Three simple reasons why it needs to snow

This time last year we were up to our armpits in glorious, white, powdery snow and Simon was sending everybody he knew panicked texts like “What do I do now?”

Sigh. Memories.

This year the temperature has done its part in dropping to sub-zero levels, but the snow hasn’t arrived yet. It’s very upsetting because – not sure if you’ve noticed – the cold isn’t much fun without snow.

So here are three reasons why it should snow RIGHT NOW:

Number 1: My health

I can’t fathom how it can look so warm when it isn’t, and therefore base all of my outfits entirely on what the weather looks like (warm, gorgeous) rather than what it feels like (an unwelcome reach-around). The fact that our apartment is set to a default temperature of “the centre of the sun” doesn’t help matters.

So yes, I have left the house in nothing more than a light spring jacket on many an occasion. Well no, sorry, I was wearing pants too. But I fear it’s only a matter of time before they get left behind.

Number 2: Munich's entertainment

The Christmas markets are opening on Thursday and the winter Tollwood festival on Wednesday and, obviously, you need snow for both.

Last year when I went to Tollwood I ate crapes, drank glühwein and fell over in a spectacular way in front of a bunch of friends and strangers. The incident is still fondly referred to as The All Singing, All Dancing and a Little Bit of Flailing Agnes Spectacular.

This year I’m thinking of involving a flashing red sign in the shape of an arrow and maybe a turnip. It’s going to be big.

Number 3: The master plan

My sister and her boyfriend are coming to visit in 27 days. There are no words for how excited I am, and how terrified Dumpling is, by this. Another member of my family? Here? You have got to be kidding, world! 

Anyhoo, Munich needs to be pretty and winter wonderland-y before she comes, so that her and Tim instantly fall in love with it and rip up their return tickets. This is the master plan. 

My sixth sense

As anybody who has ever spent a night in the same house with me would know, I’m rather prone to sleep talking. And, recently, Sleep Screaming Until I Scare the Living Bejesus Out of All Inhabitants and Those of Neighbouring Towns and Countries.

It’s a little joke we play, my brain and I.

Actually I’m not in on it; my brain just likes the way I fling myself into sharp corners, hard walls and other potentially-dangerous obstacles when I’m trying to flee whatever is trying to kill me in my sleep. One time it was an ace of hearts. Another time it was a net. Most recently – like two nights ago – it was my sister.

The interesting/terrifying thing is that in the past 48 hours she did try to bring my death about...twice.

But first let me tell you about my sis: she doesn’t look like somebody who would leave her sister innocently sleeping in an 18th-storey apartment during a fire evacuation. But she did. Oh yes she did.

To her credit it was 4:30am when the alarm went off and I didn’t respond when she gently whispered “this place is burning to the ground,” in my ear. So she decided to let me sleep and trudged down the emergency stairway. That was peachy except about half-way down she suddenly realised that – holy shit – maybe this wasn’t a drill and I might actually sleep through a fire. So, in a bit of a panic (the type one might feel if one has left one’s slumbering sister for dead) she proceeded to scramble up the stairs. I like to think it played out like that scene in "Titanic"; everybody running the other way as she elbowed little old ladies and stole a child. Or am I confusing movies again?

Anyway, here’s something to remember if you ever leave your sister for dead in your top-storey apartment: you can’t open fire doors from the inside; the only way out is through the ground floor. When Kate realised this unfortunate fact – while imagining me crisping up like a fatty bit of bacon – she flew back down the stairs (probably lapping the ladies she had elbowed mere moments before), 17th floor, 16th, 15th, 14th, 13th, 12th…

At about this point the alarm stopped Everybody breathed a big sigh of relief and dedicated some involuntary facial expressions to the sweet girl who had been flinging herself up and down the stairs with a look of abject terror for most of the previous fifteen minutes. Mind you, I was still asleep and completely oblivious to the drama that had unfolded in the fire escape that morning, but my brain knew.

Last night I had a dream that Kate and Tim had left a human-sized chicken and pig costume next to my bed to serve as warning. The message: they would slaughter me.

Hours after I woke up Kate pulled me into the way of oncoming traffic. She has this in common with Mark. He also repeatedly tries to kill me in my dreams. My brain is onto something.

Woohoo childhood moments!

Earlier today, out of nowhere, my mother sent me two pictures from my early childhood. This is pretty exciting since we didn’t own a camera in Poland and I only have a handful of images to prove that I was, in fact, quite hideous as a child.

We received our first camera at my first communion a few days before coming to Australia. It was chunky (but not in a good way), simple, black and one of the best presents I’ve ever received. Ever.

One day when I persuade Kate to scan some images, you will thank me for the gold it produced. It was the camera that recorded my most awkward moments. And, coming from the girl who once got wedged between a train and the platform, that’s saying a lot.

But back to the photos my mother sent me, because they reveal three rather important things:

1. My mother dressed us quite well, which just proves that any fashion choices made post age three were  my fault. That means all expressions of disgust should be sent to me. And also to her because WHAT WAS SHE THINKING?! (This will make sense when you see me circa 1986-2001)
2. There was a time when I wasn’t The Ugliest Child On Earth (the period I previously thought had lasted from age 2 until whenever it is that one ceases being a child). In fact, if you glance below, you'll note that I look rather cute as I coyly sniff my friend's ear. Not creepy at all three-year-old me.
3. My face has not changed since I was three-ish. Looking at these pictures is like looking at a weird shrunken version of myself. Which actually explains why I spent so many years as The Ugliest Child On Earth.

Side note: you can’t tell by these pictures but my sister was The Cutest Child On Earth, so I guess I should add one more thing:

     4. I look as cute as Kate! This is important to me. I wouldn’t call it the single biggest achievement of my life, but then again it might be.

A story

On Sunday I got up nice and early, got into the car ready for my day to start and then got so bogged down in traffic that my socks are still wet. And I wasn’t even wearing any socks.

That has nothing to do with my story, I’m just still a little angry about Sunday drivers lumbering along at ten kilometres below the speed limit and getting in the way of my plans.

My story actually comes courtesy of my sister.

Kate and I share a fear of public toilets. Not only because of the menacing thought that someone’s arse has been there before (and even if you are the master of squatting, your naked arse is still occupying the same space that some foreign naked arse occupied mere moments before), but because you just never know what state you’ll find them in. Walking towards an unoccupied public toilet is one of the most unnerving things on the planet.

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