My own funeral

MY ALARM shrilled me awake at 7am; I was up by 7:20. Did all the bits I had to e.g. picking up methadone.
At 10:30 my dealer rang me but I ignored him. At 11:00 I rang the dealer using my harshest voice to demand "a decent one, coz they've been getting smaller and smaller" (dealers like to try it on ~ they wanna see how much they can get away with. I had been punishing him by going elsewhere.)
He said yeah yeah and he would be "fifteen minutes" (ie ages), so I took my time getting to the place. At 11:15 I was at da place. Then I sat on a lawn reading my 1943 Kathleen Speight edition Teach Yourself Italian, which I so wasn't in the mood for, but I'd left my German book at home. (I can actually enjoy this German book without constant recourse to a dictionary (though I'm not claiming to know every word) ~ what a wonder that is! I was knocking back white cyder and puffing on cigarettes as I learned to conjugate my verbs. At about 11:45 the dealer showed.
Home by midday. I had one hour clear.
I checked on my clothes, hanging dry from my windows on coathangers (I've nowhere else to dry them). Then I rushed to cook up my hit.
The my first attempt was far too pale in my opinion, though a goodly chunk of "brown" had gone in. The dealer had made good on his promise and sold about six or seven "points", as we say, for £20. (Those are points of a gram ~ five points being half a gram.) Well as I say it looked too pale, so I added more and re-fried. I'd put about a third of a gram into the spoon. With vitamin C it dissolved into half a millilitre of tapwater. The resulting hit was midnight black.
I took this half-millilitre of death-black liquid, dropped my clothes (which also gave relief from the oppressive heat ~ only 31, 32 degrees C but this morning so humid, I looked like I'd showered with my clothes on.)
Afterwards I was trying to remember where I'd banged the hit in, but I couldn't. But it went in directly...
... and knocked me out cold.
Next thing I knew it was 1:45 hours. FIFTEEN MINUTES TO GO. There was absolutely no way I was gonna make this event on time, and crematoria will not put funerals on hold just because some stupid junkie took too much gear to get there on time.
I rushed to the shower and washed my hair. This only took three minutes but when I next checked the clock it was two o'clock.
Knowing I'd missed it I slumped back in my chair of living death and was instantly unconscious. I woke up at 2am.
Y'all can have a go at me if you like. I feel the weight of your disappointment already.
My second thought, after "what the hell have I done to Pinky?" was "what will I say on my blog?"! You see your opinions matter very much.
As I saw it I could:
1: obfuscate ~ give an oblique account of the day. Not lying, but making it seem to the uninformed reader that I'd actually been, even though I hadn't.
2: lie. But the day I start telling lies on my blog is the day I should give up blogging
3: tell the stark truth
So I'm sorry, but this is the truth.
I missed the funeral because I was too stoned on heroin to get there. And there you have it.
Trust me, you won't be any more disappointed in me than I am in myself.

I CALLED up my friend who's unofficially organizing Perky's funeral tomorrow, I was stressing about where it was, who I was going with, how I would get there and what the hell to wear. I do have a suit, but it stinks of 10,000 cigarettes having hung on the back of a door for three years. Also I don't have a shirt to go with it. Or a tie. Except for a bloodstained old school tie I found on the street and have used as nothing other than a heroin tourniquet...

I was told: just come as you are, wear normal clothes, that's the type of date it's going to be. And I was saying, Yeah but I don't want to turn up as my regular scuffy self and show everyone up. And I was told: You'll be fine, you'll be fine. Then I said: Well shouldn't I dress as if I'm going to the doctor's?~ and she said: Yes! That's exactly right!

So my sartorial stressings are sorted, at least. I presently have a huge bucket of clothes soaking in the corner. (I hand-wash.)

I said I'd Google the address and bus-routes for the crematorium, so I'll have to ping off and do that in a sec.

O man I how am I going to get through tomorrow. All the drugs in Burma wouldn't do it for me. What am I going to do? What will happen? How will I cope?

I've never been to a funeral before. Not a friend's funeral.

The only ones I've attended were my Grandad's and my old Aunt Dot's.

How I'll handle seeing a coffin that I know contins a body that used to be inhabited by the most marvellous, wonderful woman who brought so much (and the most classic Turnip accent you've ever heard) to so many ... How I can look on this coffin and think of her laid out inside so lifeless and still, staring blankly into the dark; this person who was so full of life and is now about to be chucked into the furnace and burnt to ashes ~ how can I possibly do this?

I don't know how.

I don't know.

Of course I will survive. But what about poor Pinky, so cruelly left alone? A woman who, despite the most gruesome, grotesque, horrendous life you could possibly imagine ~ in childhood and in adulthood ~ has survived and lived as best she could. A woman who has endured years of psychotic illness. Nobody can comfort her. For there is no comfort. And no hope. (At least none to be seen.) To pretend otherwise would be to descend into clichés and platitudes and I'm not into them.

I cried this morning. I actually cried. And I never cry over suicide or drug deaths. These are personal decisions or inevitable consequences of life ill-lived. So how can I cry over the inevitable?

Perky's death was far from inevitable. It is wrong, so wrong. And that's the difference.

Suicide II

I'M not really in the mood to write this, but I painstakingly posted these facts in German so I have to do it in English too.

In January a someone I know threw himself in front of a train and died.

I had known him for years. Originally I met him in a mental hospital, where he was undergoing alcohol detox. He had borderline personality disorder and always seemed cheerful enough, though he was always on antidepressants and, towards the end of his life, bipolar meds as well.

He was depressed because he had to have an operation. Also he had been taking that legal high mephedrone, probably in large amounts. He ended up in a mental hospital (again) and was, according to someone who really knows the meaning of the word "really psychotic". This is why I suspect this nasty drug had something to do with his death, because in all the time I'd known him he had never, ever seemed "really psychotic".

So anyway, he's dead.

He was best friends with a lesbian I know who I'll name Perky. Her and her girlfriend reminded me of Pinky and Perky. When we met Perky we were so happy. Although she had recently been discharged from hospital having had psychotic depression, she was funny, witty, lovely to be around.

Better still, she came into the life of the most damaged person I have ever met (and I've met a few broken people) ~ that is, her "Pinky".

Pinky and Perky were together for seven years. I was so happy for them because at last Pinky had found somebody who respected and loved her. Someone she could trust.

But when John died, Perky was devastated and quickly got admitted to hospital.

She used to spend three days every week with John. They were very close. Pinky, you have to understand, has multiple severe psychotic and personality disorders. She is the epitome of a "vulnerable adult". So Perky probably NEEDED somebody like John to talk to. A voice of reason. Despite the "borderline personality disorder" label, John was an intensely reasonable man. And then John killed himself.

Six months later I got a call from Pinky sounding utterly distraught. She mentioned nothing about Perky. All she wanted was a good heroin dealer. Now I know why. She scores off the same person I do, so I couldn't help her ...

... then last week the ugly truth emerged. In a fit of depression, "Perky" had swallowed enough methadone and psychiatric medication to kill an elephant.

So now poor Pinky is left alone. And I don't know what the hell is going to happen to her.

I'm so angry with Perky for having done this.

The funeral's in a couple of days' time. I'm not sure I want to go.

Songwriter

I'M WORKING on a hit record. Here are the lyrics. As you can see, I've made every effort to avoid pop clichés... I'm thinking of phoning Andrew Lloyd Webber or Elton John and asking whether they couldn't come up with a tune for this masterpiece.

Here goes:

LOVE WAS BLIND

You didn't call on the phone
and I'm here all alone
and it cuts like a knife
coz you're out of my life

yeah yeah yeah
those words you told me
come back and hold me
babe warm me, I'm cold me

turn off the light
we can rock through the night


yeah, oh yeah yeah yeah

tonight is the darkest night
but you are my star-light
from sunset till dawn
I'll honk on your horn

but you're out of my life
and it cuts like a knife
I was too blind to see
it was all about me


no no no
my my baby don't go
I'll hug ya and hold ya
and whisper things i never told ya

it was all about me
I was too blind to see

(repeat chorus:)
and you're out of my life
and it cuts like a knife
I was too blind to see
it was all about me

ooo-wooah me me me
yeah me me me
yeah me

baby get into me
forever we'll be...
together in luurve
it's a beautiful night

in luuurve
in luurve yeah yeah luuurve
I love ya baby
love ya baby
oh baby
love me please

please call on the phone
coz I'm still all alone
and it cuts like a knife
coz you're out of my life ...

(fade-out)

I'm having a crisis of confidence over who should perform this. Although obviously I'm rock star material myself I'd really like to hear this belted out by a diva of unrivalled melodic powers... But WHO? Whitney's voice has gone thanks to all that crack... Mariah Carey's a bit old now and her whispy wobbly style annoys me... Celine Dion: NO! Christina Aguilera ~ no way. Lady GaGa?... What could she wear? She's done a song called telephone, but she could illustrate that highly original lyric "cuts like a knife" with one of those "dagger through skull" joke shop headbands... oh I know what about Beyoncé? I don't particularly dig her but she sells... Oh I don't know. I know nothing about music. IDEAS PLEASE!

AS WELL AS FLATTERING CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM AND MELODY IDEAS. I've already got a tune going round my head going dur-dur-dur durdur durdur DUUUR...! Maybe that will do..?

What do you think?

Oui, oui... c'est le French keyboard!

I HQD q go on ,y nezly instqllled French keyboqrd; just for the fun of it qnd found it ,ore inconvenient by fqr thqn the Ger,qn; zhich is the sq,e qs the English but zith Y qnd Z szqpped round:///

Enough of this. Have a close look at the letter placings above and you'll see that QWERTY has gone out the window in favour of AZERTY(!) Numbers cannot be imputted without the shift key as the top row is partially devoted to accented characters: éèçà; the keys to the right of P when tapped before a vowel adds a circumflex: âêîôû; M sits where our semicolon usually resides and the @/' key is ù/% in French.

Très confusante!

And all I have to ask you after hacking your way through this is:

Comment ça va?

German Keyboard!

HAVING irritatedly spent the last month or so laboriously copying umlauts äöü, ÄÖÜ and ess-zed, the weird blobberous ß thing, by sucking them in and out of my mouse, I have finally added German and French keyboards to my machine.

The weird German quotation marks that look like double commas I have yet to find. I believe even the Germans have given up on these.

Mz biggest problem now is that I am tzping in a strange foreign accent, as on German kezboards Y and Z swap places!

Which is resulting in biyarrelz Polishßflavoured tzpos all over the place.

Several common punctuation marks appear nowhere to be found. Central European characters with cuckooßclock vowels appear in their places. Even the opening bracket is where the closing one should be...

This is going to take quite some getting used to...

ßs are now everzwhere, because essßyed is where mz old hzphen used to be...

... and what on earth has happened to mz beloved "swung dash" Iäve absolutelz no idea...

And all I can saz now is "auf Wiedersehen!"

LINK: international keyboard styles

Water Voles

FURRY FRIDAY ON SATURDAY


Formerly known as water-rats, these are actually a species of vole, and are more closely related to hamsters than rats.


Unlike wild rats they rarely bite when cornered, and are really furry and cute:


They live in burrows in river-banks...


Aren't they beautiful?


Ratty from Wind in the Willows was actually a water-vole...


Water vole numbers are dwindling sa their habitats become increasingly threatened...


Of course water-voles love swimming...


If you keep your eyes open next time you visit the countryside you may well see a sight like this


If we don't look after their habitat, these beautiful furry animals will soon become extinct...

Rip van Gledwood II

STILL UNWELL... yes, Rip van Gledwood II. Yesterday, I slept literally 20 hours with only piss-breaks.

I can't even talk about going to bed last night, because it wasn't last night, it was yesterday daytime and I wasn't in bed. I slumped in an armchair at 11am and slept all afternoon and evening through and stirred myself at some point in the early hours around 2am, when I peed like Niagara falls. Then immediately back to sleep. And sleep. And deeper sleep. My phone was full of missed calls so I know I slept very deeply indeed. Finally, around 5am I woke up. Urinated again. Slept two hours more.

Then, after 7am Friday morn, I considered myself "up", so I wandered to my bedroom and lay down in bed, where I slept "properly" (ie not hunched over) till after 8:30.

All in all that's past 20 hours' sleep. 22 hours perhaps.

This is what I hate about my sleep: it strikes me down like some manner of disease and I wake up not refreshed but sluggish and unwell and wishing I had not bothered getting up at all.

Well I'm awake now. And I survived. And a new day dawned 16 hours ago, meaning I missed Chogstable's dawn chirping, though a bird whose chirrups and trills bore striking resemblance to Chogstable's melodic twirly-whirling was trilling its head off earlier when I went off for methadone and sweet chili chicken pizza. Chogstable is my personal nightingale. He's not, of course, my pet, because he doesn't live with me. But he chirps his feathery little head off just for me every night, the tiny entertainer!

Now I'm weary once more and for lack of anything more inspiring to post thought I'd brocade you with this dullardly tale. I hope your last couple of days were a little more inspiring plus ~ of course ~ I wish THE CHEERIEST WEEKEND TO Y'ALL..!

Famous German and Jewish American names and their meanings...

Calvin Klein, celebrated fashion designer. Klein means SMALL
Lucianne Goldberg, literary agent, famously embroiled in President Clinton's extramarital scandals in the 1990s. Goldberg means (surprise-surprise) GOLDEN MOUNTAIN
Dustin Hoffman, Academy Award winning actor. Hoffman means HOPE MAN
Jeff Katzenberg, film producer, studio-head, co-founder of Dreamworks SKG. Katzenberg means MOUNTAIN OF CATS
Helmut KOHL, German Chancellor 1982-1998. Kohl means CABBAGE
Judith Krantz, bestselling author of romantic sagas in the 1970s and 80s, married to film producer Steve Krantz. Krantz is an anglicized spelling of Kranz, which means GARLAND
Gerhard Schröder, German Chancellor 1998-2005. Schröder derives from a Middle-Low-German root meaning TAILOR
Stephen Spielberg, film director extraordinaire and founder of Dreamworks SKG studio. Spielberg means PLAY-MOUNTAIN
Cornelius Vanderbilt, American entrepreneur. Of Dutch origin, "Byltye" meant a little hatchet or bill, so the name translates: OF THE HATCHET
Elizabeth Wurzel, author of the original self-indulgent misery-memoir Prozac Nation. Wurtzel is an anglicized version (with added T) of the German word for ROOT

A big welcome to Sam, my 100th Follower!

Ach!

HOW TYPICAL of me to put my foot in it. (Again.) I thought I was simply quoting the German National Anthem. Little did I know that in modern times only stanza three is sung. You can read more about the Deutschlandlied here. I didn't realize my posts might have been offensive (because I posted it up in German too!!) so I altered their titles to Deutschland über England.

News? No news. Unconscious practically all day with sheer exhaustion.

And the weather is sweltering hot ~ still.

Found a brilliant book about the origins of German words and expressions in German. So I'm (slowly) reading that.

Now I've got to run. It's 01:37am! Night night all. Or good afternoon if you're in Australia.

Deutschland über England

YESTERDAY'S FOOTBALL RESULT, for those of you living on Mars was:

Germany 4: England 1

England is not happy.

This morning I was given the look of death for daring to read Stern Magazin in the post office queue!

Not much else to say, not because I'm so incredibly disappointed that England's football team made buffoons of themselves yet again, but because I've been trying to write a highly serious post in German, which is not easy.

Now I'd better go. It's nearly midnight.

Temperatures must surely have hit 32C today; it was sweltering. I slept next to a fan-heater all afternoon (obviously heat was turned off).

I hope you all had a cool day.

New German Blog

GLEDWOODS DEUTSCHEN BLOG finden Sie hier:

http://gledwood3.blogspot.com

Happy reading!

Escaped furry lightning bolt

HERE is yesterday's escaped roborovski story translated into English.
I am going to open a German blog very soon I promise y'all.

When I had roborovski pygmy hamsters, I lost them a couple of times... akh! Two entire days and not a sign ...
Then, after midnight I saw something tiny, like a furry pingpong ball with eyes, that shot across the bedroom like lightning and vanished behind my bed ~ the swine!
Roborovski hamsters are the smallest and fastest hamsters in the world. No wonder I couldn't catch her.
Finally I threw a bedsheet over her. She was extremely unhappy, and went back to bed in the lightbulb box with a thunderous face :-)

The main illustration isn't a roborovski at all, but a cream coloured Syrian hamster, which is about five times bigger... but I just found the picture entertaining...

Roborowski Hamster

FURRY FRIDAY ON SATURDAY
PELZIGER FREITAG AUF SAMSTAG

Roborovski pygmy hamsters are the tiniest of all hamsters.
Roborowski Zwerghamster sind die kleinste aller Hamsterarten.

Even as grown-ups, they're just 5cm/2in long!
Als Erwachsene, werden sie nur 5cm lang!


They are beautiful...
Sie sind sehr hübsch...


Roborovskis love living together. They are the most social of all hamster species and eat, sleep and play together.
Roborowskis leben sehr gern miteinander. Sie sind auch die geselligsten alle Hamsterarten, die gerne miteinander essen, spielen und schlafen.


Roborovski babies are so tiny...
Roborowskibabys sind so klitzeklein...


... and cute!
... und goldig!

VERLORENEN ROBOROWSKI GESCHICHTE
Wann ich Roborovski Pygmäehamstern hatte, habe ich die ein Paarmal verloren... ach!
Zwei Tage lang, keine Spur.
Dann, nach Mitternacht sah ich etwas klitzekleines, wie ein pelzartiger Pingpongball mit Augen, der blitzschnell der Bettzimmer herüber schoss ~ und, was für ein Schweinhund, hinter dem Bett verschwand.
Der Roborowski Zwerghamster ist der kleinster, schnellster Hamster aller Welt. Kein Wunder ich konnte ihn nicht anfassen.
Endlich warf ich eine Bettdecke darüber. Er war sehr unheilvoll, und ging zurück zum Glühlampekästchennest mit zornigem Gesicht :-)

Silver donkey OK

IF Y'ALL were wondering what I was blithering about earlier, it was mostly about my friend Belinda's poorly doggie Albert, who had an operation to remove a lump on his side last week and has been confined to his basket in sheer misery ever since.
Albert is nearly 15 years old, with fur the colour of a frosty morn. He looks like a little silver donkey with sad, sad eyes. He is so old he is almost deaf and never knows I'm there unles I put my hand down.
Yesterday he was so sick he was bundled up in a doggiecoat looking forlorn and cold ~ despite temperatures of 28C. Belinda said he's going to have to go under the knife again.
Today he looks much better. He won't be having an operation. Belinda says he looks so weary because he is stoned on all the painkillers and pills the vets gave him. Poor swine. I think he is going to be OK.

Flapper the wood pigeon is having a torrid affair! Yes! Off he flapped to the luxury high-gain aerial on the next road where he is to be seen cooing with a lady woodpigeon.
In the German version, by the way, I made a terrible mistake and said Flapper is perched up on a TV antenna with a deaf lady!
In mitigation may I point out that the German word for pigeon or dove is die Taube, while deaf is taub, so when I talk of a Taube-Frau, hoping this means a lady pigeon, I am evoking in the minds of anyone from Bremen to Berlin to Berne the image of a pigeon savagely kidnapping a disabled lady who is hanging off this pylon in sheer terror. Probably as Flapper viciously pecks at her fingertips.

The only other news is that temperatures have hit 28C and we are threatened with a weekend heatwave of 32 ~ that's 90F. The Greek lady at the druggieservice, who is from Athens. (When there is a severe heatwave in Europe it's nearly always worst in Athens. Temperatures can pass 50C/120F). She pointed out how much more oppressive is the sweltering British summer. It's nasty nasty nasty. I'm sweating like a swine.

Now here's a tune for y'all to try squawking out in the shower. I had a go and I sounded like a wicked witch having a haemorrhoidectomy without anaesthesia:

MOONFALL from The Mystery of Edwin Drood
Here's the Streisand version:

Die Nachrichten

HIER SIND DIE NACHRICHTEN VON GLEDWOOD
Ich weiß, ich sollte einen besonderen Deutschen Blog anfangen... ja ich weiß. Aber im Augenblick blogge ich noch hier.

Der Hund meiner Freundin Belinda, der Alfred heißt ist krank! Letzte Woche wurde er operiert. Er liegt im Korb und sieht sehr öde aus. Nie habe ich ein so armer Hund gesehen. Er ist so ältlich, er sieht wie ein kleiner silbergrauen Esel aus. Sein Augen sind so elend. Heute war Alfred noch im Korb. Er trug eine kleine Hundenjacke und bewegte sich nicht. Er sah kalt aus ~ während das Temperatur 30 Grad erreichte. Er ist so alt, er konnte mich nicht hören, und er wußte nicht, dass ich dort war. Ich denke es tut ihn zu viel weh, den Schwanz zu schütteln. Belinda sagt er muss wieder zum Tierartz ~ noch mehr Chirurgie. Ich hoffe, er wird OK.

Wie ich gesagen habe, ist es hier so heiß! Heute war es schwitzender feucht. Ich fühlte, als ob ich bekleidet in der Dusche gegangen war! Sehr unangenehm. Das BBC warnt vor einer Hitzewelle mit 32 Grad oder noch höher. Ich hoffe ich werde nicht zum Tod schwitzen. Dieses Transpirationsproblem ist nur nach Heroin gekommen. Bevor meiner Rauschgiftsucht liebte ich den Sommer. Nun wurde ich lieber das ganzes Jahr in Winter leben. Das Dunkel befördere ich zur Hitze.

Die Vogel in meiner Strasse zirpen noch laut. Wir haben viele Spatzen. Sie piepsen ganz unmelodisch den ganzen Tag lang. Flapper, die Ringeltaube hat verschwunden! Ich ahne, er hat eine Affäre mit einer Ringeltaube-Frau, die in der nächste Strasse auf einer neuen Luxus-Antenne gurrt. Vielleicht gibt es da Platz für zwei...

Ich muss jetzt gehen. Es ist schon Mitternacht, und das Temperatur ist noch 19 Grad! Ich schwitze noch wie ein Schwein. Ich hoffe, ich werde schlafen können ohne ertrinken!

Hot, exhausted day

IT WAS 28 DEGREES CENTIGRADE TODAY. For London this is hot. I'm sweating like a swine. It's ten minutes to ten at night and only just getting dark. High summertime!

I'M STILL EXHAUSTED. I slept nearly all night; then what do I do but spend half the day asleep from sheer exhaustion too!

I wish I had something interesting to post. Not really. Flapper the wood pigeon appears to have upped and left. I think he is having an affair.

My friend's dog, who is so elderly he looks like a little silver-grey donkey, has had an operation. Every time I see him he's in his basket with the most forlorn expession on his face. I have never seen a doggie look so sad. I think he is in pain. I hope he's OK.

I heard a radio feature today called Home Thoughts from Abroad, where the BBC take London-based correspondents from the foreign press and give them open mike to hold forth on any aspect of life in the UK that interests them. Today's broadcast, by die Zeit journalist John F Jungclaussen basically outlines the reasons why I want out of Britain. That we are becoming ever increasingly authoritarian and less and less free.

If you want to hear it you can listen online (from anywhere worldwide), click here.

Deutsche-in-London.net review of programme.

Keywords/Schlüsselwörter: exhausted verbraucht; sheer exhaustion absolut Erschöpfung; wood pigeon Ringeltaube; to appear erscheinen; to up and leave abhauen; elderly ältlich; donkey der Esel; basket der Korb; forlorn öde; expression der Ausdruck; hold forth sich über etwas auslassen; broadcast Sendung; authoritarian autoritär

Send in the Clowns

ONE OF THE MOST HAUNTING SONGS I KNOW... from the Broadway show The Producers.
Stephen Sondheim actually wrote it to be performed by an actor, who can't really sing. Which is why the entire song can be spoken as it is here.
If you don't want the talk, skip the first 2 minutes

[[1]] Judy Dench acts the piece; live performance...
Here you'll see the English flourishes streisand talks about in the screen below ~



[[2]] This from the making of Barbra Streisand's Broadway Album 1986



[[3]] Timeless: live in Las Vegas 2000
Man, considering her career had been going 38 years, her voice is in stunning nick:
Ignore the silly opening sketch. Here Streisand makes the song more musical than you could ever imagine



Stephen Sondheim hat dieses Lied für einen Schauspieler, der nicht wirklich singen könnte, geschrieben. Hier (1) spricht Dame Judy Dench die Melodie. Und dann ~ Nr. (3) ~ was für eine Stimme! Hier bezaubert Streisand alles...

Isn't Simi beautiful?

YOU COULDN'T MAKE THIS UP. I had to post this. Here's what Google Translate made of my post yesterday about Welshcakes Limoncello's little doggie Simi. After reading this I had to alter the word Ampel, which I was told meant flower pot, but actually means a kind of hanging basket ~ though, as the translator correctly identified, the normal meaning of that word is traffic light!

HERE is the dog of my friend Welshcakes Limoncello in Sicily, the Simi (short for Simon) is called. This stretches the fluffy teddy bear after a tiring Pelzschnitt. His coat is pure gold reingesponnenes, is not it? Maybe if Welshcakes planting the scrap into a traffic light, not a gold tree would grow from this?? Now barking Simi: woof woof-tootle-complain-i-coo-i-bone-knocking. She says: please come and tell you how beautiful I am! Here is the link.

(Simi speaks English, Italian and French and, of course, Doggie, but no German ...)

And this is the original English translated into German.

Dies ist mein Freund WELSHCAKES 'Dog SIMI wobei eine Pause nach einem anstrengenden Fell geschnitten. Ist sie nicht der süßeste kleine trotterdonkey du je gesehen hast? Ihr Fell ist aus reinem Gold gesponnen. Ich hoffe, Welshkcakes hält die Stecklinge. Vielleicht, wenn du sie pflanzen, werden sie in eine Gold-Baum wachsen ...
Nun ist Simi mich Bellen: Woof Woof-groany-bone--a-doodle. Sie sagt: Kommen Sie vorbei und lassen Sie mir eine Nachricht zu erzählen, wie schön ich bin, ist der Link hier.

If you compare both languges, you'll note they aren't direct translations. I wanted to see how Simi's barking onomatapoeia came across. I had to scan the German dictionary specifically for rhymes, which the translator dealt with rather well. In English-German, as you can see, it gave up all together and shoved the English woofs straight through!

AREN'T THESE SIMI PICTURES AMAZING? Did you ever see such golden fur? And who says doggies can't smile?! If you're wondering what breed she is, btw, Simi is a Porkshire cross...

Was für phantastische Simi-Bilder, nicht wahr? Habt ihr jemals solche goldene Fell gesehen? Wer sagt, dass Hündchen nicht lächeln können? Falls fragt Ihr euch, Simi ist Yorkshire Terrier-Mischling.

Isn't this the cutest doggie in the world..?

THIS IS MY FRIEND WELSHCAKES' DOG SIMI taking a rest after an exhausting fur-cut. Isn't she the cutest little trotterdonkey you've ever seen? Her coat is spun of pure gold. I hope Welshkcakes keeps the cuttings. Perhaps if you plant them, they'll grow into a gold-tree...
Now Simi is barking at me: woof-woof-groany-bone-a-doodle. She is saying: please drop by and leave me a message telling me how beautiful I am, the link is here.

HIER ist das Hündchen von meiner Freundin Welshcakes Limoncello in Sicily, das Simi (kurz für Simone) heißt. Hier, nach einem ermüdenden Pelzschnitt, spannt der flauschige Teddybär aus. Sein Fell ist unvermischt reingesponnenes Gold, nicht wahr? Vielleicht falls Welshcakes die Schnippel in einem Topf anpflanzt, würde ein Goldbaum daraus wachsen??! Nun kläfft Simi: woof-woof-murren-i-gurren-i-knochen-pochen-dudeln. Sie sagt: bitte mal komm' vorbei und erzähle wie schön ich bin! Hier ist das Link.

(Simi spricht Englisch, Italienisch und Französisch und natürlich Doggie, aber leider kein Deutsch...)

Woof-woof!