F#%k, the butcher

Clearly I had to think about the title of this blog post.

You can see why. It’s more than a little confronting; some might even say it’s a tad rude. A-ha! But it’s not you see. It’s not remotely rude. That said, I’m well aware that first impressions count on this thing they call the Worldwide Web. That’s why I used the title 'F#%k, the butcher', and not 'Fuck, the butcher'. 

I really should have said 'Fuck, the butcher', but I didn’t because I thought I might very well put people off. It shouldn’t though. It’s his name. And if his name’s Fuck I have every right to call him that in a blog without anyone being remotely offended.

I’ll come back to Fuck, the butcher in a tick.

But first, here’s today’s problem. It’s a sticky one too. 

As you know Picky is German. I mean fully German. She speaks the lingo and everything.  We’re bringing Pearl up bi-lingual. Lucky Pearl I say. I wish someone had brought me up bi-lingual. I’m rubbish at languages. I really am. I’m terrible. Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve given it a good go I really have. But I just don’t get it. Or maybe I can’t get it. Either way, Pearl - my 22-month old kid - is better at German than me. She knows more German words than me, she understands more German than me and she can switch between understanding German and English in a flash. I can’t. I can understand a tiny bit of German but it takes a whole heap longer than a flash for me to get there.

Pearl is 22-months and I’m 42-years. Plus, I’ve done German at nightschool. Pearl hasn’t. I should know heaps more German than her. I should be able to out-German my own daughter. But I can’t.

When I say ‘I’ve done German at night-school’, that’s not strictly true. I did pay good money to do a  German course at night-school. It was whilst Picky was at Uni in Germany. (We lived apart for 3-years while she went off to Uni near Munich). In her absence I decided to get myself fully fluent in German. I planned to impress her socks off when she came back to Sydney. I thought I’d just do a quick 12-week German course and bob’s-yer-uncle - we’d be watching German movies without the subtitles and reading books by Goethe on the balcony in the evening.

I lasted two weeks. Of the 12-week course. I’d paid for the entire 12 lessons. But I only actually attended two. I couldn’t get my head round it. I was perfectly OK with the greetings. ‘Hello’ was easy. In fact, it was easier than easy. It was 'Hallo'. That’s how easy ‘Hello’ was. 

After that it was hard. 


And it just got harder and harder. By the end of lesson two, I was lost. The rest of the class were busy counting to ten and asking for directions to the railway station and other equally exotic-sounding places. I was just sitting there, saying 'Hallo' to myself in the corner. It was soul-destroying.

So I quit class. 


I decided that the very best way for me to learn German (well, to learn more German than 'Hallo') was for me to immerse myself directly in Germany. We went to stay with Picky’s folks for six-weeks over Christmas.

Staying with Picky's parents really is immersing yourself in all things German. That's because they don't speak a word of English. That's the main reason why we're bringing Pearl up bi-lingual. So she can natter to her Oma und Opa in German.

While we were over with the outlaws I tried my best. I really did. After a week I could ask for the salt. And I could ask for a beer. And, of course, I was already well capable of saying 'Hallo' to anybody on a daily basis, if not more frequently.

& then I went shopping. Alone. On my own. Without Picky. 

I only went to the supermarket round the corner. We all wanted chicken for dinner and I offered to go and get it from the butcher inside the supermarket. How hard could that be? Chicken? If I got into trouble I could bloody cluck to make myself understood. Chicken? In German? In a German supermarket? I had all my words ready. Picky had even helped me to put them into a sentence. It'd be a piece of cake. 

It wasn't a piece of cake. It was a disaster. It was a poultry-induced calamity.

I rocked up at the butcher's counter. The chicken was right there. I could see it. All I had to do was order it. Easy peasy. It was my turn next. The butcher looked like a friendly chap. Very friendly. He said 'Hallo' to me, and to the chap behind me in the queue. I could cope with that. My two night-school classes came flooding back. I remembered. I bloody well remembered. I said 'Hallo!' So did the man behind me in the queue. This was soooo easy. I was blending in just fine. German? Piece o' cake.

But the man behind me in the queue didn't just say 'Hallo'. O no. He obviously knew the butcher. By name. He said, 'Hallo Herr Fuck'. 

Herr Fuck? Mr Fuck?

I was thrown. Lost. Gone. Finished. When you're looking at a butcher and you've just found out he's called Mr Fuck you really don't need to be new to the language. You need to be confident with what you're ordering. I wasn't. I was a gibbering wreck. I was paralysed by an overwhelming desire to fall on the floor in fits of hysterical laughter. Paralysis when you're ordering poultry is painful. Especially when you don't know the lingo. So I pointed. At the chicken. And held up four fingers. Mr Fuck was great. He understood me straightaway. Pointing at chicken and holding up four fingers transcends all language barriers.


I scuttled home with the chicken. I couldn't wait to tell Picky and her folks what the butcher was called. Her folks knew. In fact they knew Herr Fuck very well. He was their local butcher. They saw Fuck regularly for their meat. 


The thing about learning a new language when you're 42 is that you read too much into it; you ask too many questions. When you're 20-months you don't. You just hear it, repeat it and learn it. At 42 you tend to ask why 'things' have specific genders, and why the local butcher is called Mr Fuck. And you realise that with languages there typically aren't any answers. To pick up a language at 42 you have to let go and stop asking questions.


Like I say, it's hard learning a new language at my age.


Hope you had a great weekend!


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