Trying to cut down on the anti-depressants
In agreement with my doctor I have lowered the dose from 75mg to 50mg. It’s proving a real pain in the head, to be honest. So while I grapple with the new state of feeling shit in the morning with hellish tinnitus and fireworks going off all over my brain until the “morning dose” kicks in I am unable to think and unable to do much of anything, really. And that’s why I’ve been so quiet lately. I loved Bettina’s comment to my previous post and started writing a slightly-more-considered-response-than-the-post-itself, but that too has been put on hold. Still can’t get over the image of that headmaster doing the Hitler salute and say

Chilling blast from the past
So there we were, Mischa and I. Out on that long walk I had promised him for ever so long. And we’d reached that field by Margareten Gürtel between the Burger King and the U4 station. Mischa was having fun biting holes in his latest toy, greeting other dogs and wrestling with me. Along the path running next to the field a group of rather loud teenage boys made their rowdy way towards the Burger King. Nothing unusual there. But suddenly the rowdiness broke into a loud chant. A chant I have only heard in films, TV news, read about in history books. “SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL!” And without hesi

Monday morning and all is well
It’s a national holiday in Austria. I’m still in bed, Mischa is pacing the flat being bored (I should of course be sensible and jump into my running gear and run around the neighbourhood with him, but…) and I’m having a cup of tea and listening to Radio Wien. Mostly music, not too much of a strain on my German. And yes, I am sitting in bed with my little notebook on my lap Skyping with Thomas who is on a crazy 72-hour call for his job and there has been lots of problems the last 36 hours. Poor man. He’s totally exhausted. Went to a jazzclub with Kevin last night. Porgy & Bess in the 1st district, where we heard Christian McBride Trio. I

Boys and their toys
Today, Thomas and I and his boys (who are thirteen and sixteen, respectively) went to a model-fair or whateverthey’recalled. Lots of model railways, little mountains and houses and mini cities with mini people and tracks and wheels and plastic bits and smaller and bigger engines and things that were remote controlled to go either on tracks, freely drift here and there or fly. And of course your usual staple diet of various length sausages, beer and apfelsaft. And lots of men who take this sort of thing seriously. I am now the happy owner of a small helicopter I am totally unable to control and which I have had bouncing off walls and ceilings, Thomas, Mischa and so

Romania and its dogs
I had great plans to write this post AGES ago. Just about the time I came back from our board meeting in Romania. Which now seems a lifetime away. September. Last month. When it was still summer. Sigh. Anyway: our board meeting took place in Cetate in Romania, on the farm of Mircea Dinescu. He’s nuts. And I say that with not a small amount of admiration. It was amazing and wonderful and I want to live there! If it wasn’t for one thing.