Do Pigs Sweat?
My goodness, this glorious, glorious weather. And my glorious, glorious lack of motivation to do anything except will this baby to arrive soon, and revel in having my parents in town. Combined, these factors have led to a dearth of writing, a distinct lack of pen to paper. I drink, I sweat, I roll around like a big Kugel and I field the same question repeatedly; ‘are you retaining water? Why aren’t your feet swelling?’ I can only assume my super-Australian heat-coping genes account for the lack of water retention. That or I am sweating it all out. Like a pig. Although, as my Mum asked the other day, are pigs even known for their sweating? Are we being unfair to pigs?
I’ve got Mum for almost a month, and in between events such as the baby arriving, there are a few things on our North Germany list to tick off – things like strawberry picking, the Arche Warder (speaking of pigs), and the Commonwealth War Cemetery. Things that will distract us from waiting and wondering when a certain someone shall decide to make her debut. Along with Dad, we have already lunched, enjoyed the sea air, narrowly avoided being struck by numerous bicycles (Mum takes the classic Sydney view that the cyclists are far too entitled and act like they own the streets. I have had to remind her that, here, they sort of do…) strolled, and had what I believe to be Kiel’s Best Coffee. And, to beat the heat, turned to the childhood classic of an icy pole/ice block/Eis am Stiel.
Nothing says summer like frozen cordial on a stick.
It’s a hot summer in the city and Kiel is shining. So is my forehead, permanently.