Bloody Germans

7. The Domestic German

  The Germans have quite a few peculiarities in this area, as well as others that to me, appear to be quite well organised. One that I do consider to be very high above the standards of Great Britain, is in the way they have sorted out their housing.

 Accommodation

In UK, home ownership is said to be an important issue and status symbol. Owning your own home, even if that home was once a rented local council property and still remains surrounded by such -- to own your own home means you have climbed many rungs of the social status ladder.

But in Germany, the Germans much prefer to rent.

Is this simply because that, unlike their British counterparts, they are not brought up to see home ownership as a part of their Empire and class status, or do the British struggle towards home ownership for reasons other than that?

The Germans prefer to rent simply because their accommodation industry caters towards that trend -- even for single people. This not only includes decent accommodation but also a fair and legal protection for both landlord and tenant. The landlord in Germany, is at most times a large organisation or an investment of such, and the availability of accommodation works for everybody right across the board; rich or poor, employed or unemployed -- even the church acquire property to assist the unfortunates off the streets and onto the accommodation ladder.

Rents are set by the total size or space of the letted property, in square metres and not by the total amount of bedrooms, as it is done in the UK.  The flats are mostly purpose built and in all cases I have experienced, they each come with a fully equipped kitchen with modern appliances, full central heating and a bathroom with toilet; shower and bath as standard. Connections for both cable TV and telephone are also fitted as standard.

In each case, the accommodation is handed over freshly decorated and in good repair for the new tenant.  It is a condition in the contract that an occupier must attend to this themselves before surrendering the let, and it is inspected prior to any return of a deposit.

The whole system works extremely well and is truly impressive; lifts are mostly clean and in working order, there is good security on main entrance doors, halls and stairways are regularly cleaned throughout, and surrounding gardens are always kept in good order. Most tenant blocks will also have their own resident Hausmeister (Caretaker), to maintain everything stays in good order.  In Germany, this is a proviso for most dwellings and not just for the expensive rented properties alone.

In UK, not only is the trend far different but so is the overall picture. I have had more than enough experience of private letted properties in my own home town and surrounding areas, to understand that most rented accommodation, except for the very expensive, are nothing but dumps that desperately cry out for repair or decor. The buildings are often ex-hotels or large houses that have been converted cheaply into as many flats that they can possibly squeeze in. So often, they are inadequately built for flat usage; no satisfactory soundproofing, heating or security -- and more times than not, tenants have to endure shared amenities of kitchen, bathroom and toilet.

In my experience, the end result of the way these homes are organised, a good few of the tenants will be made up of those who are just passing through; young people who have recently left home or are on a short visit to the area. To them, the dwelling is merely a halfway-house and never a place to be respected as a home. This all too common attitude, makes it a living hell for the long-term established tenants, who do regard it as their home.

The landlords, especially some who own several such rented properties, are at most times unscrupulous and the business itself, is often a racket that is allowed far too much  freewill to devise its own rules. Many of these run-down properties are occupied by the single, unemployed, low paid, or couples waiting to be allocated a council home. The vast majority of local government housing departments in Great Britain, lack an appropriate housing policy, which in turn, generates long waiting lists due to housing shortages. In numerous cases, for single people -- they will offer no housing policy at all.

For local government housing departments, no matter how mercenary or unscrupulous the self-organised private landlords may be -- a blind eye is often turned away from them, because they must be a welcome relief that assists local officials to shamefully bypass their responsibilities.

Changes in law, that have in the past been fixed to allow rights to tenants, often render them with even less security than they had before; the so called, Right to Buy and the Security of Tenure, steers most property owners to put tenants on six-month only contracts, or conditions of let that are well outside the new protective laws -- or in other cases, they’ll tender no contract at all.

In UK, apart from these run-down bedsits or flats, there is little else available for many low-paid people, and in the both the dilapidated or more suitable high-priced properties, there are even further restrictions imposed by landlords who refuse a tenancy to those burdened with pets, children or are unemployed. The only other option is to apply for Local Government Council Housing, but that course of direction is not only slow, it also involves an unfair points system that is highly discriminative to many; the single, the unmarried, the childless, and of course once again -- the unemployed.

So it’s no wonder that the two trends differ in Germany and Great Britain. For most in UK, buying their own home might engender people to feel a class above and successful with their life -- but it is also a sure way to escape the nightmares of private renting.  In reality, this freedom is short-lived; a monthly mortgage can often prove to be no more than a millstone around their necks that will restrict them from all other important pleasures in life -- and for the greater part, if not all of their lives.

The average German prefers to rent their accommodation, buy a decent car, holiday frequently and enjoy numerous other pleasures during their working lives -- which they can afford, due to not only the well organised and fair renting conditions, but also because they have the same unprejudiced and legal binding protections within their employment and pay conditions.

Though most decent accommodation available to the German people, is also available in UK, the big difference is -- in Germany, it is available to all. In Britain, respectable accommodation is only obtainable for those who can afford it, and that slams the door on so many others who are thrust out into the cold and exposed as vulnerable prey to the terms and conditions of the ruthless, greedy landlords.

The Kitchen

The one thing that I did notice that was different about a German home, compared to most English houses, was the size of their kitchens. In England, the kitchen is a very important social feature of a home -- it is a place to sit and talk with your neighbours and friends when they pop over a cuppa tea an’ biscuits. Go to any British home when they are having a party and it won’t be long before you find that most people have all congregated and are having the best of conversations, in the kitchen. Whenever the British pop next door to have a chat, nine times out of ten, they will end up in their neighbours kitchen.

In Germany, in many homes this is not the case. The kitchen is for cooking and no more. All visitors will congregate in the main sitting room, where such beverages as coffee und Kuchen will be brought to them -- from the kitchen. In the majority of German kitchens I have seen, they are very small and would not accommodate many people or allow them to sit down comfortably around a table. Even modern houses I have seen have been built with a very small kitchen. In Britain, when prospective buyers are looking over a new home, the kitchen is one of the first places they check-over, prior to viewing the rest of the house. The next room they will look at is often the bathroom. So an average German home with their small kitchens would certainly turn up the noses of most British people, especially the women. Another strange thing within a typical German kitchen, is the cooker. A German cooker will not have a grill attached to it. In Britain, every kitchen cooker has its own grill built in either above or below the hob. Useful for grilling the morning breakfast. But in Germany, there are simply no grill attachments at all, apart from paying for an extra add on, but that would be fitted within the oven itself. In Germany, it seems they have no use for a grill attachment -- not even for toast as for that, they just use an electric toaster. That takes some getting used to, I tell you!

 The Bathroom

The typical German bathroom’s are on average far better than can be found in most British home’s, though a good few of them do not contain an actual bath; the Germans much prefer to shower. Homes that do have a bath, will also have a shower unit built in as standard; either attached to the bath taps or in a separate unit altogether; in many cases they will have both. I also noticed that in many German bathrooms, in fact, right through the whole home; be it a flat or a house, they do not use lightweight plastic plumping piping that are to be found in British homes. Within all the German homes that I have seen, the piping is always made of stainless steel. Also, a German shower or Dusche, will have a lot more water force than most typical British showers; an average British shower, compared to the what most Germans are used to, would be no more than a joke to them. In Britain, to be able to have a shower anywhere near as an typical German shower, one would have to invest in an expensive model such as a Power Shower. All German showers are power showers. Another thing I noticed in a German bathroom that does contain a bath, is that the bath itself is by far longer than a typical British bath. In England, it is difficult for anyone over five foot six, to lie down and back in a bath without having to stick their knees up. In a German bath, this is not the case; one can lay back, stretch out the legs and have them completely immersed under the water.

 Balconies

Private balconies are also very popular in German homes and almost every flat dwelling has one. In an English flat, that would be considered a luxury or extra bonus for the home, but in Germany and from far back in time, most flats come with balconies as standard.

Seeings most Germans prefer to rent than buy, many of them live in large blocks of flats. So a balcony makes up for the loss of not having a garden to sit in on nice sunny days; a balcony is a home-garden for a lot of Germans and they are well appreciated.

When I look for a flat, I always need to ask the landlord if the balcony is facing the East. And if it doesn’t, then I am no longer interested.

“Are you into Feng Sheui?” they ask. I say..,

“No! I’m into Sky Satellite Telly!”

 Attics and Basements

A German house, from the old to the new, has another useful feature that is so often not to be found within British homes, apart from some very old houses. When a German house is built, they make good use of every part of the structure, no matter if it is a two storey home or a bungalow, they will always make good use of an attic and cellar. In most British homes, especially the more modern or recently built, there is never a basement or cellar. In the attic or loft itself, apart from dead centre, there will hardly be any head-space to allow anybody to stand upright. Most attics in Britain are either ignored or become places in which to store things. In Germany, the attic is used as part of the house’s living quarters and so too are many German cellars. This has always been the case in Germany, many of their older houses have roofs that cover half the dwelling -- because all space below that roof has always been considered as still a main part of the living space within the whole building. In a typical and modern British home, a lot of that space is wasted.

Just Another Tail

The idea of watching a late night horror movie has never appealed to me. In fact, even Boris at breakfast would be more than enough to curl my egg. Not that I am easily scared by a mere television programme -- I just think they are a bit too far fetched, or too stupid to be true.

Only, a good while back in Britain, when I was alone in my flat and taking a quick three-hour bath, I suddenly  heard the chinking sound of some milk bottles. I knew it wasn’t the milkman. Well for a start, they don’t deliver at night -- plus, I would have heard him a’ whistlin’ past my bathroom window -- but mainly, because I didn’t have a milkman!

I thought nothing more of it.

I just lay back in the bubbles of  my bath and continued to elegantly dump my cheese sandwiches into my coffee.

Later, much later.., I was awoken from my sleep by yet another noise. I was really far too tired to be bothered; I’d had such a long day in that bath -- so I just shouted out..,

“Two pints please and a strawberry yoghurt!”

And then went back to sleep again.

Suddenly -- I was startled by a startle!

A cold feeling passed right through me. I checked the cap on my hot water bottle -- it wasn’t that.  Then another noise.  I leapt from my bed like a fat turkey at Yuletide and switched on the light. And there it was -- the most hideous, ugliest thing I’d seen since my first blind date!

It was a monster -- it was a mouse!

At least, I think it was a mouse. I mean, mice are supposed to have long pointy tails -- but this one, had no tail at all -- just a big bulge on it’s back!

My mouse was a Hunchback of Notradamme.

It was sort of tan coloured and it just sat there staring at me.

Three in the morning and  I was all alone, except face to face with this mouse disguised as a rabbit!

I made a leap for the heights and security of my bed.

Well, not being too fond of mice, my heart was going ninety to the dozen, alongside the mouse’s heart. We sat there sizing each other up for about five minutes; it seemed longer, to see who was more scared of who -- the most!  I knew I was ahead of him in size, but that offered little comfort as there was far more of me for him to scare.

Being a fairly level headed sort of person, I decided that panic was out of the question because he wasn’t showing any signs of it. My mind flashed back to a similar time, when I was confronted by yet another killer mouse -- only that time I had a dog! 

I leapt onto the bed and yelled out for the protection of my beast --

“Kill! Kill! Kill!”

I shouted, jumping up n’ down on my bed.

Next minute, the dog jumped up onto the bed with me, as if to say --

“You! You! You!”

A killer mouse is one thing -- but a dog with a yellow streak down it’s back, is another. I had to put up with weeks and weeks of excuses from that animal. I just hate a dog that is neurotic!

Alongside my bed, was a medium size cardboard box full of junk -- next year’s Christmas presents. I came upon the idea of throwing the empty box on top of him; trapping him long enough for me to call out the zoo people, or whoever one calls in such an emergency. So I emptied the box contents and with the accuracy of an apple to a barn door -- I threw the box towards him.

In my haste and bravado -- I forgot to make allowances for air dynamics and so its motion was interrupted by an intake of forcible air, which in turn -- altered its downward flow-motion from a position of positive, to that of negative -- in other words, it turned in the air and fell the wrong way up onto the mouse’s nut!

I could see straight away that this incident had annoyed him. He had that telling look in his eyes. So I retreated back to my bed and to the added protection of the underneath of my duvet. I had to take stock and review my new found situation -- now worsened by this mad killer mouse with a sore head and sweet revenge in his heart.

I thought of reasoning -- confrontation -- talk woman to mouse..,

“Look mouse!” I said. Well, I didn’t know his real name and this was no time for niceties -- I wanted and considered I had the upper hand with this more forward approach.

“I pay the rent around here.., it’s my flat and you are a trespasser!”

If the mouse had any conscience -- I was now playing on it.

“It’s way past three in the morning and I’ve a big day tomorrow.., so if you don’t mind, I would much prefer it if you left -- now mouse!!”

He just looked at me as if I was stupid. I couldn’t understand it -- it worked on the blind date. This mouse had more guts than the blind date did!

I tried tact..,

“Look, sorry about the head an’ all that -- I’ve got a few aspirins in the cup.., Look! Will you get the hell outa here before I lose something -- I’ll give you just five seconds to grab your bit of cheese, or whatever needs grabbing -- and git!”

What’s worse -- a neurotic dog or a dominate mouse -- I was completely ignored!

So I tried my next best move -- I threw a wire coat hanger at him!

He skid-daddled across the room like a drunk on pay-day. I dived for the kitchen and grabbed a broom.

Now we were on equal terms -- only mine were better!

I moved in. I could have easily been mistaken for John Wayne with grenades between my teeth. I felt good in overcoming my fear. I moved up slowly to his position; being careful not to crack a twig. And with my broom fully cocked and loaded -- he suddenly shot through my legs. A cowardly move on his part, I thought.

I turned and --

WHACK!!!

The mouse, along with a pot of ‘wanderin’ lizzy’s and an overfilled ashtray -- shot right across the room.

I got him!

Don’t know where -- but I could hear him coughing. Unless that was due to the overfilled ashtray. I also much preferred the lizzy’s where they were -- but this was war and sacrifices had to be made!

Once again, with the curdlin’ dirt blood from the lizzy pot.., the strewn camouflage of my curlers.., and my broom at the ready -- I moved in for the kill. I had a look of determination in my eyes that would have even sent Boris Karloff off into a frenzy! But not this mouse -- he had the ‘staying power’’. It stood up on it’s hind legs; defiant to the bitter end -- with death, before dishonour!

Most people get an ordinary run of the mill everyday average working class kind of mouse -- but not me! I get one with the stealth of a mad kangaroo and the heart of a Kamikaze pilot. And disguised as a bunny rabbit!

With one almighty thrust, my deadly broom came down with a thunderous crash --

WHOP!!!

I missed!

The coffee table got in the way.

The mouse flies off left and half my broom, flew to the right -- smashing through the plate glass window.

“AHA! Now I got a pointed stick -- and I am Mad!!!”

With murder now showing in my bloodshot eyes -- I scanned the floor; allowing time for him to resettle. The mouse pops up his head from the trash under my bed -- I take aim -- and I fire!

The pointed stick looms forward in a direct line towards the mouse; flashing his life before him. It falls short -- about an inch short, and plummets -- sticking in at an upright angle into the carpeted floor. The mouse is stunned with fright. I see my moment and I dive at him. The pointed stick tears through the nylon of my nightie and the mouse shoots down the front of it!

Now I’m in trouble! Must think quick!

Review present situation: stuck on stick -- mouse in nightie -- remedy..,

Scream!!!

No! Might upset mouse...,

Mother?

No! Lives ten miles away..,

Reason with mouse?

No! Tried it -- no ethics..,

Prefer first idea -- I’m already upset and I come before the mouse!

So with one almighty scream -- the mouse shoots out of an unknown exit -- and with the scuffle from it’s movement, I leapt up with a ripping result.

Now I am really MAD!!!

I am inhuman -- I grab the mop and lash out at everything....,

WHAM!!!

One table lamp in goes into orbit!

CRUNCH!!! WHOOPEE!!! WALLOP!!!

“Who needs a portable telly anyway?”

KAPOW!!!

‘Goodbye makeup!’

The mouse is beating his fists on the skirting board...,

“Stoppit!  Stoppit!  Ha! Ha! Ha! Stopit I say! Ha! Ha! Stoppit, please stoppit!”

And with a sudden gasp of air -- it falls over backwards with it’s legs in the air.

“What have I done?   The poor little mite..., what do I do?”

“Think! Think! Mouth-to-mouth -- No!”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it.., look, I had a bad letter from my bank yesterday..., can’t even spell imbecile correctly.., you caught me at a bad time..., I’m sorry.., look.., I’m putting the mop down..., time to go home.., bit of a laugh we had, wasn’t it?   Same time tomorrow?  Puss, puss -- sorry, slip of the tongue...”

“Okay Sulk! Play dead and see if I care! It’s all right for you, you haven’t lost a portable telly -- and look at the state of me -- will you look at me when I’m talking to you! Look what you’ve done to my home!”

“You come in here willy-nilly and turn my whole life upside down. Out for a walk was you? Thought you’d pop in for a quick nibble, did you?  Look what you’ve done to my brush!  Right, that’s it! No more! I’ve had it with you!”

“Are you dead?”

“Yes or no! -- It’s a perfectly simple question...., what am I saying -- what’s happening to me?”

Then there was a loud knock at the back door.

I covered up my ingredients with the torn lose material of my night-dress, and answered it.

It was a large policeman.

“Good morning!” I said, “Nippy for March, isn’t it?”

“Can I come in?” He said, not waiting or even interested in an answer.

“Like some coffee?” I muttered timidly.

“Had some trouble miss?” He answered.

“Moi” I said, with a smile greater than a Cheshire Cat!

“Somebody’s reported a loud scream coming from this flat..,”

“What kind of a loud scream was it?”

“..There was also a report of a disturbance relatin’ to things being brok......., what on earth has been happenin’ in here?”

“Oh sorry about the mess..., I haven’t had time to clear it up yet -- I’ve only just had my bath’ I said convincingly..,”

“Look madam! Your clothes are all ripped.., you’ve got dirt all over you.., your house is strewn with damaged articles, such as a broken television set in the corner -- not to mention the broken window and a pointed stick wedged firmly into the floor. And  -- an unknown plant swinging unbecomingly from a light bulb!  Also, we’ve ‘ad reports that you have been screaming! Anybody with half a mind; let alone me -- can see that there has been a malicious incident in here tonight -- and while you may feel obliged to protect the person or persons involved.., in all fair consideration to your loyalty madam -- this is obviously the work of a madman, who I might add is still at liberty  to strike out again.., and in my humble but honest opinion, be it professional or otherwise -- for the protection of the general public; let alone yourself -- this maniac should be under lock n’ key -- do I make myself clear?”

“Perhaps you prefer cocoa?”

“Madam! Has your person been set about?”

“Well..., yes and no.., nearly..., just a bit -- not worth mentioning!”

“Who did it? Describe him!”

“Ha! This is gonna kill you -- are you ready for this?”

“Madam!”

“He was sort of little..., tanny in colour.., and lightish brown...”

“You mean, a short coloured immigrant!”

“He had little ears.., but no tail -- and looked a bit like a rabbit. And he’s dead -- under the table by the skirting board -- died of laughter!”

“Well Madam.., if that’s your attitude, then I can see I am wasting my time. If you change your mind, call in at the station and make out a report!”

“But I already told you the truth -- it was a mouse!”

“Madam -- I am over the age of fourteen. I am aware that women are not in the regular habit of being beaten up by a mouse -- let alone one that causes so much upheaval, and only to finish up dead in a corner over a so-called fit of laughter. So if you don’t mind madam, apart from my sanity, I’ve a district to look after -- so let’s be havin’ no more of it! -- Just watchit! -- Gu’mornin’!”

So you see, the trouble with that policeman, was he had far too much imagination and there was no way he was going to believe my story..,

Still, what do I care -- you believe me, don’t you?

Noise

One very bizarre thing that goes on in German dwellings, well it has for me for most of the ten years I have been out here -- is excessive noise due to home renovation.

The German worker tends to have an annoying habit of starting work around seven o’ clock in the morning. This is fine if they happen to drive a lorry, work in a factory or even drive a bus around the city centre -- but when they are coming to work in the block of flats where I am living -- or should I say, still sleeping -- then that can prove to be just a tad more than bloody annoying!

I wouldn’t mind it so much if they began the first hour or so of their early morning start, by slipping into their nice soft comfy overalls, laying out their tool kits and putting on a hot brew -- just like they would do everytime in England. Then just generally pot around the place, doing a few quiet little jobs until a more reasonable and considerate time of the morning. But no, not them -- as soon as they arrive on site, out comes the biggest bloody drill they can find.., and then they instantaneously, before you can say Hans Robinson, start screaming their way through solid concrete!

Where I come from; by the sea in sunny Bournemouth, it is so pleasing to wake up to the early morning sounds of a few birds chirping away on the garden fence, or the frequent croak from a hungry seagull or two -- but when these early morning German zealots-with-a-drill, arrive on site -- it’s like waking up in the middle of a war-zone --

“Incoming!!!"

In England, it would be illegal for them to begin their day so early with that much din, but out here, so I am told, it all seems to be quite normal and logical --

“Most people.,’ they say, ‘Are up at that time of day -- or on their way to work!”

 More like, out at some other poor sod’s home and blasting the crap out of them! 

Note the word, most people -- what is this, an election?

Do they not consider the retired, the sick -- what about the sleeping night-worker?

What about Me?

I am, what you might fit into the brackets of.., a housewife.  I don’t need to get up so early. I much prefer to lie in my bed till at least eight, eight-thirty.., that’s a.m., of course. Sometimes, I cherish to have lie-in for a bit longer. And besides -- even if I did want to wake up as early as seven, I think I would much prefer to do it with the aid of my antique teas-maid!

Who are these people that dare tell me when I should, or should not be up?

We once moved into a new flat within a large tower-block. On arrival, all seemed nice and peaceful; the building was politely setback from the main road, so there was very little noise to be heard from heavy passing traffic.

All seemed fine for the first couple of months or so -- I could wake up and hear the birds a’singin’..,

Then suddenly, one morning I heard a busy clanking sound, coming from below my balcony window. I stepped out and looked down. Several lorries were driving in and pulling up in the car park below. Others, already stationary, were being seriously unloaded. They all contained scaffolding pipes -- lots n’ lots of scaffolding pipes. A large workmen’s type Port-a-cabin, or metal hut, was also being lowered into place by a large crane on the back of a truck.

Nobody -- least of all I, had heard anything about what was about to happen; no letter from the landlord or Housing Organisation -- not even a peep was uttered about this venture when we first applied for the accommodation.

What was about to befall us, was major; this was no little undertaking, like the painting of window frames, or repairing a few holes in the brickwork; this was the removal and replacement of all the building’s concrete balconies -- a job that would take exactly one year but a day, to complete. Suffice to say, not one resident was furnished with any knowledge of that tiny piece of irrelevant information either.

My balcony lay right outside and adjacent to the bedroom window, as it did for most of the flat-dwellers. So the first morning, when they began work at seven, I was rudely awoken by the clanging of scaffolding, along with loud sounds of shouting and laughter.

Whilst rubbing the sleep from my still tired eyes, I struggled from my bed to the window and pulled back the curtains. I was immediately confronted and greeted by three of four grinning workers, who’s capacious smile displayed their obvious delight to see me in my battle-stricken nightwear. I quickly redrew the curtains. But no matter where I went in my flat, I just could not escape them. I might as well have been living in a see-through tent right in the middle of the busy city centre.

Although I was living five floors up, I had to hastily reconsider my privacy. I mean, it was not as if I lived in a bungalow with a small front garden that partially screened off by the odd hedgerow and a few trees -- these guys were real nose-close, and so were constantly able to gaze right into all of my windows..,

It was like being on Big Brother!

But that was only the beginning of it all -- I still had the concrete demolition to conceive, and that first experience was an early morning nightmare..,

At 7 a.m., sharp, as I lay in my bed practically unconscious -- my bedroom suddenly exploded! Two Albanian workers were outside with pneumatic drills, obliterating a nearby solid concrete balcony; I had one of them drilling to the left and another, to the right of me -- thus blasting me out of my bed in full stereo.

It was a wonder I did not rocket-up into my ceiling, or worse still -- go through it!

And that’s how it was for me, and the rest of us in those blocks of flats; beginning every morning at seven and right through the day till five in the evening -- and that even including most Saturdays.

After several months, when all the balcony’s had been removed, I thought --

“At last this Vietnam War is finally over!”

But now came the job of replacing them --

 

“This..,” I thought, “Would at least not require a pneumatic drill.., so things should now become a lot quieter!”

How wrong I was..,

Now they had this big thumping-pumping machine that hissed out loudly as it sloshed-up wet concrete through a large aluminium tubing. Again, like the drilling, all this began each morning as early as seven o’ clock, and it went on and on until teatime -- for one whole year.., but for a day.

What surprises me even more about all this, is that through that whole period, I was the only one who ever complained about it -- can you believe that? All of the other residents considered it to be quite normal  -- and to top it all, it was me who was being unreasonable..,

“They have to do their job!”

Was the general worm-like answer.

In England, this would have been so outrageous -- the constant noise was way above the health safety levels -- for the ordinary workplace, never mind the home!  When they worked directly outside my flat, I had to go around wearing large ear protectors that I specifically went out and purchased. This would have been most definitely against the law in England, and possibly against all of humanity; residents would have been properly informed over what was to about to happen to them, and for how long. They would have probably even been fully entitled to be placed into temporary accommodation.., like a five-star hotel -- I’m not that fussy!

In our block, they didn’t even reduce the rent by one Pfennig!

Not long after the balcony work was completed, we moved out -- me on all fours, and took up our now residence, in a recently completed complex.  At that time, I considered that because these homes were fully and newly built, they would not require any renovation for ages. That was true.., but what I forgot to consider, was that below us, lay several large spacious areas, that were soon to be let-out to business’s or companies -- who upon signing their new lease contracts, would also decide on the design of their new office interior..,

So for the past year and a half -- and still ongoing, I have to put up with more bloody drilling into more solid bloody concrete, beginning as usual, at 7 a.m., as they reconstruct the office room walling panels, ceiling lighting and office fixtures below me.

But the most amazing thing about all this, was when the offices below first began to be completed, and were being fully occupied with daytime nine-to-five office workers -- it was considered, by the complex owner and his bosses, that excessive noise might disturb the office workers, whilst they were busy at their desks.

So a new rule was immediately put into force.., now all drilling and immoderate noise, like banging, scraping and yelling out four letter words, still has to begin at 7 am -- but must finish dead on the dot of 9 a.m., when all office staff begin to arrive. This would mean that the whole job would take far longer.  Which also means, many more 7 a.m., early rises.

“What about me?” I cried out in sheer desperation! “What about my being disturbed?”

“Oh, come on, you're being so unreasonable.., those poor guys are only doing their jobs -- like they have to!”

The drilling noise is still going on as I write this, nobody seems to care about my bloodshot red-veined eyes, or even notice the few clumps of hair on the top of my head -- it just seems to me that they are using that drill first thing in the morning, on purpose; no matter what job they do, it always requires the use of a noisy power-packing drill. I now begin to imagine that drill to be the size of rubbish-bin, and no matter what the task, even if it only requires a  paint brush or small screwdriver -- they must first have to insert it into the firing end of that bloody gigantic drill.

To me, its amazing I have still retained my sanity -- or maybe I’ve become so stupid -- I can’t help but believe that!

Another noise that chafes me out here, is the sounds that come from the German emergency vehicles; Police, Fire and Ambulances. In Britain, we must have gone through hundreds of different variations of bells, then onto sirens, since I was a child. But out here in Germany, they all sound the same as those you hear in the old war films; it’s a sort of horrible, ‘Nah-nah Nah-nah..,’ sound.

When I first heard it, I trembled; I was waiting for the sound of screeching brakes, followed by twenty odd pairs of jackboots thundering up my stairway, and rifle butts bashing down my doorway --

“Raus! Raus! -- Englander! -- Raus!”

The German emergency vehicle siren is a horrible sound -- and I hate it.

They don’t even seem to care what time of day it is either when they blurt it out. Okay fair enough, if somebody is inside there dying and they need to quickly get past the traffic in order to get them to hospital -- fair enough -- I can go along with that. But at two-thirty in the morning, when there is no traffic about -- are they worried about low flying aircraft -- and why do they always seem to hold back until they get right outside my bedroom window?

The German Police cars are the worse of the offenders. And I know that they are doing it just to spite me; I am fast asleep in my bed.., and then suddenly, I am awoken by this loud and offensive ‘Nah-nah Nah-nah’ noise, that might as well be changed to the children’s teaser-tune of , ‘Nana nana naah naaaah!!!’

Where I live, there is a good stretch of road either side of us -- to the immediate right, a good thousand yards away,  there is a busy main crossroad's, with attendant traffic lights -- yet they don’t blurt it out there.., no -- they gotta wait till they’re right up and adjacent to my bedroom window..,

“Here’s one Hans.., wake her up!”

‘Nah-nah Nah-nah Nah-nah Nah-nah Nah-nah Nah-nah.....’

Nobody else, in the whole of the local German populus, seems to care about making a noise, or even being on the receiving end of it. They can and will, put on parties that run the whole length of the street within residential areas, that will often go on right through a whole weekend from dawn till almost.., dawn again.  Excessively deafening music and loudmouthed announcers, boom out through large loudspeakers and nobody seems to care one iota -- least of all for the poor dying invalid across the way at number 43.

“Stop complaining so loud -- you’re spoiling it for the drummer!”

Thank God I don’t live in one of those streets. I mean, imagine trying to watch a late night film, or simply endeavouring to get some shuteye -- and all you can hear is..,

“Is everybody having Fun!”

“I said -- is everybody having FUN!!”  --

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!!!”

“Well I can bloody hear you ‘yuh moron and so can all the people living in the next country -- piss off ‘round your own house if you want to make that din!”

I bet they don’t though, do they? 

I wouldn’t mind betting that all these noisy sods, those who either employ, or use them big heavy drills, the policemen who like hitting that noisy ugly siren button -- and the people who organise, play and blast out those horrible distorted sounds at street parties -- and all at unreasonable times; late at night or early in the morning.., I bet all those noisy sods live in a nice comfortable quiet residential area -- where the song birds have had their beaks super-glued shut, early morning postmen are forced to wear sponge slippers, and where the cats are on a strict curfew, to prevent them from stamping around on the grass.

How many times do you think I have seriously considered going around to their house, at 1.30 a.m., on a Sunday morning -- switching on my Ghetto Blaster, turning the dial full on, and then start drilling down their front doorway?

Believe me.., many times..,

Many, many times.

And let’s face it, if I do -- I’ll only be doing what I have to....

 Snow Clearing

However, within all of Germany’s well systematised and commendable housing organisation, they have instituted other methods  in which to screw it all up.

In winter when it snows, every German householder is responsible, by law, to clear the pathway of snow that runs alongside the whole length of their property. In England, anything outside the front gate, hedgerow or fence, belongs to and is the sole responsibility of the local council. So in England, when it snows -- it stays there!  If it then slowly turns to thick ice -- it’s tough luck to anybody who is daft enough to slip and break their necks on it. They should have been watching where they were going or in other words, it’s their fault!

In Germany, if that happened -- the householder would be held fully responsible and would have to pay out all damages and costs to the one so misfortunate -- or lucky, depending on which way you look at it. In large blocks of flats, where a Hausmeister is employed -- it is the responsibility of the Housing Organisation to ensure that the Hausmeister clears all surrounding pathways, in, around and outside the area and for each time it snows.

In severe and prolonged snowfalls and at anytime of the day and night, that means the German could be out there in their pyjamas, shovelling away from dawn ‘til dusk. There would be no excuse that they may have done it once, twice or even hundreds of times. The aim, if you are a German householder, is to prevent anybody from falling on their backside in the snow -- your snow!

This snow-clearing duty is a twenty-four hours, seven days a week responsibility, that must be upheld until the snow stops and the pathways remain permanently clear again.

Nice if you happen to be a pedestrian -- but what a burden for the poor householder!

In quite a few more select residential type areas, I have even see German householders caring a great deal for the immediate footpaths outside of their homes; they will mow the grass that runs alongside it, plant and water flowers, trim and cut hedges -- and at Christmas time, they will even decorate and attach lights to the trees that run along the footpath immediately outside their homes. But in England, whatever happens outside an Englishman’s castle walls, is by no means ever the responsibility of theirs -- whatsoever, come rain, snow or earthquakes. The only effort an Englishman might put into any outide-their-boundary chaos, would be to moan to their neighbours about it, or phone up the local council and howl at them instead.

The interesting thing about the Germans, is that this loving care and responsibility always stops dead between the border limits of each home; nothing but nothing would make them cross over one centimetre into another man’s duty bound territory. On some early mornings, when I have awoke and seen the snow falling from outside my window -- I look down and can see, even as early as three in the morning, many footpaths have already been completely cleared of any traces of snow.

But then I notice, the cleared tracks have stopped dead on either side of someone’s, not yet woken, seen the snow nor gathered up their shovel and cleared, pathway. It makes me want to quickly get dressed and run down there, slip on their snow and scream out loud in utter pain. Then I could make my fortune with the insurance claim, long before they have even noticed it’s snowing. But alas, it’s often too cold and I’m always longing to get back to my nice warm bed. Perhaps next time..,

“There’s gold on that them there, German pavements!”

 Green Issues

The Germans are also true conservationist in their habits; they support many green issues. For instance, unlike Britain, you will never see a German hand-washing their car -- it is not permitted by law; the wax soap suds and road contamination dirt on their cars, could seep into the drainage or worse still, sink below the ground and enter the water table below. Same goes for doing street or home repairs on cars -- should one speck of oil dare drop from a car onto the surface below, they will be before the courts in next to no time at all. And its not just from the authorities that they have to be watchful -- an ordinary member of the public is just as much to be feared when breaking any of these conservationist rules.

Out here -- even kids in prams would report you!

I once knew someone in England, who would regularly park his car over a drain prior to administering his own oil change. I don’t know how serious an offence that is in England, if indeed it is an offence at all, but if he got caught doing that in Germany -- they would most certainly lock him up and throw away the key!

Special centres have been set up where the German can take their car, wash it, steam clean the engine, change the oil or valet it inside. Each centre is coin operated and has several vehicle cubicle bays that contain their own separate facility for each of these tasks; the wastage is separated into their own special containers, so that they can be collected later and dispersed accordingly.

Well.., at least that’s what they tell me..,