Frohe Weihnachten!

Apologies for the intermittent service but I am currently lolling under a jolly pastry mountain of mince pies, and efforts to drag myself from the cheering smell of warm mulled wine wafting up my nose whilst ensonced cosy and warm on the couch in front of The Great Escape have been minimal.

Regular service will be resumed soon but meanwhile Merry Christmas alles.

I am struggling with some German gym issues.

Call me a prude, but I cannot come to terms with the absolute and outrageous nudity in the changing rooms. I am simply not used to it.

I am British. Back home they build cubicles into the changing rooms to preserve one's modesty and to screen unsightly horrors such as body hair and verrucas from those of us who are of a delicate nature and would prefer not to be visually assaulted by the sweaty nakedness of strangers, thank you very much! Hmmph!

In English gyms, and obviously I can only speak for the women, so afraid are we of exposing even the slightest hint at nudity that we will go to extraordinary lengths to remain covered. The transition from clothing to swimsuit can be excruciatingly slow, involving more manoevres than a military operation and will likely as not at some point see the woman wearing two bras simultaneously and concealing at least one bum cheek in her own locker.

Another point. The German-towel stereotype, which I wasn't all that convinced actually exists, extends to gym equipment.

Mannheim’s Christmas market was in full swing when we arrived on Friday night and in true German style the hut with the boot-shaped cups was in the exact same location as last year. I drank two glühweins in quick succession, burning my mouth and necessitating multiple visits to the toilets in the Englehorn department store opposite.

We wandered around getting cold for a while, looking at the hundreds of different stalls and stands that all sell things made of wood, except one, which you will find at any German market, that sells dustpans and scrubbing brushes made of baby-reindeer eyelashes or something equally exotic and expensive.

I began to sway under the influence of two mugs of gluhwein and turned my attention to food. There were many tempting and lip-smacking options available (Krustenbraten or Hähnchengyros, anyone?)

but quickly settled on Dinnetes, pizza bases topped with potato, onion, and cheese (and the ubiquitous Speck but that goes without say), which are served straight from the oven on the end of a shovel by a huge sweaty bald man in a string vest and that I’ve only ever eaten at Christmas markets. Yum.

After waking up on Saturday morning and eating up to 6, plus 19 and all the 20s, on my Advent calendar, I compiled a Christmas card list. Last time I was in England, my sister gave me a packet of Christmas cards that she had designed. All the children in her school submitted a picture to go on Christmas cards, packets of which were then printed and sold to parents at cripplingly expensive prices.

I remembered that among the various bits and pieces Cara left me when she moved away was a box of Christmas cards. I found it on a shelf in the understairs cupboard (which isn't actually under any stairs but serves the same purpose). The back of the box promised eight unique and exciting designs but upon opening it this proved to be a rather bold exaggeration as they are essentially all the same. I'm no artist but I don't think that just moving the writing should count.

Still, never one to waste a free packet of cards I wrote them, posted them, and went to work on Monday feeling contentedly merry to find that work had also entered, somewhat less wholeheartedly, into the spirit of the season and erected in the lobby this beacon of miserly nod towards festivity:

If you look very closely, I believe you can just about see the aching disappointment of the Herald Angels as they pack up to go hark glory to the newborn king elsewhere.