Netflix and 1974

The work week became worse, which was a surprise. But colleagues' kindnesses and solidarity were bright spots. Our managing director chatted with me about our overall situation on Wednesday to try to set my mind at ease.

Right now it's probably best to focus on the weekend itself.

Last evening my siblings, mother and I had a sort of carouse to celebrate two of our brothers travelling to Canada. Gi. bought everything from Jaffa cakes to jelly beans and laid it out on the kitchen table, T. came for a visit, we ordered in Kentucky Fried Chicken and watched The Lost City with Sandra Bullock, Mama returned from her latest pilgrimage after 9 p.m., and then we chatted until Ge. drove the two youngest brothers to the airport at 3 a.m.

I liked The Lost City, although it isn't the best film. It was shot in the Dominican Republic, but much distorted with computer-generated imagery; the unreal colours purposefully suggest a game. I've generally grown to detest CGI as the killer of genuine creativity, but I can croak like a Cassandra all I want — it won't influence the cinematic trend. The script really refreshingly undermined engrained colonialist, materialist and Black-best-friend tropes, and gender roles, without being preachy or obvious aside from an exchange about 'mansplaining'. I still thought the dialogue was thin. (Also, a nice town and restaurant were shown on an island, which was then destroyed by a volcanic eruption. Presumably homes and livelihoods and people vanished. That open end was not addressed at all. But I'm biased toward taking this aspect too seriously by having read news about volcanic eruptions in the Canary Islands and Hawaii these past few years.) It cheered me up a lot.

***

For 1974, I ate a second breakfast based on a recipe in a diabetics' food guide published that year in Munich. It was a mixture of cornflakes, milk, yoghurt, apple, and berries that I considered rather hair-raising to eat.

(Besides I practiced my typewriting. Apparently American machines expect typists to use a small l as the number 1 but to use the number 0 for 0, whereas the German machine I have seems to expect typists to use the number 1 — a little difficult as it is one of the keys that requires the pinky finger to strike it — but to use the capital letter O for 0.

And I cooked another round of Grütze with self-made apple pectin, apricots, a peach, and a few red currants and raspberries. Ge., our mother and I went for a walk to the park as well. It was a relief when the walk proved that I was in better health again; yesterday I'd been so wobbly that my legs felt like sticks when I got up to walk around in the apartment, and I didn't dare go on a step stool for fearing of tottering off.

Besides I did some work because I'm so worried about the lag in processing new clients, but stopped due to technical difficulties. At first I was a little antsy that I had been laid off after all and was therefore denied access to my work email accounts, but it was evidently just a poor internet connection ... Those seconds of doubt were not fun.)

Fortunately M. and aunt L. came for a visit later. They brought masses of cake, which we had with tea and coffee.

In the evening L. and we went to a restaurant to eat baba ghanoush, fattoush, falafel with yoghurt dip and more salad, deep-fried sheep's cheese, and lentil soup. We washed it down with a date syrup drink, peppermint tea, and a cold minty drink whose name I have forgotten. The tables outside were mostly full of chatting diners, three mice frolicked around, the waiters were busy but good-humoured. In the grey sky, thunder rolled beyond the white tent canopy. It was happily cool after another humid, warm-ish day. The food was well-prepared.

We also discussed family stuff. There's a series of events happening next week to celebrate the Mendelssohn side of the family here in Berlin.

Let's see...