As you may or may not know (it’s one or the other really) from Berlin Boffer’s far-superior-Beboesque-other-half-blog, we have recently moved. Barring the fact we live in a hinterhof, we’re on a street where there are approximately 34 lanes of traffic and you can start out in full daylight on one side of the road, and by the time you’ve been finally permitted to cross by a succession of green men, it can be under the cover of darkness. Chickens just wouldn’t bother.
So our old place was a relatively quiet part of the world. Saying that you live in ‘Charlottenburg’ in general, generally elicits a mild ‘oh’ from the post-hipsters of Neukölln and the vegan punk anarchist dogs of Friedrichshain, before saying ‘it’s a bit quiet there isn’t it?’
Ah, it is yeah.
Then came New Year.
Sweet old women practically setting cats on fire. By practically, I mean that no cats were harmed to my knowledge. Bangers thrown by toddlers. One couple in their thirties walking down a quiet street with, from a distance, a bouquet in the gentleman’s hand (gentleman, for he was bearing flowers). However, upon a closer look, daffodils and tulips they were not – rather an arsenal of potential mayhem. I heard the names of cities such as Beirut, Fallujah and Sarajevo (a bit old school now, but one for people of a certain age…) describing the night… a bit much, but you know what they mean… it would have been tedious to describe the city as ‘practically Fallujah.’
This was the morning after in sleepy Charlottenburg (guest appearance: LSG)…