularly catchy. At this point, I would like to quote from Andy Kuhn’s book: “... the preferred alternative used by the community itself is ‘person of colour’ or ‘people of colour’ (POC). This term emphasises diversity and dignity while avoiding the degrading and historically burdened terms like ‘Negro’ and similar.” (p. 24) As a rule of thumb, the author Andy Kuhn states that the adjective “” black is only acceptable in its capitalised, noun form when referring to a movement, but not as a regular adjective. Otherwise, the English terms are more contemporary – i.e., more woke . (p. 21 ff) I must say, in my view, this expression doesn’t fit smoothly into the German language. It certainly wouldn’t come to me spontaneously to ask, for instance, when searching for a lost child in a park, for a “little person of colour” . Yet those are the classic situations in which one must describe someone: when searching for a person, reporting someone, or giving a description to the police. Of course, I would also never dream of saying “Negro” or “Moor”  – no one who isn’t a racist would think of saying that. For my generation, born in the 1950s, these outdated terms for real people with dark skin were never truly neutral – let alone positive. We used them thoughtlessly for sweets like “Mohrenkopf”  or “Negerkuss” and for nursery rhymes like “Zehn Kleine Negerlein” (Ten Little N*****s”) . That much is true. But in the playground game “Hast du Angst vorm Schwarzen Mann?” (Are You Afraid of the Black Man?)  I never associated the figure with a dark-skinned person, but rather with a frightening character in dark clothes. We read Uncle Tom’s Cabin  and empathised with the victims – the black slaves – whom we would have liked to protect and save. But of course, such reading didn’t teach us that all humans are fundamentally equal. Naturally, the concept of race was conveyed through this literature, along with the notions of otherness  and foreignness . As we know from scientific research, the feelings of “otherness” and “strangeness” can trigger deeply rooted, primitive instincts of distrust and defensiveness. So, does it help when I use the term “people of colour” , as recommended in the book, when I talk about dark-skinned individuals? Do I then see only the person and not a member of an ethnic group or – worse still – a race, which, according to science, doesn’t even exist? During a talk on this topic, where a dark-skinned woman – or to put it in up-to-date, woke terms, a person of colour  – was present, she was asked her opinion on the correct form of address. She replied that “black”  wasn’t appropriate, as she was no more black than the rest of us were white. Which, of course, is true – and I must admit, I no longer like to be referred to as white  either. I had never thought about this before, but her response made me realise that the term “white” , too, is negatively connoted and often far from desirable for fair-skinned Europeans. Just think how desperately many white  people try to hide what they perceive as unattractive skin colour in summer – not to mention the fact that “white people”  are so often described throughout history as arrogant, self-righteous, cruel, violent, and ignorant. So then I suggested “coloured” , because her argument made sense to me. That wasn’t acceptable either, she said – after all, she wasn’t colourful . Coloured  means multicoloured . Ah – but to me, multicoloured  implies many colours, while coloured simply means non-white . And after all, the English term “people of colour”  literally translates to “farbige Menschen”  in German. So, I wonder, why is the English version less offensive than the German? And why does the power to define the appropriateness of a term like coloured  rest solely with her – and not equally with both of us? I consider the terms "dark-skinned"  and "light-skinned " to be unproblematic – comparable, for example, to the entirely neutral terms "dark-haired" and "light-haired ." As a white  person who no longer wishes to be described as such because I feel historically tainted by the label, I feel comfortable with such adjectives. Is it woke  to feel and think this way? Is it fair? Respectful? Mindful? Have I taken a step that now puts persons of colour  under pressure to position themselves on the matter too? Or is that intrusive? Given all this uncertainty, it’s no surprise that many people flip the switch and go into defence mode. They no longer want to hear about it and begin to view the entire debate as exaggerated or even unnecessary. Cries of “language censorship!”  emerge, and the phrase “Surely one should still be allowed to say that!”  regularly comes up in discussions, stifling any genuine engagement. “The Recipient, Not the Sender, Decides!” How do we solve such a problem in an era that emphasises respectful interaction? There is, after all, a long-established rule: The recipient of a message—whether an individual or an ethnic group—decides what is offensive or inappropriate, not the sender! That, in turn, considerably complicates matters. After all, if I need or wish to describe someone, I cannot ask them for their preferred term for their skin colour or ethnicity. Moreover, rules for “woke” terminology differ around the world. The book lists modern self-chosen terms for Native Americans as: “Indigenous peoples, American Indigenous Peoples, Native Americans or Natives (USA), First Nations (Canada), tribal names such as Lakota, Apache, Sioux, etc.” (p. 30) Given the abundance of all these self-determined, non-pejorative terms for ethnic groups, I’m left wondering how any consensus was reached. This brings to mind a population group that is located all over the world and is called by the same name everywhere, and would have every reason to reject its label as negatively connoted and to change it: the Jews! Over the centuries, Jews were insulted, persecuted, discriminated against, and brutally murdered. The term “Jew” was often used as a swear word. Yet Jews have held on to this expression of identity. Why? Because the term wasn’t imposed externally? Because they are proud of their identity and refuse to let it be destroyed from the outside? Because there simply are no alternative terms that are unburdened? Even today, with antisemitism on the rise again, no one is attempting to shield Jews from insults through changes in terminology. Nor are Jews demanding such changes, even as they defend themselves. In this case, “the recipient” has decided to pay attention not to what the sender says, but to their mindset. That could be a way of dealing with each other. A little openness to the inner attitude of others—beyond mere words—would go a long way towards peaceful and positive interaction. This leads to the next open question: Do 30 to 50 years of mindful language have any real impact? Are we seeing even a slight reduction in prejudice and racism, and in return an increase in mindfulness and respect in 2020s society? It depends. It depends on the circles in which one moves, the bubbles in which we live and communicate. The fact is, Germany in 2025 is characterised by deep divides between various social groups and regions. As much as some people treat each other with mindfulness, others hate each other in a ferocity I have not encountered in my adult life. My generation believed such hatred of foreigners, of those who think differently, and of minorities had died out. Farmers ambush a Green Party politician, threatening him with violence. Stones are prepared for throwing at election rallies—allegedly as symbolic gestures. Local politicians resign, out of fear for their families, because they have been subjected to hate-filled emails and threats on Facebook and other social media because of their pro-refugee stances. In Nuremberg, the mayoral candidate—the German-born child of Syrian immigrants and therefore darker-skinned than a typical Franconian—has been bombarded with thousands of hate mails and online posts simply because he is a person of colour. How can this be? Why haven’t decades of teaching values like tolerance, mindfulness, respect and human dignity in schools, cultural institutions, films, and literature reached these people? While on the one hand, there is a struggle for politically correct language, gender inclusion in language and mindfulness, on the other hand, attitudes and prejudices that were long believed to have been overcome are reappearing, and it is clear that these reactionary chords can be successfully played by political parties such as the Union and AfD ( The ultra-right wing political party Alternative für  Deutschland). Taboos were probably only taboos by declaration, but they did not find their way into the hearts and minds of many people.
Perhaps we, and I indeed count myself among those who respect the dignity of every human being, have tried to pass on this value throughout our lives. However, we seem to have stopped too soon to truly engage with the reluctant, to face doubts and questions openly, to explain our positions repeatedly. How did we react instead? With disgust at these unwilling people and their statements. We created taboos. We boxed people in. We should probably have entered the “ring” from the beginning, without fear of contact, engaging on equal terms instead of rising above the “stupid oafs” and turning away in disgust. Now these “undead of the intellectual realm”—racism, antisemitism, xenophobia, hatred and violence towards dissenters—are re-emerging, because some politicians have realised they still exist, dormant and viable. And that they can be awakened. The questions of why these people weren’t reached, why their inner core wasn’t touched, why they perceived what we considered as societal consensus as a moralising condescension were not asked. The resurgence of antisemitism is hard to explain. Since the end of the war, antisemitism has been officially fought on many fronts in Germany, through education and legal bans. Yet attacks on visibly Jewish people — identified by kippah or other characteristics — are clearly on the rise again in statistics. How is this possible? In a world where mindfulness and respect are so strongly reflected in language, ancient prejudices and violence are resurging to levels once thought unimaginable. When you move among the “politically correct”, the “woke crowd”, you might feel you live in a highly sensitive, respectful society. But when you leave that circle, you often find yourself entering a world of old-fashioned mindsets, defiance, and aggression. The societal divide is undeniable. Whilst some turn away from the so-called “stupid people” with disdain and shaking heads, others react with anger, aggression, even violence to anyone who is different or thinks differently. In 2025, communication and exchange between these groups are virtually non-existent. Politically, propagandists and right-wing to far-right parties are gaining ground, not only in Germany. I see historic failures on both sides. The self-righteous Left and Green, who indulge in their moral superiority, completely overlook how they devalue and exclude others. Meanwhile, sympathisers of the Right, convinced they’re “facing reality”, fail to see how their tendency for simple solutions is being exploited, which means they are lied to and used. Talking to one another, genuinely listening, being open to argument and respecting each other would be a new way forward into the future. Anonymity – An Accelerant for Hatred and Indifference Andy Kuhn’s call for direct conversation, beyond the anonymity of social media, is fundamental, as it is often this very anonymity that unleashes inhibitions. On social media, where people can give free rein to their most appalling and repulsive instincts under the cover of anonymity, you can see what lurks in many minds and souls. But it’s not only hateful messages that people spew out from behind a veil of anonymity. Increasingly, we also see seemingly harmless displays of everyday inconsideration. Indifference hides well in anonymity. Every car driver can be identified by their number plate if they behave recklessly or like a road bully. This is not the same for cyclists and e-scooter riders. They hardly need to fear being held accountable. Is that why their behaviour in traffic is often so reckless and inconsiderate that an elderly lady like me no longer dares to cycle on the road? What were those who parked the e-scooter thinking? – Nothing at all! E-scooters and fancy cargo bikes are frequently parked in a way that forces pedestrians to take dangerous detours over roadways and cycle paths. The culprits remain untraceable. A bicycle or e-scooter has no number plate! Cyclists motivated by climate protection are not necessarily motivated by the protection of human beings. And even nature lovers who go hiking in the mountains are increasingly abusing the anonymity of winter shelters by leaving rubbish behind, burning furniture, or deliberately vandalising property, according to the Alpine Club, Mindfulness, it seems, is swiftly followed by indifference – even a certain moral decay. (Current note: In June 2025, the German Chancellor Friedrich Merz claimed to be grateful for Israel’s attack on Iran – a violation of international law. Israel, he said, was “doing the dirty work” for us, by which he presumably meant the Western states, including Germany. That a chancellor dares to speak and possibly even think like this! This statement would be worthy of a mafia boss. And all this happens in a society where large parts strive for mindful language!) In five, ten, or fifteen years, we will see where this Zeitgeist has led society.(TA) Note on Terminology: The use of specific terms in this context is necessary because the discussion revolves around language. Naturally – and this is clearly expressed in the text – no offence is intended, and it has never occurred to me to describe people in such a way. Literature Reference Andy Kuhn: “Das wird man doch noch sagen dürfen. Ein Buch über die Achtsamkeit der Sprache.”  ( Surely you are still allowed to say that! A Book About Mindfulness in Language)  First Edition 2025) Those wishing to obtain the book may contact: andy_kuhn@gmx.net ) In nine chapters, the author systematically examines problematic terms for various ethnic groups, explains the historical development of outdated and offensive labels, and offers alternatives. It is an honest, non-dogmatic book about wokeness, and a shining example of openness and tolerance, especially when the author reflects on his own unsatisfying attempts at gender-inclusive language. I was also genuinely impressed by his personal account of wrestling with the issue of “cultural appropriation” concerning his hairstyle – dreadlocks, which he now simply refers to as “locks” as a result of his research. He devotes an entire chapter to the topic, explaining that matted locks are particularly associated with the Rastafarian movement in Jamaica, where this hairstyle is a profound expression of reverence for God. As such, it is not really appropriate for a European to adopt this external feature of a belief and culture, risking distortion and stripping it of its original meaning. Had his research revealed that matted locks existed exclusively in that culture, he would have cut his hair – a highly consistent stance. I won’t spoil the conclusion, but I will say this much: he still wears his locks, and for good reason. This in-depth discussion also clarifies for readers what cultural appropriation is and why it is problematic. The contents of this book may serve as the beginning of interesting – even controversial – conversations, which seems to be something Andy Kuhn cares deeply about. “Let’s talk to one another about mindfulness – without prejudice or pre-conception.” That’s how I would summarise his message. (TA)

(DE) When I returned to my hometown, my apartment, my neighbourhood, and my regular stores after a several-year absence, almost everything was still the same as before, despite the pandemic we had endured. Only my hairdresser had retired. I don't know if this is a problem for men, but for women, especially at my age, it definitely is. Going to the hairdresser is a matter of trust. You anticipate it because it removes the upsetting sight in the mirror. You look forward to stepping back out onto the street an hour or two later, revitalised and looking your best, with renewed self-confidence. You look forward to someone believing that, despite wrinkles, drooping eyelids, and a double chin, there is still something that can be done. But the idea of feeling horribly disfigured because the cut is unsuccessful and the hair colour doesn't match your complexion fills you with dread. You never forget an experience like that. That's why every woman feels happy when she finds a hairdresser who knows how to make her feel good. If you lose your hairdresser for any reason, you are faced with the seemingly impossible question: Which hairdressing salon can I trust? I set out on a search and looked through many shop windows into various salons. I noticed that nowadays there are more young men than older women sitting in hairdressing chairs. Most hair salons are more elegant than cosy. The stylish hairdressers seem to have learned during their training that a rather snooty look is more in keeping with professional ethics than a smile on their faces. Sometimes I didn't dare enter the shop because I was afraid that these hairdressers wouldn't know what to do with my head and would simply give me an appointment with a deep sigh. But one day, I was drawn to a salon that didn't shine with elegance but with vibrancy. The store sign also mentioned relaxation, so I went in. Behind the small counter stood a young dark-haired man who, when he looked up, had a radiant smile in his eyes. Completely taken aback, I explained that I urgently needed a hairdresser and pointed to my hair, hoping for understanding. There was no sign of alarm on the young man's face. Unperturbed, he leaned over his appointment book and suggested a suitable appointment for me. As I left, he accompanied me to the door and said goodbye with a cheerful “I look forward to seeing you!” Had I really just experienced that? What was wrong with this young man? Had he missed all the training courses where young hairdressers are taught to behave condescendingly, implying superiority? When I arrived for my appointment at the hairdresser's, I felt very unsettled. What was the catch? To cut a long story short: there wasn't one. A salon where you feel at home This young man gave my hair a natural colour and a suitable cut, and he was very friendly to everyone who entered the salon. An elderly lady simply wanted her hair blow-dried because he was better at it than anyone else. Young men had these modern haircuts, which always remind me of the 1940s. They chatted with their trusted hairdresser as if he were an old friend. He seemed to understand his customers' circumstances well, yet he didn't ask any intrusive questions. I never heard him engage in small talk or spout platitudes. He preferred to remain silent and focus on his work. Once, when I made a snide remark about a comment on the radio, which was playing constantly, he asked me quite sincerely what I meant by it. He stopped his work, listened carefully to my explanation, nodded, and that was the end of it. Once, everyone in the saloon was discussing strange phone calls, which often turned out to be linked to criminal activities. My hairdresser listened and finally shared his own story. One afternoon, a strange phone call came into the shop. A woman's voice said, ‘Oh please, could you read something to me so I can fall asleep?’ We all laughed and thought it was a joke. ‘What did you do?’ I asked. ‘Well,’ he said very seriously, "I didn't have any customers at the time, so I read articles from the magazines lying around here. In between, I kept asking if the caller was still listening. But at some point, all I could hear was the lady breathing. So I quietly hung up." My hairdresser is simply a good person! I was speechless. Most people, myself included, would have hung up angrily or suspected some malicious intent. Not my hairdresser. He was able to fulfil this unusual but very human request, and so he simply did it. That was when I first realised that my hairdresser must not only be a good hairdresser but also a good person. On another occasion, my impression was reinforced. It was a freezing Saturday afternoon in spring, and it had rained all day. My hairdresser was pressed for time because there had been an emergency in his family, and he needed to get home as quickly as possible. While he was still busy blow-drying my hair, a man about 50 hurried in. He held an umbrella and was dressed only in a T-shirt and trousers, both soaking wet. As he tried to tell his story—that a friend had refused to give him a lift in his car—a puddle spread around him. My hairdresser stood sadly in front of the soaked man and asked him what he could do, how he could help. But the man rushed out of the shop again and disappeared. Stunned, my hairdresser returned to the salon chair where I was sitting and stared ahead. ‘What could I have done? He didn't tell me what he needed! I didn't understand him and now he's gone!’ He felt bad because he was helpless in this situation and didn't know how he could have reacted better. The only thing that didn't occur to him was to get upset that the man had come into the shop and disturbed him. Nor did he justify himself by citing his own emergency and time pressure as an excuse for not having done anything specific. He just kept insisting that he would have done everything if the man had only told him how he could help. I observed the situation and can only say that to this day, I don't know what could have been done for the man who appeared and vanished in a flash. But that's how he is, my hairdresser! A philanthropist! A good person! A painful experience and a new beginning! I was very curious to discover what kind of life story lay behind such a character, so I began asking him questions cautiously. And so, gradually, I learned about his life story. My hairdresser was originally an exceptionally talented footballer. Football had been his great passion since childhood. He trained hard in the youth team of a well-known football club and, because he was also very talented, he was highly promoted by the club. Before he was 20, he was playing for the amateurs, and no one doubted that he was a gifted professional footballer in the making. Several hours of training every day alongside his apprenticeship filled his days quite nicely. And on the weekends, he headed to the matches. His talent was outstanding, and he enjoyed the sense of recognition and admiration he received. Just a bit longer, and he could make the leap to professional football! But he still wanted to complete his apprenticeship. Despite his promising future as a professional footballer, he believed it was sensible to acquire a vocational qualification. His trainer and employer supported their apprentice, who aimed to stay grounded while pursuing his big dream. And then, fate started to place obstacles in his path. He got a new boss. This boss was no longer as willing to support the third-year apprentice in his football career. The chemistry between them was not right. There was a falling out, and a typical reaction from a young man in his twenties who had not yet learnt to cling to desperate hope, but who, spoiled by fate and blessed with talent and attention, believed in himself and his luck. The apprentice quit in the middle of his final year and put all his eggs in one basket, namely football. This was not unrealistic, because not only he, but the whole club and its fans believed in the gifted centre-forward. A few weeks after quitting his apprenticeship, it happened. There was a football match in the hall! He twisted his left foot—broken ankle! The club's great hope was now in the hospital. Of course, the doctors managed to fix the fracture. After the healing process, rehabilitation followed, accompanied by the patient's restlessness, as he worked obsessively towards his full recovery. To build his muscles and endurance, he took a job as a postman as soon as he was physically able, delivering mail by bicycle without the aid of an electric motor. Not only did the young man hope for a full recovery, but the football club did as well. They offered him their full support. For over a year, the door to the amateur team and therefore to a professional career remained open. This was thanks to the conviction of both the club's management and the players. Their captain should return, had to return! Such talent couldn't just vanish! But what no one wanted to believe happened. He never regained the form he once had. Eventually, not only he himself but also the club had to accept this reality, and the door to a professional career closed once and for all. How does a young man in his mid-20s, who has dedicated his entire life to this dream and was so close to achieving it, cope with this stroke of fate? When I asked him this question, a wistful expression appeared on his face. Even many years later, he still could not find the right words to describe how he felt at that moment. ‘I couldn't go to any football pitch. I couldn't even watch a game on TV, not even with my family,’ he tried to explain his state of mind to me. ‘Even today, sadness mingles with my enthusiasm for football when I see the players on the pitch. That could have been me. The thought is impossible to suppress." You can tell that this wound remains far from healed, even after all these years. Therefore, I didn't ask how he experienced or, rather, survived the disorientation after his final exit from football. But one thing is certain. Neither he nor his family had an easy time during this period. And this is where the father, who runs a hairdressing salon supported by his wife, comes in. These parents do not appear to have pressured their traumatised, sad, and clearly angry son to start doing something meaningful with his life or to stop dwelling on this dream. They probably allowed him time to grieve, which is difficult for parents and therefore a significant achievement. But one day, he surprised them and himself with a decision. The young man, who used to come and go as he pleased in his father's salon, suddenly developed an unexpected wish to be trained by a hairdresser working there. When he got up that day, he didn't even realise it himself. It was only when he heard himself say to his father's employee in the shop, ‘Would you take me on as an apprentice?’, that he understood he had made a decision about his future. Today, he enjoys being a hairdresser and succeeds in making his customers feel as if the artist in him is eager for the task. There is also a positive atmosphere during each visit to the hairdresser. He never looks at his customers' heads with indifference, but with that very special creative gaze that asks: What shall we do today? And then you can see the joy on his face when his work is finished. Always something different, never the same! And every now and then, he even says to me, an old lady, as I leave: ‘You look good.’ Since I have a mirror or two at home and occasionally look at myself in them, I can only say again: my hairdresser is a good person! (TA)

The children in our road (DE) "Can I go down? Pleeease!!!" was my daily plea to my grandma. This meant that I wanted to go out to play in the street and in the courtyard, where a dozen neighbourhood children were already up to mischief. Since we lived on the second floor and in the 1950s, none of the adults would have thought of sitting next to the playing children for the purpose of supervision; cautions naturally accompanied the permission. I could only be on the pavement in front of our block or the courtyard at the back. This way, my grandmother could always look at me, at the whole crowd of children, from above, as the entire neighbourhood did. The arrangement of the six blocks of flats ensured the best possible visibility. Three blocks were arranged in a U-shape around a courtyard that was open on one side. The other ensemble was built as a mirror image so that the two courtyards, each about 30 x 50 metres, faced each other, separated only by a walkway. These courtyards were neither playgrounds nor garden-like green spaces as they would be designed today. They were used for drying laundry in the summer. The rubbish bins stood there. Every now and then, residents put a chair on the grass to enjoy some outdoors because there were no balconies. The courtyard was mainly a usable area accessed from the house through the back door in the cellar. You repaired your bike in the yard or worked on some piece of furniture because that was hardly possible in the small flat, beat carpets in the absence of a hoover, chopped and stacked wood for the stove in the kitchen and chatted with the residents of the neighbouring houses who happened to be passing by. For us children, the courtyard was a place to play, where we were merely tolerated, sometimes more and sometimes less favourably. But even on the cobbled pavement in front of the house, we had to show consideration for passers-by and residents. Of course, we were constantly warned not to be so loud, no matter where we were frolicking. And we were constantly reminded not to go with strangers, even if they wanted to give away delicious sweets or even invite us to their house to look at young kittens, for example. "What should you do if someone approaches you like that?" was the control question. "Accept nothing! Don't go with them! Run away! Tell grandma or other known adults!" was the correct answer. Don't get dirty! Once everything had been sorted and the rules were clear, we were free to play our games. At times when there were a lot of children on the street and in the yard, which was usually the case in the evenings during the warmer months, we played "Verstecksdi" (Hide!) or "Fangsdi" (Catch!) or "Ochs-am-Berg-schau-um!" or "Indians and Cowboys" or similar role-playing games. Sometimes we used a ball, but in the evenings, we could no longer play football but, at most, "kickball". Two players would throw a ball at each other over a certain distance, and one or two players would try to intercept the ball in the middle. If one succeeded, one of the throwers was relieved. This rule for playing ball after supper and before going to bed was for a very practical reason. If school and kindergarten children were still allowed to play in the street at this time of day, they were strongly warned not to get dirty. And when playing football, the danger of ending up in the dirt was far too great. Before dinner, hands, face, and, if necessary, feet had already been washed thoroughly. This procedure took place in the kitchen, where water first had to be heated before the traces of the day could be scrubbed off with a flannel and brush. None of us had a bathroom. No mother or grandmother wanted to endure such an effort again in the evening. Apart from that, I don't remember any significant restrictions on our games. In the 1950s, it was certainly not only in our environment that children's play was not a pedagogical support measure that adults and pedagogically valuable toys controlled. On the contrary, everything was fine as long as the playing children did disturb the adults as little as possible. And, to be honest, we didn't need any stimulation either. We could always think of something. Imagination instead of ready-made toys On pleasant afternoons in summer, we dragged lots of blankets into the yard and turned them into flats, islands, ships and the like. We played "father-mother-child" on them with our dolls, though we didn't get the boys to take on the father role in our play. Usually, a girl took over the male part, and because fathers are never at home anyway, the father-girls didn't have much to do. So some of the playing children were always bored and looking for a distraction. Today, since there are ready-made playhouses on playgrounds and anyone can buy a small tent for a few euros, no one can imagine what an inspiring thought it was to build roofed dwellings from these blankets with the help of linen and clothes pegs. Boys moved into these tent-like shelters. And as life goes, one of the doll children got sick, and the male doctor had to come. And so the doctor games began, until finally, one of us said that we should all show each other our bare bottoms under the protection of the blanket tent. That's what we did. We felt queasy, but it was also exciting. And it was supposed to be a secret. But, of course, my mother, with her excellent sniffer, got the secret out of me. Strangely, however, there was no reaction. Just a knowing nod of the head. Puzzling! Especially since she had made such an effort to find out what we had been doing in the tent. But it was all right with me, of course. Bad weather and no children's room! In bad weather, it was difficult to get together to play. None of us had our own children's room, and we rarely visited each other at home. Playing children were not exactly welcome in the often crowded tiny flats. Most of them were not allowed out when it rained. But if we were allowed to go out, we roamed the stairwell unauthorised. Quietly, very quietly! We would sit on the steps, whisper scary stories, or play school with slates and abacuses. You had to be quiet at school, we kindergarten children had heard from the schoolchildren. As in real school life, it naturally got louder and louder. As soon as a neighbour felt bothered by the noise, we had to trudge off and then the only option was to retreat to the small flat with the boring adults who wouldn't dream of spending time with the child. Hardly anyone had a television, and if they did, the broadcasting times were so sparse that watching tv as a serious leisure activity was out of the question. I only remember one neighbour who was well off as a war widow and whose two sons had already left home. She had set up a living room with a television in the original bedroom, and three or four well-behaved children were sometimes allowed to watch "Lassie" or "Fury" or a similar children's programme. But that was once or twice a week at most. I don't really know what the other children did when the weather was so bad that there was no way they could play outside, but I certainly had alternatives. For one thing, my grandmothers were gifted in telling their life stories, and for another, my grandfather painted oil paintings based on postcard motifs. I was allowed to sit with him and paint as well. The two of us peacefully united for hours in our art! When I came home to my other grandmother two entrance doors down from me with my work of art, she would only say that I smelled horribly of smoke. My grandfather was a chain smoker. Friendships When I think about the children in my street, I can't say if I had a best friend. The intimacy that playing together in a children's room would have had was impossible then. We met almost exclusively in the courtyard, where everybody else was. But Ursula, a girl of the same age from the neighbouring block, was probably closest to me. We went to kindergarten together and also started school together. "Don't get dirty!", granny calls. She had a scar on her face and spoke a bit funny because she had been born with a cleft lip and palate, also called a harelip. Plastic surgery was not so well developed in the 1950s, and therefore the consequences of the operation were still visible and audible. Ursula was warm and bubbly, and I don't remember her ever being teased or excluded by the other children because of her scar. I hope my memory is not deceiving me. I am sure Ursula was never jealous of me, even though I was always dressed up. My mother and paternal grandmother competed to dress the child best in little dresses and skirts, as if nothing was more important on earth. But while my mother, who as a trained textile saleswoman had a particular taste for exclusivity when it came to clothing, had a very expensive seamstress in town, called Aunt Sissi, tailor for me, my paternal grandmother commissioned a seamstress friend in the block around the corner to turn the fabrics she had lovingly selected into little dresses for me. My grandmother paid attention to practicality; my mother to beauty. Once a fashion photographer asked my mother to photograph me in my adorable little summer dress with a matching little hat. Unfortunately, daughter-in-law and mother-in-law repeatedly argued about the sovereignty of clothing. Of course, it didn't matter to me where my clothes came from. It probably didn't matter to my girlfriend, who wasn't dressed equally fashionable and tailored. I don't remember this ever being an issue between us. Up and down the street on a scooter! I couldn't complain about the toys either. I got all the new toys that came on the market. The hula hoop, which came to Germany in 1958, was soon owned by almost everyone. But only a few had a genuine scooter with rubber tyres. In joyful anticipation, I dragged sand toys, dolls and dolls' equipment, games and other small toys, and my scooter into the yard because the nicest thing for me was that the other children and, of course, my friend Ursula usually wanted to play with them. I can't remember any envy, and I was neither proud of my possessions nor did I guard them. On the contrary! Everyone could use everything for all I cared. I often sat or stood by when the children played with my toys, pleased that the others took such pleasure in my things. I didn't have a strong sense of pride of ownership. Much to the dismay of my family! They couldn't understand my behaviour. Sometimes they intervened and sometimes pressured me not to lend everything again. This put me in a dilemma and went against my nature. Perhaps this indifference towards possessions was also a reason why I didn't get into trouble with the other children. I didn't realise that my parents both worked mainly to be able to afford things. This also included that their little daughter should have everything one could wish for. The fact that I didn't appreciate that in their eyes upset them, especially my father. But I would have rather had a few brothers and sisters than the relative luxury with which I was showered. Colourful crowd of children In the courtyard, there was also a slightly younger girl called Jutta. She lived from our block three doors down. We seemed to be in a similar situation, which connected us in a way. While my friend Ursula lived in a typical family with a mother, father and a little sister, Jutta's mother had also had her very young, like my mother. Jutta, therefore, lived mainly with her grandmother, just like me. Jutta was also an only child and had a working mother. The grandmother who looked after her had a few daughters, some at my parents' age and a youngest who was only about three years older than her granddaughter. So we played with the aunt and niece equally. There was no hierarchy in this respect. Nevertheless, I envied Jutta this aunt, who was more like a big sister. In the mid-1950s, displaced persons or refugees from the East (of Germany, then occupied by the Russians) joined the traditional residents of the block. I remember a woman my grandmothers' age who looked after her only granddaughter, my age, while her daughter, like my mother, went to work. I had forgotten the girl's name because she moved in with her parents after a short time. She sometimes invited me to come with her to her grandma's house. This extremely friendly grandma spoke very differently, and she cooked differently. Silesian cuisine! I found that very interesting and was always happy when I was allowed to taste some food. She talked to us children about "children's things", but I can't remember any stories from the past. She never spoke about flight and expulsion. Nor did I see her chatting with the neighbours. Whether she wanted the distance or was cut off by the locals, I can't say. When her granddaughter no longer lived with her, I stopped thinking about her and lost sight of her. Of all the boys who played with us on the street in front of our apartment block, I only remember two. Knut was an only child like me. His family lived on the top floor, one entrance door away. He was probably only two years older than me, but admirable in my eyes. I probably felt instinctively that this family was different from mine. And children always find differences fascinating. His parents were concerned that their son should become something, not that he should have everything. He sometimes had "obligations" like music lessons, I think I remember. In any case, it wasn't a working-class family because they somehow kept their distance in a noncommittally friendly way. In other words, you didn't see Knut's mother chatting with other mothers of the block. Knut was very long and skinny, although he brought mountains of sandwiches to watch TV at the neighbour's and ate them all by himself. I thought he was smart and kept proclaiming at home that I would definitely marry Knut one day. Binisodum Another boy of the same age called Gerd from the same house, who had several older brothers, romped around with us and was therefore not so impressive, at least for me. But he and two brothers who were notorious in our neighbourhood set me up once, which I haven't forgotten to this day. The two brothers, who lived with their single mother in the block of flats around the corner and often were involved with the police, were standing with Gerd, bored, in front of his entrance door. I admired these " halbstarken " rogue youths, although they were the exact opposite of my Knut. They looked so good! Gelled hair, leather jackets and casual posture. From a safe distance, I adored them both. And then the unbelievable thing happened. They beckoned me to them. I couldn't believe these higher beings wanted something from me. "Run to the pharmacy and get us some Binisodum for ten pennies! Here, have ten pennies. But make sure you don't lose it," they said to me, almost like adults to adults. Yes, of course, I wanted to do that. Not every day you get an opportunity like this to make an impression! So I proudly marched to the pharmacy in the parallel street and, beaming at my order, asked for Binisodum for a tenner. "Child," said the pharmacist, "there is no such thing as a bin-i-so-dumm (I-am-so-stupid)." And now even I understood. I slipped back, and without comment, I gave the ten pennies back to the grinning boys. And I didn't tell anyone about my embarrassment. Thank God no neighbour saw me crossing the road, which was strictly forbidden. I would have got myself into a lot of trouble on top of that. A girl with a story Another girl in our block, a little older, was called Silvia. She lived one entrance door away. This would definitely not have happened to her. I admired her because she seemed to me so grown-up and distinguished. The name Silvia alone struck me as extraordinarily splendid. When I learned that she was an adopted child and had been taken in by her aunt and uncle after the death of her parents, it deepened my admiration even more. Why, however, I cannot say. Perhaps I felt she was a person with a story, and I was attracted to stories. However, there was always a certain shy distance that did not exist between Ursula and me. That's why I never asked her about her biological parents. Silvia was a very good girl. When she was called and had to go home, there was no rebellion, no begging for extra time like with the rest of us. It almost seemed as if this going home happened with her explicit consent. I would have liked to be like that, but I was not like that. When I told my observation at home, the adults said Silvia must be a good girl because she was adopted. Otherwise...! Yes, what else? No one wanted to explain it to me in more detail. Sword of Damocles - Home for difficult-to-educate children That was one of the many mysteries of my childhood. What happened not only to adopted children when they were not well-behaved? I remember sometimes my father had a serious conversation with me at kindergarten age and gave me the feeling that I was so sensible that one could talk to me like an adult. He then told me about homes for children who were difficult to bring up. So if children did terrible things, the police would pick them up and take them there. Even he, as a father, couldn't do anything about it. That was a frightening idea. But what were the terrible things you could do as a child? He didn't want to be specific, so I had to read between the lines when the home for difficult-to-educate children came up in educational monologues. For example, he had such a conversation with me once when I announced that I was now tired of this family and would go into the wide world. I had already packed my basket and was on my way to this wide world. While my mother burst out laughing, my father took me aside and told me about the consequences of such an act: Police! Home for children who are difficult to educate! I was intimidated by this option because my father gave me the impression that even he would lose control in such a case. In retrospect, he was not entirely wrong. The legal situation was still devastating decades after the 1950s. The term "child welfare endangerment" was defined more broadly in the 1950s, and a hearing of the parents or child was at the court's discretion. Parents, especially the fathers who were mainly responsible from a legal point of view, could make matters worse if they disagreed with the measures taken by the Juvenile Welfare Office and resisted having their child placed in a home. However, in this time of restrictive educational methods, there were also parents who, in case of persistent conflicts with their children, called the police on their own initiative and had them sent to a care home for difficult-to-educate children. There they would be taught respect and morals! The cruelties of this institutional upbringing are still the subject of many study groups today. The society of the 50s and its morals Strictly speaking, my parents were among the young people in the housing block of the 1950s. They were only 16 years old in 1949, 19 when I was born in 1953 and only 27 in 1960. My father and probably also my uncle, my mother's brother, belonged to the group of teenagers called ‚Halbstarke' rather than to the well-behaved middle-class children of post-war society. Halbstarke is a German term describing a postwar-period subculture of adolescents - primarily male and of working-class parents – that appeared in public in an aggressive and provocative way during the 1950s in Germany...(Wikipedia: https://en.m.wikipeida.org/wiki/Halbstarke ) The terms rogue or scoundrel will be used in the lack of an English expression. Some children who, like my parents, were born in the 1930s and knew only a totalitarian state, fascist ideology and war now took their liberties as teenagers, as Halbstarke. American clubs, music, dancing, films and partying! My parents were lucky enough to get an apprenticeship. They worked hard and very long hours during the week, but at the weekend, they went out and partied with the American GIs in the dance halls and clubs. When the MP (military police) came into the bars to enforce the curfew and shoo the American soldiers back to their barracks, sometimes even beating them, as my father often told me, the German youths argued with the American MPs, even got physical and things got heated. The young scoundrels no longer wanted to be ordered around by the authorities. Of course, my father was also one of the protesters when in 1951, representatives of the church wanted to prevent the screening of the film "Die Sünderin" (The Sinner), starring Hildegard Knef, by all means. Police operated with helmets and truncheons, arranged by the mayor of Regensburg. But the people, among them many young people, simply did not want to bow to authority any more. Unfortunately, this was only a brief moment of liberation from narrow-minded morality in the history of Regensburg and some other cities in the Federal Republic of Germany! This moralistic, Catholic church-based outrage over the hint of nudity in the film "The Sinner" probably did not fall on fertile ground with the residents of our apartment block. The working class and the precariat were not keen on church and morality. The moralising upper middle classes did not live in such housing estates, and the petty-bourgeois (narrow-minded) employees and civil servants, who favoured decency and morality, kept their opinions to themselves in this environment. And I have to say that as the illegitimate child of two teenagers, I was not exposed to any discrimination or disapproving looks. It was simply not an issue or a disgrace in our block of flats. At most, bad luck for the young parents! (TA) Recommendations for further reading: (The links have been carefully selected. Nevertheless RememberRelateReflect.com is not responsible for the content and functionality and security of these external links). https://www.regensburg-digital.de/diesen-film-verbiete-ich-mir/22022021/ https://silo.tips/download/expertise-zu-rechtsfragen-der-heimerziehung-der-50er-und-60er-jahre-gutachten-im https://www.academia.edu/7397860/Expertise_Rechtsfragen_der_Heimerziehung_der_50er_und_60er_Jahre_

The women in our street (DE) I feel as if only women lived in the apartment blocks of my childhood in the 1950s. Of course, this is a distorted perception because there were five married couples in our house alone, except for my grandmother and her neighbour, who was also single. So they certainly existed, the husbands and fathers. But they were not present in my everyday life as a child. In my perceived memory, the women, who all seemed to be more or less the same age as my grandmothers, dominated the image of my everyday surroundings. Even young women like my mother you didn't meet daily while shopping or at the kindergarten door. Where were they, the men? Where were they, the very young women? In terms of society as a whole, it is not a purely subjective picture that women outnumbered men, especially those born between 1900 and about 1925. The war resulted in 22.35 million men compared to 25.35 million women in 1955. This ratio was probably also reflected in the microcosm of our apartment block. But the war is only one reason for the dominance of women in everyday life from a child's point of view. According to the role model of the 1950s, men went to work and earned money, while women stayed at home as housewives to take care of the household and raise the children. This was not entirely true for my parents' generation, i.e., those born in the 1930s. Especially in the working class, both parents tried to earn money to be able to afford things. The children were left to their grandmothers, who were partly relieved by the kindergartens primarily run by nuns, especially in Bavaria. Also as a young mother, my mother worked in her profession as a textile saleswoman. The young women in my family had jobs. My mother worked as a trained textile saleswoman in a specialist shop, and my aunt was a production line worker in a factory, although she would much rather have been a seamstress. But there were not enough apprenticeships. My godmother worked as an assistant in a printing shop. Only one of the three women gave up her job when she got married and thus corresponded to the contemporary role model. She had become the wife of a bank employee, and in these circles, it was not customary for women to work. The other two had married workers and focused on building a life of prosperity. My father was on assembly during the week and also worked overtime. Incidentally, until well into the 1960s, the two working-class families could afford much more than the bank clerk's family. Social status and role models were indifferent to many of this generation in this milieu. The new standards were consumer-oriented. The absence of men and the working population generally can also be explained by the typical working hours at that time. In the early 1950s, people worked 48, even 49 hours a week. Additional overtime was the order of the day. That meant at least 8 hours a day, six days a week. That left only Sunday for family and recreation. Women of the war generation remember Against this background, it is not surprising that mainly women in their 40s to mid-50s made up my grandmothers' circle of acquaintances. This was their generation with whom they shared collective experiences. They had shared memories of the war and post-war period when they had been young wives and mothers and had steered their families through these difficult times. Some of them were now war widows with almost grown-up children, such as Grandma's friend from the house next door, whom I called Auntie Fest. Others cared for their war-disabled husbands like my paternal grandmother did. Some built a new life with their husbands who had returned home, as long as they did not have to look after their grandchildren, as was my maternal grandmother's task. Depending on their familiarity, these women either sat together in the kitchen or stood together in the street; they often began to talk about "the hard times". And if I could listen, a vast landscape of memories spread before me. Tales of psychic experiences Particularly eerie were the strange psychic experiences during the war. A woman woke up in the middle of the night because the picture of her husband, who was fighting at the front, had fallen off the wall for no apparent reason. A sign!? A message of death!? The same question arose for the one who suddenly heard her husband's voice while washing up in the middle of the day. Very close! More a cry than a word! And indeed! A short time later, the news arrived: Fallen at the front. They noted the date of death, which matched the date of the mysterious experience. Also, those women whose husbands were missing looked for signs that could tell them whether they were still alive. These stories were primarily hearsay. But this belief in psychic connections with their husbands probably helped women to keep fear and helplessness at bay during the war. One probably felt less helpless if one believed in being able to sense disaster coming up. It meant keeping a little bit of control. This was a strategy that women did not want to let go of now because times were changing, but the memory of loss, danger and doom was still very present. My paternal grandmother, for example, focused on card reading and thus tried to gain an insight into fate. In this context, the not at all supernatural but sombre homecoming story of a neighbour was often told, which everyone in the block had witnessed immediately after the war. The wife of this neighbour, who had gone missing during the war, was very beautiful, and so an equally beautiful Russian soldier, probably a major, had fallen in love with her after the end of the war. The two became a couple. But one night, the missing husband returned from captivity and had to realise that he was no longer welcome at home. A Russian soldier had taken his place. He had cried bitterly all night in the backyard and then disappeared forever. Horrors of the post-war period The immediate post-war period seemed to have brought great suffering. Many people died in the typhus epidemic caused by contaminated water due to the bombed water supply, weakened by malnutrition and hunger at the end of the war and in the immediate post-war period. While my father's whole family, except for himself, was close to death, the typhus epidemic hardly raged in my mother's family, even though they lived on the same block. Why? My mother's family was supplied with enough healthy and fresh food by relatives in the country. My father's family did not have such relations; therefore, his little six-year-old sister died of typhoid fever while his mother was more or less in a coma and received the last rites. When she recovered, her little daughter was dead and buried. A shock she never got over. It was a grief that many must have shared with her at that time. But life still held another challenge for the residents of the blocks of flats. 1945 the war was over; the bombing nights and days were finally over, and the houses were still standing. What a blessing! But then the American occupation forces decided that the residents had to leave their flats within 24 hours. There was no further explanation or even justification. Explanation of the document „Wohnungszuweisung“: This letter shows that my maternal grandmother only received the official housing allocation for this room with kitchen in 1949. But she had already been accommodated there in 1945, after she had had to vacate her flat in the housing block. From 1949, the residents were able to move back into their flats. The bureaucratic mills of the post-war period had nothing to oppose the chaos. While Ukrainian displaced persons systematically replaced Messerschmidt employees suspected of being Nazi supporters in the Hermann-Göring-Siedlung, the later Ganghofer Siedlung, which belonged to the Messerschmidt-Werke, the blocks where my families lived could not be so clearly assigned to Nazism. Denazification: A political classification of my grandmother as a non-Nazi was probably not necessary. Presumably, accommodation was needed for the liberated forced labourers and concentration camp prisoners until they could or had to return to their home countries. Functional apartment blocks were more suitable for humane accommodation than the Nazi barrack camps. However, for the surprised German inhabitants, this meant finding accommodation in the bombed-out city with relatives, friends, or acquaintances who could free up a little space. After all, my mother's family consisted of a mother with three adolescent children, and my father's family consisted of a sick man, a weakened mother and two teenage children. It wasn't enough to fold out the sofa bed! But something always works, so both families found shelter until they were allowed to return to their flats in the block in 1949. The women remembered in their accounts what a fiasco their return had been. The Russians and Poles who had taken up residence had trashed everything and lived like vandals. They were even washing potatoes in the bowls of the water closets because they were unfamiliar with such things. Of course, stories like this fueled the racist Nazi propaganda of the Russian or Slavic subhuman, which still haunted Germans' minds after the war. A gentle Polish guy conquers prejudice Prejudices about Russians and Polish people survived the Nazi era and could only be changed slowly and with difficulty. A Polish-German Love in the Post-War Period A little story about this is the love story between my father's older sister, Inge, and her Polish husband, Walter. Walter had been a prisoner of war in a camp in Regensburg. Immediately after the war, he met the young, self-confident German Inge on the street. The two fell in love. The relatives were up in arms. Even my grandmother, who was certainly not a Nazi, disapproved of this union. A Polish man! That was out of the question! They bitched and moaned until my grandfather tried to force his daughter not to continue the relationship. But it didn't help! She was a stubborn woman, always had been. But then Walter asked for a talk with his Inge's father, as my grandfather often told me in tears. This young gentle Polish man asked him why he and Inge were not allowed to love each other and that he was a good man who honoured the family. And as people often are, when they meet discriminated people in person and have good experiences, they throw their prejudices overboard, especially for this one person. From then on, Walter was held in high esteem and was lovingly cared for by the family. For my father, he was a fatherly role model. And, of course, everyone was very much in agreement with the marriage. Happy ending in Australia Unsurprisingly, Walter would have liked to stay in Regensburg with his Inge. But my wise aunt was not deceived. A Polish worker would never have a chance in Germany; that was how she assessed the situation. So she insisted on emigrating to Australia. She was already pregnant when they set off via Naples in 1949. However, she had to conceal her condition because pregnant women were refused passage. In the end, it all worked out. I always loved this story. Gloomy images from the Nazi era Of course, the women also touched on the dark images from the Nazi and wartime periods in their reminiscences. However, certain events were only talked about in hints, and when I asked, the adults changed the subject. There was talk of nightly processions of emaciated figures being driven through the streets towards the city's southern edge. "Anyone who wanted to could see them," my paternal grandmother would interject. Sometimes they recounted that the Gestapo picked someone up because he had spoken at the pub before 01 September 1939 about the war coming soon. It was suspected that he had been taken to Dachau. There was talk of emaciated Polish people who, as prisoners of war, had to do clean-up work after the bombing raids and were sometimes given food to eat. Another time there was talk of a Cathedral preacher, Maier, whom they had hanged, right at the end. I only discovered who that was and who "they" were later. When people spoke of camps, prisoners of war, old Nazis, the fanatical block warden on the corner, the Gestapo and the SS, they usually only hinted at them. These topics were only addressed and discussed within the family, if at all. The fear of denunciation was still deeply ingrained in people's minds, and not without good reason. In the 1950s, after the half-hearted denazification and at the beginning of the Cold War, NSDAP members and office-holders of the Third Reich were reinstated in public authorities and politics. The old networks were back in place. For example, the fact that my paternal grandmother had to appear before the Gestapo because a neighbour had denounced her was a typical story only within the family circle. She was accused of making disparaging remarks about the NSDAP and Adolf Hitler. But my grandmother would not be intimidated! She would not be told to shut up. She told the Gestapo man. "Then send me to the concentration camp and my children too! We'll get something to eat there too! "What naivety! What recklessness!" the whole family was still moaning in the 1950s. But she sat grinning, even though she knew by then that staying in a concentration camp would have been a mortal threat. People laugh about it afterwards Strangely enough, the stories from the last days of the war, when the women and their children either sat in the air-raid shelter or had to organise food, were exciting and funny. At every coffee klatsch, people told of how my maternal grandmother went berserk after spending two days and nights in the air-raid shelter in Karthaus (the building of a psychiatric clinic, then called a sanatorium and nursing home) with the other women and children of the neighbourhood and her own three children. Against all odds, she broke out of the cellar covered in soot and made her way home with her children. She didn't care about anything: "Fuck the Nazis, the block warden, the bombs and everything! I'm going home now!" The women at the kitchen table laughed tears when they remembered this. My paternal grandmother couldn't stop laughing when she talked about her nightly wood theft at the end of the war. There was nothing… that's how the story always began. But to be able to heat and cook at least a little, wood was needed. The bombed-out houses in the neighbourhood had perfectly useful logs. But taking them was strictly forbidden. That was looting. And looting was punished severely! In desperation, she joined forces with a friend. One night, they stole one of these logs and dragged it to the entrance of the house. The question was how to get the stolen goods into the cellar without the neighbours, who could denounce her, finding out. The way through the hallway was too risky. But pushing the bulky item through the cellar window might be possible. So they put the log down on the wall of the house, slipped into the cellar, opened the window and very quietly cleared space for the valuable piece. Everything had gone well. No neighbour had woken up to see what was going on. Quietly, very quietly, the two tiptoed back up and reached for the log. But there was nothing there! The heavy wooden log they had stolen had itself been stolen. Just as quietly and secretly as they had stolen it themselves! Things are looking up! These women and their children had been a kind of fated community in their housing block during the war. They then struggled to make ends meet in their makeshift accommodation in the post-war period from 1945 to 1949. Many returned to the housing block as war widows, with their now complete families, or as single welfare recipients. But new residents also arrived. Before separate blocks for the families of displaced persons and refugees from the eastern territories were built in the mid-1950s, some of these families also squeezed into the small flats in our street. Despite the cramped conditions, they considered themselves lucky to have been awarded a small rented flat. The displaced persons and refugees were not held in high esteem by their neighbours in the block of flats then. I sometimes heard the neighbours rant: "They all had a "Rittergitl" (a mansion house)," people mimicked them disparagingly, "and now they get much more support than we do! After all, we lost a lot too!" People eyed these "foreign Germans" (most of them had to leave their estates behind as the Russian occupiers took them at the end of the war)* with suspicion, kept their distance, remained superficially polite and friendly, and then forgot envy and resentment during the reconstruction and economic miracle. In fact, in 1955, "Volkswohnungen für Flüchtlinge" (People's Apartments for Refugees) were built by Stadtbau GmbH in the courtyard area of the blocks opposite, which caused some frowning among the old-established residents because it was not only refugees who were desperately looking for housing at that time. At the beginning of the 1950s, the housing shortage in Regensburg was still severe, but more and more young couples could move into their own small flats somewhere in the city. People renovated and built as much as they could. My parents, for example, could rent a small two-room flat near the railway station after they married in 1955. They got the deal because my father, an electrician and skilled craftsman, could renovate the apartment. If at all possible, other young couples probably also made such "deals". My uncle, who was a carpenter, obviously showed less negotiating skills. Therefore, he had to live with his wife and son in grandma's bedroom for about two more years. Consumer society develops with its social differences. Very slowly, one child after the other left the house, or rather the home, in the 1950s. The parents, or even just the mothers, stayed behind. They now had their flat to themselves. And not only that! It was no longer sheer survival at the centre of all endeavours but rather enjoying something for oneself! Wages were still meagre, but young people, in particular, took every opportunity to earn a little extra money, even by moonlighting. The older people and the non-manual workers, who did not have this option, saved specifically for new purchases. Some women supplemented their husbands' wages by cleaning, tailoring, ironing or working as unskilled labourers in factories and other enterprises. At that time, the economy needed such workers. The problem was not only the labour market. There was another hurdle for women. Unmarried women could decide to earn money, but wives had to give their husbands permission in the 1950s. Many workers didn't need a bank account because they received their salary in pay envelopes. But if a wife wanted her own bank account, she also required her husband's signature for that. But this oppression of women, which is outrageous from today's point of view, was not an issue with the neighbours in our block of flats. On the contrary! As a child, I did not understand what Mrs XY, who lived with her husband and often leaned out of the window, meant by saying that she had to let him have his way again today because she had treated herself to a new pair of shoes. However, the surrounding neighbours laughed with her about this situation, albeit restrained but quite understanding. Participation in the beginning economic miracle, mainly associated with consumption, was for some more and for others less possible. A new piece of furniture here and there! A new radio or, later, even a TV set! A bicycle, a motor scooter and finally, the first car! An Isetta, perhaps or a VW Beetle or even a Karmann-Ghia? These were the goals mainly of the younger generation, who worked hard for them and often left the upbringing of their children to others. Slowly, in the 1950s, the social differences became visible. As a welfare recipient, my maternal grandmother depended on her children, whose children she looked after. Therefore she could not earn any extra money, remaining at the mere subsistence level. The generous pensions of war widows and war invalids made new purchases possible. This distinction could be seen, for example, in their clothing. According to the fashion of the 1950s, ladies who could afford it occasionally went to the café or at least for a stroll in the city in finely coordinated clothing. Even in summer, a light coat was part of the ladylike outfit. It was accompanied by a little hat and a little bag matching the shoes. And, very significantly, gloves were worn in winter and summer if elegance was essential. A self-respecting lady, such as my paternal grandmother and the neighbour "Aunt Fest" or my mother, had several pairs of gloves in her wardrobe. Most apartment block residents at that time presented themselves in a fashion-consciously ladylike manner during Sunday walks, as if they didn't have their apron hanging on the hook in the kitchen, which they wore exclusively at home to save the good pieces in the wardrobe. With my not-exactly well-to-do maternal grandmother, the difference between Sunday and workday clothes was insignificant. She had a single hat and a lot of much cheaper headscarves that she put on when she went shopping or, which was rarely the case, to church or, more often, to the cinema. Such a square headscarf was folded into a triangle, placed over her hair and tied under her chin. When shopping, she usually wore a light or warm coat over her apron, depending on the season. On Sundays, she wore a dress, skirt, and blouse under her coat. That way, you were always dressed smartly and not carelessly. At least, that's how my maternal grandmother saw it. I never knew her to be envious of her better-off and better-dressed neighbours. I don't think she cared about being poor. The only thing that bothered her was that she had to rely on her children for support. But she had also made a big mistake during the war. So the family would recall resignedly, but only when grandma wasn't around. My grandmother never spoke of it, but she would have had a chance during the war to become a war widow and thus be provided for. A young man adored her very much and asked her to marry him. But she wanted to give him time to think it over, as she would bring three children into the marriage. She would say yes at the next home leave if he still wanted to. But instead of coming back on home leave and marrying my grandma, he fell at the front. The chance of happiness or at least a pension was gone. At least, that's how the family members saw it. It sounds a bit cynical, but I suspect that in this extreme period of reconstruction and intense consumerism, people afforded themselves a little less sense of romance and sentimentality. Nevertheless, my grandmother was sociable; everyone liked her because of her sense of humour. But close friendships did not tend to exist in the neighbourhood. People didn't want to let anyone look into their family affairs. The attitude of keeping up appearances, keeping problems to oneself and not giving rise to gossip and rumours, typical at the time, was still deeply rooted in our neighbourhood in the 1950s. No lack of social contacts What the women in our block of flats liked to do, in any case, was socialise extensively. This had nothing to do with friendship but was simply part of ordinary neighbourly care in an apartment block. People talked to each other at every opportunity and enjoyed it. Today one would say everyone got a healthy dose of social contact. Apart from family members, reciprocal visits to each other's flats happened only among a few close acquaintances. For example, my maternal grandmother's direct neighbour would quickly come over. Even the resident in the neighbouring house, whom I called "Auntie Fest", would sometimes drop by and say hello. She would sit with us in the kitchen for a while. Usually, such a visit developed spontaneously. Grandma was looking out the window when "Auntie Fest" came home elegantly dressed from a stroll through town. "I'll be right over. I just have to take off my stockings (and the suspender belt, of course). It's more comfortable!" she announced. Shortly afterwards, even in the cold season, she stepped out of her front door barefoot in her slippers, walking down the street, and there she was at our door. Later, we received invitations to watch television at her place. But apart from these visits, there were plenty of opportunities for a chat or even more extended conversations. The women had to leave the flat all the time to do something. Since there were hardly any refrigerators, they went shopping every day. Supermarkets in today's style were still unthinkable. There were specialised shops: a butcher, a baker, a dairy shop and a tiny grocery shop. Potatoes, like coal, were ordered in bulk and stored in the cellar. In summer, people ran to the cool cellar several times a day, where butter, milk, eggs, pickled fruit and home-cooked jam were stored alongside potatoes, coals, and preserves. Every week a different tenant had to clean the stairs on Saturday. And that took quite a while because a few words had to be exchanged with everyone who came by. Otherwise, it would have been impolite on all sides. People met in the hallway, in the cellar, in the laundry room or on the street and got talking. But there were also specific communication strategies. My maternal grandmother wasn't the only one who stood leaning on a cushion at a wide-open window in the summer when the weather was nice to watch the people on the street for a while. But of course it didn't stop at looking. A greeting, a remark, a question about how they were doing... and off they went! Time flew by, and after one or two hours, the window was closed again, satisfied with the pleasant conversations. At that time, it was impossible to perish in isolation in one's apartment in a block of flats. It would simply have been noticeable if you hadn't kept running into a neighbour. Today, in 2023, I have lived for 16 years in a three-storey apartment building from the 1930s in Munich and rarely see my neighbours. I don't know three of the eight parties personally. The residents of the neighbouring houses are mostly strangers with whom I have never exchanged a word. Families with children meet in the playground in the courtyard, but not all of them return my greeting when I pass by. I know there are other house communities where the residents consciously and proactively try to be a "community". But it is not a matter of course. In our apartment block in the 1950s, however, such a conscious act of neighbourly care would not have been necessary. Everyone was addressed mercilessly and as a matter of course. Anything else was considered rude or unfriendly, or even arrogant and conceited. (TA) *Germans had fled the Eastern territories during the war when the Red Army advanced. After 1945, Germans were expelled from the former German eastern territories or from German-occupied areas of Poland, Czechoslovakia and Russia. Further links to the topics addressed: (The links have been carefully selected. Nevertheless, RememberRelateReflect.com is not responsible for the content and functionality of these external links). https://www.bpb.de/shop/zeitschriften/izpb/deutschland-in-den-50er-jahren-256/10124/gesellschaftliche-entwicklung/ https://files.battenberg-gietl.de/public/leseproben/leseprobe-luftangriffe-auf-regensburg-mit-dvd.pdf https://bistum-regensburg.de/news/domprediger-dr-johann-maier-gedenkfeier-am-24-april-7410 https://www.br.de/radio/bayern2/regensburger-ganghofersiedlung-1945-1949-berlinger102.html https://www.bpb.de/lernen/angebote/grafstat/krise-und-sozialisation/225199/info-03-06-links-zu-multimedialen-angeboten/ https://www.bpb.de/themen/nachkriegszeit/flucht-und-vertreibung/ https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Displaced_Person https://www.bpb.de/themen/deutschlandarchiv/187210/ukrainische-displaced-persons-in-deutschland/ https://www.bpb.de/shop/zeitschriften/izpb/deutschland-in-den-50er-jahren-256/10124/gesellschaftliche-entwicklung/ https://files.battenberg-gietl.de/public/leseproben/leseprobe-luftangriffe-auf-regensburg-mit-dvd.pdf https://bistum-regensburg.de/news/domprediger-dr-johann-maier-gedenkfeier-am-24-april-7410 https://www.br.de/radio/bayern2/regensburger-ganghofersiedlung-1945-1949-berlinger102.html https://www.bpb.de/lernen/angebote/grafstat/krise-und-sozialisation/225199/info-03-06-links-zu-multimedialen-angeboten/ https://www.bpb.de/themen/nachkriegszeit/flucht-und-vertreibung/ https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Displaced_Person https://www.bpb.de/themen/deutschlandarchiv/187210/ukrainische-displaced-persons-in-deutschland/

My grandmothers and their story (DE) When I was born into this apartment block community on the southern outskirts of Regensburg in 1953, most people living there had shared memories of the Nazi era, the war and the post-war period. Also, they were pretty optimistic about the future. Slowly, the post-war period turned into the economic miracle period. But things were not yet ready. Housing shortages, restrictions and shortages still prevailed. For some more, for others less. View of the courtyard area between the apartment blocks around 1950 The people who lived in these mud-brown housing blocks in tiny on average 46-square-metre flats without bathrooms belonged to the so-called „ordinary people", from welfare recipients like my grandmother on my mother's side to workers, lower-level employees and civil servants with their families, to better-off alone war widows. At the beginning of the 1950s, the East Refugees and displaced persons from the former German eastern territories that were ceded to Poland or the Soviet Union after the war arrived and were housed in newly built "people's flats for refugees". Stadtbau GmbH Regensburg built these housing blocks on a vacant lot between existing housing blocks. 1939 - two families in the new apartment block With the start of the war in 1939, most families had moved into the newly built blocks of flats. My father's and mother's families lived only two doors away from each other. My parents were just six years old when they played in the street in front of the house, where I would also romp 15 years later. So around 1939, my family's life began in the apartment block on the southern outskirts of Regensburg. My grandmother Anna ca. 1941 Maternal grandmother My maternal grandmother was single with three children, two girls and a boy. She should have owned a house in the countryside because her family, owners of a large farm in a village south of Regensburg, had left her and her husband a plot of land. But since my grandfather had died immediately after the birth of my mother (she was the youngest child) in 1933, the family took the building site away from her and gave it to her brother. He was supposed to build a house for himself and his family and provide a flat for his widowed sister and her three small children in the house. This he did. But living together turned out to be extremely difficult, as my grandmother often recounted. She was harassed by her sister-in-law and had to move around the house all the time. She helped on the farm and worked as a waitress while the grandmother looked after the children. Life was not as easy as it was anyway, but it could be unbearable when one could not get peace in one's own home. The sisters-in-law quarrelled, and finally, my grandmother decided that having her own flat in town and a job at the post office would give her a chance for an independent life. She no longer owned anything but was still happy in her micro-apartment paradise. In any case, this story always ended with a happy ending. From today's point of view, I wonder how my grandmother managed to look after these about 12, 8 and 6-year-old children during the war while doing her job at the post office. After the war, when everything should have been easier, she was forced to give up her job for a male applicant. In the post-war period, the state's labour market strategy was that male breadwinners had priority over women when filling positions, even if women were the sole breadwinners. So she had to be thankful that as a welfare recipient, she at least was provided with an affordable flat. Grandparents on my father's side Around 1939, my paternal grandparents also considered themselves lucky to have their own home, even if it only measured 46 square metres. They had lived in the house of my grandfather's parents in Stadtamhof, a historic part of the old town just beyond the Stone Bridge. During the regular seasonal floodings by the river Danube in this area, the furniture often had to be put on pedestals, and the whole family moved to the first floor. In this part of town, my grandparent were members of a respected and extensive family of craftsmen. They treated my Swabian grandmother, who descended from a maid and who had also been a maid herself, somewhat arrogantly. My self-confident grandmother, who tended to be ladylike, was sensitive in this respect but quite belligerent if she had to be. My grandfather always told me that as a young family man, he preferred to be in the pub with his mates from school rather than sitting at home with the family. That was probably another reason my grandmother wanted to move away from that environment because it was much easier to keep the money together if the husband didn't buy free drinks for the friends in the pub. In that, she was a Swabian throughout. My father, little sister Renate and big sister Inge 1940) In 1939 the family consisted of three children, an older daughter, a new born daughter, my father, the middle child born in 1933, and the parents. My grandfather was conscripted during the war and fought on the Eastern Front, where he was seriously wounded. As a child, I used to look at the visible hole only covered by skin in my grandfather's head, more precisely at the hairline. After the war, he was a registered war invalid, could no longer work and received a handsome war invalid's pension. My father's little sister died in a typhus epidemic immediately after the war, and his older sister emigrated to Australia with her Polish husband soon after. So by my birth in 1953, only three members were left in my father's family, living together in this tiny flat: A sick man, a lonely woman grieving for her children and a teenager who was away all week on a work assignment and only came back on weekends, when he went out with his friends as all teenagers like to do. Housekeeping on 46 square metres Since these flats looked the same in the 1950s as in the 1940s, I can still see the cramped conditions and the lack of "luxury", although I didn't feel that way then. I grew up in this block of flats with my maternal grandmother for the first seven years and always returned to her when I felt my life was not so good. It was a humble home, but it was my humble home! The flat consisted of a kitchen and two little rooms. Still, the centre and heart of the apartment was the eat-in kitchen with a coal cooker, a ceramic sink with running but only cold water, a kitchen buffet, a couch with a dining table in front of it and three chairs, one of which was a wash stool. This wash stool was necessary so the residents could wash themselves in the kitchen. When you lifted the lid, a basin and a soap dish appeared. The washing facility was ready. Another essential feature was the radio in the corner next to the couch at the dining table. It played all day long. And my maternal grandmother had a "green thumb", so there had to be room for many plants. That was it! At least four, sometimes five, people lived in this space. Life took place in the kitchen. Here people cooked, washed, did their minor laundry, ate, sat comfortably together, listened to the radio and talked. In winter, the kitchen was heated. The other two rooms were cold because they were only used as bedrooms, which were never heated then. Why else would hot-water bottles have been invented?! The tiny tube-like room leading from the kitchen was equipped with a coal stove but rarely used. What was the point? People sat together in the kitchen in summer and winter. No one claimed such a thing as a retreat or privacy during the day or evening before going to bed. Family on my mother's side around 1950: sister Sissi, brother Xaver, my mother Erna and my grandma. When I expanded the family through my arrival, my grandmother and her three adult children lived in this tiny flat without a bathroom. There were usually five of us, though the occupants changed. When my parents married in 1955 and moved into a small apartment in an old building, I stayed parked with grandma because they both worked long hours. My aunt also married and moved to Munich with her husband, who got his first job there. By now, my uncle had copied his little sister and became an unplanned father. So in 1958, he and his pregnant wife moved in with grandma, who surrendered her bedroom to the young family. Grandma and I, and partly my newborn cousin, slept in the longish small room. So for all of us, it was the kitchen-cum-living room, cooking room, dining room and, in the absence of a bathroom, the bathroom too. And, of course, my mother, who had already moved away, often sat at the kitchen table in the evenings since my father was on his work assignment during the week and only came home at weekends. Even my aunt and her husband from Munich visited during their holidays and slept on the folding couch in the kitchen. That can't possibly go well! There must have been frequent quarrels when so many people sat on top of each other in such a small space! That was certainly the case, but I only remember sometimes a bad atmosphere in the room. During such time I pretended to play quietly in a corner. Probably my harmony- and peace-seeking grandmother was responsible because the more quarrelsome family members didn't dare to come out of hiding in her presence. But the memories that have stayed with me all my life are the stories of the olden days that used to make the rounds at the kitchen table in the evenings when I was already in bed, and the door to the kitchen was just ajar. The stories came to me along with the light. For example, my 18-year-old aunt by marriage, whom I adored very much, told, while catching runs in the nylon stockings with a special needle, that as a teenager, she often escaped secretly at night via the dustbins under her window to go dancing or meet friends. I was full of admiration! Tales from the "Her Highness“ Servants of the princely household (my grandmother 3rd from left) in Höfling Palace - 20s My grandmother enthusiastically recounted her time as a young maid at Prince Thurn & Taxis. On Sundays, her Highness, the Princess, sometimes ensured the maids were chauffeured to a dance and back again. In my grandmother's view, her Highness couldn't put a foot wrong. "Anni," said Her Highness, "why didn't you come to us?" She meant that when my grandmother had become pregnant unintentionally and unmarried, she should have confided in the Princess, although she was no longer in her service. "Yes," I also wondered in my bed, "why didn't grandma go to her Highness, and perhaps she would have become a princess instead of a poor grandma?" I never found out about Grandma's reasons. Perhaps she was ashamed or too proud. But she was really proud of her time in Rotterdam, Holland, from 1926 to 1927, immediately after her employment at Thurn & Taxis. She enjoyed life as a maid with a Dutch family and felt very much at home in this country. It was simply fantastic there, she enthused. My grandmother (on the left) in Holland 1926/27 However, her mother often asked her for money because her father had so many legal affairs and spent too much on them. The farm, the existence of the family had been endangered time and again. Finally, her mother asked my grandmother to come home and help on the farm. She did so because she did not want to let her mother down. So the misfortune took its course. My grandma became an unmarried mother, then a wife and mother of three, then a single widow with three small children, after that a displaced and penniless sister-in-law, finally a postal worker with a city apartment, and after the war until she died in the 1980s, a recipient of welfare who had to be supported by her children. I loved this grandma very much, but the older I got, the angrier I looked at that fate. I often wondered at what point in her life's journey my grandma should have set a different course to lead a better, more self-determined life. She may have covered her despondency with humour, but I know she suffered greatly from her dependence on her children, not poverty per se. And I swore to myself that I would never in my life submit to the will of others. A combative grandma as a role model In this respect, my paternal grandmother was of a different breed. My paternal grandmother Käthe 1953) Since she lived only two doors down from me, I visited her quite often, sitting at the kitchen table in the same kitchen as at home and begging, "Grandma, tell me about the olden days!" That's how I learned she was born on a cold November night in 1909 on a farm in the Allgäu, a mountainous farm area in the southwest of Germany. Her mother, the farmer's daughter, disappeared to Augsburg (a city about 100 km away) the very next day, leaving the baby with her father and sister. The father of the newborn child, a farmhand, was so unhappy that my great-grandmother didn't want anything to do with him, child or no child, that he decided to emigrate to America. His trail was lost there. At least, that's how the story was told in the family. But it's also plausible that he ran away not so much out of lovesickness but because of the alimony he had to pay. Who knows! The stories about my grandmother's ordeal began when she was a small child. Because neither her mother nor her grandfather really wanted her, she was given to a foster family in Landsberg am Lech, a town about 70 km away. The foster father was a prison guard, so she lived in the shadow of the prison*. The family had been very good to her, but then, during a visit to acquaintances of the foster family, she had not been able to resist the temptation and had taken a little doll. Back home, in view of the prison walls, she believed she would be locked up behind them sooner or later. The guilty conscience and fear led to her feigning terrible homesickness and finally being taken to her less-than-enthusiastic mother, who was now married and had another two children. Her grandfather was also not thrilled about her return. So, she was placed on farms as a maid when she was still at primary school age, where she was often treated badly, even mistreated, she recounted. But she was not defeated. Although she became a maid like her mother, she retained her pride and dignity. I never heard this grandmother worship any of her employers. They were just employers at best, exploiters at worst, who had to be stood up to. She didn't put up with anything. It was this fighting spirit that I liked so much about her. One example has remained in my memory. She had a weakness for fine lingerie. So she saved, which was her nature anyway, but as a young woman, she bought herself lace underwear from her hard-earned savings. One day, when she changed jobs, her employer searched her suitcase and found the silk and lace underwear. The lady of the house was upset and claimed she had stolen it because such things could never be in a servant's possession. "Well," my grandmother replied haughtily, "you can ask in the lingerie shop who can afford such things here!" She said and walked away! My paternal grandmother (on the left in the picture) with my mother and grandfather. She was a role model of fighting spirit I liked that. I wanted to be like that. No matter where I ended up, no one should be allowed to hurt my pride and dignity without punishment. The "superiors" would not be able to do any ham to me because I would not recognise any superiority by these people. My interest in politics and my political attitude stem from that time, from my grandmother's stories. I wanted to fight for social justice and dignity. For me, authorities did not get a foot on the ground. To this day, I still harbour a deep mistrust of them. People in the apartment block - My grandmothers and I Yes, I learned those life lessons from my grandmothers’ experiences. However, one thing stuck in my mind. It gave me food for thought: My peace-loving grandmother did not stand up for herself much, even giving the impression of resignation, but she was popular and valued by everyone. In contrast, the popularity ratings of my proud and quarrelsome grandmother were relatively low. I certainly felt the dilemma early on, long before I knew the word for it. I even owe my lifelong passion for literature to my grandmothers because I come from an "educationally deprived" family, or an "educationally deprived" milieu, as one would say today. My parents had specific deficits that were neither recognised nor named in working-class families then. My father was intelligent and professionally successful but dyslexic, as I know today. My efficient and skilful mother would probably be diagnosed with ADHD today. Reading books, being quiet and concentrating was not her thing. But both my grandmothers enjoyed reading more than anything. While my stubborn paternal grandmother not only had Dostoevsky and Tolstoy on her bookshelf but also read them enthusiastically, my maternal grandmother didn't have a bookshelf at all. She fetched stacks of romance, doctor's and aristocratic novels from the library and devoured them with great pleasure. Both grandmothers could be seen sitting at the kitchen table reading a book in their sparse free time. Both grandmothers, as different as they were, lived in the same block of flats, and both had a significant influence on me, perhaps even more influence than my parents. In these blocks of flats of my early childhood, that is, in the first eight years from 1953 to 1961, women were much more present and outnumbered men. All the women who didn't go to work like my mother seemed quite old to me. However, when I consider that my maternal grandmother was only 49 years old when I was born in 1953, and my paternal grandmother was only 44, memory and reality do not quite match. According to today's criteria, these grandmothers were middle-aged women, and presumably, so were their neighbours, all of whom I considered equally grandmotherly in age. They were not too old to build a life for themselves after the war. (TA) *The prison in Landsberg am Lech is famous because Adolf Hitler was imprisoned there in 1923/24.

(DE) It was a sunny early summer's day, and my brother-in-law was visiting; the idea of devouring ice cream quickly came up. At “Venezia”, I ordered my obligatory “strawberry cup”, and he ordered the “Schwabinger cup”. In this beautiful weather, the ice cream parlour was full of people, including many children and us with our dog. The waiter quickly brought us what we wanted, and we were delighted. When he appeared at our table a short time later with another plate, we were astonished. There was an ice cream cone on a porcelain plate - for the dog! He felt the need to share our joy with the unappreciated dog. What kindness and generosity from the waiter! Memories from my early childhood came flooding back. Memories of my mother's side of the family's lack of empathy towards a needy family who had fled to us in 1945. “You could set your watch by her”, my family said quite succinctly about Hannchen, a refugee woman who had found shelter with us. Hannchen, as I saw her For many years of my childhood, I would see her walking home from work at the lampshade factory in the evening, between 5 and 6 pm. The last part of her way home led past the large front door of our family villa, along a narrow paved path between the house and the garden, and then across the large courtyard, which already contained the less attractive things such as dustbins and carpet beater poles. The entrance door designated for her was made of unsightly brown-painted sheet steel for reasons of protection and because it was at the back of the house. It served us children, domestic staff and the refugees assigned to us as access to our house. Four worn stone steps, also painted brown, led from there to a separate room at ground level with a heater and a water point. It was a kitchen, bathroom and living room in one for Hannchen and her family. They could sleep in a room on the second floor. Hannchen was a displaced person from Silesia and had been on the run for a long time. When she arrived at the end of the war in 1945, I was four years old. I experienced her as inaccessible as if living in a cocoon. With her head held high, she walked past us children without a second thought. Her figure seemed tall to me, sturdy, dressed inconspicuously, her dark hair combed back tightly and tied in a knot. She rarely carried anything more than her brown handbag. One exception was when she took a book from the municipal lending library once a week. Later, as a six-year-old, I was surprised that she didn't bring any shopping or anything else with her. After all, she had two daughters, Ruth and Helga, the same age as my older sister and me, to look after. Her household also included Anna, an old maid who had fled with her from Silesia. Hannchen - not welcome as a member of the family!  When I mentioned “my family” at the beginning, this inaccuracy reflects the conflict that weighed on me as a child. Hannchen was my deceased father's sister, in other words, my aunt. She belonged to my family, yet she was not a family member, either. My mother's ancestral family increasingly ostracised her. After a while, no one outside the family suspected there was a family connection between the two families.  As a child, I suffered a lot from the petty and stingy way my grandmother, my aunt Gina and my mother, who all lived in the house, treated Hannchen. This eventually made her hard and withdrawn, even bitter.  Hannchen's and my Father's Family in Silesia She had once lived in different times. In 1943, during the war, when I was about 1 ½ years old, we visited Hannchen's and my late father's family in Silesia. Hannchen in the middle of the photo (1943) The war was not yet very noticeable in their rural area. There are photos of orchards in the summer with my mother, my sister, who was three years older, Hannchen with her two daughters, and a nanny. There seemed to be an air of cheerfulness and carefreeness about everything.  My father's family was generous, open-minded and, unlike my mother's family, not materialistic. It was rarely discussed at home that everyone in my father's family was very well-read, interested in music and generally educated. My grandfather was a village schoolteacher and pub owner. The family had been part of the village for generations. In 1995, my husband and I took a trip to Poland and found their house and the pub with its large dance hall almost unchanged. It was a large but simple property. During the first years of the war, my father's family sent food to my mother's family. The generosity of the relatives by marriage in Silesia was well appreciated. There were plenty of hens' eggs and lots of pheasants. I was able to experience the human greatness and emotional warmth of my paternal grandfather through a letter he wrote to my mother after the death of his son. His infinite grief and compassion for my mother and us children still deeply move me today. At the end of the lost war, my father's family had to leave Silesia. The Russian forces left them little time to make decisions. My grandfather refused to flee. He stayed in the village. It was later said that he starved to death. Much later, on our first trip to Poland in 1995, we found his grave. Hannchen - the Strange Aunt Hannchen, her children and the maid must have experienced terrible things on their escape.  The adults spoke of the worst abuse by Polish men. As a child, I kept thinking about what had happened to her. How did they get to the West in the first place? Were there trains? How long had it taken? How had they slept? What had they eaten? Had it been cold? The questions remained unanswered, and a word I didn't understand kept cropping up: Rape! The timing of their arrival with my mother's family at the end of 1945 was extremely inconvenient: we had just been forced to leave our house to the occupying forces. We had retreated to my grandfather's factory. We lived there in very cramped conditions in the company office. I was four years old, but I remember that things suddenly became very complicated. Instead of great joy at the arrival of the refugees, there were thoughts about how they could be isolated. All four of them had typhus and lice! Difficult to handle in the confines of the temporary accommodation! They were banished to the waiting area of the office, a tiny room. They were given head packs with petroleum, which had dire consequences. Some of the scalps could come off. Someone treated the typhus. The lack of joy at the arrival of relatives was probably also because my grandparents had not welcomed my mother's marriage to my father. The in-laws were not wealthy, and my father could only bring a modest amount of money into the marriage. On the other hand, my mother was pregnant, so my grandparents couldn't stand in the way of a marriage if they didn't want to jeopardise their good reputation. The family villa in which there was hardly any space for Hannchen and her family. Now, my mother's sister-in-law, Hannchen, and her family were here; they no longer had a home and had to be looked after. After the occupying forces had left and the bugs they had left behind had been successfully eradicated, Hannchen moved with her children and the maid, Anna, into the small, separate room in the large family house, which was accessed via the back stairs. They gave her what they could spare, nothing of great value. Nevertheless, my grandmother complained for many years about spoiled mattresses. Of course, traumatised children often became bedwetters. No, my mother's family had no compassion; they didn't manage to be generous. There would have been enough resources for that. Even the cellar assigned to them was outside the house, a damp home to frogs.   Even as a five- to six-year-old, my heart suffered from the stinginess of my beloved ancestral family. Couldn't they have given them more, invited them to dinner or given them some of the plentiful fruit harvest in the fall? The family's garden was huge, but Hannchen was given a garden bed outside that was intended for all refugees. She wasn't accepted into the family as a matter of principle, and, partly as a result of her emotional wounds, she increasingly cut herself off. We children played with the newly arrived cousins in the garden, but a small rift remained between us. Hannchen - an Open Wound in my Soul! As not much was said about my deceased father, my fondest wish would have been to hear stories about him and Silesia from Hannchen. But I was afraid of her rejection. Sometimes, I asked my aunt to accompany me to Hannchen to mediate between her and me. She didn't like it. So, my desire for stories remained unfulfilled. Only the maid seemed unaffected by the inner isolation. When she saw me, her greeting was immediate: “Da Monala!” That sounded Silesian and unbiased. That was a blessing for me. How can a child mediate if the adults don't show any greatness of heart? Around the age of five, Hannchen hardened up again. I found out the reason years later from my mother. She had remarried at the time, and the celebration took place at the family villa. But Hannchen wasn't invited to the wedding. Had my mother wanted to be considerate of Hannchen's feelings? I don't know. After the wedding, my mother moved with her husband and us children to another town. We never spoke about Hannchen again. She stayed in her makeshift home for decades. My feelings towards Hannchen are like an open wound. I had experienced the stinginess of my beloved birth family and suffered as a result. It never got better. The injustice remains in my memories today. On the other hand, I had to live with the harshness of my family because I loved them. No, Hannchen was not like clockwork, as my family said. She had gone into retreat. I want to dedicate this memory to Hannchen with affection. (MoWi)

Growing up in a Catholic world My big sister (left) and I. In my memory, my first six years of life, although fatherless, seemed cheerful and sociable. We, my mother and my sister, who was three years older, lived in my mother's extended family. The family villa was home to several aunts, cousins and my two grandparents. Apart from my grandfather, no men were living there as they were at war at the time of my birth in the autumn of 1941. A little faith and a lot of superstition With one exception, I don't remember any Christian or Catholic impressions. But the family was fundamentally superstitious. The owl's call brought death, as did hanging up washing on New Year's Eve; even receiving white flowers as gifts was an evil omen. There was a whole series of bad omens. The exception I mentioned was a black ebony cross, about two metres high, on which a silver figure was hanging, half-naked and in a position that I found highly regrettable. The cross hung in my grandparents' bedroom. It was often the subject of my evening musings. I wanted to understand why this was so, so I lay down on the bare floor in the shape of a cross to try it out. How did that feel? I didn't understand it. Moving to the arch-Catholic Sauerland In 1947, at the age of six, after my mother remarried, my sister and I moved to my stepfather's parents' house in Sauerland. The houses were dark, the winters cold, and the summers short. The new place of residence was known as conservative and 'black', which meant strictly Catholic. Both of us siblings were very frightened by the unfamiliarity; we were afraid of other children and clung to each other anxiously. Until our move, we had only played with the children in our extended family; anything foreign, like the children in the new neighbourhood, seemed threatening. That was the time when I started school. There was little sign of the Catholic religion in my parents' home. Neither our mother nor our stepfather attended Church, not even on Sundays. Only regular dinner prayers and meatless Fridays were an indication of religiosity. The religious orientation became stronger when it came to the primary schools. There was a large Catholic school and a smaller Protestant school - for the minority in the town. Both schools were about 200 metres apart, but they had to have separate closing times, as otherwise, there would have been fierce arguments between the children of the different confessions. Bigotry at school A difficult time began for me when I started school. We had an extremely pious teacher for four years; her successor could also be called bigoted. I was an obedient and open-minded child and quickly absorbed everything that had to do with school. The teacher wanted to raise us to be good Christians from the day we started school. That meant a life of asceticism, avoiding lust and all evil. Nudity was forbidden, even when bathing on Saturdays. So, after taking off my pants, I got into the bath with my vest on and only lifted my shirt when the water level rose. I was only naked when I was entirely covered by the water. We were also given an exercise in abstinence! If something tasted particularly good, we should leave it within sight until the evening and only then savour it. During Lent before Easter, all sweets were to be saved in a large jar. This was unfortunate because they had stuck together by Easter to form an unsightly lump. The demands on me as a young child were too high. Today, I have the impression that feelings of guilt burdened my entire childhood. For example, my mother believed the superstition that when a child comes, someone else has to go. Even in stories about my birth, it was not clear what role I was meant to play. My birth and my father's death were only three days apart, so it seemed imaginable that I was partly to blame. There were also references to original sin, even though I didn't know what that was. Even then, I began to pray fervently in bed at night, including my beloved aunt in my prayers, who no longer went to the sacraments because she had entered into a mixed marriage. Even as a young child, I had heard from the conversations of the adults that the impending mixed marriage would be problematic and would lead to sanctions from the Church. The only way to avoid the threat of excommunication was to give an assurance at the time of the marriage that the children from this marriage would be raised as Catholics despite the Protestant partner. I no longer know why the aunt avoided the Church despite this assurance. Perhaps she would otherwise have forfeited her husband's consent to the Catholic upbringing of the children. My relationship with the Church became ambivalent. On the one hand, I loved the incense-scented semi-dark rooms, the beautiful songs, the organ playing and the promise of help and comfort. My special love was for Mother Mary, the sea star, with her outstretched mantle that promised protection and shelter. I never missed the May devotions in her honour. Today, I think I was looking for the security I was missing. On the other hand, neither of us children was doing well in our new place because nothing could replace the warmth of the extended family. First Holy Communion and the constant fear of guilt The demands on our faith quickly increased and accumulated as I prepared for my First Holy Communion at the age of 10. The key points were confession with soul-searching and Holy Communion, which was to be taken as innocent as possible. We practised everything: sitting in a row before confession and waiting for our turn. Waiting, unlocking the door, standing next to the pew and then, when the pre-confessor came out of the confessional, going in yourself to confess your sins. I was often so nervous that I had to go to the toilet and then queue up again with sweaty palms. That took almost the whole Saturday afternoon. In the confessional, I said: 'In humility and contrition, I confess all my sins.' My heart was pounding in my throat. The examination of conscience was difficult. I had to proceed according to a catalogue of sins with 10 points, including sub-points. What was I supposed to confess? I had no other gods besides the God of the Catholics. I left open in my decision whether I had upheld the honour of my father and mother. Nor had I killed someone or taken someone else's property. But the sixth commandment seemed to require meticulous consideration. Had I had unchaste thoughts? Or even done something unchaste, alone or with others? I couldn't deal with such questions back then, and I can no longer remember what I said in the confessional. Then came the terrible doubts: had I forgotten something essential? If I omitted something, I would be unworthy to receive Holy Communion, which would be a mortal sin. I would then have to confess it again! My thoughts led to a possible chain of guilt. I still remember the external circumstances of my first communion very clearly: my mother wanted me to make a good impression, so I was overdressed. I was given a hand-knitted white woollen petticoat. I no longer remember the dress, but I remember a coat that was especially sewn for me. It was made of white woollen fabric and fell bell-shaped at the back. A white woollen hat was a terrible addition. I was very ashamed of this outfit. No child wore anything like that. On the day of my first communion, I felt bad. I was full of doubt and afraid of doing something wrong. I was also sober. The rite of mass escalated towards consecration. The priest held up the host for all to see and said, 'This is my body', followed by the chalice with the blood of Christ. Something strange happened to me: I began to sweat, the woollen petticoat stuck to my back, the wool 'scratched', and the sour breath of my neighbours became unbearable. What happened to the colourful church windows that were suddenly spinning? My knees went weak, and I must have fainted. I woke up outside the Church in the company of adults who were strangers to me and gave me light slaps on the cheeks. The fresh, cool air was a blessing. I found it difficult to go to communion later on. Confused, I had the host placed on my tongue. Then I really did something wrong. On the second day, all the children were supposed to go to communion together again. However, I had been given a cake lamb with buttercream as a gift and had forgotten about the obligation to be sober. It was just a tiny bit of buttercream! Should I say that, or should I go to communion unworthily? I thought it was a tiny piece and decided to skip it and pretend I was sober and worthy. When deciding on the festive meal, my mum was, as always, completely lacking in empathy. There was beef tongue! I had always been disgusted by that. No, I couldn't eat that! After all, my tongue and my mouth had just been blessed by Holy Communion. I took everything very seriously; my imagination often went far beyond reality, making the difficulties even greater. During this phase of my life, my father's death was a big issue for me. I hoped he was in heaven. It could also be that he was in purgatory. The Church gave us a solution: on certain days, you could pray for indulgences and thus redeem the poor souls. I prayed until I had calluses on my knees. Today, I see the situation of my First Communion as an incisive experience and the confrontation with the commandments of the Church at my age as a complete overload. I couldn't cope with the demands placed on me. However, I remained loyal to the Catholic faith for a long time. During my school years, I attended early mass at least three times a week, and regular Sunday mass was always combined with receiving communion. Detachment from the Church without a rumble of thunder I met my future husband when I was 15. He took me on a tour of a missionary exhibition organised by the Church. I fell in love with him immediately. He wore a blue anorak, was a high school student, and was enthusiastic about the mission. He later told me that he also wanted to go as far away as possible as quickly as possible. He dreamed of a missionary position in Japan. I thought he could help me escape the difficult situation with my parents. This encounter led to a decisive change in my life. The problems with the ban on premarital sexuality had a weight of their own and didn't do us any good. I left the Church after Pope Paul VI's encyclical Humanae - Vitae was promulgated. In it, all contraception was declared a guilt. I realised that the inhuman demands of the Church had contributed to the feelings of guilt that dominated my childhood. The resignation took place highly officially in a Berlin registration office. When I left the building afterwards, I childishly thought there would be a terrible thunderclap. Although the Church had played an enormous role in my childhood and youth, I found it amazing that I didn't miss anything after I left. (MoWi)

Mainland Australia - Victoria and New South Wales 31 January to 21 February 2025   Dear readers, Here is the 2nd part of our travel blog about our trip to Australia. This part covers January 31 to February 21. It includes our journey through Melbourne, Wilsons Prom National Park (4.1: Jan 31 to Feb 4, 2025), the Great Strait (4.2: Feb 5 to Feb 11, 2025), the Grampians National Park (4.3: Feb 12 to Feb 14, 2025), the Blue Mountains in New South Wales (4.4: Feb 14 - Feb 17) and finally Sydney (5: Feb 17-20, 2025), the last stop of our trip. The order of the entries was done one by one, i.e., the last experiences were listed last. Enjoy reading and looking at the photos.   5. Sydney   17 February 2025   Lisa: Today was our last morning in the campervan. Thanks to the heating, it was nice and warm in our campervan during the night, apart from when you came too close to the van's metal walls, as it had no insulation. Dave had to wake me up at 7 am as I was so tired and could have slept on forever. But we had to finish packing, have breakfast, and then drive for two hours to drop off our campervan just outside of Sydney. There were no problems with the drop-off. The damage to the windscreen from a stone thrown up by one of the road trains on the way to the Blue Mountains was covered by our insurance. We informed them of the campervan's many (minor and major) faults but assured them that otherwise, we had a great time. Then Dave booked us an Uber taxi to the hotel in Sydney because there was a strike on the trains.   We arrived safely at our hotel, The Mantra Sydney Central in Haymarket. We enjoyed immensely having space to move about and sit more than two feet apart. Dave no longer needed to fear hitting his head on a cupboard and gladly walked upright. You no longer had to squeeze past the other and suck in your stomach when you wanted to change position or go to the toilet or the dining/sleeping area. We quickly settled in, and then it was time to explore Sydney. My sandals were about to fall apart, and here was the time and place to get new ones in one of Sydney's many outdoor clothing shops. I had admired the sandals of a woman in Apollo Bay. They were Keen Sandals, a famous American brand. And after a few visits to some outdoor clothing shops, we found a pair of "Keen Whisper Sandals", in my size, on sale, and at half price too. They cost a third of the price I would have had to pay in the UK. A bargain, indeed. They fit perfectly. The colour, black, wouldn't have been my first choice, but I can live with it. I left my old sandals behind, although they did not accept them as part-payment. 😊  With my new bouncy sandals and after a coffee break, I felt well-equipped to walk for miles to see the many sights of Sydney. First, we walked around the city centre. Then we took the tram towards the Wharf and got off at the end of the line at Circular Quay, where we admired the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the iconic Sydney Opera House. Unfortunately, the sun was at the wrong angle, so we would have to return at another time of day to photograph the Sydney Harbour Bridge in its full glory. Still, we enjoyed the sights and atmosphere immensely, especially walking along the Quay in glorious sunshine. People sat outside along the harbour front, enjoying drinks in the many bars. When we left the hotel at midday, it was 10C, but now it was a comfortable 22C, and I slowly took off my fleece layers.   We liked Sydney's relaxed atmosphere with its beautiful architectural mix of old houses, big and small, and modern buildings. We went up and down by tram and watched the scenery and the many people moving about their business. Then, back in Haymarket, we strolled through Chinatown and shared delicious Thai meals: chicken curry and pork with vegetables. Yummy. Then, back home at the hotel, we tried to watch TV without success as the programmes seemed worse than in England.     Dave:  We're up at 06:00, showered, packed, breakfasted and drove out of the campsite at 08:10. They were right, the temperature did drop to 6C, and we were thankful that our campervan did have heating. Katoomba Falls was at 1,000m, and the road that led onto the main highway, through the narrow suburban streets, was steep and twisty. The dual carriageway toward Sydney was also steep in places, with many bends. The speed limit was 100km per hour with the occasional 110km. When we passed a school, there was a compulsory speed limit of 40km until 09:30 on school days, which was strictly enforced. The nearer to Sydney, the busier the roads became. Our TomTom guided us along congested motorways and toll roads. We arrived at the Apollo campervan depot in the southern suburbs of Sydney at 10:30. We swiftly passed through all the documentation. Our list of all the faults we'd found was documented. The campervan was checked, and the only fault they found was the cracked windscreen caused by the stone from a passing road train. I ordered an Uber taxi, which arrived 5 minutes later at 11:10. The taxi was a Tesla, and we were very impressed by such an advanced all-electric vehicle as we were driven into the centre of Sydney. The taxi cost AUD54 (£27) and we were dropped off outside the Mantra Sydney Central Hotel at 11:45, our home for the next three nights. We were allocated room 806. It was nothing special, but it did have a microwave, cooker, fridge and a balcony. It was sunny, 22C and very windy. Too windy for us to use the balcony, and the view we had was over the rooftop of the office block opposite, with a dozen air-conditioned units softly whirring. The big plus was, we were located right in the centre of town, next to Chinatown. After we'd unpacked, we went for a walkabout as Lisa wanted to replace her old worn-out sandals. We were impressed with the cosmopolitan central district of the city of Sydney. It felt right, had a feel-good factor, was easy to walk around and had an impressive public transport system of trams and buses. Lisa found the Keen sandals that she wanted and got a new washbag, too. We celebrated by going for a coffee and afterwards returned to our hotel. We picked up a map of the central district and, at 17:00, took the L3 tram from just outside our hotel up to Circular Quay, which took 20 minutes. Sydney has a tap-in and tap-out system with your credit card to pay for all public transport journeys. The tram terminated at Circular Quay, and from there, it was only a 5-minute walk to the famous Sydney Opera House. What a photo opportunity, especially as we had sunshine, a cloudless sky and the light was just right for taking photos of the Opera House but not of the famous bridge. The area teemed with people just like us, soaking up the atmosphere and gazing in awe at the architecture, not only of the clam-shaped roof of the Opera House itself but of the equally famous Sydney Harbour Bridge. We've seen both many times on TV; even so, to see them physically was unbelievable. Our cameras couldn't do them justice. We first walked through the grounds of Government House with its huge trees and lush-green lawns and down the steep stone staircase and took a leisurely stroll around the walkway surrounding the Opera House. The place was so vibrant, full of life, and warm as the wind had dropped. We ate a fantastic meal at a nearby Thai restaurant and then at 21:00, returned to our hotel. It was warm enough to walk around without a jacket. We drank a glass of wine and tried, unsuccessfully, to find something decent to watch on television, gave up and went to bed.     18 February 2025   Lisa: We got up early in the morning, and after breakfasting on the leftovers from our campervan and continuing our writing, it was time to book our seats for the flights to Hong Kong and back to London. Being members of Cathay Pacific Airlines, we had the benefit that we could book our seats 48 hours in advance. This was important as we found on previous long haul flights that if you are late checking in you could finish up, as we did, in the last row of the aeroplane, where the seats don't recline, next to the toilets, and when the airline had run out of the popular menu,  you had no choice but to accept anything that was left. This time, we were determined to book early to get decent seats. But what we thought was a 5-minute exercise ended up taking over an hour. The system had allocated us seats we did not want, where families with babies are usually seated, and it was impossible to change them. We received an error message at least 15 times. We finally managed to get the seats we wanted only due to our persistence. It was time to leave the hotel as we were tearing our hair out because of the stress, so we decided to take it easy and relax for the rest of the day.   We took a tram to Circular Quay and a ferry to Manly Beach. It was warm, the sun was shining, and it was a great opportunity to take in the rays and enjoy the warmth, which we had missed so much in the rest of Australia. Manly Beach was nice, and we had a tasty snack of chicken and halloumi wraps and coffee and tea in one of the lovely backstreet coffee shops. We chose them because the top-rated restaurants on the beachfront were outrageously expensive or offered simple but overpriced fish and chips, which we could get in England every day. However, the key attraction was the ferry ride along the Sydney Harbour, passing the Sydney Opera House and the Sydney Harbour Bridge. We had stunning views from our ferry and took lots of photos.   We had to get back and change in time as we had a special date, which was the highlight of our Sydney trip. After we had booked our Australian holiday in autumn, for some reason, I clicked on Facebook, which I had not used for a long time. I found a message from one of my doctor colleagues, Khine, with whom I had worked closely in Myanmar in the Ministry of Health in 2018 when David and I worked as volunteers for VSO for seven months in Myanmar. Khine had been very supportive of me and my work. She was the only colleague who spoke English well. We held several workshops in local communities together in preparation for a nationwide health literacy strategy proposal. Afterwards, we kept in contact, even after the military coup on the 1st February 2021, when the military ousted the democratically elected government of Aung San Suu Kyi. But soon, Khine had to go underground, and suddenly we lost contact. I did not know whether she was alive or dead. I did not dare to try and contact her via Facebook for fear of putting her in even more danger. Now, on Facebook, there was a post of her on that day with photos of skyscrapers, but without any further comments. She was alive. But where was she? I used her old email address, hoping it was still active and my email would reach her. And indeed, she picked up my message a few hours later and responded. She had to go into hiding for almost a year because the Military Government had brought charges against her that would have put her in prison for life. Still, she was able to get out of Myanmar and go to Australia on a humanitarian visa. She was now living with her husband in Sydney. What? I could not believe it! According to our travel plan, we will finish our journey in Sydney by the end of February, and we could then meet up again. I emailed our travel plans, and we agreed to meet. Great! We were overjoyed when we met. We spent two evenings together and over a Chinese dinner, she told us what had happened to her; how she had escaped and how she was living now. She promised to write her whole story for our blog, but all in due course.     Dave:   Maybe it was the strange bed or the bedroom, but we were both awake from 01:30 until 03:00. We managed to fall back to sleep. I woke at 07:00 and wrote my diary and downloaded photos. As Cathay Pacific Airline members, we were allowed to check in 48 hours before our flight, so 11:05, we started the check-in procedures. We told ourselves never again as the procedure was prone to errors and far too complicated. We'd thought we had finished, only to be informed that something was wrong and that we'd have to start all over again. Many times, we booked our seats, and each time, they reverted back. Finally, we were successful. Grrrr! It took us over an hour to check-in and book our seats for both flights back to London. The time had flown by, and it was now midday.   We took the tram to Circular Quay and a ferry from Wharf 3 to Manly as there was a beach and we wanted to get in a little sunbathing in. The ferry took 40 minutes, and it was only a 5-minute walk from the Manly Ferry terminal to the beach. We were hungry and found a small cafe for a cappuccino for me and a pot of tea for Lisa. We also bought a rather nice chicken wrap for me and a halloumi toastie for Lisa. After so much travelling, lying on a beach and soaking up the sunshine felt good. We retraced our journey and arrived back at our hotel at 16:30, which gave us enough time to shower and change before we met Khine, Lisa's colleague from Myanmar, and her husband at 17:00. They took us to a Thai restaurant, whose speciality was a tabletop barbecue. First, we ordered several jugs of beer, and then the barbecue unit was placed in the centre of the table. It had a one-ringed burner, and a small gas canister was used to heat the burner. A metal hat with a broad rim was placed over the flame. Water was poured into the rim, which resembled a moat around a castle. Baby squid, mussels and Pak Choi were placed in hot water and on the hot rounded metal top of the hat, we put sliced beef, pork and chicken using our chopsticks. It was a rather unusual way to eat, and it was a little fiddly, but it did taste rather nice. They had to leave at 20:30 as they had a long drive home and both had to work the next day. Even so the time was short, we managed to talk a little about their escape from Myanmar into Thailand. They spent 18 months there and were finally accepted by Australia on humanitarian grounds and had only been in Australia for the last year.      19 February 2025   Lisa: The next day, the weather was sunny and warm again. Finally, in the last three days of our 60-day journey, I could unpack and wear some of my summer dresses. Dave and I went by bus to the world-famous Bondi surfing beach, which, according to Dave, is shown each year on Xmas on UK TV, when people are surfing on the beach and eating their Christmas turkey in the heat, in contrast, in the motherland, the UK, people celebrate Christmas, sitting beside the fire, wrapped up warm in jumpers because of the cold. While sitting on the beach in the sun, we felt the warmth on our bodies, and we splashed in the water. Now, we felt like we had finally arrived in Australia. That was what we had expected all along. We made the best use of our last hours in the sun in Australia. Bondi Beach is famous for its surfing and high waves. It is also a bit posh and pretentious. We, therefore, took the bus back to Sydney and had a tasty late lunch of Cajun chicken wraps in one of the many cafes in Haymarket, where the coffee was also excellent. We then strolled through the streets of Haymarket, visited a big market hall, and took in the easygoing atmosphere of a modern city with its many parks, benches, outside seating areas and shops and restaurants.    In the evening, we met again with Khine and her husband and discussed over a meal in Chinatown what they thought the future would hold for them and what options they had.     Dave: I was awake at 04:30, wrote my diary at the desk and tried not to wake Lisa. At 07:00 we showered, had breakfast and did a bit of packing, as tomorrow we were flying back to London. At 08:45, we left the hotel to make our way to the famous surfers' paradise, Bondi Beach. We took the tram to Circular Quay, and from there, it was a 2-minute walk to the 333 bus stop that would take us there directly. They'd got the weather forecast wrong, and instead of a sunny, cloudless day, we had partial cloud. The bus ride was very enjoyable, and we got an overview of the streets of central Sydney and the suburbs during our 40-minute journey. Bondi Beach was a lot smaller than I expected. We explored a few streets before heading to the beach and spent a few hours on the beach sunbathing and diving through the pounding surf. At 14:00, we took the 333 bus back to town and got off at the Museum Station. On the walk through the streets back to our hotel, we stopped at a lovely cafe and shared a Cajun chicken wrap with our cups of tea and coffee. We had a bit of time to spare, so we walked into Chinatown, through busy Paddy's Market and got back to our hotel at 16:00, which left us just enough time to shower, change, do a bit of repacking before meeting Khine and her husband once again. This time they came by train so they could drink and not have to drive. They arrived at 17:30 and took us to a pub called 'Cheers'. The beer was good, and we shared some pub food. We left at 21:00 and said goodbye to them at our hotel. They took the train home, and we tried to find something to watch on television as we finished off the bottle of wine we'd started last night. At 21:45, we gave up and went to bed.     20 February 2025   Lisa:   Today is the 59th day of our travel, and it is the day we go back home. It will be a long day and a long night until we arrive at London Heathrow: a 9 1/2 hours flight from Sydney to HongKong, then 5 1/2 hours waiting time at Hong Kong Airport. Then, at 11 pm, a 14 1/2 hour flight from Hong Kong to London Heathrow. I bet we will be tired and shattered when we arrive. But that's the price to pay when you are travelling. I am not complaining. As I usually can't sleep on a plane, I had much time to pass. I spent the time writing on the text of our travel blog, and watching a few good films, some I had seen many times, such as "The Constant Gardener", but also the new movie "Conclave", a political thriller with Ralph Fiennes about the election of a new pope. I managed to concentrate on playing a few Soduko games and even got a few hours of sleep on the way to Heathrow.     Dave:   We'd set our watch alarms for 06:00 and were both awake a few minutes before. We'd showered, packed and breakfasted on the croissants we'd bought yesterday and were ready to go at 07:30. We checked out and at 08:00 I ordered an Uber taxi to take us to the Sydney airport, T1. It was cloudy, had rained overnight and the roads were wet when our taxi arrived at 08:10. He dropped us at the airport at 08:45. The ride cost AUD41.83 (£21.14). Even though the airport was very busy, we quickly passed through bag drop-off and were just as fast through security. This was a well-organised and efficiently run airport. Once we'd been processed, we went for a coffee and waited to be called for our flight. We were on the 11:05 Cathay Pacific Airways flight CX 162 to Hong Kong T1, with a local arrival time of 17:30. The flying time would be 9 hours and 25 minutes. We took off a few minutes late, made up time and landed at 17:10, 20 minutes early. At 22:55, our next flight was Cathay Pacific Airways flight CX25, with a local arrival time of 05:30 at London's Heathrow Airport T3. The flying time was 14 hours and 35 minutes. We took off on time and landed at 05:10, 20 minutes early. Then back home with the tube.   21 February 2025   Dave:   Our flight must have been one of the first into Heathrow airport as there were no queues at immigration and passport control. Our luggage arrived at the carousel at 05:55. Yes, we'd had a swift passage through the airport. Unfortunately, we couldn't use our freedom passes on the London Underground system as it wasn't yet 09.00, so we used our credit cards instead. A signalling problem on the underground meant we had to get off the Piccadilly Line at Acton Town, take the District Line to Embankment and then the Northern Line to Belsize Park. We walked into our flat at 08:30 and found the fridge full of goodies, including homemade loaf and apple cake supplied by our friends Ursula and Jon, who'd looked after our flat in our absence. Such a thoughtful treat from such good friends! We'd been travelling for 35 hours and 15 minutes. We managed to sleep a little on both flights, but travelling economy on such busy long-haul flights does get rather tiresome. The food they serve on economy class flights, whilst very welcome, does leave a lot to be desired.    Back home - what are our thoughts about our latest adventure?   Lisa:   That's the end of our epic 60-day Australia trip. We saw many amazing things and had fantastic experiences, both positive and negative. The varying landscapes and the incredible wildlife in Tasmania, the many interesting people we met on the road, the Great Ocean Road, the National Parks, like the Wilsons Prom, Grampians and the Blue Mountains, will be imprinted in our minds forever. Everywhere we went, including the cities and small towns as well as the countryside, was awesome. Of course, as newcomers to travelling with a campervan, we had to get used to that lifestyle. The freedom of the open road was great. But living in a confined space was challenging, at times, and would have been easier in warmer and less windy weather conditions, where you can spend more time outside. When something went wrong in the campervan, which often did, it was stressful, and this is not something you come across when staying in a hotel. But, thanks to Dave, all problems were solved quickly. Going out for a meal was costly (when being on the road for 60 days) and less attractive, but it was not necessary as we could cook better ourselves. We loved the fresh fish and seafood. But this involved regularly stocking up on food and planning ahead for those days when we were in remote areas without a nearby well-stocked supermarket. We both are fond of shopping in places we don't know. Strolling through markets and supermarkets gives us both great pleasure as there is so much you can learn about a country and its people by the food people buy. As we travelled light (me 14 kg and Dave 16.8 kg, of which most were charging cables), the amount of clothes you carry is limited, and one has to do lots of washing and wear the same clothes. Towards the end of our trip, I sometimes felt an almost irresistible urge to throw away most of my clothes and indulge in shopping for something new. I didn't, apart from the sandals - and I didn't need to. As Dave often reminds me, a full wardrobe is waiting for me at home. I just needed some patience and not retail therapy.   The very weak internet at the campsites and in general was driving us crazy. The internet was okay to access social media and get emails, but it was not good enough for more sophisticated activities, such as uploading text and photos onto the blog. By the end, I had to give it up and postpone uploading onto the blog until I returned home. Despite the bad or sometimes absent internet, we tried to keep ourselves up-to-date with the news of what was happening back home and around the world. And lots has happened since we left home on Christmas Eve, most of it quite worrying. When we did not have internet, it felt strange, being cut off from the outer world, and we worried about missing important information. But in a way, it also felt relaxing and stress-free, as there was nothing we could do about it.   Despite the challenges, our trip was great, and the 60 days went very quickly. We tried to include in our travel plans some downtime, but those days were quickly filled up again because there was so much interesting to see. Now, at the end of our trip, we are exhausted and feel like we need a holiday. Not joking.   Would I do this again? Certainly, tomorrow, if possible. Not necessarily to Australia, as it is a very long journey, and there are many more fantastic places to see. If possible, I would prefer to go somewhere warm and less windy.    Dave: How do I feel after travelling on this adventure for 60 days? There were times that tested our patience, such as not being able to download our photos or send email messages, because many of the campsites we stayed at had no internet or internet with a very weak signal. Our campervan was one of the smallest in the range, and this was our choice because of its manoeuvrability. We needed to park in towns and supermarket carparks when we needed to resupply. Also, we both drove the campervan, and many of the roads we travelled along were very narrow and twisty. We'd covered 3,700+kms in Tasmania and 2,700kms in Victoria and New South Wales, a total of 6,400+kms, or just under 4,000 miles, so fuel consumption needed to be taken into account too. On the open road, our campervan was good and had great visibility. However, the practicalities we had every night of having to convert the rear bench seats into a double bed and every morning converting them back again, had its moments. Then, there were problems associated with cooking and living in such a confined space. The simple fact of squeezing past each other, especially whilst the other person was cooking, would've tested the patience of a saint. We're still talking to each other and don’t have any knife wounds, which means we must be very tolerant. In fact, we were so tolerant and well-behaved that we gave each other medals for having passed the very stiff survival course and sometimes going that extra mile. The scar tissue on my head has slowly recovered and was greatly helped by me, taping teatowels over the sharp edges above the cooker and head-height shelves and cupboards. Like the campsites that promised us they had a wonderful internet, the Apollo rental company made promises too. We were disappointed with both rental campervans in Tasmania and the Australian mainland. As mentioned previously, there were many faults. The main problem with the Tasmanian campervan was the broken toilet cassette, which was time-consuming to resolve. The main issue with the Melbourne campervan the problem sourcing their smallest campervan that we had ordered and paid months in advance. It took them several hours to find one and I don’t think they’d had time to check it out  as we found it had a few niggeling problems, which were annoying but fixable. I was pleased to find that the assumption, you’d fall off the world in Australia, being on the other side of the world, was a myth. Would we do it all again? Yes! Give us a few days to recover, to wash our clothes, and for me to buy another pair of Speedo swimming trunks to replace the ones I left behind.   4.4 New South Wales – The Blue Mountains   14 February 2025   Lisa:  At 8 am, we set off on our long drive to our next destination, the Blue Mountains in New South Wales, NSW. The distance from Halls Gap is almost 1200km, and the estimated driving time is 11 1/2 hours by car, but with our campervan, it would take much longer. We have not booked any accommodation as we didn't know how the roads were and how far we would travel in a day. However, we'd calculated 2 days to cover the distance. It's a long drive, and we decided to take it easy and change drivers every 1 1/2  to 2 hours.   This was a good decision because it soon became both a tedious and challenging drive. It was challenging because you always had to look out for kangaroos who could suddenly jump out into the road. The many roadkills squashed on the side of the road were evidence of this. The animals frequently cross the road during the day but are usually most active between dusk and dawn. So, one has to watch out for these little buggers, of which some are quite big. We prefer not to hit them, but if we did, they'd do a lot of damage to our campervan. Tedious drive along ruler-straight roads passing kilometres of flat yellow fields The drive was tedious because of the landscape and the road. We passed kilometres of flat yellow fields of straw or grass, sometimes a few black cows or sheep grazing on them, hardly any houses or traffic, apart from a few oversized road trains. The roads are straight, perhaps every hour or so a small bend. The quality of the road is something to get accustomed to. Sometimes, the heat had cooked up the tar and the surface was broken, or the hard shoulder had broken away, or there was only one lane that had to be shared with the oncoming traffic. When this happens, each driver moves half of the car off the paved road onto the gravel and, after passing, back onto the paved road again. Easy, when you know what to do and when you drive slowly so that the pots and pans and cutlery don't get thrown about. Our tea and coffee breaks were greatly appreciated.   Few villages and towns were on the way, but there was a network of many little roads, and even the highways were not dual carriageways. Our TomTom navigator system constantly wanted to send us off course to even smaller roads, possibly looking for the shortest route, but that would have even taken longer. With a combined effort, in addition to TomTom's directions, we followed the Google Maps road on my iPhone and moved forward. GPS is good, but when it or the mobile signal failed, we had to drive blind, hoping we were still on the road towards our planned destination. How good were the olden times when you had a proper road map in your hand and could see where you were going?   Back in Halls Gap, we had asked in the tourist information centre what the best way was towards Sydney, which is in the direction of the Blue Mountains. Nobody could tell us, as they had never driven so far or left the state of Victoria. Happy to help, they proudly gave us a map of Victoria, which was only for the first three hours of our journey. But we managed.   From Halls Gap, we drove through little towns like Marino and Donald, stopped for coffee in Swan Hill at midday and bought supplies for the evening dinner. At 3 pm, we stopped in Hay to refuel but had difficulties finding a cafe because they were already closed. We found a bakery that was just about to close, who took pity on us and gave us coffee and tea to take away, but we could sit on their bench outside. When we left, they wished us a good evening. At 3 pm? When do they go to bed? We continued driving as it was still too early to stop for the day, and we needed to get as many kilometres behind us as possible on the first day. From 5 pm onwards, we started looking for any of the free campsites along or near the highways listed on the app that we downloaded from our Campervan rental agency. Most looked dodgy, and so we continued. In Australia, it is illegal to stay with your campervan overnight anywhere. You must stop at a dedicated site. Shortly before 6 pm, I phoned one of the official campsites on my app. They were closed already for the day (closed at 5 pm), so we had no choice but to continue, constantly looking out for kangaroos that might decide to join friends for dinner on the other side of the road.   The clouds got darker and darker, and as we drove on, we came through an area where the road was wet. It must have rained recently as the road and the fields were water-logged. I could only hope the kangaroos did not want to get wet feet and would stay where they were. Finally, at 7.15 pm, we arrived at an overnight rest stop for trucks, campervans and caravans that looked trustworthy and had good reviews on the app, the Marsden Rest Area. They had picnic tables and benches and also toilets. The picnic site was waterlogged, so it was unusable, and the drop toilets were unusable, too. Luckily, with our campervan, we had our own toilet and were self-contained. We cooked a lovely Valentine's dinner of barramundi fish from the supermarket in Swan Hill. We toasted to our successful journey, and not having hit a kangaroo (or roo, as the Australians say) with a nice glass of red wine, sitting in our campervan next to the highway while the huge road train trucks rattled past by. I wondered whether we could sleep at all with all that noise, but after 11 hours of driving, this was not a problem. I slept through and woke up at 6 am, ready for the next part of the journey.    Dave:  The wind had sprung up overnight. I was awake at 05:30, read my emails and checked the latest news. At 06:30, I made Lisa a cuppa. After breakfast and emptying the toilet cassette, we set off for the Blue Mountains at 08:00. Even though there were a few clouds around, we had an incredible sunrise. We had a long couple of days ahead of us as we headed east towards the Blue Mountains. We would have to find somewhere to spend the night in a designated rest area, as campervans are not allowed to overnight by the side of the road in Australia. We had no idea where, as this would depend on the road and traffic conditions. We chose a more northerly route to avoid going through the Melbourne suburbs, so the distance was a bit longer, around 1,200km.   This drive offered an opportunity to experience the diverse landscapes of southeastern Australia, from the rugged beauty of the Grampians to the lush vistas of the Blue Mountains. We gradually left the ruggedness of the Grampians behind and then drove for hours through the mind-numbingly vast emptiness of the flat, listless, straw-coloured landscape. Once again, the empty roads were ruler-straight and seemed to go on forever. We each drove for two hours before changing to break up the monotony. At noon, we'd reached Swan Hill, where we stopped in a Woolworths supermarket to buy fish for tonight's dinner. No microwave or kettle as we wouldn't have power, only our two-ringed gas stove. We had a coffee in the adjoining cafe and continued our journey along the A20, Sturt Highway. At 15:15, we stopped to refuel in a small town called Hay and, once again, had a coffee break before continuing along the B64. We were now travelling along a busy highway, and there were huge road train juggernauts barrelling along at the maximum speed of 110km/hr. Road trains barrelling along the road What is a road train? Road trains are essential for transporting goods across vast and remote landscapes. These impressive vehicles consist of a powerful truck pulling multiple trailers, allowing the effective movement of large quantities of freight over long distances. Very impressive indeed until you get behind one and need to overtake it.   Ahead, we could see the clouds gathering, and the nearer we came to the clouds, the wetter the roads and surrounding fields became. Thankfully, the rain clouds were going in the same direction as we, and we were on its trailing edge. We passed a few official rest areas, but they looked seedy or iffy, and we drove on. It was 19:15 when we pulled into the very wet Marston Rest Area Northbound, a vast gravel area with a picnic table and metal cabinets containing two toilets. I assumed one was for women and the other for men. A wooden ramp accessed the drop toilets. The smell inside was something else, but the biggest worry was the possibility of a snake popping it's head out of the toilet and biting your bum. Interestingly, they both had full rolls of toilet paper. We cooked a starter of broccolini with boiled potatoes, followed by the barramundi fish steaks we'd bought earlier, prepared in a frying pan with onions and tomatoes. It was delicious! Our beer and glasses of wine never tasted better! We were both asleep by 21:30.     15 February 2025   Lisa: After breakfast, we continued our journey at 8 am. The nearer we came towards the Blue Mountains, the landscape changed. After the town of Cowra, we entered the hills, and the flat yellow fields changed to green hills. More bends in the road made driving more enjoyable. The traffic increased, and soon, there were more cars than lorries on the road. We still had another 5 1/2 hours to go. At 11 am, we stopped for coffee and a Quiche Lorraine in a community cafe in Blayney and sat on their terrace to warm up in the late morning sun. Then we continued, and finally, at 1.30 pm, we arrived at our (pre-booked) campsite, the Katoomba Falls Tourist Park.   As soon as we had settled in and refreshed ourselves with some juice and yoghurt, we went out to explore. The area of Katoomba has many walks leading to waterfalls, through a rainforest and many lookouts into stunning scenery. There is so much to see and to do. There are walks for every ability. We decided to walk along the Prince Henry Cliff Walk to the Katoomba Falls and Echo Point towards the Three Sisters, famous rock formations. We immensely enjoyed the walk and the beautiful views, but we were disturbed by the fact that we had to share the path and viewing points with hundreds of other tourists, most of whom were driven to the relevant viewing points by bus, rushed there to take a photo and then back to the bus. No wonder; it was the weekend after all. Bad planning on our part, but we wanted to fit it all in - and we had only a few days left. Only when we walked further, away from the most popular tourist spots, and later in the afternoon when the buses had left, driving the tourists back to Sydney, could we relax and enjoy the views undisturbed. View of the Three Sisters and the Jamison Valley At 6.30, we went home and prepared a delicious meal using almost all of our supplies as we had to return our camper on Monday.     Dave : It seemed like we were trying to sleep by the side of a Heathrow Airport runway because of the thundering whooshing noise of the passing road trains. Around 04:00, the noise eased off a little and increased as dawn approached. My watch showed a temperature of 14C; even so, it felt cold in the campervan. There was a slight problem with the 12-volt battery-operated interior lights; the toilet light was just a dim glow, cured by switching off and on the main power supply. The sun was shining as we drove off and continued our journey at 08:15. Gradually, the flat straw-coloured landscape gave way to a hillier landscape, and the colour green started to return the more easterly we travelled. It seemed months had passed since we'd seen trees, bushes and green fields. We took a welcome coffee break in a busy cafe in Blayney. We were now in the Blue Mountains, and the roads were busier as we slowly climbed higher into this popular mountainous tourist area. We arrived at Katoomba Falls Tourist Park, our home for the next two nights, at 13:30, a drive of just under five and a half hours. It was a very nice and well-maintained campsite and was fully booked. Yes, a very popular site. We connected our campervan to the water, electricity and waste outlet and checked the site before making a welcome cuppa. Once we'd recovered from our drive, we went off to explore the area.   The combination of Katoomba Falls and the Jamison Valley makes for one of Australia's most breathtaking natural landscapes, drawing nature lovers, photographers, and adventure seekers alike. Katoomba Falls is a stunning tiered waterfall located in the Blue Mountains National Park. It plunges over sandstone cliffs into the lush rainforest below, creating a spectacular sight, especially after heavy rain. The falls are illuminated at night, adding a magical touch to the landscape. Visitors can access spectacular views of Katoomba Falls from various lookouts, including Scenic World Skyway and the Katoomba Falls Round Walk, which weaves through the temperate rainforest and offers multiple vantage points. Below Katoomba Falls lies the Jamison Valley, a vast and dramatic expanse of wilderness. The valley is part of the Greater Blue Mountains World Heritage Area and is characterised by its towering sandstone cliffs, deep gorges, and thick eucalyptus forests that produce the region's famous blue haze. It is home to diverse wildlife, including lyrebirds, wallabies, and echidnas.   One of the best ways to experience the valley is through its extensive network of hiking trails. Scenic World , one of the top attractions in the Blue Mountains, offers rides such as the Scenic Railway, the world's steepest passenger railway, which descends into the valley below. This is an unforgettable way to experience the region's stunning landscapes, including Katoomba Falls, the Three Sisters, and the Jamison Valley. It features four main attractions: 1. Scenic Skyway : A glass-bottom cable car that glides 270 meters above the Jamison Valley, offering panoramic views of Katoomba Falls, the Three Sisters and Mount Solitary. The glass floor gives a thrilling perspective of the valley below, but there are also solid-floor sections for those who prefer a less daring experience. 2. Scenic Railway : Known as the steepest passenger railway in the world, the Scenic Railway has a 52-degree incline as it descends through a cliff tunnel into the valley below. Visitors can choose different seating angles, from a standard ride to the more adventurous cliffhanger setting for an extra thrill. This steep railway originated from the coal mining days of Katoomba and was used to transport the miners and coal and shale up and down from the mine. Coal mining in Katoomba was a relatively small industry compared to the larger coalfields in the Hunter Valley and Illawarra regions. However, coal and shale mining did play a role in the early development of Blue Mountain's economy in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. 3. Scenic Walkway : A 2.4km boardwalk through the lush Jamison Valley rainforest offers a peaceful walk among ancient trees, ferns, and remnants of Katoomba's mining history. The walkway is suitable for all fitness levels and provides a chance to experience the valley's rich biodiversity up close. 4. Scenic Cableway : The largest cable car in the Southern Hemisphere, the Scenic Cableway gently descends 545 meters into the Jamison Valley, providing sweeping views of Orphan Rock, Mt Solitary, and the Ruined Castle rock formation.   We'd decided to take a more intensive tour the next day, so we followed the most popular trail today. This took us along the very edge of the cliff. We stopped many times at the lookouts to admire and photograph the stunning views, especially of the Three Sisters and Echo Point, where Queen Elizabeth Lookout is situated, so named after her Australian tour in February 1954 where she viewed the Three Sisters and the Blue Mountains from this very spot. View of the Three Sisters The tourist buses drop their passengers off at the beginning, and they walk along the side of the cliff, stopping to take photos of each other at the lookouts, and the tourist buses meet them in the car park beside Echo Point. You can only imagine how extremely busy this viewpoint was. Stunning views of the Jamison Valley below We returned the same way we came, and when we returned to the campsite at 18:30, we had a long chat with our new neighbours. They were Australian-born and were on an extensive three-month road trip around Australia. This was a serious road trip. They drove a big Toyota SUV with a boat on top, which towed a twin-axled, extending side, top-of-the-range caravan. No half-measures for these Australians. We drank our beer outside at our small table and also had our first course of corn husks outside. However, when the sun went down, the temperature dropped, and we had to eat our second course of fajitas inside. We were in bed at 22:00 and kept the heating on all night.   16 February 2025   Lisa: Today is Sunday, and we had hoped many people would go home early and the tourist attractions would be less crowded. As we soon found out, this was not the case. Many people from Sydney come for a day trip in their cars or with tour buses. And there were many of them. We decided to have an easy day and follow the touristic route to explore this area of the Blue Mountains. We bought a ticket to Scenic World, one of the Blue Mountains' most popular attractions, which Dave had already described in more detail above. This included three rides: We went with the Scenic Skyway over the Jamison River Valley to enjoy the dramatic view of the Three Sisters and Echo Point, a stunning rock formation. Then, a ride down into the valley with the Scenic Railway, the world's steepest passenger railway, partly through a tunnel. (The area was once used as the Katoomba Coal Mine, and the Katoomba Scenic Railway was originally part of a network of rail lines built to bring coal and kerosene shale from the mines up to the railhead.) We then walked through the lush greenery of the rainforest along the boardwalks and rode upwards again on the incredible Scenic Cableway. It took us all afternoon to get through this programme, partly because we enjoyed the scenery and took many photos. However, most of the time, we spent queuing for the next ride, as the system and staff were overwhelmed with the number of visitors. The Scenic World sites closed at 5 pm, and everyone had to make sure they were back on time, which meant judging the length of the queues; otherwise, they would have to take the steep climb out from the valley floor or stay behind with the creepy crawlies in the beautiful but deserted valley floor. We managed to get back well before 5 pm and then walked again, away from the crowds, along the walkway towards Echo Point and took the opportunity to repeat some of our photo shoots, this time lit by beautiful sunshine.   We spent the evening packing, cleaning and cooking our last supper in our campervan. We had hoped to be able to enjoy our last dinner outside in the fading sunshine, but no chance. The wind got up, and it cooled down to 7C. That night, we had to put the heating on one final time. This was summer in Australia. Unbelievable! However, according to our Australian neighbours, they had an unusually cold summer in Australia this year.   Dave:  It was a cold night. When we got up, the sun was shining, and the temperature was only 9C, but it quickly warmed up. We breakfasted outside and then wrote our diaries and sorted photos until noon. We did some packing as we were driving into Sydney the next day to drop off our campervan at the Apollo depot. It was a cloudless dawn, but the clouds appeared mid-morning, and it was cold until the clouds parted and the sun came back at 13:00. As time was short, we decided to go the full Monty and pay AUD 115.20 (£58.32) for our two Scenic World tickets. We would cross the gorge on the Scenic Skyway, travel down the Scenic Railway, take the Scenic Walkway and finally take the Scenic Cableway back to the top to take the Scenic Skyway back to where we started from. We would then walk around the Katoomba Falls area to the other lookouts. In theory, that was our plan. The reality was a different matter.   There was a long queue to take the Scenic Skyway to the other side. Before taking the Scenic Railway, we had to queue to buy our Scenic World wristband tickets. Having bought them, we had to join another queue for the Scenic Railway. This took over 30 minutes, surrounded by screaming babies and children. It was very annoying and time-consuming. The train ride down was well worth the wait and was spectacular as it was so steep. I can only imagine what it must have been like for the miners, all those years ago, as our brief journey was sanitised for the tourists. Time was our worst enemy. We had so much to see and so little time. We did a shortened version of the Scenic Walkway, and the views of the mine and the trees from the wooden walkway along the floor of the lush Jamison Valley were amazing. Once again, we had to queue for over 30 minutes amongst screaming babies and children, testing everyone's patience to take the Scenic Cableway back to the top. And what views did we have as we glided slowly to the top!! We were annoyed with Scenic World, the queues and the other tourists who seemed to lack social skills or spatial awareness. However, after some time, we both agreed that the whole Scenic World encounter was well worth the crowds, the queues, the screaming babies and the feral children.   This is just a small selection of our photos.   Afterwards, we took the same trail as we'd taken the day before because we had a cloudless blue sky, and we wanted to replace the photos we took beneath the cloudy skies of yesterday. When we returned to our campsite at 18:00, the sun had dropped behind the trees, as did the temperature. The weather forecast for the evening was for clear skies, light winds and a temperature of 6C. Never believe all the hype that during our English winter, it's the height of summer in Australia! This was our last night in the Blue Mountains, and we had to have our heating on all night.     4.3 The Grampians National Park 12 February 2025 Lisa: The next day, we left the coast and the Great Ocean Road behind and went inland into the mountains. Our next destination was the Grampians National Park. At the start of our journey, we'd read in the newspapers about bushfires and the severe destruction in the Grampians. We also met a couple from Belgium who told us they had to leave the Grampians National Park because the bushfire was nearing their campsite. When we enquired in one of the tourist information centres as to whether it was now, 8 weeks later, safe to visit the area, staff assured us that it was safe in the Eastern side of the Grampians, Gaps Hall, where we wanted to go. But bushfires could easily flare up again; we had to be on our guard. They urged us to download the Grampians Emergency App, which would keep us informed about the latest state of the bushfires and when and what actions to take. When we approached the Grampians, some roads leading further into the National Park's centre were closed. Our app warned of new fires in the centre of the Grampians but indicated the eastern part was still okay. This, however, could change rapidly. We had a coffee and tea in the small town of Dunkeld and then drove on. The deeper we came into the mountains, the more we could see the damage the fire had done. It was surreal driving along the road for over 40 km, through forests with blackened trees, burnt-down tree stumps and bushes. We stopped several times to take photos. We were horrified by the extent of the fire damage. Damage of the bushfire in the Grampians However, it was amazing that while you would assume everything was dead after the fire, on many trees and bushes, new green leaves were growing, new shoots and signs of life and survival. That gave us hope, and our depressed mood lifted. Nature has a habit of repairing itself. New growth - Nature has a habit of repairing itself. We arrived in the small town of Halls Gap, had another coffee, and visited the local tourist centre to explore the area and the walking opportunities. Then we set up camp in the Halls Gap NRMA Campsite. This site was okay, but the amenities were a bit dated and could do with a bit of love and tender care. The weather was great - blue sky and warm, no wind! We quickly went for a walk to make the best of the weather, as the forecast for the next day was rain. From the many available walks in the area, we chose a moderate 2 1/2 hour walk, passing by the Clemetis Waterfalls, which unfortunately did not have any water as it was the height of summer. It was already mid-afternoon, and the temperatures were in their mid-30s. So, we decided, instead of walking the whole way to Chautauqua Peak, which would take us probably another 3 hours there and back, to continue until we came to a lookout from where we had stunning views of the mountains, the lake and the river next to our campsite. Stunning views of the Grampians National Park On our campsite were many kangaroos grazing on the green grass, mainly during the night, as one could see on the many piles of kangaroo shit all over the campsite. I was aware of this, but must have overlooked a dollop on the way back from the washroom facilities as I unknowingly stepped into it with both feet. As a result, there was kangaroo shit all over the floor of our campervan. How very annoying!! This evening, we enjoyed our dinner outside, as it was warm and there was no wind. Dave:   In the morning, sea mist had drifted in and obscured the sun but quickly cleared when we drove out of town towards our next destination, Halls Gap in the Grampians. The roads were ruler straight, and we drove through a flat landscape of tall straw-coloured grass with the occasional herd of cattle or stock (as they say hereabouts) that chomped on the grass.   As we progressed further inland beneath a cloudless blue sky, the heat increased, and we could see hills in the distance. My mind wandered, and I realised one colour was missing - green. We stopped for a coffee break in a small town called Dunkeld. It is a pleasant town, if somewhat small. The young waitress who served us was from Preston, near my home town. The distant hills became the Grampians National Park. Driving into the Grampisans Nationial Park There had been a major bushfire a month or so ago, and we drove between burnt-out, decimated bushland on both sides of the road and the hills beyond for over 40km. We stopped often to record the destruction. Amazingly, some burnt-out bushes had new growth sprouting from the branches. The power of nature to renew itself was impressive to see. Warning signs inform about the fire risk in the area We arrived in the town of Halls Gap at 14:00 and stopped to check out the shops and the information centre to see what walks we could do. I bought a neoprene stubby holder for myself, and Lisa bought a boomerang as a birthday present for her brother Hans. A stubby is a bottle of beer. You put your beer in a stubby holder to stop your hand from warming the beer. Ideal for our summer BBQs.   We continued to the NRMA Halls Gap Holiday Park campsite, where we'll spend the next two nights. The amenities were okay, but as we found with other NRMA campsites, they could do with a little sprucing up. The temperature app on my phone registered 37C. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, nor even a hint of wind. At last, we had some good weather. We had a short rest and then walked towards the Chautauqua Peak. It was too late to walk all the way to the peak, but we did manage to visit the Clemetis Falls, which was bone-dry, and continued upward to a viewpoint that overlooked the town. At 37C, it was a hot walk, and we were constantly looking for snakes in the bush beside the track. The views were wonderful, and we took several photos and then walked back. As we passed the village's grassy cricket oval, where kangaroos were feasting on the grass, we had a long chat with a guy who was here for a long weekend with his son and his grandchildren. Once again, we found the friendliest of the people we met were the ones who'd emigrated to Australia as children with their parents. He was originally from Holland and was married to a woman from Scotland. The walk took three hours, and when we got back, we caught up with our photos and diaries in our air-conditioned campervan.   At 19:30, it was still 35C as we sat outside at our table, drank beer, and watched the sun go down behind the mountains. There were plenty of flying bugs, too, so we had to smother ourselves in anti-mozzie cream. We ate our microwaved corn husks outside, and the smell brought dozens of white parakeets. At first, they were cute, but after a while, they became a nuisance by begging and squawking beside our feet or watching us from the roof of our campervan. What a noise they made, especially at sunrise or sunset, as do the other flying creatures. We had to be careful when visiting the shower block of kangaroo shit, too, from their nocturnal wanderings around the campsite. There had been very few occasions when we could sit outside in the evenings during our Australian adventure, but tonight had been one of those nights. We ate our chicken Fajitas, savoured the hot, windless night and wondered when the next time we'd be able to sit outside in temperatures of 33C+. After our meal, we retired inside our air-conditioned campervan and were fast asleep by 22:00.   13 February 2025 Lisa: When we woke up, it was cool and cloudy. Such weather is good for walking but not for photography. What a difference to the day before and what a disappointment. We went on a 4-hour round walk to the Pinnacle Lookout. The Pinnacle is one of the Grampians National Park's most iconic lookout points, offering panoramic views of Halls Gap, Lake Bellfield, and the surrounding valleys and cliffs. Considering Dave's knee, we decided to do the shortened pinnacle walk instead of the longer 8 km (7-8 hours) walk and started off from the Wonderland Carpark. Our path led us through interesting rock formations called the Grand Canyon, as they were similar but on a much smaller scale. Then, we walked through Silent Street, a narrow gorge with steep steps, before we crossed a rocky area and reached the Pinnacle Lookout, from where we had fantastic panoramic views over Halls Gap and the surrounding mountains. Steep steps through the Silent Street Gorge Huge impressive rock formations The walk was enjoyable because of the rock formations and because we met many other friendly walkers and chatted along the way. They were from Switzerland, Germany, Holland, England, and France. It was an international (primarily European) atmosphere of like-minded people. We told each other stories of our travels and our experiences and even touched on the recent worldwide political changes. It was astonishing how easygoing it was to talk to each other. We often felt we were not so at ease when talking to entrenched Australians. Was it the different culture? Yet, it seemed more natural to talk to Australians who had been travelling or working in Europe or had left with their parents at a young age. We found we had something in common and were on the same wavelength. Despite talking, we looked everywhere but did not see any of the promised wildlife like kangaroos or wallabies, although one guy reported seeing a snake, which made us all look very careful where we stepped. We took many photos, and although the sky was not as blue as the day before, the views were impressive. Then, the black clouds in the sky threatened to burst, and we quickly went down the mountain and reached the campervan just before it started raining. It had stopped raining in the evening, and we were determined to stay outside for our wine and dinner, but then it turned cold, and we had to go inside. Dave: The weather had changed overnight. The wind had picked up, clouds had been gathering, and the temperature had dropped to a more reasonable 28C. We breakfasted outside and afterwards caught up with our diaries and photos. Halls Gap offers various walking trails catering to different fitness levels and interests. As we only had one day, we chose The Pinnacle Lookout, a return walk of 4.2km. It was classed as moderate to challenging and would take around four hours. Before we started the walk, the cutlery drawer kept flying open on the bends. So it was out with my multi-tool to retighten the screws. Another job done. This iconic walk began at the Wonderland Carpark. It led us through unique rock formations, such as the Grand Canyon (a smaller-scale version of the American one, which featured impressive rock walls and formations) and Silent Street (a very narrow towering gorge that added a unique charm to the walk) before reaching the Pinnacle Lookout. And what panoramic views we had from there over Halls Gap and the surrounding landscape! Stunning views from the Pinnacle Lookout over Halls Gap and surrounding landscape This walk was just one of many in the surrounding area of Halls Gap and words cannot describe the notable sites on the way up and also on the way down. The walk was challenging for my knee, especially the walk back down. As we neared the end of the walk, we noticed a few drops of rain. Ten minutes later we were back at our campsite. Today at the Pinncacle Lookout - tomorrow we move on. The clouds started to evaporate after a drop of rain, which allowed us to sit outside in the sunshine and enjoy our beer whilst having a game of dominos. There was a Dutch couple in the camper beside us, and we had a goodly natter with the lady as she made her way to the campsite kitchen. Once again, we had a starter of microwaved corn husks, followed by Fajitas and a glass of wine and by 20:30, we were tired and watched a music video in bed. Tonight, we needed no air conditioning as the temperature was 23C.   4.2 The Great Ocean Road 5th February 2025 Lisa: We set off early on Wednesday morning, shortly after 7 am, as we had a long drive before us. Our next destination was the Great Ocean Road. It would take us at least 5-6 hours. We enjoyed the drive through forest and bush, along the coast and inland, and passed yellow fields with straw and fields with grass where cows were feeding. Instead of driving back to Melbourne and getting stuck in the traffic, we followed a scenic road along the coast towards Sorrento, a charming seaside town, from where the Searoad Ferries crosses over to Queenscliff. When we drove through Sorrento which its lovely historic limestone built houses that date back to the 1860s, the period the town was built, I would have liked to stay for a while. The small town looked relaxing; it felt like a place where you would  love to spend a few days of holiday. Alas, we didn’t have time; we had a ferry to catch. We arrived  at the ferry shortly before it took off. Unfortunately, there was no more space for a vehicle of our height (3m), so we had to wait an hour for the next one. Never mind! We used the time to get a coffee and tea from the kiosk and wanted to drink it sitting on the benches outside in the sunshine. But the cold wind quickly changed our minds. So we had our drinks inside the van, protected from the wind. Dave, braving the elements. The ferry crossing was a peaceful 45-minute cruise. The sun was shining, but unfortunately, again, the cold wind made it unpleasant, and the only way to hide from it was if one went inside the boat. However, we didn't want to do that because the view of the blue sea and the blue sky was stunning. So I wrapped up warm. In Queenscliff, we continued our journey to Torquay, which is the start of the famous Great Ocean Road. Here we stocked up with essential food, wine and excellent fish. Then we drove on and arrived mid-afternoon at our destination, the Big4 Anglesey Holiday Park. It had excellent facilities. The showers were clean, and instead of a tiny shower cubicle as we had on most of the campsites we'd stayed at, one had a suite with a toilet, washing basin and a shower unit with a big area to dry yourself off. Even a heater on the ceiling was welcome in the mornings and evenings when it was chilly. The washing machines and dryers in the launderette were new and everything was clean and well looked after. What luxury! Unfortunately, we only stayed here for two days. Dave: We were up at 06:15. The night before, it was so hot we should've switched on the air conditioning. What a difference 24 hours makes. Last night, it turned cold, and we had to close all the windows and the top hatch. There was another egg problem, and the shops and supermarkets were in short supply. We had an eggless breakfast and left the campsite at 07:15. We had a long day ahead of us to reach Anglesea, where our next Big4 campsite was. We'd decided to drive to Sorrento and take the ferry across Melbourne Bay to Queenscliff. This would avoid having to drive through Melbourne. The cost of the ferry for us both and the camper was AUD 125 (£62.83), a concessionary fare for people of 'mature years'. This cost was offset by the savings we made on fuel by a shorter distance and by not using Melbourne's expensive toll roads. From Queenscliff, we drove to a vast Coles supermarket in Torquay to restock. What a fantastic supermarket this was. We bought squid tubes, large black tiger prawns, Barramundi fish, fruit, sweetcorn husks and plenty of vegetables to last us for the next 3 or 4 days. This supermarket had eggs! Next door to the supermarket was a bottle shop where we stocked up on wine and beer.   Clouds had returned during the day; even so, it was still hot. We arrived at Big4 Anglesea Holiday Park at 16:00, and our designated parking site was first class, as was the site itself. After we'd settled in, we walked into the small town, bought a set of dominos and stopped in a cafe for a well-deserved cappuccino. On our way back to the site, the clouds evaporated, and the sun appeared. At 19:30, the clouds had returned; it was cool and windy too. We drank our beers in the camper and decided to eat inside as it wasn't pleasant outside. The big black tiger prawns starter never tasted better, and so too the squid tubes in onions, tomato, and peppers smothered in garlic paste.   6th February 2025 Lisa: The next morning, wrapped up warm, we had breakfast outside, flanked by a group of cockatoos. They were cute and I tried to take some pictures of one of them drinking water from a leaking water tap. While I enthusiastically took pictures of them, a service buggy stopped outside the shower area to supply fresh towels. The driver, a member of staff, scared away two of the cockatoos that had ascended on his vehicle, calling them a pest. Only later did I understand his comments after we also experienced how persistent and pushy these birds were, constantly begging for food and making lots of noise. We explored the lovely, sleepy town of Anglesey, walked along the river, and strolled along the vast beach. Anglesey is known for its stunning beaches with beautiful coastal views, crystal clear waters and a relaxed vibe. At the beach one can find fascinating rock formations along the coastline. They consist of weathered sandstone and limestone cliffs, which have been shaped by years of wind and wave erosion. Anglesey is also known for its coastal walks. We decided to do a walk that covered several bays. We walked along the beach and returned via the cliff path, which gave us excellent views of the bay. It was fascinating and we could not get enough of it. At midday, we had a picnic with sardines and bread. At a beach cafe, we had the best cappuccino for a long time. Anglesey Beach Rock formations on Roadknight Peninsula On this day it was hot, 32C, lovely. That’s the way I like it. At the end of our beach walk, once we were back at Anglesey Beach, we went for a splash into the sea. The water was cold but refreshing and it felt good. When we got out, we let the heat of the sun dry our wet skins. In the evening, we cooked an excellent Barramundi fish and ate it outside on our table, wrapped up warm as it was getting cold again. But we were determined to sit outside. So far, we have had only a few evenings on our Australian trip where it was warm enough to have our dinner outside.  It was a wonderful relaxing day. I would have stayed there for much longer, but we had to move on to the next part of the Great Ocean Road. Dave: We both had another poor night's sleep. Maybe it was the wind that continuously battered the campervan during the night. We breakfasted outside, together with several white cockatoos chirruping in the branches of the tree above, and whilst we did, the sun appeared. Lisa took a load of washing to the onsite launderette, and whilst we waited for it to finish, we answered emails, wrote our diaries, downloaded photos and updated our travel blog. At 11:00, we set off to walk along the Anglesea river bank to the beach. We walked along the golden beach, beneath a brilliant blue sky, across the bay to Point Roadknight. We stopped and had a long natter with a guy with his drone. He was working for a government department and was mapping the coastal erosion of the area. Many people were on the beach, especially the surfers at Point Roadknight. The cliff corrosion we passed and the rock formations on the peninsula were spectacular, as was the breaking surf - another surfers' paradise. We walked around the rocky peninsula, across a sand dune, back to the bay we'd recently walked along and found a place beneath a shady tree, as the sun was so intense. We sat down on the curb to eat a lunch of tinned sardines with a slice of bread. A bit later, we came across a surfers' cafe and stopped for a welcome cappuccino. View of the Anglesey Beach from the Cliffs Point Roadknight We took the Roadknight walking track back. The dirt track kept to the cliff inside the bush, and the partial shade made a welcome relief from the sun. We took a small dirt road that led down to the beach. This was for the lifeguards in case of an emergency. We left our kit beside the three female lifeguards, went for a welcome swim, and sunbathed afterwards. I could see why Australians love the beaches so much.   In the evening, the wind had dropped, and it was a pleasure to sit outside for dinner. We had microwaved sweetcorn in its husk, smothered in butter and salt for a starter, followed by barramundi fish steaks marinated with onions, peppers and tomatoes. We were tired after a busy day and, by 21:30, were fast asleep.   7th February 2025 Lisa: This morning, we left early to drive to our next stop on the Great Ocean Road, Port Campbell. As we saw on Google Maps, our next destination was a small town with only a general store rather than a big supermarket. So, we needed to stock up on fish in Anglesey. Alas, they only had frozen or sad-looking, expensive fish in the supermarket. We bought a few black tiger prawns that looked fresh. The friendly guy at the checkout recommended we try the butcher's shop in town, as he also sold fish. When we entered the butcher's shop, the older lady behind the counter gave us a dirty look. She obviously did not like tourists. I pointed to one of the fish (a white filet) and asked what kind of fish this was. "That's a fish" was the answer. Okay, and what fish is that, pointing to small long filets? Answer: "That's a fish. They are all fish." I had to giggle. That was not the answer I was looking for. I wanted to know whether this fish had bones, where it came from, whether from Australia or Vietnam, as many of their fish do. What type of fish it was. We looked at each other and were unsure what to make of her, whether she was thick or simply rude. Then her phone rang, and she answered it. We were just about to walk out of the shop when a young lad appeared behind the counter with a big smile on his face. We bought white fish filets from him (we still don't know what fish it was) that should last us for the next few days, and he gave us a lemon for free because we had bought 20 AUD worth of fish. A lady customer, presumably to make up for the rude behaviour of the old dragon shop owner, tried to search on her phone to show me what fish we had just bought. She could not find it, so we thanked her for her efforts anyway and left the shop. The old dragon was still on her phone when we left. We continued our journey west towards Port Campbell. This was the famous Great Ocean Road, which had many viewing points to stop along the road. Unfortunately, we could not stop everywhere as we had a long way to drive to our next destination. We met lots of tourists at each stop, keen to take photographs and selfies. Each time, there was a race to the sites because of the limited parking spaces. We saw many good sites with excellent views. We stopped at the famous lighthouse at Airley's Inlet, and shortly after in Apollo Bay for coffee and a scallop pie. The road then led inland through the beautiful rainforest of the Otway National Park, and when the road came back to the coast, we stopped at Castle Cove for a sardine picnic lunch. Shortly before we arrived at Port Campbell, we stopped at the Twelve Apostles National Park Visitor Centre and admired the 'Apostles', a collection of limestone stacks of which only seven remain (one collapsed, but there were never 12; it's possibly only a nice story to attract visitors). The weather became windy and unpleasant, and we were happy when we arrived at our campsite, the NMRA Port Campbell Holiday Park, where we could warm up with a cup of tea. Again, it was too cold to have our dinner outside, but we immensely enjoyed our tiger prawns and the fish, whose species we still didn't know, with the lemon given to us by the lovely lad.   Dave: We were awake at 06:15, so we made a brew and read the latest news on our phones. We had breakfast of poached eggs, which made a welcome change from fried eggs, with the added benefit of not having to clean the frying pan afterwards as the campervan didn't have a spatula, only a large ladle. We planned where to stop on our way to our next campsite, the NRMA Port Campbell Holiday Park in the town of Port Campbell. We refuelled, emptied the toilet cassette and set off.   Australia's famous Great Ocean Road stretches 243 km along Victoria's southwest coast and is one of Australia's most iconic drives. Renowned for its breathtaking coastal scenery, lush rainforests, and dramatic limestone formations, it combines natural beauty with rich history. It was built by returned WWI soldiers between 1919 and 1932 as a war memorial. The road symbolises resilience and remembrance. The purpose of the road was to provide post-war employment and to honour the soldiers, with the project showcasing engineering feats through manual labour. We stopped many times along the spectacular, narrow, twisting road to take photos and admire the views. Many stretches of this road had been hewn out of the cliff face, and I could only imagine what courage it must've taken over 100 years ago to undertake such a task. We stopped for coffee and a delicious scallop pie in the busy tourist town of Apollo Bay and bought a wooden spatula from a small supermarket. More fried eggs for breakfast! The Great Ocean Road (GOR) progressed inland through the rainforest and emerged at Castle Cove, where we lunched on our favourite dish - tinned sardines with a slice of bread. The GOR then turned north and continued inland through the rainforest. It rejoined the coast just after Princeton, and shortly after, we stopped at the Twelve Apostles Marine National Park Visitors Centre. This was a huge car park to accommodate those who wanted to see the world-famous Twelve Apostles. It must've been world-famous because there was coach after coach of Chinese, Japanese, Indians and many other nationalities. China and Japan must've been empty, as they all seemed to be in Australia. At each and every photo opportunity, they got so close they would literally rub shoulders with us. Beside the car park was a helicopter pad with four helicopters landing and taking off. We saw Chinese and Japanese people queuing, and they paid AUD175 to take a 15-minute helicopter ride over the coast to see the 12 Apostles and many of the other equally famous landmarks. They seemed to have more money than sense because the weather was cloudy and extremely windy.   We arrived at our campsite and hooked up next to another campervan. We had a long friendly chat with the people next to us, who were originally from England. We'd met many people who originally came from the UK, and we got along well with them. Perhaps it was the English accent, as they noticed that we were English/Europeans and not Australians. The wind had increased, and it was cloudy and cool as we toured our campsite to find out where all the amenities were.           8th February 2025   Lisa: On Saturday mid-morning, we walked to the village. There was a sports event with many spectators on the beach of the bay. We went there to find out what was going on. It was the annual local sea swimming competition, where the swimmers had to swim twice all around the bay. The water was icy cold, and it was a challenging task because of the storm, the many rocks, and the incoming tide. Because of the unusually stormy conditions, the swimming route had been cut from three lapses to two. The spectators greeted every swimmer who completed the course, ran out of the surf, up the beach and crossed the finishing line with great applause. There were several groups of swimmers of various ages and abilities. The competition continued long after we left.   We had things to see: We drove back along the Great Ocean Road and admired the rock formations and bays. Pounded by wild seas and fierce winds, the soft limestone cliffs of the coast of Port Campbell National Park and the Bay of Islands Coastal Park have been eroded over thousands of years and sculptured the cliffs into rock stacks, arches, and islands. Many ships have been stranded on this rocky coastline, giving the bay the name the shipwreck coast. The area is well-organised, and the beautiful sites are accessible via walkways and viewing platforms. It was fascinating walking along the walkways above the cliffs and seeing the various formations of rocks and grottos surrounded by stormy water. Like hundreds of other tourists, we visited places such as London Bridge, the Grotto, the Bay of Martyrs and the Bay of Islands. Dave will describe in more detail the sites we visited. We then had a short break in a cafe in Peterborough to warm up before we continued to visit other sites.    Dave: I was awake at 06:15, and it had been a cool and very windy night. Thick clouds greeted us and the forecast was for much of the same throughout the day. There was a short, sharp shower as we breakfasted. After we'd written our diaries and checked emails, we took a short walk through the campsite's back gate to the beach. A yearly swimming competition was in progress between the surrounding towns' long-distance sea swimming clubs. Four markers were placed in the bay and the competition was to see who was the fastest to run through the surf, complete two circuits of the markers in the bay and then swim back through the surf and run up the beach to the finish line. The route had been shortened because of the wind, the sea swell and the outgoing tide. If you were to see the rough sea and pounding surf, you would say these people were mad. Having said that, there were 25 people on surfboards, several boats and Marshalls watching from the jetty, plus three lifeguards in the water to support them if the tide and the surf got the better of them. Brave souls indeed, and they were well supported by the crowds.   We drove further west along the Great Ocean Road and stopped at various viewing areas of famous sites within the Port Campbell National Park, London Bridge, The Grotto, and the Bay of Islands Coastal Park; Bay of Martyrs, Bay of Islands and Boat Bay. Every single one of the famous places we stopped took our breath away and were greatly enriched by the gales, the stormy seas, the dramatic colourful cliffs and the lowering skies. Afterwards, we drove back to our campsite, and it remained cold, windy and cloudy. Around 19:00, the weather turned really miserable and we had frequent spells of showery rain. Our campsite, usually busy with children racing around on bicycles and people sitting outside chatting, eating and drinking, was as quiet as a tomb.   We chose to stay for three days at the NRMA Port Campbell Holiday Park because it was an excellent base for exploring the most popular highlights of the Great Ocean Road. Here are the must-see sights that we visited:   1. Twelve Apostles (10 min drive). The most famous landmark along the Great Ocean Road, these limestone stacks rise dramatically from the ocean. Best viewed at sunrise or sunset. 2. Loch Ard Gorge (5 min drive ). A stunning cove with turquoise waters, towering cliffs, and a tragic shipwreck history. You can explore several walking trails and viewpoints and nearby is the small cemetery where they buried some of those that perished. The Story of the Loch Ard Shipwreck (1878). The Loch Ard, a three-masted clipper, sailed from England to Melbourne when it met disaster on 1st June, 1878. Three months into the voyage and just days away from its destination, the ship was caught in heavy fog near the coast. Before the crew could react, it struck a reef near Muttonbird Island, close to what is now known as Loch Ard Gorge. Of the 54 people on board, only two survived. Eva Carmichael (18), an Irish immigrant travelling with her family and Tom Pearce (18), a ship's apprentice, who managed to swim to shore and then returned to the sea to rescue Eva. Tom found shelter in a cave, later helping Eva reach safety. He eventually climbed the cliffs to seek help from a nearby homestead. Despite public hopes for a romance between the two survivors, Eva returned to Ireland, while Tom went on to a successful naval career. 3. Gibson Steps (10 min drive). Descend the 86 steps down the cliffside to the beach for an up-close view of the limestone stacks and massive cliffs. 4. London Bridge (London Arch) (10 min drive). A naturally formed rock arch that once connected to the mainland before partially collapsing in 1990. 5. The Grotto (12 min drive). A picturesque rock formation where a sinkhole meets the ocean, creating a natural rock pool. 6. The Arch (8 min drive). Another rock formation shaped by the sea, offering a great photo opportunity. 7. Bay of Martyrs & Bay of Islands (15-20 min drive). Less crowded than the Twelve Apostles but equally stunning, these coastal viewpoints showcase dramatic rock formations and endless ocean views.   Here is a selection of our photos of these sites:   9th February 2025   Lisa: It had rained at night, and the campsite was muddy. It was windy and cold, and further rain was forecast. That's not how we imagined Australia. We had dreamed of spending most of our time outdoors and having breakfast and dinners outside in the sunshine. But now we spent most of the time indoors in our little cramped campervan because it was too cold and windy to stay outside. Never mind. We are here, and we make the best of it. The day before, a lovely lady in the Port Campbell Visitor Centre suggested what was interesting to do in the area. So, this morning, Sunday, we went back to the Twelve Apostles National Park Visitor Centre and walked down the Gibson Steps to see the formation and the cliffs from the beach. We then admired the Razorback rock, whose name comes from its jagged, narrow form. After that, we explored the rock formations on the western side of Port Campbell, which is equally beautiful but less known and less visited by tourists. Afterwards, we visited the site of the Loch Ard shipwreck, whose story Dave will describe.    In preparation for this trip, we had searched for information on the Great Ocean Road and most photos showed the stunning rock formations against a bright blue sky. That is what we expected to see. Yet, what we’ve got is quite a different picture: grey skies, rain, storms, wind, and sea mist. After the first disappointment, we changed our mindset and began to photograph these famous sea stacks against the background of stormy seas, when the gales smashed the waves against the rocks, which best explains how the erosion of the twelve Apostles and other limestone rocks came about.   We were very impressed with each site and admired the colour of the rocks, the dry, wild and sturdy bush vegetation on top of the cliffs. We were also looking for wildlife but could not find any, possibly because there were too many tourists during the day. Yet, having said that, I found Dave sitting on a bench on one of the viewing platforms looking at his photos, and he had not noticed that an echidna (an Australian type of porcupine) was walking towards him. I photographed her, but when Dave moved, she quickly disappeared underneath the boards of the boardwalk.   Tomorrow, we will continue our drive west along the Great Ocean Road, which ends in Warrnambool.   Dave : There was a disco nearby, and at 01:30, the noise of drunken youths was deafening. Maybe that was the aftermath of the swimming competition? No wonder the Australian police had forbidden drinking in public places. At 07:00, there was a leaden sky, and the wind continued to blow. I woke Lisa and made a brew. It had rained overnight, and people had left or were in the process of leaving the campsite. I checked the temperature on my watch, and it was 18C, but it felt like 13C. We retraced our steps and drove off to explore the other famous sites to the east of Port Campbell: Gibson Steps, Lock Ard Gorge and the cemetery where they buried some that perished in the shipwreck. From there, we drove back to Port Campbell and found a coffee shop for a cuppa and a meat pie. Delicious! Afterwards, we drove to Timboon, a small inland town. The wind continued to blow, and the sky threatened rain as we walked around exploring the town. There had been a farmers market, but when we arrived it had just ended. We got back to the campsite at 16:00. The site was almost deserted as most people had come for the weekend. The weather improved, and the rain eased off, but the wind continued to blow. The internet was still down on the campsite as it was for the whole town.     10th February 2025 Lisa: We had an early start as we wanted to get to our next destination, Port Fairy, where the weather forecast predicted sunshine and a temperature of 25C. That sounded much better than the 18C (but felt 13C) in Port Campbell. We quickly wanted to get away from the bad weather and from this campsite, which was muddy and neglected. We stocked up at a big supermarket in Warrnambool, just after the Great Ocean Road ended at Allansford, and it was still cold and windy when we drove on. When we approached Port Fairy, the sun came out, and we entered a charming little coastal town. It has stunning beaches, rugged cliffs and a relaxing atmosphere. The town centre has beautiful historic buildings dating back to the 19th century. We strolled along the main streets, which have many shops and cafes. We had tea and coffee in the old Bakehouse, famous for its scallop pies. They were delicious. Then we made our way to the campsite, which was much nicer than that in Port Campbell. The shower and toilet areas may have been dated, but were pleasant and clean. We immediately felt at home. Unfortunately, it was still very windy, but at least the sun was out. We went for a drive to explore the area and walked along a coastal path on Griffith Island, a popular spot for nature lovers and known for its walking trails, stunning views of the surrounding coastline and historic lighthouse. We accessed the island via a causeway and walked along the coastal path over black rocks and sandy beaches to the lighthouse, which had been built in 1859 and is still operational today. We walked around it and enjoyed the views. It was sunny but very windy, so we did not linger for long. We returned to our campsite, and after dinner, I persuaded Dave to play a game of dominos, which I had bought in a shop in Anglesey a few days ago. He won; every time. That's annoying. I have to practice to win. Dave: The wind had dropped a little overnight, but it was still overcast. At 08:15, we drove out of the campsite towards our next destination, the Big4 Port Fairy Holiday Park in Port Fairy. It was as though a weight had been lifted from our shoulders as the campsite, which had seen better days, had a depressed air about it, which wasn't helped by the gloomy weather. We drove through Peterborough toward Warrnambool, where we stopped just before 10:00 at a Coles supermarket in a large shopping centre to restock. We were counting down the days before we dropped off the campervan at the Apollo depot in Sydney and estimated what we would need. Too little and we'd be thirsty and hungry; too much and we'd have to throw it away. We'd booked two more campsites, but there was no guarantee they would have general stores, nor in the nearby towns.   We continued through a monotonous, lifeless landscape on roads as straight as rulers beneath a cloudy sky. We drove into Port Fairy to get an overview of the town, and as we did, the sun appeared - a good omen. We parked on the main street to explore and check out the town's IGA supermarket and were impressed with it. We asked if they sold scallop pies, and they didn't, but the lady we asked told us who sold them - the old Bakehouse around the corner and also added that they were the best in the world. Quite a statement. We sat at an outdoor table and ordered their 'best in the world' scallop pies and cups of tea and coffee. Yes, they were very good indeed. We drove to our campsite, checked in and set up camp. What a difference between this camp and our last one. We were back to a landscape of green open spaces and clean facilities. It is a very well-run campsite indeed. After a short rest, we drove back into town beneath a blue cloudless sky and parked by the jetty. The map we were given at our campsite reception showed a 3km walk around a small island, which also featured a lighthouse. The island was called Griffith Island and was home to a colony of short-tailed shearwater birds, also known as mutton birds by the whalers who frequented this island years ago. They called them mutton birds because of their meat and oil. This was the birds' breeding season, and we had to keep to the dirt path. In parts, we had to walk along sandy beaches and small coves - thankfully, the sea was at low tide. It was a wonderful walk, albeit bracing, as the gale-force wind was so strong we couldn't wear our sun hats for fear of losing them. The island was also partially protected by black reefs, which produced tremendous waves as the surf crashed into them. When we got back to the campsite, we completed our daily tasks of diaries and photos. Afterwards, Lisa cooked the black tiger prawns and ling fish fillets we'd bought from Coles supermarket. Delicious!   Dinner is ready! 11th February 2025 Lisa: We woke up to a beautiful day with sunshine; even the wind had dropped. After breakfast, we went back into town. During our time in Australia, we had good experiences with the staff in Tourist Information Centres. They know their area and are always keen to offer information and recommendations. So in Port Fairy, too. Equipped with maps and a list of recommendations, we left the centre and explored the little town and its beaches. Unfortunately, we missed their annual Jazz Festival, which happened over the last weekend. It was one of the few days during our trip when the sun was shining, and it was warm and not too windy. Therefore, after walking around town a bit, we opted to spend the afternoon on the beach. The lighthouse at Griffith Islands We found a beautiful little sheltered beach with the wonderful name of Pea Soup Beach, and here we settled for a few hours. We took in the sun and the warmth and splashed in the water. The water was not very deep, and swimming was limited, but we immensely enjoyed our time there. Soon, it was time to go back. We walked around the beautiful Griffith Island one last time, visited the lighthouse, and afterwards returned to the campsite. Dave: I woke at 06:45 and Lisa shortly after. Lisa put a load of washing in the campsite's washing machine whilst I prepared breakfast. There was less wind today; it was warmer, and the sun shone out of a cloudless sky. We drove to the Tourist Information Centre to see what was on offer and afterwards shared a scallop pie in the Bakehouse, together with a brew. There are four Pea Soup beaches in town to choose from, and we chose Pea Soup Beach number 1. This was a sheltered beach and protected by the dark rocky reefs. We spent a few hours swimming and sunbathing until 15:30. This was our last afternoon in Port Fairy, and we decided to walk around Griffiths Island to visit the lighthouse one last time. The colony of short-tailed shearwater must've been nearing the time of migration, for they were very active. The 3km walk around the island was wonderful, especially as the wind had dropped and the views of the blue sky and the Southern Ocean breakers crashing against the black reefs took your breath away. Yes, it's a town you'd want to return to.   4.1. Wilsons Prom National Park   31 January 2025   Lisa: The journey back to Melbourne was not as smooth as we'd expected. We had a few arguments with the Airline, Jetstar. We had booked, via Trailfinders, an economy return flight from Melbourne to Hobart. On the way out with Virgin Airways, there were no problems, but the rules had changed on the way back with Jetstar. They allowed only 7 kg of hand luggage and were adamant about it. This was a problem for us, as our hand luggage was 8.5kg (me) and 10.5kg (Dave). We wore everything we could, like hats, scarves, earphones, and jackets. However, we were still over the limit with our expensive camera gear, lithium battery packs, and cables. Our point of argument was that you are not allowed to put Lithium batteries into the hold luggage, and we did not want to have our cameras thrown around in the hold. We had purchased 20kg of luggage space in the hold with our tickets, which we had not used up. (I had 14 kg and Dave 16.8 kg.) All negotiations and arguments did not help. We had to pay AUD 150 (£75) for the two of us. It was not a great amount; even so, we felt cheated, as there was no problem on the flight to Hobart. We felt this was not a friendly, relaxed sign of Australian hospitality. Did I see a sign of satisfaction on the Jetstar lady's face when I handed her our card to pay? Yes! That's the problem sometimes when you book a cheap flight. Not so cheap after all. That evening, we commiserated with an excellent Barramundi fish dinner and a bottle of Australian red Shiraz at our Holiday Inn airport hotel in Melbourne.   1 February 2025   Dave: After an excellent breakfast in the hotel, I ordered an Uber taxi for 09:15, and by 09:30, we were dropped off at Melbourne's Apollo campervan depot. There was a queue at the check-in desk. We completed all the necessary paperwork with the very efficient manager. We explained the problems we had experienced in Tasmania, and he refunded us a day's campervan hire and apologised that he couldn't do more. There was another wait whilst they washed and checked our campervan since we'd so many problems with our previous one. Great. At 11:30, our campervan was ready and waiting for us outside. We went to inspect it, but there was a problem. This campervan was 7m long. We insisted on a 5m campervan, as that was the one we'd ordered way back in the summer. The smaller one was more manageable and easier to park in supermarket carparks, and Lisa would feel uncomfortable driving the bigger campervan. They didn't have the smaller 5m van. Several phone calls were made; it took another two hours before they sourced one. We drove away at 13:30 and had to stop to refuel, as our package was to start with a full fuel tank and return with an empty one - another delay. We kept the receipt and will get a refund when we return the campervan to the Appollo depot in Sydney.   We relied on our TomTom to guide us through Melbourne to our next destination: Big4 Wilsons Prom Holiday Park. As we drove through Melbourne, there were many toll roads, and the traffic was horrendous. There was an accident on the motorway, and the traffic ground to a halt. We inched along and saw many ambulances, fire engines and police cars. An Apollo campervan had smashed into a car. The front nearside of the campervan had taken the full force of the impact, and the driver's side of the car it had hit had been pushed in. We immediately thought of the people in front of us at the Apollo Depot who'd just driven off in similar campervans. Shortly after, Lisa found a Coles Supermarket on her mobile, so we took a short detour and stocked up with some excellent fish, vegetables and wine from the adjacent bottle shop. We arrived at the campsite at 18:15, and it was very windy. It had gone 20:00 by the time we'd hooked up, unpacked our cases, and put away our supplies. We drank a beer and cooked a starter of microwaved corn cob husks, followed by black tiger prawns and pink ling fish. That really hit the spot after a very busy and tiring day. We watched a music video and, at 22:15, were fast a sleep.     Lisa: This campervan they gave us was 7m long and would stick out everywhere we parked it. I would not be comfortable driving such a big monster around the small roads of the National Parks. The lovely people at Apollo thought they were doing us a favour and that we would be pleased about the upgrade and having more space in the van; they could not understand that we did not want it. We insisted that we wanted what we had ordered - a 5m long mini campervan. But, they did not have one amongst the long row of campervans parked outside. Unbelievable! Amongst the fleet of campervans was no Apollo mini to find? The staff frantically searched, phoned, and emailed to find such a campervan. Eventually, after 2 hours, they found one. There was no time to wash it, so we took it as it was and quickly drove off as we were running out of time and still had another four hours of driving to reach our next destination. It was a high miler, rattling, and, as we realised later, had a few faults, and some things did not work. But there was no way of us complaining, as this was the size of campervan we'd originally ordered.   It took a long time to get out of Melbourne and fight through traffic jams in the city and on the motorway as it was a weekend. I phoned the campsite to inform them that we were running late. No problems. After paying the remaining fee per phone, they gave me instructions on the site's access codes and facilities. We arrived shortly after 6 pm at the Big4 Wilsons Prom Holiday Park. It was very windy, and it had just started to rain. Our site was directly on the beach. In the safety of our campervan, we could see the surfers sailing up and down the waves, enjoying the gales and the rain. Weird people, these Australians.     2 February 2025   Lisa: The next morning, it stopped raining, and we had breakfast outside, gazing over the bay. Eating outside was a rare occasion for us as it was often too cold or windy. After breakfast, we explored the area and walked through a forest trail to Duck Point. The 20 or so dark birds we saw in the distance did not look like ducks. They elegantly held their heads high, and as we came nearer, it turned out they were black swans gliding through the waves - no sight of any ducks at Duck Point.   In the early afternoon, the sun came out, and it was hot. We drove into the Wilsons Prom National Park and into the Tidal River Area. The drive was incredible, leading through kilometres of bushland and gentle hills. From there, one can take many walks around the National Park. We went to the Tidal River Caravan Park. The caravan site was busy and fully booked. We were glad we had not chosen this site beside the Tidal River, which was the only campsite within the National Park. The campsite had 484 sites and was packed with huge pickups, huge caravans and huge campervans. Monster cars. Can they get much bigger? As we heard later, the Australian Government had only recently decided to waive the fees for all national parks in mainland Australia until June. So, many people took the opportunity to explore the National Parks on weekends and holidays, and staff in these parks, shops, and restaurants were overwhelmed by the number of visitors and could hardly cope. At the dump point, we had to wait to be able to use the water hose to rinse our toilet cassette as the only water source was hogged by a group of young Australians with what looked like an expensive deepsea fishing boat who cleaned their boat and gutted their recently caught fish with the water running on full. Have you never heard of using water responsibly? I mumbled under my breath. As this is the height of summer in Australia, most campsites display signs asking everyone to please save water as water is scarce and to stick to a maximum of three minutes when showering. Never mind. After 10 minutes of waiting, Dave got impatient and asked to use their hose for a second. Reluctantly, they handed it over.   At the Tidal River Information Centre, we collected information about the various walks we could do over the next few days. We wanted to buy a bottle of water in their general store, but the price of AUD 8 for a 500ml bottle put us off. Not that we couldn't afford it, but it was the principle. Yes, we are tourists, but didn't want to be ripped off. In the General Store in the village of Yanakie near our campsite, the litre bottle of water only cost AUD 1.50. On the way back, we stopped at a few viewing points and admired the stunning views of the various bays, which had blue water and an even bluer sky. At one of the viewing points, we met again the Indian family that had invited us earlier and generously shared their lunch with us. We then drove home and cooked the delicious fish we'd bought on the way down from Melbourne.  Baramundi Fish - yummy.   Dave: The wind had dropped when we woke, the sea was calm and we could see in the distance sea fog. We showered, caught up with our diaries and had breakfast beside our campervan, looking out at the distant mountains on the other side of the bay. We took a short walk through the bush, which brought us out by the beach, from there we walked to the end of a small sandy peninsula and then back along the beach. At the tip of the peninsula, we talked to a couple out walking their dog. They were originally from England, and we had a good natter to them. It was wonderful to be out walking again. It was hot, and there were extreme heat warning alerts and a big sign on their reception door to tell us the Government had issued warnings of bushfires, so no fires were allowed on the campsite. At 13:45, we drove down to Wilsons Prom National Park to check out the walks in the area and to find out where their 'Dump Ezy' station was, as our campsite didn't have one for some reason. To empty our toilet cassette, we had to drive 26km to this one or to the town of Foster, the same distance to the north. There was a huge campsite in Tidal River, and it was fully booked. It was such a big site, they even had an outdoor cinema. This was a major area for walking, and it was very hot. We were amazed at all the many young girls who walked around with full makeup, false eyelashes and skimpy bikinis. I don't think they'd been out walking the trails. We checked out the campsite's only general store to see if they sold fish. They had none. They had crazy prices for everything. What a joke!   An Indian family was sitting at a bench beneath a covered area, having lunch that smelled delicious. They saw us looking at them, invited us over and offered us small plates of Indian lamb curry and chicken. They were originally from Mumbai. We couldn't resist, and it was delicious. It reminded us of our time in Pune. We thanked them and left them to their delicious picnic. Shortly afterwards, we drove back and stopped at one of the many viewing platforms beside the road. Who should be there but this Indian family? Their young children sat in the cars looking at their phones whilst the parents and grandparents took in the views. The Granny was so pleased when we thanked her again for the delicious curry. When we returned, we showered, had a cold beer, and cooked another delicious fish meal.   Enjoying the warm evening   3 February 2025   Lisa: The following day, we woke up looking at a lovely dawn through our van window. It soon clouded over but was still warm. We decided to explore the nearby towns and villages. In the nearby town of Foster, we went to the tourist information centre and let them inspire us what to do. The ever so friendly staff recommended their favourite places to visit, which is what we did. We drove through dry bush areas along the beaches of Yanakie, walked over the rocks of the Walkerville Bay, strolled to the Cape Liptrap Lighthouse in the Cape Liptrap Coastal Park and stopped at many lookout points to have a view of the many bays with their distinctive vegetation and landscape within the Wilsons Prom National Park. On the horizon, we could see dark rain clouds approaching, and from time to time, we could feel a slight drizzle, but the weather held. It was a very relaxing day.   The Cape Liptrap Lighthouse Dave: There was a wonderful sunrise, and we took photos of it from the open window. We decided to do the same bush-beach walk as yesterday. Afterwards, we showered and cooked breakfast, eating inside because of the many flies. The clouds had returned, but it was still hot. We drove to Fish Creek but didn't stop as there was nothing interesting. We continued onward to the town of Foster. It was a lovely town and one of those towns that felt just right. We found a supermarket and topped up our supplies and then found a lovely cafe opposite for an iced Vietnamese coffee (normal iced coffee, but with the addition of condensed milk) for me and for Lisa a pot of tea. We went to an information bureau to find out what we could do in the area. We then drove to Walkerville to find the famous Lime Kilns. We couldn't find them and only found a not-very-picturesque rocky beach. We then drove to Cape Liptrap lighthouse. This 9km drive along a dirt road brought back memories of Namibia and the rough washboard dirt roads. The side door kept springing open onto the safety latch, but when it did, a buzzer alarm sounded. This happened numerous times during the drive. When we got to the lighthouse car park, I got out my multitool pocket tool kit and adjusted the door during a shower of rain. The views of the sea and the gathering storm from the lighthouse were fantastic, and we took many photos. At the Cape Liptrap Costal Walk Despite the showers, the temperature was 33C. We continued onwards to Sandy Point, a long sandy surfer's beach. We checked our compasses, and due south from here was Burnie, the place we drove through on the northern coast of Tasmanian. We took a shortcut back, refuelled in Yanakie, and got back to the campsite at 17:45. We showered and were glad it was windy, for the wind kept the flies away. We wrote our diaries and travel blog, had broccolini followed by fish for dinner and were fast asleep by 22:15.      4 February 2025   Lisa: Again, we woke up to a stunning sunrise and went for a walk through the bush and back along the beach, and again, it clouded over. Waking up to a stunning sunrise We drove down to the Tidal River and from there up the hill to the car park, the starting point of a 3-hour round walk to the top of Oberon Mountain. The car park was packed, and one car was already waiting for early walkers to return and free up parking space. It was our neighbour from the campsite. He finally gave up waiting and decided to return later and do something else. We continued to wait and had an unpleasant encounter with an Australian family who snitched a parking space freed up just when they arrived. Anyway, we then moved some red traffic cones by half a metre so we had enough space to squeeze our campervan in, although we were parked outside the dedicated parking spaces. Later, when we returned, many more had followed our example, moved the red cones, and parked all along the road towards the car park. No problem. We then started our steep uphill walk through the rain forest towards the top of the mountain. It was a hot and sticky day, and we were glad to walk in the shade occasionally. The many persistent and big flies were irritating, and we constantly flapped our hats to scare them away. I got bitten several times, and the bites itched horribly. These flies are called March flies. But they were early, and only a few. Imagine how it would be in March at their high season. Finally, we reached the top and were rewarded with fantastic views. Many people were sitting on rocks enjoying the view, and it felt good after a strenuous walk. The way back was quicker; luckily, Dave's knee held out well. Stunning views from Mount Oberon in the Wilsons Prom National Park   We then drove along the long winding road through the National Park, visited some more viewing points, and had a picnic in one of the outlooks, which had a fantastic view over the bay and Bass Strait. Afterwards, we went to the Squeaky Beach (named so because when you walk on them, the shoes make a squeaky noise). This beach is supposed to be one of the best beaches in Australia, and the bay is striking with a long golden sandy beach. Quite a few people were in the water, splashing in the waves. The sun had come out, and it was hot. Lovely! We also went into the water. It was cold but very refreshing, and it felt good. That's what we were hoping for in Australia. Later in the evening, the wind came up, and it got colder again. The short summer was over.     Dave: We had a poor night's sleep, maybe because it was too hot in the campervan. We stuck to our early morning routine: a walk through the bush and return via the beach. We decided to take the most popular walk in the park, a walk to the summit of Mount Oberon. We set off around 10:00 and arrived 30 minutes later at the Mount Oberon car park. The car park was full, and we waited for a space. 10 minutes later, a utility vehicle arrived at the same time as a couple who had returned from their walk to the summit. As they started to drive toward the now free parking space, I said we were here first; the lady in the passenger seat simply smiled and moved into the space the car had just driven out of. That's Australian hospitality for you. The Grade 4 hike to the summit of Mount Oberon was a steady uphill climb, and the complete circuit of 8km took about 3 hours. This hike is the highlight of Wilsons Promontory National Park, and the panoramic costal views are something to die for. From the summit, you have vistas of the Tasman Sea, the offshore islands and the park's mixture of bush and forest clinging to the sides of the steep surrounding hills. Relaxing after a steep walk to the summit of Mount Oberon It was indeed a steady, sweaty slog to the top, but the stupendous views were well worth the effort. It was amazing to see how many people could cram onto the top of the boulders, taking photos of the views. The last part of the climb was a scramble between huge rocks and boulders. We started the hike beneath a cloudy sky, and when we reached the summit, we were bathed in sunshine. When we returned, we drove to Squeaky Beach, so named for your shoes squeaked as you walked across the sand. We spent over an hour on the beach sunbathing and trying to swim in the relentless pounding surf. We would've loved to stay on the beach longer, but we had to be careful of the fierce afternoon sun on our delicate white skin. The conditions were perfect - sun, sea and lazing on the beach. We finally felt that this was the Australia that we'd visualised. When we returned to the site we had to clean our towels and rucksacks and dry our sandals as a huge wave had come in whilst we were sunbathing and drenched them. We showered and wrote our diaries, and whilst we did, the clouds rolled in, and the wind picked up. When we removed the 13amp plug of our kettle from one of the upside-down power sockets, it was covered in sticky maple syrup. We investigated and found the shelf directly above the power-socket was covered in maple syrup. The previous people who'd rented the campervan must've spilt a jar of syrup and not cleaned it up properly. The 35C+ heat had caused the syrup to melt and run down the cable and into the power-socket. Lisa cleaned it up, and for the moment, it was okay. Another thing to report when we return the camper in Sydney. We ate inside our camper as it was too cold and windy to eat outdoors.

(De) “Do a nice curtsy!”, I was regularly asked as a child when visitors came to our house or when we visited distant relatives or friends. I would be trained in curtsy as soon as I could safely stand on my chubby little legs. After all, one had style and knew how to behave. I should be distinguished and ladylike. A curtsy girl was a sign of a well-behaved and good family. My maternal grandmother was behind this strict code of etiquette. For some reason, she attached great importance to very good behaviour. This is actually surprising because she came from a peasant family that wasn’t particularly delicate. However, since her youth, my grandmother had no desire at all for stable work. That’s why she hired herself out in the princely household of Thurn & Taxis, first as a kitchen maid and then as a chambermaid. Her enthusiastic stories about life in the castle accompanied my childhood and I also sensed that my grandmother would have liked the noble way of life very much. She considered herself a bit more distinguished than her surroundings, even if only inwardly. She attached great importance to good manners, even though she was relatively poor. For me, this meant that in addition to the curtsy that all girls had to perform in the 1950s, there were several rules of etiquette. "Greetings by name and look into the eyes" For example, when greeting an adult I had to consider quite a few things. A simple vague “Grüß Gott”, mumbled in the air, was not enough. “Always greet first and loudly and clearly, say the person’s name and look them into the eyes!” was my grandmother’s daily instruction when I left home. Since we lived on the top floor of an apartment building, this proved to be quite tricky. If, as often was the case, three neighbours were standing together on the ground floor having a chat, I had to disturb their intimate gathering if I wanted to follow my grandmother’s rules of etiquette. And of course, I wanted to. “Greetings, Mrs Weinzierl, greetings, Mrs Karl, greetings, Mrs Holzmann,” I called to the group and looked each neighbour deeply in the eye. “Greetings, Tanja!” each one replied dutifully and I was released from the greeting ceremony and could head outside. Afterwards, the women probably didn’t know exactly where they had just stopped their interesting conversation. Anyway, it had to be like that in a good house. Some neighbours caused me embarrassment, for example, when I ran around the street, absorbed in my game, and forgot to greet someone I knew first. A “Greetings-Tanja!” could then be addressed to me in a reproachful tone. “Don’t you know me any more?” was added somewhat teasingly. I don’t know what people were thinking. I guess they all felt more or less like co-guardians?! " Does the aunt get a Bussi (bavarian for kiss)?" Back then, in the 1950s, it never occurred to any adult in Germany to greet each other with kisses on the cheek. Kisses were reserved for close relatives and festive days. Basta! A kissing society did not yet exist in Germany. Except for us kids! If you were unlucky, then in the exuberance of a successful coffee party with a rather unknown great-aunt, you were sometimes asked: “Does Aunt Mare, Anne, Rose … get a kiss?” I didn’t yet know the expression for this kind of question, but the intention revealed itself to me instinctively: this question was purely rhetorical. A ‘no’ was not really accepted, and the adults kept whining until one gave in and was then also cuddled rather badly out of sheer joy. The good hand It was easier to shake hands unless you were left-handed. There was one good hand and the other hand. You had to offer the good hand for an appropriate greeting. The good hand was of course the right hand. That was not negotiable. The other hand, the left hand, was bad and no one wanted to take it and shake it. No reason was given for the disdain for the left hand. As children of the 1950s, we didn’t seem to have questioned these rules. When visitors came to our house or we visited someone, I strictly adhered to the rehearsed greeting ritual: shake hands, curtsey, speak the greeting phrase loudly and clearly, address the person by name and look into their eyes. I was able to do that. Unlike my little cousin, who obviously detested the whole ritual. He didn’t even have to do the complicated curtsy – bend one knee and bend the other knee backwards. The bow of the head, followed, in moderation, by the upper part of the body, had been invented for boys. Real gentlemen did bow when they introduced themselves. Only my cousin didn’t like it. He preferred to hide when he was at risk of having to go through the greeting ceremony, or even worse, the farewell ceremony with a request for a kiss. Reciting poems I, on the other hand, always rose to the challenge and was therefore also given the dubious honour of reciting poems at various festive events. My mother had a booklet that was always consulted on birthdays, weddings and even funerals to find thoughtful and appropriate texts. Since I couldn’t read yet, they would practise with me until I knew the verses by heart and then put me in front of jubilarians or wedding parties or whatsoever, where I would dutifully recite the rhymes whose meaning I didn’t understand. There was always some female relative lurking in the background with the poetry booklet in her hand, just in case I got stuck. To this day it is a complete mystery to me as to why this charade was done. Who should have enjoyed it? Was it a demonstration of educational achievement? Was it to show appreciation for those being honoured? I always sensed that the esteemed honourees were just putting on a good face for a dull game. But I may be wrong. I, as a child, felt stupid and had to believe that the adults knew what they were doing. However, I doubt that. Because once, as a little girl, I had to recite a poem at the funeral of a small child. I can’t imagine that this was really comforting for the mother, other than being well-intentioned. Noble reserve The refined nature of a family was also evident in its table culture. At my grandmother’s house, even snacks were never eaten out of the wrapping paper. The table was always set neatly and forks were used to pick up the sausages. No one was never allowed to use one’s fingers. If the bread was buttered and topped with sausage slices, you were allowed to use your hands. But not at my aunt’s and her husband’s house in Frankfurt. Being the household of a banker in an executive position, they were really posh. They not only ate lunch with knife and fork but also the sausage sandwich. Hands, even when scrupulously washed, were never allowed to come into direct contact with food at the table. So dinner was a real challenge for me. A round Knackwurst or Regensburger (a typical Bavarian sausage), which my uncle loved to eat, would often slip across the table. But my aunt worked hard on my lady-like behaviour and I lost my appetite. I always came back from my visits to Frankfurt slimmer than I was before I went there. In my childhood, fine table manners seemed to be a sign of social advancement. Anyone who was self-respecting kept moderation. Again, there were strict rules that were not easy to follow, especially for hungry children when it came to their favourite dishes. You had to eat what was on your plate. But what was not yet on your plate could not simply be taken. Everybody at the table had to ask if they could have some more of this or that dish. This was usually not a problem if there was still plenty of everything. On the contrary, it made the housewife proud if people enjoyed her food and asked for more. Yet, when it came to the last piece of meat, dumplings, cakes, etc., the situation was different, rather complicated. When the hostess offered the leftover piece around the table everyone refused. Dinner table etiquette dictated that you did not take the last piece if offered, even though you were hungry or wanted to snatch it off the plate. Only the last person to be asked had a real chance. He was able to grab it courageously with a “Yes, I don’t mind if I do!” and look good at the same time. Whilst the others were forced to agree, grudgingly, but with graciousness. This egg dance about the rules of table etiquette has always puzzled me. So many conflicting signals were sent out so that as a child you didn’t know what was appropriate behaviour and what was not. For example, I remember one afternoon in December when my parents, my grandmother and I were visiting one of my grandmother’s old friends. She had put a plate of gorgeous biscuits on the table and asked everyone, but especially me, to take plenty. So everyone took one biscuit each, praised the taste and texture, and then no one took any more and the conversation went on. In my head, however, I was arguing with my alter ego. “The biscuits are really good and there are still lots of them on the table,” went through my head. “Yeah, but everyone only took one, so you only get to take one!” the other one admonished. “But Auntie said I could eat as much as I wanted,” I grumbled. “That’s just what they say,” the other one enlightened me. “It would be rude for you to take another one without asking.” “But I can’t ask, because children aren’t allowed to interrupt adults in their conversation. And they’re talking non-stop all the time!” I objected annoyed. “Accept it, you won’t get any more!” said the other one. That was too much. I just grabbed one more, hoping that no one would notice anyway as they were so busy with their conversation. Big mistake! I had to leave the table and was ostracised, but not by the friendly hostess. She kept saying that she had put the biscuits on the table to be eaten. None of this helped! I had broken a rule of etiquette. But I have to say, it was still worth it. The biscuits were really delicious. Times have changed - no rules any more? Today, thank goodness, the curtsy and the bow only exist if you are invited to the Queen, for example, which happens extremely rarely, especially in Germany. I also think that nowadays children are no longer forced to give the “good hand” or kisses, but I may be wrong! Overall, I have the impression that today there are fewer rules of politeness or etiquette being imposed on children. As a teacher, I have often experienced that the pupils usually greet you happily and gladly when you run into them somewhere. Quite naturally. These days, however, the neighbourhood children see no need to greet me, even if I first address them with a friendly hello. We all see each other every day, but we are strangers. At least, that’s how it is in the big city. I get the impression that politeness and good manners no longer represent a great value in our society. The grown-ups often don’t behave as role models in public. For instance, when passing a swinging door, very few people look back to see if someone is following them and hold the door a little longer until the other person can take it over. It happens to me time and again that the door slams shut in my face. Or conversely, quite a few people even slip past me through the door I’m holding. But I never hear them saying thank you. I wonder if they think anything of it. In any case, it is a blessing that these hypocritical and absurd dinner table rules are no longer so strictly enforced. In our family, at any rate, there is no longer enforced shy restraint when it comes to eating the last piece of food. And plates of biscuits empty as if by magic. If everyone wants the last piece of food, we share it. If you express your wishes, you can have them fulfilled, I would say. (TA) It would be interesting to know if there were other or even more strict rules of etiquette in other families or other countries.

(DE) The youngest member of my circle of friends, three-year-old Bobby, is almost bursting with excitement waiting for Father Christmas. Then, on the evening of 24 December 2021, salvation comes in the form of lights on the Christmas tree and presents underneath. Christmas Dream of the Year 2022 Wishes come true, and you even get toys you didn’t ask for. The whole family is joyfully excited. Everyone unwraps something and is honestly or theatrically surprised. There is good food and sweets, and everyone seems happy and content with the sounds of Christmas in the background. This experience will shape Bobby’s memory of Christmas, year after year. My childhood Christmas memories go back over 60 years, in the 50s and 60s. Of course, the excitement and anticipation of Christmas Eve when the Christkindl (the Infant Jesus) would come was beautiful in my childhood. Still, otherwise, there were small but subtle differences. The Christkindl was the star – no one knew Father Christmas. 1953: First Christmas Christmas was mystical for me because to us children of the 50s, the Christkindl came. Who it was and what it looked like, nobody really knew. A mixture of baby Jesus and an angel? There was a story that he flew in, conveniently through the window, and quickly put the presents under the Christmas tree. Then, when curious children peeped through the keyhole of the door of the Christmas room, which was usually the living room or, in our case, the kitchen, to catch a glimpse of the Christkindl, he would take the presents away again. A very nasty threat. That’s why I pinched my eyes shut while waiting for the Christkindl so I wouldn’t accidentally catch a glimpse of him. Each kindergarten performed a nativity play. At least when I was a kindergarten child, I had already seen the Christkindl: At the nativity play that every self-respecting kindergarten put on. The newborn baby Jesus lay in the cot in the form of a baby doll or wax figure and was called Christkindl (Infant Christ). Christmas was a Christian festival in Bavaria in the 1950s. Mary and Joseph’s search for shelter, the newly born baby Jesus in the stable, surrounded by his parents and adored by the shepherds, the appearance of the Star of Bethlehem and the visit of the Three Kings from the Orient Kaspar, Melchior and Balthasar were staged as an annual play for parents and children in the kindergarten, at school and in church. Almost every child was able to get a part to play. If the acting talent was not enough for Mary and Joseph, they could play the ox and donkey. At least they didn’t have to learn any lines. The meaning of the celebration became apparent to a child. It was the birthday of the baby Jesus, and on birthdays you get presents, in this case representing Jesus, so to speak. There was no Father Christmas who gave out presents for no reason and didn’t even ask if you had earned them by behaving well. Instead, St. Nicholas, who on the evening of 5 December paraded through the streets with his servant Ruprecht to reward children, attached great importance to being reassured that a child had behaved well throughout the year. That one had not indulged in bad habits, such as sucking one’s thumb or being a picky eater. Sometimes even other family members were interviewed as witnesses. And all the time, his servant Ruprecht beside him threatened to beat children who had misbehaved with his stick or was ready to put them into the sack he had brought with him. St. Nicholas, on the other hand, was prepared to hand over any amount of sweets once he was convinced that you’d earned it. This bearded man with a bishop’s mitre was the precursor of the Infant Jesus. He could be seen and touched, feared and loved, and sometimes he bore an amazing resemblance to an uncle or family friend. Sometimes, perhaps when he was in a hurry, he would leave his gifts outside the door and ring the doorbell, just when Dad had just gone down to the cellar to get a beer. Yes, those were the fascinating, mysterious Christmas legends of my childhood. Is there a conclusive legend about Father Christmas from the North Pole? I don’t know. Present-giving marathon on Christmas Eve But then, as now, the lowest common denominator of Christmas was and still is: Family celebration! Even my rather quarrelsome family tried hard to keep something like Christmas peace, which at times led to strange rituals. During the first years of my life, I remember that Christkindl came in all three times on Christmas Eve. It seemed to be mainly occupied with me and my presents. Just after getting dark, I was sent out from my maternal grandmother’s kitchen into the freezing bedroom because the adults had heard the soft tinkling of the angels accompanying the Christkindl outside the window. And lo and behold, the little bell rang out shortly afterwards. The radio played “Silent Night, Holy Night…”, the candles on the wonderfully decorated Christmas tree lit up, the sparklers, which are forbidden nowadays, gave off sparks. 1954: The most beautiful thing was the Christmas tree There was the smell of pine needles, wax and wonder candles. I almost forgot from the amazement and awe that there were toys for me under the tree. When I had recovered from the shock and wanted to start playing, everything had to be packed up because the next stop was two doors down. At my paternal grandparents’ house, the Christkindl had already arrived before us. When we were still on our way upstairs to grandma and grandpa’s, “Silent Night, Holy Night…” was already ringing through the hallway. And again, the Christmas tree was shining, and sparks were flying in the kitchen. Again there were toys and this time also clothes underneath. It smelled of candles and pine needles here too. I was suitably amazed again, but no longer so surprised, and got my hopes up for being allowed to play a little. 1955: Mysterious, this Christmas miracle! But no! As before, everything had to be packed up again. We drove home to the flat that my parents and I lived in together, more or less only at weekends. During the first years of my life, my father worked away from home during the week, and my mother worked as a saleswoman from morning to night. So I lived with my maternal grandmother. But at Christmas, we were together in our flat, and there was the ultimate final gift-giving session. This time we were quicker on the scene and arrived before the Christkindl. But my parents had this seventh sense that it must be coming soon. And lo and behold, the sound of “Silent night, holy night…” could be heard. There were candles and sparklers on the tree, presents under the tree. All the familiar rituals were performed again— for the third time. I could not bring myself to marvel excessively, but it was nice to be able to play and eat sweets in peace. My mother had the talent of preparing beautiful lavish Christmas plates. She also went through the trouble of hanging biscuits, colourful sugar- and chocolate-coated stars in the tree. It was like a land of milk and honey for me. 1956: Last stop - Parental home It’s fair to ask why this marathon of handing out presents was organised in my family during my toddler phase in this way. I can only explain it like this. Triple Christmas stress for my working mother My mother worked as a saleswoman in a clothing shop and therefore had to work until 2 pm on Christmas Eve. In the previous four weeks before Christmas, the Advent, the Saturdays had been so-called “long Saturdays”, meaning the shops were open until 6 pm six days a week. Usually, in the 50s and 60s, shops had to close at noon on Saturdays. Only once a month were they allowed to stay open until evening. But at Christmas, people were supposed to be given enough time and opportunity to shop all they could. Oh, joyous consumer world! But the shop assistants had to cope with the shopping frenzy of the years of the economic miracle. So they stood in the shops until the bitter end, in this case until early afternoon on 24 December, and served stressed Christmas present shoppers at the last minute. Today, extended opening hours are made possible by shift work. Back then, the Christmas extravaganza was simply part of the job. So while my father and I passed the time at my grandparents’ house and developed a Christmas feeling with biscuits, stollen and storytelling, my mother sold shirts, ties and socks that were bound to end up under the Christmas tree. We were all relaxed and looking forward to Christmas, and then my mother arrived! Restlessness and stress on two legs! The handkerchief in my mother's hand is an indication of tears of exhaustion. She could have left the organisation of Christmas Eve to one of the grandmothers, but that was not in her nature. For better or worse, she wanted to stage the ideal Christmas with peace and shining child’s eyes according to her ideas. Everyone else, however, didn’t want to be nagged and did their own thing. So it came that I had to go Christmas-hopping at its finest. That was exciting in itself and the Christmas of that time is a magical memory. In one of those Christmas kitchens, we had sausages with sauerkraut and Schwarzer-Kipferl (special crusty rolls from the local bakery, Schwarzer), followed by a punch for the grown-ups. I don’t remember exactly where it was because I didn’t give a damn. The main thing was Christmas! 1957: A shop, a doll's house and even a doll's bathroom. In reality, we didn't have a bathroom yet. 1958: My doll children were also given presents by the Christ Child. Jealousy endangered the Christmas peace But there was another reason for this triple Christmas special: jealousy! The poles that were at odds with each other were my mother and her mother-in-law, my paternal grandmother. While my mother tried to put herself and her own mother, who just wanted to relax and enjoy her peace and quiet, in the foreground of the Christmas spectacle, my other grandmother instantly and relentlessly complained about being left behind. It was essential to her that her gifts to me were associated with her. Also, that she was the exclusive beneficiary of the child’s beaming eyes and that the ambience was designed according to her ideas. Therefore, there was only one solution to maintain Christmas peace, namely separate Christmases. At the beginning of the 60s, we finally had a living room and a bathroom. And these were the gifts at that time A few years later, when I was about 9 or 10 years old, Christmas peace was often not good. My parents now owned a modern three-room flat with a living room. That’s why all the grandparents met at our house on Christmas Eve. No more Christmas hopping! But my mother was still working in sales and came home exhausted and stressed out in the afternoon. Ideally, she would have needed some peace and quiet first, but the happy grandparents arrived almost simultaneously. They all expected a peaceful and harmonious Christmas atmosphere, thus stressing my mother even more. Palpable tensions were smouldering! But my mother always managed to get through the whole Christmas programme. The row usually came after the presents had been given. The jealous ladies had been eyeing each other to see if there were any reasons to be jealous. Jealous of better gifts, jealous of joy over a gift, jealous of anything. Little as I was, I tried to help to avoid a bad atmosphere on Christmas. I learned to show as much joy as possible with each gift, turn on the sparkle in my eyes, find appreciative words, look at each present for the same length of time, and treat it with mindfulness. I also listened with interest to my grandmother’s explanations of the quality and expense of her gifts. I affirmed that I was delighted that exquisite bed linen could now be added to my dowry again, which I would appreciate very much. Well, peace before sincerity! Our international Christmas today In the meantime, I have experienced many very different Christmases. When I was a student and lived in a shared flat, we celebrated without a Christmas tree but with a Christmas goose stitched together while playing cards. Then, of course, when my son was little, the magical Christmas spirits came back to life. Later, I spent many a Christmas alone, but that didn’t bother me much. My son, now grown up, lived in Asia for a few years and remembered that his heart was always heavy at Christmas and that he would have liked to be with his parents, father, stepmother and mother. Today it is like that. We have our own rituals, which are pretty international. First, we have a traditional Bavarian Christmas Eve with sausages and potato salad and have presents under the Christmas tree, brought by the Christkindl. Then, in the good old American tradition, we jointly raid our Christmas stockings filled with trinkets while still in our dressing gowns on Christmas Day. After that, the American stepmother and I cook the American turkey dinner all day, which we then ceremoniously eat in the evening. And finally, for the past six years, our Thai daughter-in-law has been cooking some delicious Thai dishes on Boxing Day. We are all huge fans of our international Christmas. (TA) If you want to learn how to build memories into stories and eventually write them up, you can find an example guide based on this Christmas memory on the page “Becoming an Author”. Link to the guide

Downing Street and Whitehall - Seat of the Prime Minister and the UK Government (UK) What a start to 2022 for Boris Johnson! Hardly a day went by without another revelation about the parties at No. 10 Downing Street during the lockdown. At a time when people were banned from meeting anyone indoors who was not a member of their household or their support bubble, when people were only allowed to go outside for an hour for exercise and essential shopping and meet with no more than one other person. As of 14 January 2022, we know of 16 parties. This includes several Christmas parties, including a Christmas quiz led by the Prime Minister, a few gatherings just to enjoy the beautiful weather in the garden of No. 10 Downing Street and to relax after a long and hard day. We also know of some leaving dos for valued staff. The last and most embarrassing farewell party, with a drinking bout and dancing until the wee hours of the morning, was for the Director of Communications, James Slack, on the eve of Prince Philip’s funeral. In the morning, the Queen sat alone in the choir stalls of Westminster Abbey due to lockdown regulations. What a contrast! Source: How many lockdown parties were held in Downing Street? Timeline: the alleged Government gatherings. 14.1.2022. https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-politics-59952395 There were reports of a drinking culture at No. 10 Downing Street and staff smuggling in alcohol from the nearby Coop in suitcases. The bottles were well-wrapped,so they would not rattle as they passed through security. The British public reacted furious and enraged. Members of Parliament were bombarded with letters and emails from angry constituents who, at the time, could not see their seriously ill or dying loved ones, who had suffered hardship because of the lockdown rules but had complied in the interest of the common good. Media headlines condemned the ruling elite’s behaviour, who make rules but think they are above the law, loosely along the lines of “There are binding rules for the people. But for us, these rules are only non-binding options.” The prime minister has been accused of fooling the public. Source: Downing Street Parties: How many wine bottles fit in a suitcase, and other questions. BBC. 1/14-22. https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-politics-59959622 Denying, twisting the truth and playing dumb Embarrassing, too, were the excuses and empty apologies. Since the first reports of parties at No. 10 Downing Street surfaced, the prime minister has categorically denied the parties, or at least any knowledge of them, and insisted that all regulations had been followed at all times by him and his staff and cabinet members. When video evidence of a party surfaced, he expressed outrage that such a thing had happened on his watch and condemned such behaviour strongly. He assigned Cabinet Secretary Simon Case to conduct an investigation. However, Simon Case soon stepped down from the task since he had apparently attended one of the parties. Boris was confronted with further allegations, evidence of parties, and rumours of his own involvement. When it came out that Boris Johnson had also been to at least one of the parties, he said he had not known it was a party. He had thought the gathering was a work meeting with colleagues at the end of a long, hard day. When the prime minister finally apologised, it sounded hollow, and no one believed him. He didn’t even have the decency to personally apologise to the Queen for the party on the eve of Prince Philip’s funeral but asked his office to do it for him instead. Later, Boris Johnson explained that he had not known that the garden party on 20 May 2020, to which 100 people had been invited, had violated the lockdown rules. No one had told him that. Moreover, he categorically denied that he had been warned by several staff members that a party in the garden of No 10 Downing Street might violate the lockdown rules. The denial came after his long-time special adviser and close confidant, Dominic Cummings, released a statement agreeing to swear under oath that he and others had expressed concerns to the prime minister about a possible breach of the Covid rules. However, the prime minister ignored all warnings and allowed the party to go ahead. Yet, Boris insists that the 20 May 2020 garden party was a working meeting and no rules were broken. Source: Boris Johnson: nobody warned me No 10 party was against the rules. The Guardian, 18 January 2022. https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2022/jan/18/boris-johnson-nobody-warned-me-no-10-party-was-against-the-rules How pathetic is this!!! First, the Prime Minister doesn’t know his own lockdown rules and regulations, which are known to everyone in the UK, and when they enlighten him, he decides to ignore them! Boris Johnson seems to support an entirely different government regime than one of democracy and the rule of law. “ Either my right honourable friend had not read the rules or did not understand what they meant, and those around him, or they did not think they applied to them. Which was it, Prime Minister?” Former Prime Minister Theresa May’s question to the Prime Minister in the House of Commons session on 31 January 2022 I nternal Investigation – Let the fox guard the henhous e The opposition and his own Conservative party members pressure him to resign after this farce. After all, there are votes to lose! Nevertheless, the Prime Minister intends to sit it out. Boris Johnson and his close allies are asking all critics to wait for the report of Sue Gray, civil servant and Second Secretary of State at the Department for Equality, Housing and Communities. The idea is presumably to gain time and somehow grasp when and how the enquiry report will be published. There is actually hope for Boris Johnson in this regard. The independence and authority of Sue Gray are very questionable despite her excellent reputation. Sue Gray was tasked to establish the facts about those allegedly involved when her boss, Cabinet Secretary Simon Case, who was initially entrusted with this investigation, had to step aside. He had taken part in a Christmas quiz in his office himself and was therefore involved. Sue Gray has a reputation for being thorough and fair in her investigations. But what can she do when her hands are tied? She has no investigative powers. She can’t force witnesses to talk to her. She, therefore, has limited options to establish the facts of the case. Without the revelations in this 2nd week of January in the media and through leaks, she would not even know about most of the parties. On the other hand, establishing the facts should not be tricky, as everyone going in and out of No. 10 Downing Street must be checked by security guards, and there are many cameras. Moreover, every presence and absence should be documented. So why is it taking so long to get data and facts? Turkeys voting for Christmas! Another question is, what will happen with the report? Sue Gray’s job is a fact-finding exercise. Therefore, it is not her job to pass judgement and draw political and legal consequences from the findings. So to whom does Sue Gray hand over her report, and who evaluates the findings? Who decides on guilty and not guilty? Who decides what information is made public and in what form? The answer, which leaves a logically thinking person stunned, is Simon Case and Prime Minister Boris Johnson! How crazy is that? Like turkeys voting for Christmas! The Prime Minister could use Sue Gray’s report as a get-out-of-jail-free card. Find a formal error! Query interpretations of the results! Ignore results or veto them! By the way, this is a common practice of the Prime Minister, as, for example, the enquiry into Priti Patel’s bullying behaviour towards staff has shown. Boris Johnson refers everyone who demands clarification and consequences to the findings of the investigation, which are not yet available. Is he hoping that the scandal can be downgraded to minor misconduct, or does he possibly know that this report will not threaten him? High-ranking officials, politicians, and media representatives rightly fear that the investigation findings could be scrutinised, modified, and reinterpreted by those involved in the events. They, therefore, suggested that instead, an independent person, e.g. a retired judge, should receive Sue Gray’s findings, review them and then make recommendations on how to proceed. Others called for a professional police investigation. Source: The Guardian: No. 10 parties inquiry should have more independence, say former civil servants. 13.01.22. https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2022/jan/13/no-10-parties-inquiry-boris-johnson-sue-gray-former-civil-servants This call for a neutral and objective assessment of enquiry findings is not just a question of decency or common sense. It is a question of separation of powers, the rule of law, and, ultimately, democratic principles. How about a police investigation? When reports emerged of parties at No. 10 Downing Street, concerned opposition MPs asked the Metropolitan Police (Met) to investigate. However, the Met declined to investigate the illegal parties, saying there was no evidence. One email invited 100 staff to a “bring your own booze” event, which the prime minister admitted to attending. Video footage showed the No. 10 Downing Street press office members discussing how to describe the party if asked by the media. The subsequent resignation of Allegra Stratton, the press secretary. Were these deemed not enough evidence for the police to investigate? However, the Met did say they relied on Sue Gray’s report before launching their own investigation. Even as more and more cases came to light and the Good Law Project called for investigations, the police still refused to investigate. Instead, they closed the case despite the blatant disregard for the lockdown rules at No. 10 Downing Street, the seat of government. It looks like the police simply believed the government’s assurances, i.e. the accused, that no rules were broken. Seriously? Is this the usual procedure in criminal cases to believe the accused’s assurance that no law was broken more than circumstantial evidence and witnesses?! In the meantime, the press has done much investigative work for the Met, and more evidence emerges daily. The inaction of the Metropolitan Police seems to suggest that the police, like the ruling elite, have double standards. Not everyone is equal before the law! The Good Law Project is preparing to take legal action to force the Metropolitan Police to do their job. However, there are indications that the police follow a particular strategy regarding compliance with Corona measures. Police rely on persuasion – politicians on punishment In a BBC interview, Justice Minister Dominic Raab said that the police do not usually investigate matters retrospectively for cases going back a year. There is a core of truth in this untrue assertion by the Justice Minister. Of course, the police investigate offences that happened in the past and are not time-barred. Still, in the case of violations of the Covid regulations, the police do not routinely investigate retrospectively. So what does the law say about investigating breaches of the Coronavirus Regulations? According to Crown Prosecution Service guidelines, Covid offences fall under the less severe types of crimes, usually tried in a Magistrates’ Court. The sentencing powers are more limited, and there are also time limits for bringing proceedings. However, for covid offences, the time limit for initiating proceedings is three years of the alleged violation. But usually, the police issue a penalty notice where the offender can pay a fine to avoid criminal proceedings. So under the law, the police can prosecute Covid violations and have done so in many cases, but not retrospectively. No investigations were launched, and no criminal proceedings were initiated when individual political figures violated Covid regulations. Examples include when Dominic Cummings, then special adviser to Boris Johnson, travelled from London to Durham during the first lockdown; or when Matt Hancock, then health minister, was filmed kissing his assistant in the office during Covid social distancing regulations. It was a scandal but without legal consequences. Police authorities said they generally avoided prosecuting Covid violations retrospectively. Instead, they preferred to talk to people and encourage them not to breach the regulations, and only as a last resort did they initiate proceedings and issue fines. Nevertheless, it has been revealed that the Metropolitan Police have investigated several cases of Covid breaches and that more than a dozen Covid breaches have been prosecuted in Westminster Magistrates’ Court since December last year, including those involving parties. Source: https://fullfact.org/law/dominic-raab-police-investigate-downing-street-party/ 08.12.2021. So while the police relied on persuasion, politicians called for denunciation and punishment. In television interviews, Boris Johnson and his cabinet ministers, led by Home Secretary Priti Patel, urged the public to report their friends and neighbours to the police if they broke the lockdown rules, such as exceeding the number of friends or family allowed to meet. What hypocrites! The police fined thousands of people for meeting friends and family members in parks and gardens in violation of the Covid contact restrictions. Perhaps the police should pay them back the money they were fined? Peter Stefanovic, CWU News’ lawyer and filmmaker, has exposed this shocking hypocrisy in a brilliant video clip. See his tweet below. After much public pressure, Metropolitan Police Commissioner Dame Cressida Dick finally announced on Tuesday, 25 January 2022, that the Met would launch a criminal investigation into the parties at No 10 Downing Street. The Met’s decision was welcomed by many who hoped the Partygate affair could soon be cleared up. Sue Gray promised her full co-operation and to hand over her findings to the Met. However, a few days later, when Sue Gray was about to present her report to the Prime Minister, she was asked by the Met only to publish a heavily redacted version of the report. In addition, the Met asked her to delete critical sections dealing with the most severe allegations and her most explosive findings. Why on earth would the Met ask Sue Gray to redact parts of her independent report that everyone eagerly awaited? The Met’s request caused public confusion and an outcry of incredulous anger. Opposition and concerned Tory politicians condemned the Met’s request, indicating a rigged game. The Met defended its decision by arguing that the full publication of the report would interfere with its investigation. However, the Met promised that Sue Gray’s report could be published in full once the police investigation was concluded. Critics warned that this would mean a further delay of weeks, if not months, before the report was fully published. And that delay would benefit Boris Johnson, who hoped that everything would be forgotten by then, or at least the dust would have settled in the public’s eye. Some Tory MPs are currently waiting for the publication of Sue Gray’s report to decide whether to join other rebels within the Conservative Party. This would mean that the Tories intend to replace Prime Minister Johnson with another Tory MP. To set the process in motion, 54 out of 360 Tory MPs (15 %) must submit their vote of no confidence in Boris Johnson in writing to the chair of the “1922 Committee”, the committee of Tory backbenchers. In the subsequent vote within the Tory parliamentary group, the prime minister must win at least 50 % of the votes if he wants to remain in office. However, the rebels are hesitant because if the prime minister gets the necessary votes, he will be immune from further motions of no confidence from his party colleagues for a year. Therefore, undecided Tory MPs may have to wait for the police to complete their investigation. This delay buys Boris Johnson time to work on critics within his own party and keep his party’s base in line by distracting them from the issue. This, in turn, would also keep constituency candidates threatened by the scandal in line with him. No wonder his performance at Prime Minister’s Question Time in Parliament on Wednesday was upbeat and cheerful. When the Leader of the Opposition asked, he promised to publish the report in full, of course. He also laughed it off when the opposition demanded he resigns because a prime minister under investigation by the police for criminal activities was not fit to lead the country. Although the Met’s request was not made public until two days later, on Friday, it can be assumed that Boris had prior knowledge of this. Many Tory politicians privately expressed their concern that public trust in the political system was eroding. Source: Downing Street Parties: Sue Gray won’t wait for police inquiry. https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-politics-60177028 On Saturday night, 29 January 2022, critics demanded the Met be removed from the enquiry because of a conflict of interest. Dame Cressida Dick, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, is the most senior police officer in the country. Her immediate superior is Home Secretary Priti Patel, who owes her office to Boris Johnson. Priti Patel had extended Cressida Dick’s position as police chief for another two years in 2021, despite a series of scandals surrounding Cressida Dick. The plot thickens! There are calls for another person, perhaps a retired police chief, to be put in charge of the Met’s investigation. Source: Conservatives accused of ‘levelling up’ stunt to save Boris Johnson’s job. https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2022/jan/29/conservatives-accused-of-levelling-up-stunt-to-save-boris-johnsons-job . 29 January 2022. What is the message of this tug-of-war over investigations into the government? Clearly, there is a lack of objective, independent scrutiny within the UK system of government. Is this perhaps related to British government officials considering their special position above the law to be God-given? The fair question is whether the people they represent see it that way too, or at least accept it. Strategies to save Boris’ Bacon After a week of turmoil (mid-January 2022) with calls for resignations from all parties, the Prime Minister is said to have locked himself in No. 10 Downing Street at the weekend to ponder how he might survive the conflict. Distraction is the tool of choice of all populists and also that of the British ruling elite. – Operation Save Big Dog. First of all, it is reported that he and those close to him have launched Operation Save Big Dog. There are two aspects to this strategy. Boris Johnson is determined to change the culture within No. 10 Downing Street to survive. It is unacceptable that officials drink alcohol and hold parties whilst restaurants and pubs are closed, and personal contacts are forbidden throughout the country. He certainly would hit the nail on the head with that one. But this is not a cultural change. So what is meant? Introducing a ban on alcohol on Government premises? But that already exists. A civil servant who goes shopping during his lunch break and wants to carry a bottle of wine back to the office for dinner at home gets into trouble. Everyone knows about this ban, including the party-mad lot at No. 10 Downing Street, because why else would they have smuggled the alcohol in suitcases past security?! What else could cultural change mean? Decency? Law-abidingness? Integrity? We hear that an overhaul of the prime minister’s top team is also under discussion. Some of his supporters think this could work; others say such a measure is too lax and does not address the crucial issues. Whatever is meant by that! However, there are rumours, vehemently denied by Boris Johnson’s spokesman, that the PM will make some of his staff scapegoats , so they take the rap for him. Who would be in the firing line? According to The Guardian, Johnson’s First Private Secretary Martin Reynolds is among those most at risk. He has worked with Johnson for many years and has significantly influenced day-to-day decisions. However, he is facing dismissal for sending out the email inviting 100 staff to the infamous “bring your own booze” party in May 2020. Also at risk is Chief of Staff Dan Rosenfield , who took over after Dominic Cummings and Eddie Lister left at the end of 2020. He is accused of approving the claim that no parties were held at No 10 Downing Street, which proved to be a serious strategic error. Jack Doyle , who had been appointed director of communications after the departure of Lee Chain and James Slack, is at risk because the press office was the centre of the party and drinking culture. Doyle had offered his resignation when it was revealed that he had made a speech at the Christmas party on 18 December 2020. Johnson did not accept it then. It will be interesting to see who will take the rap for Boris. Sources: https://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/entry/boris-johnson-operation-big-dog-red-meat-nadhim-zahawi_uk_61e51df0e4b0a864b074bdbd Minister Denies Operations ‘Big Dog’ And ‘Red Meat’ Are Underway To Save The PM, 17 January 2022. https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2022/jan/16/operation-save-big-dog-who-is-in-line-of-fire-no-10-boris-johnson-partygate , 16 January 2022. -Operation Red Meat – Diversionary tactics Boris Johnson is desperately looking for diversionary scenarios, urging his party colleagues in the cabinet to come up with something to keep his backbenchers on his side – a strategy dubbed “Operation Red Meat”. But, of course, this is denied by the government and the Tories. However, what cannot be denied is the fact that frustrated constituencies are pressuring increasingly Tory MPs to distance themselves from the prime minister if they want to be re-elected. As a result, diversionary tactics are staged every few days. These include, for example, plans to scrap the BBC licence fee altogether. This a plan that would seriously jeopardise the future of the BBC as this is its primary source of income. Many Tory ministers and backbenchers, who have long criticised the BBC for its political coverage, would surely be delighted. It would kill two birds with one stone: distraction through media hype and closing ranks in the Conservative Party. The BBC is trusted and admired nationally and internationally for the thoroughness and accuracy of its news, reporting and its wide range of programming for all ages. It is the oldest and largest national broadcaster in the world. It celebrates its 100th birthday this year (18 October 2022). The BBC is funded primarily by an annual television licence fee levied on all UK households, organisations and businesses that use its radio, television, online and iPlayer services. The fee is set by the government and voted on by parliament. In 2019, annual revenue from the licence fee was almost £3.7 billion, representing 76% of the BBC’s total revenue of £4.9 billion. (£159 a year per household, or £13 a month). The government’s attack on the BBC threatens freedom of speech, press, and democracy. In its intention to abolish the national public service broadcaster, the government is attacking the principle of a democratic society. This entails ensuring access to fair, independent and balanced news media for all, broadcast media that should inform, educate and challenge, and exercise a degree of scrutiny over government and parliament. Holding those in power to account is an essential function of the news media. No wonder the BBC and other independent media are a thorn in the side of this government. As Polly Toynbee writes in The Guardian (16 January 22): “Britain’s influence has been deliberately vandalised by Conservatives who talk mindlessly of “patriotism” while demolishing all the vehicles of national pride abroad: foreign aid has been cut right back, while the British Council – almost as old as the BBC – is to close 20 offices around the world. British academic influence has been battered by the needless withdrawal from the Erasmus programme, and scientists are locked out of Horizon research funding. Now the BBC is mortally threatened.” Source: The BBC must defend itself with all its might against this mortal threat. The Guardian 16 January 2022. https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2022/jan/16/bbc-culture-secretary-funding-licence-fee On Sunday, 16 January 2022, Culture Minister Nadine Dorries threatened to abolish the licence fee permanently but softened her stance a day later. She announced that BBC licence fees would be frozen until 2024 and gradually increased in line with inflation after that. She justified the freeze by saying that this was necessary to help poor people who could not afford the licence fee and would face imprisonment if they did not pay. This decision is less radical than was expected, even though the temporary freeze will leave the BBC with a funding gap of £285 million until 2027. The BBC may be economically damaged, but it is safe for the time being. So it seems that either the government has realised that it is making a big mistake by trying to destroy the BBC, or the threat is a red herring from Boris Johnson’s current problems. The unexpected announcement of easing pandemic measures also makes an excellent distraction and an electoral gift from the Tories to their constituencies. In a surprise move, the beleaguered Boris Johnson announced on Wednesday (19 January 2022) that he would drop the Plan B measures as the country would have to live with the virus. This would remove Covid regulations in England, including the requirement to wear face masks. Plan A measures (such as the recommendation to continue wearing face masks when indoors with many people and the need for travellers to undergo testing two days after entering the UK) will remain in place for now. However, Boris Johnson promised further relaxation of the travel rules would be announced soon. Tory MPs who had opposed the entry restrictions were pleased, and this announcement is likely to help the prime minister gain more support. Business bosses, at any rate, welcomed the news of the end of Plan B as this would give them an economic boost. But some academics and practitioners said it was too much liberation too soon. Royal College of Nursing CEO Pat Cullen linked the change's reason and timing to the prime minister’s political crisis and warned that the country could not rely on vaccines alone. The pressure on the health system was unrelenting, she said. Dr Susan Hopkins, the chief medical adviser to Public Health England, advised people to continue wearing masks on trains, undergrounds, buses, and busy indoor areas and to get tested regularly. London Mayor Sadiq Khan said that wearing masks would still be mandatory on the capital’s public transport despite the law being scrapped. And, of course, immigration. Illegal migrants are always a red herring, and it always works! In this respect, measures are in the pipeline that certainly have the potential for discussion. It is rumoured that a policy to tackle the illegal channel crossing by migrants, which the government has long promised, could be launched soon. Home Secretary Priti Patel is expected to announce soon that the navy will be deployed to fend off boatloads of illegal migrants. However, critics amongst defence experts say that using forces in this way instead of focusing on threats from Russia and China would be a distraction from the real problems. But dealing with refugees seems to be a better distraction from the PM’s failures for the British people than the tensions between Europe or the UK and Russia and China. As a result, foreign policy may be subordinated to the political well-being of the Prime Minister and the Conservative Party. Even a series of long-overdue social measures and tax laws could be used to secure votes for the PM and his party and consign his transgressions to oblivion. The long-awaited levelling-up policy to improve deprived towns and areas is imminent. This policy is much anticipated by Tory MPs, especially those who won their seats at the last election in 2019 when frustrated Labour supporters voted for the Tories because they were promised significant improvements in their living conditions. But unless Boris Johnson and Michael Gove, Minister for Levelling-up, come up ASAP with a clear strategy, the electorate would see those election promises as hollow and empty and attributed to current failings. Pressed for time, Michael Gove’s Department for Equality, Housing and Communities issued a press release at the end of January saying 20 towns and cities in the original “Red Wall” (former Labour) constituencies in the north of the country would benefit from a supposedly new £1.5 billion fund. This announcement was to show that the government would fulfil its election promise of levelling up disadvantaged regions. However, this announcement backfired severely. Gove’s ministry had to backtrack and admit that the new fund was not new money but money already approved in the autumn budget 2021. The statement was consequently torn apart by opposition politicians. They exposed it as a gambit on how far Johnson and his ministers were willing to go to get the “Red Wall” constituency Tory MPs to back the Prime Minister. Source: https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2022/jan/29/conservatives-accused-of-levelling-up-stunt-to-save-boris-johnsons-job This hasty announcement also reveals another important point: the government is not remotely serious about equalising and reducing inequality in this country. Reforming and overhauling the health system is proving extremely difficult. Covid has exacerbated the backlog in the NHS, i.e. the lengthening of waiting times for examinations and operations. Clearing the backlog in the NHS has been promised for a long time and is urgently needed. The planned increase in the National Insurance contributions is supposed to fund measures to reduce the backlog. But this will not be enough, according to experts. Presumably, Tory MPs will not be prepared to accept further tax increases or charges before the election. Therefore, this issue will probably not be a priority in the near future. By contrast, the issue of fighting inflation could positively impact the approval ratings of the Tories and Boris Johnson. The cost of living has risen in the last year due to inflation, the rise in energy costs and the economic impact of Covid and Brexit etc., which is hitting low-income families particularly hard. So Boris Johnson could think about abolishing VAT. That would provide some relief. Chancellor of the Exchequer Rishi Sunak is expected to announce such a bill soon. This move could be a kind of “get out of jail” card for Boris Johnson – as long as Chancellor Rishi Sunak doesn’t take credit for it. Source: Operation Red Meat: The Policy announcements to help save Boris Johnson and if they will work. https://inews.co.uk/news/politics/operation-red-meat-explained-boris-johnson-policy-announcements-1405473 17 January 2022. Is the party soon over for Boris? “Two years ago, British Prime Minister Boris Johnson was on top of the political world. Today he looks like a dead man walking.” So commented the Washington Post on 13 January 2022 on the PM’s recent scandals. The Post warned that if the Conservative Party was not careful, it could soon step down as well. Indeed, members of the Conservative Party are concerned about the impact the party-gate scandal could have on the party and whether they would be able to retain their seats in parliament. “Lead or step aside!” demanded a growing group of Conservative MPs. – Loyal followers Oddly, most of his cabinet members still stick behind him and defend him. So does his loyal supporter Jacob Rees-Mogg – in his usual condescending manner. When Douglas Ross, the Leader of the Scottish Conservatives and a potential leader of a rebellion of Tory MPs, criticised Boris Johnson, Rees-Mogg made little secret of his contempt for his party colleague. In a television interview on Newsnight, he dismissively stated that Douglas Ross had always been an insignificant lightweight who had always been in opposition to the prime minister. That Ross has the full support of the Scottish Tory Party behind him and can be potentially dangerous to the government, something Rees-Mogg ignores for reasons of arrogance or loss of reality. Other cabinet members praise Boris Johnson, point to the successes under his leadership and urge MPs to support him. Among them is Nadine Dorries, the culture secretary. She is perhaps the most prominent supporter in the cabinet and across the party. However, she was recently brusquely expelled from a Tory WhatsApp group critical of Lockdown for trying to mobilise support for Johnson. Priti Patel, the Home Secretary, owes her post and the fact that she still holds it to Boris Johnson. He dismissed allegations of bullying against her by Patel’s staff, saving her from negative headlines, investigations and dismissal. Nadhim Zahawi, Minister of Education, a long-time ally of the Prime Minister, lets everyone know that Boris Johnson’s job is safe and what a successful Prime Minister he is. However, what precisely these successes were and whether they were of Boris Johnson’s doing, he does not explain so conclusively. because Boris Johnson’s so-called successes occurred when Dominic Cummings was running his activities. After losing his chief adviser, he stumbled from one misjudgement to the next. Moreover, his successes are dubious. Any Tory leader would have won the last election against a divided Labour Party. The credit for the successful vaccination campaign goes mainly to the scientists and the NHS and not to Boris personally. Under Johnson’s leadership, Britain has shrunk as a global power, a consequence of Brexit, which weakened relations with allies and key trading partners in Europe. But that is a different story. – Intrigue, betrayal and race for government positions In addition to the benefitting “cheerleaders” among the Conservatives, some distance themselves from the prime minister. Some hope for a chance to rise under a successor. Rishi Sunak and Liz Truss are considered potential opponents to Boris Johnsen as PM. Both still (half-heartedly) support him but have already begun to position themselves for a likely leadership battle and are courting the support of Tory backbenchers. Another motive for dismantling Prime Minister Boris Johnson could be revenge. After Boris Johnson dumped his long-time friend and compatriot Dominic Cummings, he sought revenge. Cummings and his friends from Vote Leave supported Boris Johnson in the Brexit campaign and helped him win the 2019 election. When Boris Johnson came to power, Dominic Cummings joined him as a special adviser and his colleague Lee Cain became communications director. However, under the pressure of the Covid crisis, significant tensions and heated arguments arose between the Vote Leave faction and the Prime Minister’s wife, Carrie, and her friends. They argued about the direction the government should take. As a result, Boris cut his ties with Vote Leave, and both Dominic Cummings and Lee Cain left Downing Street in mid-November 2020. Making an enemy of a friend with insider knowledge is always dangerous. Cumming’s revelations to the House of Commons Select Committee on 19 May 2021 about Boris’s incompetence shocked many. But none of this has hurt Boris Johnson’s position. Yet, Cummings continues to feed the media and whoever wants to hear damaging information about Boris Johnson. But nothing, not even an unleashed Boris Johnson, can be as damaging and hurtful as what the Conservative Party is doing to itself right now. They have crossed red lines in their boundless fear of losing votes and power. Tory fury spills over as Boris Johnson clings on The current scenario has something apocalyptic about it from the Tories’ point of view. Tory MPs report being inundated by their constituents’ angry emails and phone calls. Conservative associations across the country report dissatisfied members and resignations in protest against Boris Johnson and the Conservatives’ unwavering loyalty to him. Rightly, many Tory MPs fear that they will lose the upcoming local elections in May 2022 if Boris Johnson does not resign. One MP said, “The sad thing is that good MPs and people who work hard for their local constituents will have to pay the price (meaning Boris Johnson’s unsustainable behaviour) at the local elections in May. “He’s a coward.”…” It’s the fact that he lied. If he had said I did it, I’m sorry, then that would have been fine. But he lied. He has lost everyone’s trust.” (Voice of Tory voters) Source: h ttps://www.theguardian.c om/politics/2022/jan/17/grassroots-tories-want-boris-johnson-to-quit "In the name of God, go!" This disapproving attitude of many Conservative party members came to a head for all to see during Prime Minister’s Question Time in Parliament on Wednesday, 19 January 2022. Boris Johnson faced a Tory MP defecting to the Labour Party benches in front of the rolling TV cameras on that dramatic day. On that same day, one of the most senior Tory MPs and ex-ministers, David Davies, called on Boris Johnson to resign (“In the name of God, go!”). Rumour has it that in January 2022, some 30 Tory MPs declared their support for a vote of no confidence in the Prime Minister. More party colleagues are expected to withdraw their trust in the PM following Sue Gray’s enquiry findings. The decision of many Tory colleagues on whether to support or oust Boris Johnson depends on whether they believe he will bring them vote losses or vote gains in the 2022 local elections. And this is where the government comes in. The crackdown on rebels among the Conservatives is perfidious. Tory MPs report that some of them have been threatened with funding cuts. The planned redrawing of parliamentary constituencies next year, when several constituencies are likely to be dissolved, has also been used as a disciplinary measure to crush the rebels. Ministers had pressured and intimidated them into abandoning their plot against Boris Johnson. A senior Tory MP, William Wraggs (chairman of a House of Commons committee), accused the government of blackmail. He said the rebels had been threatened with the withdrawal of government investment in their constituencies. MPs reported that ministers, advisers and staff at No.10 Downing Street had encouraged the press or social media to publish embarrassing stories about those suspected of withdrawing confidence from the prime minister. Wakeford, who defected from the Tory party to Labour, said he was threatened and coerced into supporting the government. If he didn’t, then he would not receive the funding for the promised school in his constituency. Meanwhile, other MPs have come forward, accusing the government of putting pressure on them by threatening to deprive them of funds for their constituencies. The idea that some country areas are denied promised funding for schools, roads and other projects because their MPs are unwilling to stand by the failing prime minister is intolerable to any Democrat. LibDem leader Sir Ed Davey accused Boris Johnson of behaving more like a mafia boss than a prime minister. Labour deputy leader Angela Raynor called for a thorough investigation. However, the government denied any wrongdoing. Boris Johnson said he saw no evidence of blackmail. He refused to investigate the Tory MPs’ allegations until they produced evidence to support their claims. This could prove difficult as the party’s whips know how to pressure MPs without leaving a trail. The job of a whip is to get MPs in line to ensure that they vote the way the party leadership wants them to. The name “whip-in” probably comes from an old hunting term where whippers were tasked with keeping the pack of hounds in line. The whips are known to use intimidation and promises of promotion to ensure that potentially dissenting MPs are brought into line. This time, the whips may have overstepped the mark, as the allegations of blackmail and threats to withhold funds for their constituencies or cancel long-promised projects border on criminal behaviour and fraud. A red line has again been crossed. And this time, they may not get away with it. The beleaguered MPs plan to release a secretly recorded conversation with the Chief Whip, Mark Spencer, and to supply news stories to back up their claims of intimidation. Sources: In the Name of God: Go. Tory fury spills over as Boris Johnson clings on. The Guardian.19.1.2022. https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2022/jan/19/boris-johnson-faces-growing-demands-to-quit-from-tory-backbenchers?utm_term=61e8ec53ac83a81938ee24ff2deb4078&utm_campaign=GuardianTodayUK&utm_source=esp&utm_medium=Email&CMP=GTUK_email Boris Johnson: I have seen no evidence of blackmailing. BBC 20.1.22. https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-politics-60068612 What if the whole partygate scandal is a diversion from something much worse? Yes, the parties at No. 10 Downing Street are outrageous, and the Prime Minister and his colleagues are laughing in our faces. But what if this partygate scandal is just a red herring of something much more severe? George Monbiot of @DoubleDownNews warned that the government is taking away our freedoms in a big way without us realising it. Here’s a link to his podcast tweet. He reminded us that a Bill is currently going through its final stages in Parliament, the Police Bill . This bill threatens our democracy. It contains measures to stop and ban all forms of protest in the country. They include banning all forms of non-violent protest used throughout history worldwide. They also include new powers for the police to stop and search people and ban certain people from participating in demonstrations even if they have not committed a crime. If this law is passed, our fundamental democratic rights will be taken away. Therefore, it is extremely worrying that this bill could be quietly introduced into parliament with hardly any discussion in the media. The voices of the opposition went unheard, and with its large 80-vote majority in parliament, it was easy for the government to push this bill through. Fortunately, the members of the House of Lords, which has to confirm bills, showed more democratic understanding and sent the bill back to the House of Commons with proposed amendments for further discussion and voting. This will buy more time. So while everyone, media, parliamentarians and the country as a whole, stare spellbound and paralysed at the government’s brazen misconduct, human and civil rights are being curtailed, unnoticed by the public. The nationality and border protection legislation is another repressive piece of legislation. With this new Bill, the British government wants to overhaul the asylum and immigration system, allegedly to make it fairer and more efficient. In reality, it gives the Home Secretary new powers to turn away refugees and asylum seekers coming to the UK for protection and to deport undesirables. In addition, there are plans to strip British citizens of their citizenship and make them stateless without first informing them. Opposition politicians and many national and international organisations, such as UNHCR (the UN Refugee Agency) and Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF), have expressed serious concerns. They believe the measures envisaged in the draft law are glaringly flawed and likely to have severe consequences for people fleeing persecution and violence. The Bill contravenes the 1951 Refugee Convention, the treaty that has protected refugees for decades (of which the UK is a signatory) and other legal obligations of the UK. This bill would drastically undermine the country’s international standing. With this Bill, the Home Secretary seeks to criminalise, detain and push back people seeking protection, including children and survivors of torture and sexual violence. This bill would make the UK one of the most refugee-hostile countries in the world. Instead of improving protection for the persecuted, refugees would be discouraged from entering the UK by any means necessary. Priti Patel, the Home Secretary, has already promised 18 more such measures under the Police Act. This is disturbing, frightening news. There should be an outcry in the media and society. But nothing of the sort is happening. A wise rule is: When everyone looks at one point, look around! Distraction is of the essence for magicians, thieves and for politicians. We would therefore do well to be vigilant to protect our democracy. We need to be careful not to be distracted by parties, scandals and the Prime Minister’s silly clownish performances, or his outrageous and irritating behaviour whilst at the same time the most draconian laws are being introduced and enforced. Boris Johnson is only a representative of a system Whether he falls or not, either now or later, Boris Johnson is badly wounded as a politician and as the prime minister. Patrick Cockburn’s analysis in i-news of Johnson’s place in history sums it up: “ But a wounded populist is a dangerous thing, as Donald Trump has shown as he spews out calls to arms to rally his core supporters. Johnson is reacting in a somewhat similar fashion, threatening the BBC, one of the few remaining British institutions with real prestige in the world with defunding and sending the Royal Navy to stop refugees crossing the Channel. The egotism and irresponsibility about Johnson at bay that is breathtaking, and it will probably get worse. He may not have started the decline of Britain, but he has certainly speeded it up.” Source: Patrick Cockburn’s Dispatches. What will be Johnson’s place in British history? Expert analyses on world news. I-news, 22.01.2022. Okay, that may be true. But we must be careful and remember that it is not the behaviour and attitude of a single person like Boris that does injustice to a democratic country. It is the elitist system he represents and upholds. Another elitist prime minister could soon replace Boris, and the show would go on. As long as this elitist governing system is maintained, there will be one rule for them, the elite, and a completely different rule for us, the people. There will be no accountability and no honest leadership working in the interest of the people. (LL) Update 4 February 2022: After I’d finished writing this article (31 January 2022), a turbulent week followed that brought more chaos for the PM, Downing Street and the parliament. So I’ll include some key issues. First, on Monday, the watered-down report by Sue Gray still managed to reveal that the Met are investigating no less than 12 party events, including one in the PM’s Downing Street flat. Gray also blamed leadership and judgment failures for the scandal and excessive alcohol consumption in Downing Street offices. In his statement to Parliament, Boris Johnson accepted the findings and promised a shake-up of Downing Street operation. However, he faced criticism from his own side and the opposition. A beleaguered Johnson attacked the opposition leader, Keir Starmer, unfairly. He used an incorrect conspiracy theory from an extreme far-right website to smear him. He accused Keir of failing in his former Director of Public Prosecution role to persecute Jimmy Saville, the worst child sex abuser in history. This erroneous claim backfired severely. The PM was hit by a storm of protests, including his own MPs and lawyers of the victims of Saville’s abuse. The Saville smear dominated political debate, and his Cabinet ministers were forced to defend Johnson. On Thursday, and within 24 hours, Boris Johnson lost five of his Downing Street key staff. First, his long-standing top policy aide, Munira Mirza, resigned, giving her reason for her resignation Johnson’s use of false claims of the child abuse case to score political points. Further Downing Street resignations followed. Some (Doyle, Rosenfield and Reynolds) by mutual agreement, others (Elena Narozanski, political advisor from the No 10 Policy Unit) could take no more. Source: https://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/entry/exclusive-boris-johnson-emails-tory-mps-promising-to-listen_uk_61fd43e6e4b09170e9d01acf , 4 February 2022. https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-politics-60254837 . What do key resignations mean for the PM? 4 February 2022. And so, the story continues to run. But Johnson stubbornly will not go but fights on. He is causing more and more damage to our democracy by doing so. People will simply lose trust, not only in Tory politicians but also in democracy and our political system. LL My analysis is divided into several areas and includes: The Failure of the Political Elite in Dealing with Covid in the UK The Priorities of the Elite The Common-sense Mantra Sleaze, Cronyism, Mismanagement in the Covid Crisis Consulting the Government: Struggle to be heard and independent #scandal #noconfidence #attackondemocracy #breachesoflockdownrules #operationsavethebigdog #Partygate #operationredmeat