More Siesta Than Fiesta

I’ve often gazed aghast at Tracey Emin’s conceptual artwork (I believe that’s what it’s called) Unmade Bed. I gather it is a recreation of her actual bed, that she actually slept in. How could anyone? I mean how could anyone …? And if she did, how could she actually admit to people that she actually spent her nights, and possibly her days, in such appalling squalor? But I suppose that’s the point. She’s saying that most people live squalid little lives and put on a face, most of the time, try to convince other people that they’ve got it all together, that they know what they’re doing. When they haven’t. And they don’t.

Do you think? I mean, if that was her aim, she succeeded, didn’t she? I would never have had the courage to admit to those care-home furry slippers let alone some of the other disgusting objects. But then I don’t live like that – yet – though tending in that direction, sadly.

What made me think of this was moving mattresses around today. I must admit, the older and wearier I get, and the more cats decide to share their little lives with me, the harder it seems to keep up with the housework. All winter the cats have been increasing but the hoovering… hasn’t. And it’s got disorganised. It does that at intervals. Usually I move house – that sorts it out. Throw all sorts of stuff away, pack the rest in boxes. Start again somewhere else. But now I don’t have that option. I’m fixed.

I’ve been trying to clear some space in the spare room, for sewing things in the hope of selling the things I sewed… somewhere or other. Etsy, or jumble sales or something. You can tell I don’t exactly have a business brain. There just wasn’t enough room for cutting out patterns and storing stuff and all the other things you have to do, to be efficient.

So, I decided to move the two single mattresses out of the spare room, where they had been propped up against the wall – until one of them toppled over and landed squarely on a row of cat dirt-boxes in the middle of the night. I decided I didn’t have the energy to manhandle two mattresses along the landing, round a corner, down the stairs, round another corner, through the kitchen and out to the garage. Also, it was raining, and they would get wet. Not that it would have mattered very much, having landed in the dirt boxes.

So I made a cunning plan. I would spend a morning removing all the stuff from my bedroom, hoovering it (first find the hoover), spraying all round the edges with an expensive substance called Indorex, which is meant to kill fleas, then piling up in some or other fashion two single mattresses and two double mattresses.

I did actually experiment with the piling up last night. I tried it with the two double mattresses (what remains of the double bed is in the garage – don’t ask) on the bottom and the two single mattresses one on top of the other on top of that. Ideal, I thought. Save all that hauling myself up first thing in the morning, and it will be interesting to sleep so much closer to the ceiling. Change of perspective.

Unfortunately it was also quite dangerous. Unused to a single bed, I several times awoke teetering perilously near one edge or the other. Visions of tumbling, humpty-dumpty-like, onto the floor beneath and shattering some part of myself then kept me awake. I was afraid to sleep.

Also, the cats, used to a whole double bed and a somnolent human to potter about on all night, were confused. And annoyed. Four at a time, they attempted to balance on top of me, on top of the four teetering mattresses, which had now taken on a kind of jelly-like motion. This must be what a water bed feels like, I mused. Water beds were quite popular at some time in my past. Maybe the seventies. Or the eighties. Can anyone remember?

Anyway, that didn’t really work. I awoke irritable and sneezing and all the cats fell off. So this morning I set to again, with the rolled-up sleeves and the open window and the Indorex spray. You are really supposed to clear the whole house and all livestock before spraying Indorex, I think. No chance that was ever going to happen. Opened the window.

The result is weird, inelegant, but safe, and now I have room to breathe in my new ‘workroom’. I even have a whole wallpaper table for cutting patterns on. Have had to prop it up underneath the hinged bit in the middle as the three-legged one keeps landing, heavily on it, and all the force goes down through that one front leg. He is very painful, when he lands on you. A few more of those landings and my precious, but flimsy table would start sagging.

And I now have a half-empty, flea-free bedroom. Only another four rooms to go. I’m tackling them one a day. Apart from the days when I’m doing something else and can’t. Like tomorrow.

Forwardspringing Through Technicality

For a long time we were regaled with ads for motorcars which ended with some deep-voiced actor mumbling Vorsprung Durch Technik. And not translating it. I suspect it was the same actor who voiced that Irish butter ad – the one where he does his damnedest to seduce you into baking a large spud slowly and luxuriously in the oven instead of microwaving it like any normal person would – and then slathering it with Irish butter. I am something of a connoisseur of ads.

Anyway, at the time nobody except real Germans and German A level students knew what Vorsprung Durch Whatsit meant and most, like me, were too idle even to look it up. In a way, it was more interesting untranslated, like a mantra. Who really needs to know what Om Mani Padme Hum means?

But of course, worrisome Translating Mind would not, could not leave it alone. Way back in the past I had made a couple of attempts at learning German, the first being a term of adult education evening classes. I had been good at French at school. Unfortunately being good at French does not make you good at German. Two totally different Kettles of Fish.

The classes consisted mainly of nouns and verbs. Our teacher, a thin, weary man with an untidy beard and corduroy trousers, must have decided it would be too difficult to explain to us the masculine, feminine or neuter article so for a whole term we chanted (in German) such things as Cat Sits On Mat, Dog Walks in Park and Hedgehog Hunts in Hedgerow.

Part Two of each lesson involved a very long film. Every Thursday evening we watched this same film, starting from the beginning and never, ever getting to the end. It was something to do with two unattractive backpackers called Mary and John, who were really looking forward to sightseeing in Köln. Mary and John, having first changed their money at something called a Wechselstube, bought tickets at the Hauptbahnhof von Köln. That was how you always had to say it – von Köln. We never got any further than that and I have been unable to ‘wipe’ the Hauptbahnhof von Köln from of my mind ever since.

So, rather than look up Vorsprung Durch Technik I toyed around with it, idly splitting it into its component parts.

Vor I was fairly sure meant Forward, and the sprung bit was probably something to do with springing – the spring has sprung, the grass is riz, and all that – so Vorsprung must mean Forwardspringing.

Durch I actually remembered was ‘through’.

Technik I decided, losing interest now, must be Technicality.  So, this car firm was Forwardspringing Through Technicality. (Yawn…)

This leads me, finally, to flea traps. I have eighteen cats and, now, in spite of expensive flea treatments and in spite of the fact that they are indoor cats and until recently were flea-free, I appear to have eighteen cats with fleas.

It only takes one. You open the door, and in it hops, and onto a cat it hops and then you’re done for. You take a cat to the vet and it comes back with a flea. Yipee! Rich pickings!

This afternoon two German Flea Killers or Floh-Vernichter (Flea-Make-Notter) or alternatively Destructeur des Puces (Destroyer of Fleas) and Matapulgas (Flea-Matador) arrived, one for upstairs and one for downstairs. German engineering is famously splendid, of course, but it seems only Germans are clever enough to assemble items designed by Germans. It took me an hour and a half to put together one kit and almost as long again to assemble the other.

I just couldn’t get that piddly little light bulb into its piddly little socket. The bulb socket was designed only for German fingers, for those mutig enough to risk a finger-and-thumb-ful of brittle glass. All Germans, I think, must be right handed.

And that was only the beginning. Then there were the little plastic supports which had to be placed inside the lid using something called the non-return end (benutzen sie hierzu die Rücklaufsperren an den Enden).

And then there was the sticky paper disc which, as I discovered too late, had to go in before you attached the lid to the base with your Rücklaufsperren. Super-sticky, this paper disc. I couldn’t detach myself from it. In the end I had to anchor it with the top of a biro and wrench my hand away. No mere Floh would stand a chance against a Schutzpapier this ferocious. It would be Vernichted, slowly and excruciatingly.

It would be an ex-flea. This flea would be no more.

It occurred to me that rather than bombing us during the Second World War it would have been wiser to drop great sacksful of Floh-Vernichter kits. Shortly thereafter the invading armies could have hopped across the channel and taken over the whole country quite easily. As  we puzzled over our Rücklaufsperrens, our Glühlampes and our Schutzpapiers, we’d scarcely have noticed.