Ghosts, UFOs, and nothing kinky.

Orb in France (6) Ninja

France 2004. Considering the topic of this week’s blog I thought this picture appropriate. No, it’s not about cats doing their yoga the subject is touching on ghosts. Did you spy the orb to the right of Ninja’s foot? Hmm… any comments? Love to hear them.

Well, that’ll teach me. Going to sleep whilst in the background a documentary about ghosts and UFOs rattles on. I awoke the following morning to discover a strange mark upon my person. Nothing kinky, I assure you. I sleep solo. Alone. Apart from the odd visit from Tina who burrows herself under my duvet with the ferocity of a mole and then proceeds to take over the whole bed.

On my arm was not one scratch but three and they were formed in the shape of a perfect “Z”. I’d been visited by Zorro! Seriously. It looked liked I’d been marked by the masked man himself.

Spooky, or what?

Love all this ghost stuff. Even if half the time I do scare myself silly. Especially the stories about ghosts who knock at the window or door asking to come in. It might sound tame and you might be thinking ‘oh, how polite,’ but good manners do not come into it. Absolutely not. Scary thing to have happen and I can do without it thank you very much. I’ve never seen a ghost and I never want to but I have been witness to bizarre smells, chilly sensations, and doors swinging open and closing all by themselves.

I kid you not.

Predominantly thanks to a mother who was interested in all this stuff way back in the ‘70s before the likes of Zak and his ghost hunting team and such programmes guaranteed to make you smile and cringe in equal measures.

My mum did it first!

To be continued…

Wear it spookily. And sleep well tonight.
Wolfie.

Rosie blog:
http://rbachholzer.wordpress.com/

Working website:
http://www.rosemarybachholzer.co.uk

Enigma by Wolf Black aka Rosemary Bach-Holzer

Insects, Fiat 500s and naked legs

Rosi and cats

This is me doing my impression of an Afghan hound and succeeding wonderfully. Bremerhaven, Germany, circa 1983. On the left in front of me is Friske and to the right, her sister, Bu. Why are my legs naked? Nothing saucy, I assure you. This was pre-tracksuits and leggings. It was summer, hot, I’d just got home from work, removed my tights and pencil skirt for comfort, and apart from a sort of dressing gown didn’t have what you now call leisurewear. Didn’t exist. On reflection I could have worn some dance leggings in a large size. That didn’t occur to me.

When an insect the shape of a flea, brown in colour and the size of a Fiat 500 invades my space, I do tend to become more than a little concerned. Especially when they, please note I refer to the aforementioned insect-come-car in the plural sense, congregate in the kitchen.

But what occurred last week is the limit. I mean, first it was the invasion of the Mosel worms and now this. Whatever they are! The Mosel insect-come-small-aircraft?

Really, I put up with the ‘Och,’ curses wrong accent. ‘Ach, zat is only zee German Mosel verm, zay are harmless,’ for long enough. Crawling all over the worktops and draining board until I put an end to their excursions by covering the overflow hole with a small strip of masking tape. Ha!

But, I diverse.

I’d left out overnight to drain on the draining board my small amount of clean washing-up. It’s more hygienic that way. Yes, in theory, certainly not when insects-come-small-abode-in-town-with-river-views descend upon it.

I grabbed my new ladle, bright yellow handle, good quality, heat-resistant plastic so not to scratch nice iron frying pan and was about to start stirring my garlic mushrooms when I spied something. I leant in closer only to recoil almost immediately. One of those insects-come-whatever was there right in front of me on my ladle partially squashed and half dead. Horrors! It could have ended up in my meal. Thank you very much!

My ex-husband was bemoaning the fact he hadn’t bought himself one of those snazzy utensils.

That was soon amended.

Until next time be well.
Wear it well.
Wolfie.

PS. Plug time. More about the Mosel verms and other daft tales (and tragically they are all true) can be found in “Musings Amusing”. It’s free! Visit, if you feel like living dangerously, my website as below for more details.

Rosie blog:
http://rbachholzer.wordpress.com/

Working website:
http://www.rosemarybachholzer.co.uk

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It’s a dog’s love.

Rex

Meet Rex. A beautiful Alsation or German Shepherd. Family dog circa 1965. Mum adored him and it was mutual. They were practically married.

Rex was a large and beautiful dog. He was only one year old when this photograph was taken by Daddy during a social event at the local rec (recreation ground) in Crowthorne, Berkshire.

Rex adored Mum and Mum was crazy about Rex, however, Rex also had another great love. Male dogs. He tried on more than one occasion to impregnate a fellow dog and for his troubles he contracted a disease which resulted in a bright purple solution being applied to his… err… lipstick. Well! I’m being polite. As I say, he was a big dog and this applied to all parts of his body. Including his lipstick.

The vet duly painted Rex’s pertinent part with this aforementioned medicine which was so bright the poor dog may as well have had a neon sign on his head saying “Look at me!”

As much as Mum loved Rex she was too embarrassed to be seen out in public for all the world to see her dog going about with an aubergine hanging between his legs and thus taking the dog for a walk became Dad’s job. At least until the disease cleared up and things went back to normal.

Shortly after this episode I was feeling momentarily impish and I think possibly trying to get to Mum. I walked over to Rex who was pottering about in the garden, stood behind him and pulled his tail. Not hard. I was barely five years old at the time I didn’t have a lot of strength but I gave it a tug and he whipped round and had me pinned to the ground quicker than you could say, “I’m not too keen on little girls either so get lost, kid.”

There was I on the grass flat on my back staring up at this face with fangs staring down at me when moments later he jumped off and I scrambled to my feet. I wasn’t hurt but my little red corduroy pinafore dress was torn on both shoulders.

Right, I thought, I’m not having this. I walked indoors, changed into my little green matching corduroy pinafore dress, stopping only to complain to Mum on the way who basically told me it was my own fault. And it was. But still I hadn’t learnt my lesson as I went outside and did it again.

Quicker than a Bruce Lee kick I found myself back on the ground with a face panting over me. That’s when I gave in. Two dresses ruined in one day I submitted defeat, learnt my lesson, never did anything like that again, appreciated Mum could love both me and Rex, and salvaged what was left of my wardrobe.

RIP Rex. Beautiful dogs. I adore Alsations but for some reason to this day where German Shepherds are concerned it’s never been reciprocated. Weird or what? And with a name like Wolf too.

Wolfie.

Additional blog:
http://rbachholzer.wordpress.com/

Working website:
http://www.rosemarybachholzer.co.uk

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Sloppy Joe and Fish Fingers

-4- Rosemary Bach circa 1966

It is I. Circa 1966. My brother, Richard, in the background on holiday on the beach in Bournemouth, UK. Wearing the same hairstyle as of today including the same determined expression. Building sandcastles was a serious business. Photo taken by Dad, Rolf Bach, professional photographer.

It’s a bit nippy out. On the odd occasion I have bravely ventured outside all snuggled up in my cardboard box… I’m kidding! Little joke, or yoke seeing as I’m in Germany. I’m referring to a previous blog entry about expensive coats and the boxes in which they arrive.

I’m snuggled up in plenty of layers consisting of my vest I wear all year round, a long-sleeved thermal top I also wear all year round, a woolly polo neck jumper and on top of that a huge sloppy joe and my Dents cashmere-lined gloves and my hands still feel like frozen fish fingers. And I care not if I do look like the Michelin man. So what! Dare I tell you what I wear on my head? A jumper. Absolutely! An unused jumper I was about to throw away but instead in a flurry of creativity I transformed it into a hat. It works too. And I don’t appear to be on the receiving end of any titters, pointing or funny stares either.

“Ooh, look at her Helga, she’s wearing a jumper on head!”
“Ach ja, what do you expect, Gudrun, these Brits are a strange lot indeed.”
“Ja, I suppose you are right… (pause)… at least it makes a change from knotted handkerchiefs.”

Yep! Done my bit for recycling and it keeps my bonce warm.

On that note I do hope you’re all keeping cosy. My cousin three times and once removed told me how snowy and chilly it is in New York State right now. It hasn’t snowed here, yet. I think it’s waiting for the right moment like when all our Calor gas bottles are empty.

And the significance between joke and yoke? In the German language the letter J is pronounced as Y. Absolutely! I do not yest with you.

TTFN wolf cubs and take care,
Next time,
Wolfie.

Additional blog:
http://rbachholzer.wordpress.com/

Working website:
http://www.rosemarybachholzer.co.uk

Enigma by Wolf Black aka Rosemary Bach-Holzer