The year 2020 - as seen through the eyes of Bodger, my dog.

It’s turning out to be a funny year, don’t you think?  

I mean, it started off normal enough, with Mum putting all the sparkly decorations and cuddly Santas back in the garage.  I think it’s the garage.  It used to be.  But Mum’s started calling it the utility.  I don’t know why.  I like the Santas.  I like to rip their insides out.   She threw the Christmas tree away this year.  It was massive.  Nearly touched the ceiling.  Mum said it was driving her mad because there were bits missing and it stunk of damp from the garage.  Sorry, I mean utility.

Then she went on holiday to somewhere hot.  I didn’t mind because I got to stay at Paula and Tom’s.  Paula cooks me special dinners and always gives me treats.  They live upstairs, but Paula does the washing in our gar … utility … and she’s up and down a lot.   I always come downstairs with her just to check that Mum’s not hiding from me in our place.   I can still smell her, you see.

            Well, she came back, like she always does.  I don’t know why I worry so much.  Mum says I’ve got issues.  And then the weather started getting nicer and suddenly, everything got weird.  

            The tele was on all the time.  A man with fluffy white hair was telling everybody what to do.  He didn’t look very well.  

            Chilli stopped coming.  Ellie used to bring her every day and the three of us would go on our walk, while Ellie went to work.  Me and Chilli played all day until Danny came to collect her.   Apparently, Ellie has to work from home now.  So, I’ve nobody to play with.  I miss Chilli.   And I haven’t seen Milo – he’s my brother - and Silva for yonks because Becky and Daz are stuck somewhere and not allowed to come and visit.  I miss them too.  Craig used to come every day and talk to Mum while he had a cup of tea.  But we don’t see him much now and when he does call, he stays in the garden and won’t have a cup of tea because he says he doesn’t want to give Mum something horrible that will make her die.  He says a lot of people are dying.

            Mum’s been doing a lot of cleaning.  She’s even sorted out the doggy cupboard – washed all my harnesses and coats and put my treats into special plastic boxes.  And, believe it or not, I’ve got a new toy box.  I’m sure Mum will get me some toys to put in it soon.

            She started doing strange things on the floor every day.  Well, maybe not every day.  Stuff like lifting her legs up in the air and trying to sit up.  She was making scary noises and I tried to help her.  It didn’t work so I licked her face instead.  I think she was pleased.

Our walks have been much longer than they used to be.  Mum always used to say ‘good morning’ to people we met on our walks.  Especially if they had a dog too.  But people have started crossing the road when they see us coming.  Maybe they don’t like Mum’s smell.  It must be that.  I don’t care – I bark at them.  But not Joe.  I love Joe.  Joe’s a Labrador and Mum says I fell in love with him at first sight.  I’m not, like, well – you know – I’m not anything anymore.  Not since they had my bits taken off.  Since they had me, what’s the word?  Neutralised.

            I spend most of my time on the back of the settee, looking out of the window onto the square.  It’s my job to guard the house and bark at everybody and everything that walks past.  Us schnauzers are excellent guard dogs.  It’s been a bit boring this year though.  The square is usually full of kids playing.  Sometimes there’s a bouncy castle and families have barbecues and parties.  But nothing much at all has happened for ages.  One morning there was a lady doing something.  Yoga, Mum said.  I think the lady was trying to copy my morning stretch when I push my front legs forward and stick my bum in the air.  I do it better than she did.

            A big fat dog with a matching owner walk round the square twice a day.  I think that’s the only walk it gets.  Then there’s that horrible cat.  Marmalade, Mum calls it.  It has the nerve to come in our garden sometimes, but mostly, it wanders into the square like it owns the place.  Should be spread on a piece of toast if you ask me.

Dogs aren’t allowed in the square.  I think that’s why the cat looks at me so cockily. 

Anyway, Dad took me in there once.  He was always doing naughty stuff was Dad.  Mum called him a bugger.  He loved this square.  Somehow, he always knew which tree would be the first to get its leaves.  He would park his chair thing, that moved on its own, in the bay and let me sit on his knee.  If it was cold outside but the sun was shining through the window it was exactly like sun-bathing.   He always fell asleep.   But I looked after him.  Kept guard.  One day that bloody Marmalade turned up and I barked so much Dad nearly bounced out of his chair.  I didn’t get to sit on his knee after that.  I don’t know where he is now.  He’s been gone for a long time.

            I’ve been groomed!  First time in months, although it feels like years to me.  I’m glad, I thought I was going blind.  Mum’s had her hair cut too and she says things are starting to get back to normal.  Or, the new normal.  Whatever that means.    We’ve had gatherings.  Becky and Daz have been back home with Milo and Silva and we have met up for walks on the beach.  All the family has been together again at last.  We’ve had fun and been happy.   We’ve even been to the pub.

            But things are not quite like they used to be.   The man with the fluffy white hair says we still have to be careful.  Everybody has to wash their hands a lot, wear masks and stay away from each other.    ‘Hands, face, space,’ is how you remember it, says Mum.  Craig’s got a black mask with a big yellow smiley mouth on it.  He looks really odd, especially when his eyes are angry.  Mum’s got flowers on hers.  

            Mum won’t leave me outside a shop anymore in case some thieving bastard comes along and steals me, she says.  I’m precious, she says.  Not that Mum goes to the shop much.  A man usually brings everything to our house.

            Things have changed again.  The man has made a new rule.  Rule of Six.  Mum got really cross the other day. What’s the point of six when there’s around fourteen of us at Christmas time?   She says he might just as well cancel Christmas.  

‘Pan-fucking-demic!’ she said.

I’ve never heard that word before – demic.   

I wonder if she’ll bother getting a new Christmas tree?  Or if the Santas will come out of the utility?  I hope it isn’t cancelled, because it’s not just the cuddly Santas in the utility.  That’s where Mum keeps all the leftover food.  And all the beer and wine.  Somebody always gets drunk and forgets to close the door - and Chilli – she’s the brave one – sneaks in and grabs whatever she can.  Last year we had a whole gammon!  

            Oh, it’s got worse.   Nobody is allowed to go to anybody else’s house.  It’s banned.  But it’s OK for Paula to still come to ours, I heard Mum say, because we don’t live in a house.  We live in a bubble.  I didn’t know that.  But Mum can’t go to Craig, Ellie or Becky’s house and they can’t come to us.

            Mum’s on her own a lot now.  So am I.  Our bubble is very quiet.  She doesn’t have the television on anymore.  She says she can’t stand it.  She sits for hours at her lap top thing.  It’s not too bad because I have a nice bed behind her chair and she keeps talking to me.  I’m lucky, I’ve got three beds.  One behind her chair where we spend a lot of the day, one in the kitchen where Mum drinks wine in the evenings, and the big one in our new room - the room that used to be Dad’s.  I remember he spent almost all his time in that room. When he was poorly.  It’s ours now.  Sometimes I think I can still smell him.

            I think Mum can too.

 

 

            

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

21 September 2024 - A glimpse into the future

There were extraordinary scenes in the Commons today, when Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, swept aside the Despatch Box and dashed into the outstretched arms of Labour Party Leader, Sir Keir Starmer, where the two adversaries embraced in a massive bear hug.   Parliamentarians from all parties scrambled over benches in their haste to get to the front to shake the hands of colleagues and opposition members alike.  There was a great deal of back slapping and an astonishing degree of cheek kissing.  Ed Milliband had tears in his eyes as he grasped Boris’ hand in both of his in an energetic and heartfelt handshake.    The Speaker launched a flurry of MPs questions into the air as he gleefully jumped up and down on his chair, while Nicola Sturgeon danced the Highland Fling on the central table.  The hallowed Chamber resounded with joyful cries of ‘hurrah!’ ‘bravo!’ and ‘well done!’ The House, united in jubilant celebration of its unparalleled success.  

Covid 19 is dead!  Conquered!  Defeated!  Done!

Of course, triumph over the deadly coronavirus does indeed warrant expressions of jollification unprecedented in the House’s history but what, four years from the onset of the pandemic, has become of us.  

            Suicide rates have more than doubled.  From 11.2 people per 100,000 in 2019, the figure now stands at 24.  Average life expectancy has fallen from 81 to 69.  Only one in four people aged between 20 and 35 have a job.  Homelessness has quadrupled. Hordes of homeless people are crammed into deserted shopping centres with just a few ghostly mannequins for company.  They are fed once a day.  Wetherspoons, the only surviving pub chain, now granted charitable status, is expected to provide one free breakfast – so long as everybody obeys the rule of four, remains two metres apart, and eats outside.

            In 2021, the government introduced the rule of one.  This means that no family is allowed more than one child and no child is allowed more than one friend.  Parents are allowed to hug their children once a month, but only after testing negative for the virus, all must be wearing full PPE and must be outside.  Grandparents can see grandchildren every three months – wearing full PPE and behind a glass screen.  They must adhere to the rule of three – one grandchild to two grandparents or two grandchildren to one grandparent.  

Unless it’s for work, nobody is allowed to travel more than five miles from their home and can only do so on foot or bicycle and in accordance with the rule of two – no more than two people may be allowed to walk or cycle together.  Pets, with the exception of dogs, are banned.

            Children under the age of eleven attend school every seventh day and are taught in groups of five, according to the rule of five, unless a child has a twin, in which case the rule of five and a bit applies.  All secondary and further education is delivered remotely, and all homes must install a sterile bubble in which learning can take place.  No parent or teacher is permitted to enter.

            Schools and universities offer a limited curriculum specifically designed to support essential key sectors, the most essential, heading up the list:

·      Politics

·      Design and manufacture of face masks and PPE

·      Warehousing and Distribution

·      Science

·      Police and Security Services

·      Armed Forces

·      IT

·      Funeral Services

Tens of thousands of nurses have been made redundant and surgeons play poker in redundant operating theatres.  Airline pilots have ditched the skies in favour of the roads, where the average delivery driver earns more than the Prime Minister.   DPD is listed amongst the top ten companies in the UK.

            We have, as a nation, worked tirelessly in our determination to rid our shores of this dreadful disease.  And this determination has paid off.  All that’s left for us to do is address the catastrophic collapse in the economy and see if we can reverse our plunging fortunes over the next ten years.  Or possibly, fifteen.

Some of you, on reading this, may remain sceptical.  You may not believe everything written here.   You may decide it can’t all be true.  And you would be right.  

That bit about the jubilant scenes in the Commons – 

-       I made that bit up.

            

 

Lockdown Lunacy

There are worse places to be imprisoned than our homes.  

Like, prison.

Yet as we enter the fourth week of lockdown, it’s possible that some of us have started to go just a teeny bit mad, in spite of intense efforts to side step the insanity that, to be honest, we might just as well embrace until all this is over.

My decline started in week one, with cleaning.  

Maniacal cleaning.  

Every room.  Every corner.  Every cobweb.  Every cupboard.

My wardrobes have been cleared of clutter I haven’t worn for years.  Well, not completely cleared.  I retain some of the contents for when they fit me again, a proportion of garb yet to adorn me and all of those few but precious garments that I only ever wear.   I have left a few things hanging there simply to make the wardrobes feel useful and the rest now linger in bin bags until charity shops and tips reopen.

Woodwork has been washed, cornices cleared of cobwebs and light-fittings polished until they sparkle.  Admittedly I didn’t wash the bulbs.  But they did get a thorough bashing with a feather duster on a stick.

Whatever the disgusting concoction may be that lurks in the shower drain has been banished and tiles and grout bleached to the point where it’s difficult to breathe.

My disorderly kitchen cupboards have delighted in the attention they have received, with all items now having their own personal space.  I have even freed and binned the tin of golden syrup that has been welded to its particular shelf for many years.  I have filed my spices in alphabetical order.  I actually considered arranging my tinned food in the same way.  But I didn’t.  That would be weird.

So, onto week two …  

Shopping and food.

I was not part of the panic-buying brigade that bought all the pasta and loo rolls.

No, wine and hair dye were my obsessive purchases.  Thankfully I am a member of a wine club and excellent customers like me are being very well looked after thank you very much.

But food and all things foodie have suddenly become one of the most interesting aspects of all our lives. 

Daily conversations with family members run something along the lines of, 

‘What’re you having for tea?’ 

Along with a disproportionate interest in how the food for tea was actually acquired.  

‘How was the supermarket?  Busy?’  

Actually, the social distancing measures in supermarkets have improved the experience immeasurably.  The queue outside is now a source of interest and entertainment, many participants sporting the most imaginative homemade facemasks, with one or two actually wearing proper ones.  

People feel compelled, regardless of mask, to discuss the strangeness of these times with fellow queue members, and some just can’t stop themselves from spouting their ill-considered opinions for the rest of us to benefit from their perceived wisdom.

 ‘It’s all a plot, this virus.  A deliberate invention by the Chinese because we weren’t buying their phones!’ said one fella.

Once inside, you politely try to avoid other shoppers but end up buying whatever you can reach on the shelf, regardless of whether or not you want it, in order to maintain your two-metre distance.   It’ll come in, you think.  There’ll be a recipe for it somewhere.

And that’s the thing.  We are being much more adventurous in our cooking and spending so much more of our time doing it.

‘I managed to get some flour today,’ goes the conversation.  

‘So, I’m going to bake a cake.  Victoria sponge, I think.  Or, I might make scones.  Fruit or cheese?   Or, possibly both.  Or even bread.  Or … sod it … I’ll make everything.’

The flour mills are working twenty-four hours a day to try to keep up with the nation’s desire to bake and post pictures of their efforts on social media.   

I could murder a treacle tart.  If only I hadn’t freed that golden syrup.

But all this eating comes at a price.  Weight.   So, onto week three …

Exercise.

My poor little dog, Bodger, is exhausted.  

Not so long ago he would drag me out of the house bursting with excitement at the prospect of a little exploration.  A gentle meander to the beach and back, say hello to one or two dogs along the way.  Home.  Brekky.  Sleep.  Job done.

Not any more.  Now he cowers at the door as I get him ready for our morning marathon.   We march – and I do mean march - up, down, round and round again on every path and stairway leading to every spot of beach or garden that Scarborough has to offer.  

And it has many.  

I’ve tried to explain to him that our time out of the house must be valuable.  It’s precious now.  Important.  His walk has to count.  

I think he hates me.

My phone is complicit in this torture as it obligingly counts the steps we are taking and we are not allowed to return home until an acceptable number has been reached.

So does it end there?  A good walk, then get home and do normal stuff like read a book, watch television, bake everything you can think of?  

I wish.

Facebook is full of advertisements for exercise gadgets and programmes that promise to transform your entire body, with hardly any effort, in just thirty days.  Which of course will ensure that I emerge from this lockdown looking like a supermodel.

There are bits of kit that will flatten your stomach in just ten minutes a day!   (I’m unconvinced as to why I need to adopt such a speedy approach when all I have is time, however.)

So, have I been gullible enough to fall prey to this advertising?

Of course I have.

My new possessions include a Yoga mat; a Pilates magic circle; a tension rope and a Pilates stick.

I have found individual workouts utilising each piece of my new kit on YouTube and made up a timetable based on variety, interest and level of skill.

And when the aches and pains in my lower back disappear, I’ll give them a go! 

But apart from the potential madness, for those of us who are lucky enough to have a home in which to be imprisoned, there are benefits to be had.

Once you’ve been to the shop and/or had your marathon dog walk, you can get your PJs back on.

You can grow Dennis Healey eyebrows and leave those whiskers on your chin unattended to for days.  You can even wait until you’re as grey as my schnauzer before you dye your hair.

You can get all those jobs done that you’ve been threatening to do for years.  By week five I reckon the leaves on the plants in the garden will all have been nicely washed and my new pieces of exercise kit will have joined the long since discarded kettle bells in the garage.

Most importantly, we can prevent that feeling of isolation by keeping in touch with family and friends on social media.  

We can admire images of all the exciting stuff that people are about to eat, watch videos of friends and family doing whatever it is they do to stop them going nuts.  Whether that’s singing, drumming, drawing, dancing, cooking, baking, engaging in on-line quizzes, planting carrot tops or watching your pot plants grow.

It’s the least we can do.   Those of us at home, or working from home, are the lucky ones.

By the end of this, in spite of the home exercise regime, most of us will have gained a little weight.  

For very few, weight might be the only thing they’ve lost.  

All of us, without exception, will have lost something.  

Many businesses will have gone bust.   Many will have lost money, income and customers, perhaps even jobs.  

Some of us will have lost a loved one.

But, many others, will have lost their lives.

Climb Every Mountain. And Leap off One or Two

I am not the kind of person who thinks it’s a good idea to leap off a mountain.  

So why am I about to?

I mean, what am I doing?  I’m not a thrill seeker.  In fact, I am sadly and often irritatingly deemed un-thrill-able. Not that my thrill tentacles have been stimulated by all the wonders the world has to offer as I am far less well travelled than I would like. 

But, I am not a natural gasper.  I rarely gape open-mouthed at anything.  Had I ventured into the Louvre when in Paris and gazed at the Mona Lisa with my dreadfully untrained eye, I would probably have remarked on how lacking she was in the bonny department.   Admittedly, Rome’s Coliseum provoked a bit of an ‘oo’, but I am generally more inclined to be underwhelmed than wowed.   Even as a kid at the fair you’d be more likely to find me hooking a duck than whizzing on a waltzer.  

Yet, here I am, harnessed and helmeted, myself looking anything but bonny, about to place my life in the hands of my allotted pilot, with nothing but the skill I seriously hope he possesses and a carabiner or two to prevent me from plunging to my very messy death. 

Why?  Why am I about to leap off Mount Teide to paraglide in the skies over Tenerife?  

Partly to blame is my brother Jez, who had been thrilled to bits when he performed this ridiculous feat the previous day.   Then my insane sister-in-law Tracey and her ‘let’s do it’ attitude must carry some of the responsibility.

But mostly, it’s the Pinot.

Much, too much of it. 

Consequently, having devoured my bottles of courage, there can be no bottling out.

Tracey, chattering away as usual, leaps off the mountain like she does it every day.

After two failed attempts, the fella I’m strapped to, Ramon, I believe is his name, says, 

‘Run to the edge and keep running when we leave the ground,’  

Now try and remove from my mind the image of a cartoon character’s little legs running like mad, suspended in mid air for a split second, the cliff behind him, nothing below him.  I hear his horrific scream as he falls, spinning faster and faster, becoming smaller and smaller until he’s no more than a tiny dot and then … splat! 

Great.  Just great.

So I run.  And keep running.  Just like that little cartoon.  And … 

I’m not falling!

Quite the opposite, in fact. 

The wind catches us and sweeps us alarmingly and swiftly upwards and I pray to the God in whom I do not believe that my pilot has neither murderous nor suicidal intentions.  

Of course he hasn’t.

He does however, order me to smile at the selfie stick which photographs and records this flight, the idea being to capture my squeals of delight and the expression of joy on my face.    I’ve seen the video.  Is it possible to look terrified and slightly bored at the same time?

I sense his disappointment as he was doubtless expecting cries of ‘Whoop whoop!’  ‘Awesome!’  ‘Wow!’ ‘Fantastic!’    

But no.  

I gaze at the black, jagged, treacherous, rocky landscape below and fail to utter a single word.

Tenerife, of course, has charm and beauty in abundance, but as an island formed of volcanic rock, it could not be described, from the ground or air, as scenically stunning.   Well, some might describe it as such, but un-thrill-able me wouldn’t.

After a few minutes, even Ramon stops making happy noises.   Is it meant to be like this, I wonder, as the beach where we are due to land gets further away.  We aren’t actually moving forward.    The wind, which is incredibly noisy up here, holds us captive.   We are buffeted, up and back and down and up again.    Suspended, like a bird of prey, hovering.    

‘The conditions are not right,’ says Ramon, calm as you like, and proceeds to do all manner of stuff with what I assume are the controls.  ‘Get ready to land.’

I see Tracey in the distance, already on the ground.  The gritty wasteland upon which we clumsily plonk is hardly the resplendent sweep onto the beach that was supposed to happen, where Jez, camera at the ready, stands poised to seize the drama of the moment.

Ah well, all in all, sadly underwhelming.   But, hey, at least we’re alive.

At this point, face that I have, (shame on me, by the way) standing not quite at the foot of the mountain, I realise, sadly, that I have become a miserable old sod.   

What is wrong with me?

I have declared I’m not a thrill-seeker. That is, and always was, absolutely true.  

But when did I lose my joie de vivre?  

I dismiss the question instantly and forget about it.

But it won’t quite go away. 

Clearly, this isn’t an instant happening, like a flash where everything is illuminated and suddenly you can see clearly.  No, nothing like that.  

This is more of a gentle nudge, a nudge that becomes a persistent little prod at my consciousness.    

Ever so slowly, a new feeling of disquiet begins to creep into my perfectly comfortable life.

And my perfectly comfortable life, I realise, is part of the problem.

When you don’t have to do anything, it’s terribly easy to do nothing.  It’s easy to slip into a routine where your existence is neither challenged by the unexpected nor daunted by the unfamiliar.   You feel safe.  It’s nice.  It’s comfortable.  Easy.

Whatever happened to me?

Of course I know the answer. 

Nigel happened.  MND happened.  Nigel died.

Grief cloaks everyone in different ways.  I believe my cloak of grief has cocooned me so completely and comfortably that I don’t even know it’s there.  Like cashmere, it soothes.  I think I started working on my comfort blanket well before Nigel even died.  What may have been interpreted as resilience and strength was merely armour to paralyse the pain.  A barrier erected not only to keep pain out, but also to lock emotion in.    The trouble is, when you imprison sadness, happiness is not allowed anywhere near.  It simply does not belong.  Sentiment, passion and joy can be dangerous.  They can hurt.  

As Nigel and his favourite band Pink Floyd would say, I have become, comfortably numb. 

But, when your only job of the day is walking the dog; when you spend the rest of your day dusting the surfaces you dusted yesterday; when you can’t think of a single interesting thing to post on your blog; when the highlight of your day is a ginger biscuit with your coffee; when part of you is waiting for something to happen and the other part of you is actively ensuring it does not … and, 

And, I can’t believe it … 

You have reached level 877 on the Wordscapes App … 

It’s time for change!

I have spent too long in the safety of my base camp at the foot of my particular mountain.  It’s time for me to leave and explore the slopes. 

It’s time for me to remember how to live.  

And Nigel, in my heart, will come with me.  He will give me the strength to climb the mountains I will surely find.

And, I know he will hold my hand, when I leap off one or two.

  

Beer. More Beer. Sausage, cabbage and fried egg and oh, yes - Hans Zimmer.

Beer.

Danny had a plan. 

Our first evening in the beautiful city of Munich was to be spent paying homage to the locals, because, not only is Munich the capital of Bavaria, but also the capital of beer.

Having contributed nothing more to the planning than ‘what’re you wearing?’ Ellie and I were not about to argue, so, glad of the comfy footwear and guided by Google, we follow Danny and his phone for the twenty-minute walk from our hotel, across the River Isar, into the heart of the city.  

We are heading for the world famous Hofbrauhaus, a beer hall serving Hofbrau beer from 9.00 am to midnight, 365 days a year to, depending on which website you’re looking at, between three and five thousand revellers.

Well it would be rude not to go in wouldn’t it?

We enter the vast hall and are assaulted by the resounding uproar only a few thousand determined boozers can produce.  Beneath the racket we detect the melodious strains of Bavarian folk music as the band, resplendent in full traditional garb, valiantly play on, in a bid to add a little harmony to the chaotic yet joyful hullabaloo.

Waiters clad in lederhosen and collarless jackets and waitresses wearing the pretty Bavarian costume known as dirndl weave amongst the rows of beer-laden tables with characteristic German efficiency as they deliver, without the aid of a tray, not two or three beers at a time to their thirsty patrons, but at least eight.  

Eight! 

There is only one size of beer in the Hofbrauhaus.  You cannot have a small or a large beer.  You have a stein.  That’s it. 

Neither can you visit the Hofbrauhaus without having at least one.

We watch, mesmerised as these glistening barrels, clasped to the waiters and - even more incredibly – the waitress’ chests are held as securely and safely as cherished children.

It’s impossible, we declare, unable to believe our eyes.  What if one of them were to trip, we wonder, wickedly hoping one would.

Having witnessed such masterful strength and balance, I am ashamed to admit I struggle to lift my single stein even with two hands!

We find the bottom of our glasses eventually and stagger off in search of a sausage and to sample more of this city’s hospitality.  Which I would tell you about, but alas, I can’t remember!

More beer

We are determined to walk, to see the sights, to tour the city on an open top bus.

If we are to believe our iPhones, we certainly walked - twelve kilometres one day and fifteen kilometres the next.

You might imagine that a leisurely stroll around Munich would not present a problem but there is a network of abundant cycle paths traversing the entire city, not easily noticed by the hapless and often witless tourist.

Add to that a peloton of cyclists seemingly training for the Tour de France, or more likely on their way for a beer and you find yourself leaping for your life if: you are foolish enough to chat with your companions; daft enough to stick headphones in your ears and listen to music; walk and simultaneously read your guidebook or follow the map on your phone.

These cyclists charge up behind you, vigorously tinkle their little bells and adamantly refuse to slow down.

For the sake of our lives, we try very hard to obey the rules and not stray onto those perilous paths.

We do however struggle with the crossing the road rule that demands that nobody, absolutely nobody crosses the road until the little green man says so.  

Even when there is not a car in sight.  In any direction.  Anywhere.

I’m not talking navigating the equivalent of spaghetti junction here, but a simple street no wider than ten yards.  

For the most part, we are obedient, but once or twice we risk getting shot by the green men police and do the English thing and make a run for it.

The pedestrianized city centre offers us safety from little green men but unfortunately not cyclists. Despite the danger, we make it to the central square unscathed and join a huge crowd of people waiting for the town hall’s famed chimes and glockenspiel show of moving figures telling tales from the 16^thcentury.

Sadly underwhelming.

We arrive at the open top tour bus stop twenty-five minutes early.

Beer?

The bus fills up as we drink our beer, so we’re obliged to wait for the next.

Another beer?

At least the hour on the bus keeps us off it.  

But this is a city that thrives on beer.   Apart from the multitude of bars and restaurants – all of which are enormous and bursting with people, it has 180 beer gardens providing for 180,000 drinkers.  Almost all the main attractions in the city boast beer gardens.  The beautiful English Garden, one of our hop off points, enables a mere 7000 to make merry – and this is not even the largest.

We head to the outdoor market and rather than stalls bustling with shoppers we find, in its centre, row upon row of tables packed with sausage munching beer drinkers.

It wouldn’t surprise me to see ‘I’m only here for the beer’ emblazoned on everybody’s T. Shirt.

Well, if you can’t beat ‘em …

But there is a limit. And quite frankly my trips to the loo are becoming tiresome.  

Despite the beer jacket it’s cold in Munich in November and all this walking and drinking makes you hungry. 

And therein lies the problem.  Food.

Sausage, cabbage and a fried egg

Of course we’ve already sampled sausages from street vendors, but Bavaria is particularly famous for its weisswurst (white sausage) and they are everywhere. They may very well be delicious, but the problem is – they’re white.    

Bavarian cuisine is clearly loved by Bavarians as every bar and restaurant is teeming with diners tucking into enormous helpings of something or other, accompanied by giant pretzels on the side.  Presentation doesn’t seem to be an issue.  Vast quantities of everything chucked on the plate will do.

There is a smell of cabbage in every establishment, not surprising, given that it features heavily on most menus.  As do dumplings, liver dumpling soup, liver meatloaf, anything containing lard, cuts of meat we fail to recognise drowning in pools of gravy and topped with, weirdly, a fried egg.  Yes, a fried egg.

We see someone eating a salad, also with gravy, from a dish the size of a washing up bowl. 

The words Bavarian cuisine and fine dining do appear in the same sentence at the restaurant in BMW World, but our heady excitement is quashed when we realise it’s closed tonight. 

All in all, I suspect MasterChef has yet to make it to Bavaria.

Our advice?  When in Munich, eat Thai.

But why are we here? Is it only for the beer?  Of course not.

Hans Zimmer

Not the man himself unfortunately, but his orchestra in a show entitled ‘The World of Hans Zimmer – a symphonic celebration.’

For those who are unaware, Hans Zimmer is the genius composer responsible for film scores such as Lion King, Gladiator, Pirates of the Caribbean, The Dark Knight, Inception, Madagascar, The Holiday, The Last Samurai and countless more.

The concert is staged in the Olympic Hall in Munich’s colossal Olympic Park where earlier in the day Ellie and I encourage Danny to indulge in engineer heaven at BMW World and Museum. We accompany him until we’ve seen enough models of BMW, Mini and Rolls Royce at which point we kindly let him wander around alone while we find something else to do.

Beer?

On arrival at the hall we behave in an outrageously un-English fashion by barging our way through a mob masquerading as a queue and successfully knock about twenty minutes off our waiting time.

Time enough to grab a beer…

As the musicians take their places, an anticipatory hush descends as fifteen thousand excited people fall silent.  Well, except for the German couple next to Danny, who politely asks them to ‘sshhh!’ They do so, but not without a withering glare. 

Nothing stirs the soul quite like the drama of orchestral music.  The sound fills every part of you.  It vibrates deep within you and makes your heart pound against your chest.

I defy anyone not to be moved to tears as the spiritual and mournful music from the Gladiator reverberates in every corner of this vast arena.

The stunning film sequences projected on the screens behind the orchestra transport us to the very centre of ancient Rome.

Lured from the darkness of Rome to the kaleidoscopic vibrancy of Madagascar, we delight in the jaunty melody as Gloria the Hippo struts her stuff.  Disney can make a hippo sexy, but only Zimmer can make her dance.

We share in the spectacular and stirring victory of The Dark Knight and are gently soothed by the tuneful harmonies from The Holiday. 

The music launches you through time, across galaxies, to the summits of mountains and the fathomless depths of oceans.  

Your pummelled emotions bounce from fear to joy to triumph and despair.

We are held spellbound as The Pirates of the Caribbean surge through raging seas and the swell of the music intensifies so acutely you feel your heart is about to burst through your chest.  When you reach the point where you know you can’t hold your breath for another second the orchestra clutches you ever tighter and carries you with it as it hurtles towards its magnificent crescendo.

Phew!

Uplifted and exhausted, fifteen thousand people exhale as one, and the arena erupts in thunderous and rapturous applause.

What a wonderful, emotional and unforgettable experience.  Well worth the trip.

Homeward bound the following day, we arrive at the airport with two hours to spare.

Beer?