Sunday was Mother's Day in Austria, Germany and Switzerland (as well as Australia, Canada and the US). I have shamelessly plagiarised this joke from a blog I read called Ms Mac - written by a Scottish lassie, married to an Aussie living in Switzerland. She calls it her favourite Mother's Day joke:
Why is Father's Day not celebrated in Switzerland?
Because in Switzerland, every day is Father's Day!
Boom, tish!
[And hello to the Canadian visitor wanting to know how to kill off a Russian vine. I don't know - but I may need to by next summer. I can report that my vine has grown about 5 feet (that's about a metre and half - a bit more) in two weeks . It has reached the top of the bare wall and has tendrils waving about over the top looking for somewhere to go.... I think the only option is down the other side. I hope the neighbours won't mind this invasion....)
Have I written about German humour before? If so, this is part of the series about which I have forgotten. If not, this is the first in a long overdue series.
The Germans are often accused, by the Brits at least, of not having a sense of humour. There has to be some sense of irony in this: with wonderful weather forecast today, I thought I might award myself a half day to pootle about in the garden, repotting a few plants and generally enjoying the sunshine. The thought had scarcely meandered its way across the grey matter before I found myself accepting an assignment.
What exciting subject is it? - I hear you clamour.
A holiday web site - I reply, through gritted teeth.
I am trying my best to lavish this text with vocabulary to entice the punters to part with their hard-earned cash to spend a week being pampered, spoiled, and indulged. It's proving to be quite hard work to motivate myself... I'd rather be outside.....
It will not have escaped your notice that today is May 1st, May Day or Maifeiertag. Given that many of my gentle readers are churchgoers of one sort or another, you will probably also know that today is Ascension Day - or Christi Himmelfahrt. This has been an official holiday in Germany since 1936 - which is somewhat surprising given the regime in power at the time. It falls rather early this year because Easter fell early and so all these moveable feasts will take us by surprise, and confuse us all as to which month we are in, methinks.
If you are a German (and so far, I have only had 2 German visitors to this blog, so the likelihood is that you are not), you will be taking the day off today. It must be a bit of a let-down that two events, both of which are given a holiday of their own, happen to fall on the same day. But before you get too depressed on the Germans' behalf, I should tell you that if a bank holiday falls on a Thursday, it is often the case that schools and many places of work take a "Brückentag" or bridging day on the Friday to allow a nice long weekend. Sometimes May/June allows this to happen up to three times with May Day, Ascension and Pentecost. (I have a feeling it happened the year I lived in Austria as the courses held at the university on Thursdays and Fridays in the summer term seemed to be cancelled more often than they were held.)
Today is not only Maifeiertag and Christi Himmelfahrt, it is also Vatertag - Father's Day*. Father's Day is celebrated on Ascension Day because originally it was to do with being reunited with Gott, dem Vater. In the late middle ages, the religious side of things became less important and was rarely observed. In the 19th century, it was revived and was also called Männertag or Herrentag and became an excuse for males of any age and status to indulge in drunkenness and debauchery and it seems it became generally less to do with celebrating fatherhood and more to do with male bonding.
The 20th century saw the return of a more sober version of Father's Day and has also been observed in Austria since 1955 (or '56 - depending on your source) but officially, the Swiss have not yet added this day to their calendar.
I am not benefitting from the above holidays but am, rather fittingly, given the above, translating advertising material for a men's spa - you know, beauty...errr, I mean, grooming treatments. The spa has missed a trick, here. If this work had been given to me a month ago, they could have persuaded lots of women to buy their men a day at the spa today. (Unless, of course, the spa is closed for the day...) No women clients allowed - but lots of female beauticians (...I mean...oh heck, what am I going to call these people? grooming consultants?) are required, I note from their sits. vac. page.
*Oh yes, lots of opportunity for schoolboy sniggering here!
I have said this before, but possibly not on this blog, that I think it must be wonderful to be a professional musician. You put in some hard work in rehearsals and then there is the performance. At the interval - and at the end - there comes a huge amount of appreciation. Applause, wild applause, shouts, calls, even a standing ovation. How glorious it must be to acknowledged!
On 22 April, I blogged about "Some trials of translation". Today, gentle reader, I heard some faint applause trickling its way down through cyberspace from far-flung translation agencies to the garret in which I toil.
I grumbled then that the translation about the road directions was a trifle underpaid. The project manager admitted today that she had made a mistake. (This particular agency has a very peculiar way of working out the fees they pay and, frankly, I don't think I will ever understand it, not being a financial wizard.) Yes, bung a zero on the end of that figure.. that should make you feel you are not working entirely in vain. Yee-ha!
I had also muttered darkly about how my wonderful play on words would be wasted on the uninitiated in the test translation I'd produced. I confess! I spoke too soon. The end-client liked my translation, awarded the contract to my client and they have made me their "preferred supplier" for this particular end-client. [Let's just hope they keep it nice and general and don't go asking for translations on undersea cable laying or the use of nuclear power on Mars - or hedge funds... does anybody understand hedge funds?].
Not quite a standing ovation - but possibly as close to appreciation as I've ever been in this game.
I'll take a bow now while I've got a chance - fifteen seconds of fame and all that.
I found myself in the midst of three bizarre conversations in connection with the concert.
Conversation no.1 took place at the post-concert party.
Fellow soprano to her distinguished looking male guest: Do you know, [Name], that Kerensa is a German translator and SHE says that it didn't help at all knowing German when singing the Russian, didn't you, Kerensa?
Kerensa: [Not recalling the conversation referred to at all]: Ah, no. It didn't help. [Thinks: why the heck should it?]
Male guest: Reall-eh? How awwwfull-eh interesting! Can you say why that is?
Kerensa: [Wishing she was not required to be polite] Well, of course, I can only speak for myself, but I didn't find the transliteration of the Russian very helpful, really. [Weak smile. Quick exit towards the sausages on sticks.]
I felt like saying - heavy with sarcasm: it's a bit like wondering why a ballerina is not very good at break dancing. The two come under the general heading of dance - but if the ballerina has not learned break dancing, she is not going to be able to do it with any proficiency until she has practised it. [Isn't this obvious? or am I assuming too much of other people? or do they really think that if you are reasonably good at one foreign language you must be fluent in them all?]
Conversation no 2 - also at post-concert party
Another distinguished looking male guest: I was simply amazed, you know. I had absolutely no idea that Tavener had written any of this Orthodox-style music.
Kerensa: [a bit floored as she really wanted to say - oh, I thought that that was what he was actually famous for... [doubts herself... what else has he written? Can't remember... struggles to think of something appropriate to say and comes up lamely with] I hope you enjoyed it...
Later in bed I recalled the conversation and suddenly it came to me! Had this bod confused John Tavener with John Taverner? Easy to do. There is just an "r" which distinguishes their names from each other - and about 500 years of music history. Taverner (1490 - 1545) wrote masses and motets and was considered to be one of the foremost English composers of his time. Tavener is a direct descendant of his (1944 to date) and has written in the Orthodox style - perhaps the most famous of his works being Song for Athene which was sung at Princess Diana's funeral (but not written for the occasion).
Exchange no. 3
I received a congratulatory e-mail about the concert from a friend saying how she had enjoyed it and that it was "out of this world". She also said she thought it was a shame we would not be performing the concert again.[It always feels like a lot of work for one evening - but our audiences are so demanding, dahlings... we have to find new ways of entertaining them...]
I forwarded the e-mail to a member of the choir's committee. The response was: thank you for the feedback and such a shame you weren't able to be a part of such a MARVELLOUS concert which was enjoyed by performers and audience alike. Hope you can join us next term.
Huh?
Nice to know I made no impact at all in the second sopranos. Those mistakes I mentioned: nothing to do with me - I wasn't there, guv.
The concert of Russian Choral Masterpieces took place last night in the Abbey and was very well received. The applause went on for ages and, for a British audience, was really quite enthusiastic.
We made a few little mistakes - but I hope these were not too obvious. There is one place in my music where I have noted that the conductor wanted us to sound like trumpets. A soprano behind me had clearly made the same note and she blasted away for all she was worth (she has a very good voice) - but unfortunately she must have lost count as she came in two beats early while the rest of the upper voices were silent. I live in fear of that happening to me but she was clearly confident as she continued to give it her all with the rest of us when the trumpets were required.
Today I have not been rushing around as I was completely pole-axed after rehearsing for the whole afternoon without a minute to take the weight off our feet and then only an hour's "rest" [which involved dashing home to change and eat] before returning to the Abbey to perform.
I have been drifting around the house in my pyjamas for half the day....Dahlings! you may not have realised that I am such a sensitive arTISTE! You'll be pleased to know I got dressed 10 minutes before going to church this evening where I was on the welcome team.
During the concert, I thought of Orthodox Ian celebrating Easter and of my friend's sister who had suffered a stroke the day before (she's far too young for this sort of thing) and was concentrating on the music as well, of course!
All I have managed to do today (apart from do a translation which didn't get finished on Friday and has to be with the client by 8 a.m. tomorrow) was to inspect the progress of the Russian vine I planted earlier in the week.
I bought it because I had read it was very tolerant of pollution - and its special place is opposite the gas flue. I have since read that Russian vines are a menace and grow according to their common name of "Mile a Minute" -both above and below ground. I'm now hoping that it will do what I want it to do (cover a bare wall) and be happy to do so confined as it is in a large pot.
G'day! to my Australian visitor looking for "Russian swearing translations [mild]". My Russian has not really progressed despite doing this concert. I can now sing a pretty authentic-sounding "All-lee-loo-ya" but I think I might have had a bit of a head start on this word, all things considered. And it doesn't really come under the heading of swearing. But who knows what the future holds?
Book review # 11. Miss Smilla's Feeling for Snow - Peter Høeg
(kerensa, 25.04.08)
Miss Smilla's Feeling for Snow has been sitting on my shelf of "must-reads" for about 5 years. I finally got round to reading it this month. It is not a quick read; 410 pages in squint-size print but strangely absorbing.
The basic plot revolves around Smilla, half-Dane, half-Greenlander, who has an innate affinity with snow on account of her heritage, suspecting that her young neighbour, Isaiah, was murdered. It looks as if he fell from the roof of the snow-covered apartment block but Smilla believes that he was forced to jump/fall based on the tracks he left in the snow. She sets out to prove this is the case - but it turns out that the police aren't interested and as she pieces things together she finds she is involved in a convoluted web of intrigue. Everyone seems to be in cahoots with everyone else and Smilla is entirely isolated. There isn't a real sense of conclusion in a conventional sense i.e. with all the ends tied up and all the baddies sitting in prison, but I suppose from Smilla's point of view, certain issues are resolved and scores are settled. Perhaps this is an acceptable sense of justice in Greenland, I don't know; perhaps it's just acceptable to this character - who is certainly an unusual woman!
I found it fascinating that Peter Høeg, the author, was able to write so convincingly from the point of view of a woman and a Greenlander. He obviously knows huge amounts about Greenland, the uneasiness of relations between Danes and Greenlanders (who are/were part of the Danish empire), snow and lots of technical stuff to do with ships.
The novel has been translated into English twice. Once as Miss Smilla's Sense of Snow - the US version and again as Miss Smilla's Feeling for Snow - the UK version. It is not clear to me why there were two translations but apparently the US version was modified for the UK market [but not entirely localised as we call it in the business as I noticed a few Americanisms dotted around which struck me as odd as similar things were Anglicised at other points of the text making the Americanisms more obvious]. Apparently [and this may explain the aforegoing], some modifications were made to the UK version of the text by the author and publisher which the translator did not agree with and asked for her name to be removed from the text.*
I'm sometimes asked if I translate literature. I sometimes wish I did, but on this occasion, I was glad I don't get faced with passages like these: "Then frazil ice is formed, grease ice and pancake ice, whose plates freeze together into floes.... In the distance is hiku, the permanent ice, the continent of frozen sea, which we are sailing alongside... The surface of the ice floes is a wasteland of ivuniq, packs of ice foreced upwards by the current and the collision of the plates; of maniilaq, ice knolls; and of apuhiniq, snow which the wind has compressed into hard barricades."
There were other passages about boats which Ben Nimmo and his phrasebook [see post of 19 April] would have been crushed by. I just about kept up with fore, aft and starboard but was beginning to feel out of my depth on other nautical terms!
* I think I may understand something of the translator's frustration here. I have produced texts in the past after hours of slaving only to have a non-native speaker insist on their translation which is not an improvement. A translation becomes your "baby" and it's not easy, after all that loving care of gestation and birth, to hand it over to someone else who does not understand its cute little characteristics and quirks that you have nurtured or lovingly corrected.
I'm just a bit offgepisst* with abbrevs., apostrophes**, little urgent jobs***, crashing docs and the general mayhem of today, so I'm off to try Jack the Lass's houmous recipe. I'll try Farli's another time - I just haven't got all the ingredients to hand.
I'll be back at my desk later trying to make up for lost time. I've got a newsletter to translate which I had planned to do this afternoon before everything slid out of control. Sigh.
* great expletive - copyright Kerensa: offends only the most sensitive in either language
** turns out that the apostrophe rule doesn't apply to this text....
*** Project Manager phones at ten to 3 [my time]: Can you do these few sentences in the next 10 minutes? I'm leaving the office at 4 [her time] and need them back before I go.
Kerensa: [Well, possibly, but I haven't had any lunch yet and I'm busting for the loo.] Certainly. [Grrr.] Leave it to me - and schönes Wochenende!
End-clients often have various specific demands and this morning was no different. A client asked me to follow the end-client's instructions precisely. Today's little instruction was thus: Please use the "wrong" apostrophe, that is the one on the key next to the "ß"-key. The reason for this is that our online uploading tool does not recognise the "real" apostrophe and generates errors".
I am now involved in a slightly bizarre e-mail exchange with my client discussing which the "wrong" apostrophe might be. As far as I'm aware, my keyboard only has one... is it the "wrong" one or the "real" one? The end-client seems to be unaware that English keyboards are different to German ones. I don't have an "ß" key so I can't work it out from its location. (I have to muck about with the alt key and the number pad to produce the ß.)
The irony of this is that the company in question is an electronics firm. You'd think they would have the technology to recognise the humble apostrophe, wouldn't you?
But then again, maybe you wouldn't. The translation software I use, about which I have probably grumbled previously, was originally developed by a German company, I believe. It recognises a fullstop as denoting the end of a sentence. Fair enough. But it doesn't recognise when a fullstop is used to denote an abbreviation. German has lots of long words, many of which can be abbreviated. I have spent the morning translating a legal doc. wh. uses lots of abbrevs. in acc. w. legal prac. pursuant to Art. 56, para. 4 subsection 3, item 2 of the Act on Abbrevs. It is terribly trying having to find all these little dots and then having to delete them to get the software to recognise the whole sentence - and then reinserting them all again.... Let. me. tell. you.
Konnichiwa to my Japanese visitor looking for "lost in translation - doll". I hope you found something of interest. I'm afraid the only other Japanese I know is Sayonara - goodbye!
I had to translate some travel directions today. The project manager blithely said "It's *just* a small job; *just* translate these directions. You've seen worse..."
Well, it's true; I *have* seen worse but I've been paid better for it (There. That's that little grumble over with). These directions were not written with clarity in mind - or even with the idea that the wretched traveller might actually like to end up at the destination.
There were links to maps on the end-client's website: so I checked them to see if I was describing the route accurately (see below for more detail as to why this was necessary). Smack bang on top of every motorway junction, all of which were on the very edge of the map so you couldn't actually see which Autobahn number they were exiting, there were irritating adverts or useless "tips". **Just show me the darn junction with a few road numbers!!** Gah.
The reason I had to refer to the maps was because the directions were written in as roundabout a way as was humanly possible. [Like the little pun there? Huh? ;-) ] I'm not sure that I am feeling sufficiently robust to explain just why it was so complicated... suffice it to say, the problem lay with ill-thought out use of words and the glories of separable verbs in subordinate sentences. I contacted the project manager to query the wording. She agreed that the phrasing was somewhat unusual but yes, my interpretation was correct. I am not one to argue with a German native speaker over the complications of their grammar but it still didn't make sense to me. A couple of hours later, the project manager phoned back to say she'd sent an email to explain that she had been wrong... could I rephrase this bit (which came up four times as the same phrase had been used for directions from all four points of the compass) pretty pronto as the deadline was fast approaching.
Her email actually said that the scales had fallen from her eyes.... Just how clear are these instructions if a native speaker can misinterpret what is meant? It does not bode well if you are biffing along an Autobahn at 120kph and you need a five minute discussion to establish what the instructions mean as you zip past the required junction.
Whilst all the above was going on, I was doing a test translation for a new company. The instructions were *just* to translate the text into American English. I reminded the client that I am not a native speaker of American English and that to be completely authentic, it is not *just* a question of using a few 16th century spellings. The client was having nothing of it. *Just* get on with it - was the underlying message.
The text was talking about a new degree course supported by a Swiss company for their staff. This starts getting complicated because the Swiss education system follows the German system and neither has direct equivalents with the American system. I have some knowledge of the latter but had to strain my brain at points to think of an authentic sounding way of expressing certain terms.
At one point I felt quite pleased with myself because I managed to get a great play on words in a title where there hadn't been one in the original. (Not easy when you only have a max of 5 words...) The only downside of this of course is that if the end-client doesn't read German (or English, depending...), he won't appreciate the brilliance that has been bestowed upon his text. Wasted, I tell you. Just wasted!
Dear Readers, I think it is high time that the writer of this blog stopped shilly-shallying and got down to providing some serious posts.
So without further ado, I am going to discuss tealights. Yes, you heard me correctly at the back, so sit still and start reading.
Residents of the UK will be familiar with tealights, those little candles in a thin metal container, which are often used in small candleholders or aromatherapy oil burners. It seems to me that since the advent of Ikea to these shores (or at least, since I was aware Ikea operated here, to be more accurate, as I don't actually know when they started trading here) these little candles have become ever more popular.
[I learned in one of Orthodox Ian's recent posts that Ikea has also travelled Down Under. I assume tealights are part of their range there too? Perhaps my US readers can enlighten us at some stage as to Ikea's expansion plans on the other side of the Pond. If not present in every State, I can imagine they would start their campaign in Minnesota or other places with high populations of Swedish immigrants...but I digress....]
Have you ever wondered *why* these candles are called tealights and not coffeelights or cocoalights or [insert beverage of choice]lights - or just plainly and simply little candles? Why are they associated with tea? Well, I am basing the following on flimsy research conducted solely by little ole me and this is my take on the matter.
I first came across Teelichter - both the candle and the term - when au-pairing in Germany many, many moons ago. I was surprised to discover that although the British might like to think they have the monopoly on tea drinking, the Germans have, reasonably it has to be said, adapted the art to suit themselves. Although I would argue they can't make anything resembling a decent cuppa, they do have a natty range of tea accessories and, as anyone taking up a new hobby will attest, having the right accessories makes up for glaring deficiencies elsewhere.
One of the essential items in any young woman's room (certainly back then... fashions may have changed) was a tea set consisting of ceramic cups the size of an egg cup, a matching teapot and a Stövchen. This is a stand upon which you place the teapot. In a little "well" in the Stövchen is the designated spot for a Teelicht. You light your Teelicht, place the teapot on top and the flame keeps the tea hot. Ta-daa!
For years, I have wanted a Stövchen but not had a burning desire for the matching teapot and dinky cups. It has never been at the top of my list of things to schlepp back across Europe and so I have managed without one in true stiff-upper-lip-in-the-face-of-adversity British fashion. On Thursday, I was at the local German Society meeting*. I was asked to sell raffle tickets as part of our new fundraising drive. On the table of prizes were some rather dire looking items; the only thing worth having in my view was the bottle of wine. All the other things, had I won any, would have had to go straight to the charity shop. One of my tickets was pulled out of the hat. I tried to look pleased as I was invited to choose an item from the table. The wine had unsurprisingly already been claimed. But what did I espy which had not been there earlier in the evening? A Stövchen!! Such elation. All things come to him (or her) who waits...
On the day that I squashed mein Mittelfinger** I couldn't resist buying a very nice green teapot to add to my little collection which consists of the teapot for one and the "vicarage" teapot which is so big it will provide for the army of a small nation. It has taken until now to admit the purchase for when Maggie and I were offloading our unwanted treasures at a charity shop, she commented that she couldn't ever imagine buying anyone else's junk. Having just half-emptied my house, I didn't feel the moment was right to confess that earlier in the day I had bought an item of someone else's rather nice junk - actually.
The Stövchen and the green teapot make a great team - and a pretty good cup of tea too - but I in all modesty I put that down to the maker.
*I may treat you to a blog on this cultural institution some other time. On the other hand, this may be your lot on the subject. Abwarten und Tee trinken - as one of my German textbooks would have us believe that the natives say when they want to express the idea of "wait and see" [literally: wait and drink tea***]. I'm not sure I've actually ever heard anyone say this - but it fits the theme of my blog rather nicely, nicht?
** Medical bulletin: the Mittelfinger has recovered nicely but there is still evidence of some internal bruising (or something) as I can feel pressure behind the nail every time I type with it.
*** I'm afraid curiosity got the better of me. I've just looked to see if this phrase is in my dictionary - and it is! I shall use it at every appropriate opportunity and suggest you do too.
Some days, dear reader, I can just hear you wondering how in the past you ever managed to face the world without the wonders of the contents of this blog enriching your life. Today is one of those days.
This is a post about odds and ends. You may want to stop reading now. I won't be offended. [Much].
It's funny how quite random subjects seem to come in batches. For example, the books reviewed in #10 biffed across my radar quite co-incidentally and yet had a common theme. And regular readers may remember that earlier in the week I was mumbling something about a powerpoint presentation on fire protection measures (heat-resistant doors and wotnot). No sooner had I finished it * than a completely different client asked me to translate a company's document about evacuation procedures in the event of a fire. I did wonder if I should put the two companies in touch with one another and one could sell the other their heat-resistant doors. I didn't do it.
There was one wonderful sentence in which people fleeing the fire were instructed to take "Hilflose" with them. It literally means "the helpless" and under pressure of the ever-ticking clock (as usual), I couldn't quickly think of an acceptable translation so resorted to a dictionary - thanks for nothing: it suggested "derelicts".
I don't know if the Germans find the following to be ironic in any way - but the contact name for issues to do with fire - was Ms Feuerlein - which could translate as Ms Little Fire.
On an entirely different topic I've had a few Googlers turning up looking for translations again. I'm sorry to be such a disappointment. Perhaps I should leave my contact details; I might make a fortune.
If you are still looking:
To the person wanting to know the German for "comfy chair" - it is "bequemer Sessel". The preposition (on/under/to/by etc) will change the adjectival ending. Something to ponder while you are sitting in your Sessel.
To the person who wanted to know "the book which my brother lost" - you didn't specify a language. In German it is "das Buch, das mein Bruder verloren hat".
To the person who was looking for "truthsign - wiblogs": I hope you found her eventually. I'm not clever enough to do a link but if you go to www.wibsite.com I'm sure you'll unearth her.
And finally as a PS to my series on "'Scuse my French": when the Lödgerin was here last weekend she looked at my new German slang book. I asked her a question or two on the mildness/severity of some of the words translated. We agreed that the translations of the few words we picked out at random were rather questionable in terms of register - e.g. a mild expletive in German had been translated with a much more offensive English word and vice versa. I think I shall stick to "oh fiddlesticks" - it's safer really.
*That's not entirely true, actually. I did another powerpoint presentation in between the two fire assignments - this time on a clothing company's marketing strategy. But you see what I mean? No powerpoint for ages and then two in the same week.
Oh whoops. Just noticed the time! I'm late for church. Good job it's only a 60-second walk away.... Tschüß!!
This review is another job lot - two this time - as they conveniently have a similar theme.
I have just returned "In Forkbeard's Wake - Coasting around Scandinavia" by Ben Nimmo to the library (just in time to avoid a fine... another 10 minutes and the pennies would have started adding up to boost the library's funds.)
I would not describe this as classic travel writing - there is too much of a hint of immaturity about it - but nevertheless it is an interesting read for anyone interested in sailing or Scandinavia or both. Ben Nimmo read English and Medieval Literature at Cambridge and it certainly came in useful for this book as he quotes a pertinent line or two of an ancient saga at the beginning of each chapter. I gather the translations from ancient to modern are his own. Amongst others, he quotes the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, the Saga of Olaf Tryggvason, the Saga of Harald Fairhair and the Saga of [the intriguingly named] Gunnlang Serpent's Tongue.
He sets off from England one July to discover the lands of these mighty warriors, not with Hagar or Knut, but with three Swedes, two of whom are called Fred. They sail off across the North Sea to discover what was so wonderful about the Danes who after conquering England [you might want to make sure you've got a strong cup of tea to hand at this point] made it part of their empire at the end of the 8th century. Fortunately - or perhaps not, who will ever know? - this state of affairs lasted only for 30 years before the doughty English regained control [or did someone else come barging in... I can't quite remember... that Guillaume chappy caused a bit of a commotion at Hastings... but that was not for another couple of hundred years...].
Anyway, our modern day hero battles with wind and weather, tide and technology singlehandedly and has a jolly old time meeting Danes, Swedes (most of whom seem to be called Fred or Tommy), Norwegians and Germans and getting to grips with the various languages. He can't find "is there somewhere around here I can get my stern-post welded?" in his phrase book but this does not deter the aforesaid locals from offering him the best of their hospitality. His original intention was to return to England before the winter weather set in but he is turned off course, takes a different tack and decides to go with the flow, so to speak, and does not reberth in English waters until eight months later.
Serendipitously, for this post, if for no other reason, I chanced across La Grand Traversée* - Une aventure d'Astérix le Gaulois. This book was lent to me by Marie-France (who has the whole Asterix collection in French - you have been warned...) and after Suite Française was a linguistic walk in the park - particularly as there are lots of pictures!
This adventure sees Astérix and Obélix going on a fishing trip only to find themselves in America. Obélix finds himself betrothed to an Indian maiden and thinks he is doomed until he discovers that the Vikings have landed. I love the way the author makes it clear that the Vikings are speaking their own language by inserting the Danish vowels of ø, å, and æ into the French words.
For example, the Viking leader says: Essåyøns de fåire cønnaissånce. Je våis fåire les présentåtions: møi, Kerøsen l'åventureux.
It is, of course, like all Asterix books, a joyful romp through an adventure with (perhaps) a predictable ending but nonetheless, the colourful and imaginative illustrations and the silliness of the familiar jokes hold one's interest to the final page.
If anyone is popping over to France for their summer hols, I would recommend you buy one or two of these books in the original. With a rusty O level/GCSE, I'm sure you'll enjoy them.
*I'm not sure what the title in English is: something like The Great Crossing, I suppose....
At the end of last week, the Lödgerin made her way by train across Germany, Luxembourg, Belgium and France to come and see her friends and acquaintances for the first time she she left in October. It was a brief but enjoyable stay. She left early on Monday morning but not without having left her mark - nor without the weekend having had a particularly foreign flavour - that's foreign for her, rather than me, but flavours were involved for both of us as we seem to have eaten vast quantities of food. This was probably because she was here when my natal day rolled round as is its annual habit. [Thanks for your card, JtL, which arrived today - very flower power!!]
On Saturday, we went to a neighbouring town to discover if a highly-rated tea room lived up to its reputation. The Lödgerin is particularly partial to cream teas - these being unavailable in Germany - and partook of the version offered there. It was deemed to be excellent. The scones were the size of a small child and so copious amounts of cream and jam were required. We met up with another German friend, S, who, once having found the correct tea house (she was waiting for us at another one which answered the description more or less exactly bar the name), embarked on her inaugural cream tea - and was somewhat overfaced by the presence of the second scone. Gallons of tea were consumed and it was all very pleasant.
Later in the evening, we waddled off to a very English restaurant in the Ancient Roman City. (I had wanted to go for a Thai meal but as one of my friends has various food intolerances, Thai was off the menu on this occasion.) The restaurant is situated in an old building - a bit more modern than Roman - but fairly old nonetheless - built in 1465 or thereabouts. (This is about 200 years older than the tea room which was built in 1675 and judging from its higgeldy-piggeldy roof and tiny doorway which S cracked her bonce on upon leaving people must have shrunk in the two centuries which elapsed between the two buildings...) We ate food on trenchers, the precursors of the modern plate. This is not quite as quaint as it sounds as it is basically a large piece of bread upon which the meat sits (I think originally the veg would have been on the bread too) but we were provided with plates and those modern implements collectively known as cutlery.
After a special breakfast on Sunday featuring smoked salmon, we then prepared a roast dinner for more friends. The Lödgerin baked her hazelnut and chocolate cherry cake (which has been mentioned in this blog before) to serve as dessert. My friend, The Moose, asked for the recipe and looked a bit crestfallen when this was denied him on the grounds of it being the Lödgerin's Top Secret Recipe. Unfortunately, I wasn't watching closely enough so can't say exactly how it's made. It is absolutely delicious - not too sweet - mmm-mmm!
By Monday morning, I thought I would have gained about 10 tons - so was amazed to find that I actually weighed a pound less than the previous week. I'll have to do this again sometime! How about this time next year?
I have a vague recollection that there used to be a quiz show on TV (we're probably talking about the Dark Ages here, since I haven't actually had a TV since Chaucer was a lad) where the contestants would be shown a portion of a photograph of an object taken from an unusual angle. The camera would then zoom out and more of the object would be revealed. Eventually the whole thing would be visible and it was usually obvious what it was - albeit viewed from an unlikely angle. It was usually something like a light bulb or a key or a garden fork.
Part of this presentation on fire protection measures had a few close-up photos. And when you're translating about something you know little about, it's always nice to have a picture or two to help with the description and to reassure you that you are actually on the right lines with your description. But not today. The photos were taken from such peculiar angles that it was difficult to see what they were trying to illustrate. I think they were supposed to be doors - but frankly - they could have been interplanetary spacecraft or balloon whisks. I just hope I don't get trapped in a fire with only a balloon whisk to save me. Which reminds me. The German for balloon whisk is "Schneebesen" which literally means "snow broom". As I said: not much use in a fire.
Jack the Lass and Farli have been comparing notes on how to rack up the number of words required for their essays (writing chapter headings and bibliographies first seems to have the required psychological effect for getting over the terror of facing a blank page).
I am currently ploughing my way through a 2,000-word powerpoint presentation - which is mind-bendingly dull. In the absence of chapter headings and bibliographies, I have written the numbers of the slides down on a sheet of paper and each time I finish one it gets crossed off. Of the 46 I have crossed off 22 - so nearly half way through - which is good on the one hand - but not so good on the other as time is running out. It all has to be back with the client by lunchtime tomorrow and I'm currently doing about 3 slides an hour. It's going to be a late night. It'd be alright if I had anything like a clue about what they are talking about. Something about fire protection measures, ignition points and combustion trials. Just up my Straße.
As an aside to the person who found me by googling "Translate Good Morning Mr Chambers in Indian": Indian as a language does not exist. The official language of India is Hindi but there are other official languages depending on which State you (or Mr Chambers) are (is) in. Urdu, Bengali, Punjabi, Gujerati, etc. Hope this helps.
My readers will probably be familiar with The Diary of Anne Frank. Anne Frank was a German Jewish girl whose family moved to The Netherlands in the 1930s. After the occupation of The Netherlands by the Nazis the family of four went into hiding with another four people in what she called The Annexe, a concealed part of the building where her father had formerly worked in the centre of Amsterdam.
While they were there, Anne wrote of the daily ups and down, stresses and strains of household life which were all the more intensified by the fact that no one could ever leave the rooms they occupied or even make a sound during the day for fear of the workers in the building hearing them. This included every noise you can think of from speaking at a normal volume to the clattering of the washing up to pulling the chain on the toilet. Anne describes how she longed to go out and how she would stand at the topmost window at night breathing in deep gulps of fresh air - or shake with fear in her bed at night when the aeroplanes came over the city dropping their bombs. Her fear was not so much of suffering a direct hit but a near-miss which would oblige the household to leave the damaged building and be discovered.
Anne writes beautifully and considering she was only 13 years old when she first started her diary, her standard of description is astonishing. Sometimes one has to remind oneself that she is confined to The Annexe and that she does not have any external social stimulation apart from the occasional visit from the people who were helping them by bringing supplies. Her diary entries are so interesting; she always finds something new to discuss. It would be understandable if her entries slipped into the mundane but we are spared the banality of "I got up, I had my breakfast and then I read my book..."
After approximately two and a half years of hiding, the household was discovered and transported to concentration camps. Of the eight, only Anne's father survived.
Zlata's Diary by Zlata Filopovic has been compared to The Diary of Anne Frank. Zlata began writing her diary at the age of 11 during the Balkan Conflict in 1991. Although (in my view) it does not have quite the literary merits of Anne's diary, it is nevertheless an interesting account of war through the eyes of child and the deterioration of normal life; school, friends, parties, swimming, etc. were replaced by self-imposed imprisonment. Zlata lived in Sarajevo which was extensively bombed. Her home was literally right in the line of fire between the warring sides. She was not allowed to practice the piano as bullets had smashed through the sitting room windows (where the piano was) and, eventually, it was too dangerous to remain in the flat at all. She and her parents as well as neighbours in the apartment block had to live in the cellar as best they could (no heating, no cooking facilities, no washing facilities and next to no food available). Zlata's story has a happy ending as a publisher heard of her writing activities and these turned out to be her family's passport to a safer country. I believe she now lives in Ireland.
"I want to live" by Nina Lugovskaya, The diary of a young girl in Stalin's Russia is by comparison a complete let-down. It is billed in the blurb on the back of the book as "poignantly revealing life at a time of political upheaval, betrayal and repression through the eyes of an innocent". I bought it on the basis that my knowledge of anything Russian is woefully inadequate and thought that perhaps I would understand more by reading Nina's diary. Her diary entries are perhaps typical of the trauma of the teenage years: does that boy like me, am I pretty enough, the slog of endless schoolwork and homework, squabbles with her twin sisters and mother and so on.
Although her father is in prison for his political beliefs, there is little explanation or even mention of him. Although the blurb promises insight into "political upheaval, betrayal and repression", there is barely a whisper of anything more than the ordinary life of an ordinary girl.
The most astonishing thing associated with this diary is the attitude of Stalin's secret police. Whereas when Anne Frank was arrested, the SS left her diaries scattered across the floor of The Annexe as the worthless witterings of a teenager, (as it says on the back cover of the book and not actually in the text itself) Stalin's secret police arrested Nina, her mother and sisters on the grounds of treason for the few criticisms Nina had made of the regime in her writing. They were sentenced to five years' hard labour and seven years' exile. Of course, there is no record of these years as Nina would have been banned from writing. Nina's few criticisms are highlighted in the text so that the reader can judge for her/himself how mild or severe s/he thinks Nina has been. Twelve years' punishment has got to rate as pretty harsh in anyone's book.
Sadly, despite the suffering Nina endured for writing her diary, I cannot recommend it whereas Anne's and Zlata's are well written (particularly taking their ages into account) and should be on everyone's reading list.
I have just spent the best part of an hour typing up a mega-book review for your delight and delectation. And my stapler fell off the desk just I was on the last sentence. I peered over the edge of the desk to see where it had landed, looked back at the screen and
I have just finished translating a company newsletter which discussed how to do business with people from different countries. It was written from a German point of view, unsurprisingly. When dealing with the Brits, the staff members were warned about our sense of humour, drinking habits (alcohol is consumed very quickly, apparently) and not being over-familiar with the boss - even though you use his first name (and not call him Mr. as would be the norm in Germany). They didn't mention how the boss might be a woman - but do not allow me to digress. [Oh, go on, let me. Thanks.] The thing that bugged me in this translation was that they kept referring to the UK as England. It is a bit of a German trait, I've noticed. If it is clear they really mean the UK, I change it so that this mistake is not perpetuated any further.
The cross-cultural pep talk also mentioned non-European cultures - and the various faux pas one could commit around the world.
In another of its articles, they welcomed new staff in their offices in India and Singapore. Then there was a report by a member of staff about a fun-run various people had participated in. There was a glorious sentence about how easy it was to find excuses to avoid getting up off your backside and going to train. Gentle readers, I confess I did not use the word "backside" - not because it offends my sensibilities - but because I thought that perhaps their staff in their Asia offices might be mildly offended. My understanding is that some cultures do not refer to certain parts of the body in polite society. An office newsletter might be deemed as such.
I could be wrong. I'll retranslate the sentence if they want bum, bottom or backside as per the original but for now it talks about finding excuses not to go training when it is cold and dark outside. Terribly decent, what?
Last week I experienced the deep joy of translating an operating manual for a camcorder. To do this job, I was obliged to use some translation software. The principle is easy. You translate a sentence, the software stores it. If this same sentence or one very similar reappears in the text it will suggest the existing translation as an option. This should be all fine and dandy for texts such as operating manuals where the text is pretty much the same for each upgrade of model. All the translator has to do is find the new and modified sections of text and do the necessary. In theory.
Agencies LOVE this software for two simple reasons:
1. They can persuade their clients that the translations will use standard language and terminology
2. They pay their translators only for the new and modified text - not for the stuff which has already been translated.
Except the problem is that although the software recognises sentences which are identical, it does not recognise what comes before or after. This is called context. And it is pretty important. But clients aren't generally linguists and do not seem to appreciate this point.
Any road up. There I am, bashing out the delights of how to turn on the new all-singing, all-dancing camcorder when I come to the end of my day. I save everything, close it down and go and do something marginally more interesting with my life.
Next day, switch on computer, open software, open document (of which about a third is now complete) and my eyes pop out of my head. All the text on the page is in Greek. I don't know if it was correct Greek - I don't read Greek - but it certainly looked like Greek. I fiddle about a bit with the software trying to trick it back to German and English but it won't play. I send the doc to my client to ask him what he thinks is going on. He writes back to say that it's in English and German on his computer.
Brainwave: open saved original untranslated document (phew!) and run it through the software. The translated section is in the memory and so I can start again where I left off. This little drama occurs every time I close down the document - and as it was a mere 75 pages long (can there really be that much to say about operating a camcorder? Well, it would appear so...) this happens several times as I translate about 20 pages on a good day.
When I'd finished, I closed it down and emailed it off - hoping to heaven that it would not translate itself into Greek in the process. Client seemed pleased enough - so that was another hurdle negotiated. Eureka.
On the subject of things Greek, I bought a new handheld blender the other day. Dead cheap (no instructions included) and was looking forward to making my own hummous with it. I can honestly say it was not a resounding success.
Does anyone have a recipe that works? I'd be interested to hear about it.
Jack the 'Bedside Manner' Lass commented on my post about mein Mittelfinger that I am one of the least sweary people she knows. I find this quite amusing as I think I use some colourful language relatively often - and certainly more often than seems to be the norm in the church circles I move in.
I must assure my more refined and gentle readers that I do not go out of my way to swear and try to restrict my swearing vocabulary to the milder words. In the Mittelfinger episode, the swearing Richter scale was hitting a good 9/10 which is why I couldn't understand why Maggie thought I wasn't being forceful enough.
Swearing is an interesting subject as the likelihood of offending people is pretty high. And swearing in a foreign language is particularly tricky. Years ago, when I first met the Great Dane, he was helping with the church's annual summer project for four weeks. (You will remember that the GD speaks near-perfect English - almost like a native.) One week of the four involved running a Kids' Club. He was telling me all about a group of teenagers he was working with. At the end of their day, they'd had a bit of a discussion about something or other and he told them they'd better f*** off. My eyebrows shot up my forehead and my chin hit the floor.
Me: You said WHAT to them?
GD: I told them to f*** off.
Me: Er - do you know what that means?
GD: Yeah. It means to go away.
Me: Well, yes, in a manner of speaking, it does. Where did you learn it?
GD: From the subtitles on the films we get in Denmark.
I felt obliged to explain the finer points to him. In the circs, he agreed that the church youth club was perhaps not an appropriate venue for using this particular word.
Ever since then I've wondered if strong language in films is downgraded. As I can't believe that Danish does not have an equivalent phrase, I imagine the language may be modified to allow the parental guidance ratings to be lower if there is less likelihood of children being corrupted.
There also seems to be an innate understanding of the nuances within swearing. There are phrases which when said amongst friends with a smile and friendly wink might be considered to be a matey bonding sort of statement. When said in different circumstances with different body language the same phrase could be interpreted as hugely offensive.
Some people like to learn a few swear words when the first learn a new language. There is nothing wrong with that in my view - it's all part of the whole experience. But using them in the right context is a completely different matter and best to be avoided.
I had a French colleague at my last place of work who went to meet her English boyfriend's parents for the first time. She was chatting happily with his mother when the mother said "Oh, and why didn't you do that?" Corinne said "Because I couldn't be arsed". The mother's face was a little shocked but she said nothing and Corinne wondered what the matter was. Later, her boyfriend said she should perhaps have said she couldn't be bothered. It turned out that Corinne thought that the phrase was "I couldn't be asked"* - and she thought it meant that 'you shouldn't bother asking her to do [whatever] because she wasn't going to comply'. This example is pretty mild (in my view) and it didn't entirely wreck her relationship with the boyfriend's mother as she is now the mother-in-law but it goes some way to illustrating the minefield that swearing can be.
Translations of swear words are not always reliable for although they may be accurate on a word-for-word basis, they do not always translate the power or force or offensive nature.
Just yesterday, I was browsing in a bookshop when I came across a dictionary of German slang. I have various books on idioms, phrases, and colloquialisms so I wondered if it would be duplicating books I already possess. I picked it up and looked at it. It was an eye-opener. There before me were words which I would not use in polite society with their translations - and examples of appropriate usage. Gentle reader, I bought it. Purely for research purposes, you understand.
* Southern English accents pronounce "ask" as "arsk".
Over the years I have collected a number of decorated eggs on ribbons from Germany, Austria and the Czech Republic. Don't ask me how I managed to transport these delicate items back home without crushing them but somehow each is still in one piece.
I rarely display the eggs because I don't know quite what to do with them. I had fleeting thoughts of making an Easter tree this year but the thoughts were very fleeting and I wasn't really inspired as to how to make this a reality and was not sure that it wouldn't take up too much space in the humble dwelling. On Easter Saturday I had a brainwave. Why not string the eggs up in the windows?! Ta-daa! Easy. So I did.
I noticed that the church has already taken down the illuminated cross which stands on the bell tower. I think it goes up on Palm Sunday and comes down again on the Wednesday after Easter Sunday. Palm Sunday seems a bit premature to display Easter egg decorations as there is still the solemnity of Good Friday to take place. In the absence of a traditional date such as there is for taking down Christmas decorations I think I will take these Easter eggs down on Sunday. A week: too short, too long? What think you, gentle readers?
While excavating the clutter, I came across some items which were still wrapped in newspaper from my move. One page of newspaper particularly caught my eye. It was from Die Zeit, 30 Oktober 2003. It was a long article about the disposal of corpses.
I remember the Lödgerin being puzzled by the graveyard opposite which I live as all the graves therein are at least 200 years old. She explained that there aren't such old graveyards in Germany as graves are reused after about 25 years. (The Germans always were at the forefront of recycling measures...). The article in the newspaper talked about how corpses weren't decaying quickly enough (something to do with the robust nature of modern coffins and artificial fibres in clothing), so those that deal with such matters were doing something about it. Rather than using traditional coffins, they were using concrete chambers with plenty of room for fresh air - 40 cubic metres of oxygen does the trick apparently. One firm was not leaving anything to chance but pumping air through the chambers to make sure everything returned to dust.
This method seems to be popular in Catholic areas of Germany as they are not in favour of cremations. Clearly, with 650,000 burials a year a solution had to be found. The report says that some people were not keen on the idea of a concrete tomb but the head of the burial chamber company assured his future clients that they would not be lying in the mud. He even went so far as to mention that the most famous of all Christians had lain in a tomb. His demanding customer countered "Yes, but he didn't like it, either."
On Easter Monday, I went for a walk with a group of people. Out in the middle of nowhere - where all you could see were a couple of farms in the distance - we came across Stoney Littleton Long Barrow. This is a Neolithic burial chamber i.e. about 5,000 years old. It looked almost part of the general landscape - especially as there was a small flock of sheep grazing on the top of the barrow, a sort of grassy mound. You could enter the chamber and walk a few metres inside. I suppose the really determined could wriggle on their stomachs to get even further inside but I wasn't in the mood. Quite amazing to think of people living on that hillside all those years ago and some of their civilisation still exists. Excellent construction skills.
On the evening of Maundy Thursday, the spring cleaning bug bit me big-time and I decided to excavate the refuse heap that is my understair cupboard. I don't know if my gentle readers in countries such as Oz and the US have such features in their houses but the Brits will know this area of the house only too well. The understair cupboard is often one of the only storage places built in older houses in this country - and is also known by the name of "the glory hole" on account of the junk that accumulates there.
As I dragged objects out of this dark disordered space, I wavered between congratulating and berating myself. I berated myself for the number of unnecessary items I had managed to cram into this small space - and I congratulated myself on the way I had managed to cram so many items into such a small space!
As I was going in for the kill crouching down to reach a box at the back of the cupboard (the narrowest wedgy bit where the stairs are at their lowest - if you see what I mean) I cracked my head on a nail that was sticking out. Lots of ouching and ow-ing ensued and rubbing of the noggin. No permanent damage done (no, really, I've always been like this...). Just a little bit of blood and later a scab (which is still there; I've just checked).
Now, I know this story is really about my middle finger, and if I could beg your patience to bear with me, you will find that the finger is about to take centre stage.
So, dining room is now full of unwanted items. Maggie has promised a trip to the tip in her car on Saturday. Saturday rolls round and I start packing my rubbish in the boot of her car surrounded by boxes of her unwanted items. A passer-by says conversationally "Are you moving house?" - this will give an indication of just how much junk we had between us.
At the tip, we throw all the items into the designated skips - paper, glass, textiles, wood, cardboard, non-recyclables (into which category, gentle readers will perhaps be amazed to learn that wallpaper belongs...). Maggie enlists my help to muscle a 25kg bag of cement from the car into a skip. Somehow, mein Mittelfinger managed to get jammed between this bag and the metal edge of the skip. Once I'd retrieved my hand, my mouth went into action:
Kerensa: s&*?@!! g%^**#!!
Maggie: Oh no! What's happened?
Kerensa: My s&*?@!! finger g%^**#!!
Maggie: Quick, swear! swear! It'll make you feel better.
Kerensa: I AM s&*?@!! g%^**#** swearing!!
Dear reader, my swearing is clearly too genteel to be recognised as such, but I can't believe it.
So my previously much underrated and undervalued middle finger on my right hand has joined my recessive gene thumbs in my increasing collection of misshapen digits. The top joint swelled up and looked decidedly like a plum. By Sunday, the swelling and colour had travelled south to the middle joint and by Monday the third joint had been included.
I could not exert any pressure on it to type. On Tuesday, I was trying to touch type without using it. I managed pretty well without it, but the poor old finger got extremely cold just sticking out uselessly from the rest of my hand all day. It really needed a little hat to keep it cosy - but I was too disabled to make one.
Just in case you are still reading and want a medical bulletin: the finger is recovering now. It is grateful for all the kind wishes and attentions it has received. The top joint is still a bit tender but it is able to rejoin the typing team as you can see. It has a particularly important job to carry out as its specially assigned symbols are:
i k , < 8 *
all of which are needed more often than you would ever imagine.
while I've been "away" from the blog over the past week.
My visitor stats show that my US visitors have just nosed ahead of my visitors from Oz at 77 visits over 76. I don't know if this is Rain and Ian in competition with each other (thank you both for visiting today - even though I hadn't written anything for over a week :-) )- or whether more residents of those countries pop by to see what's going on in the Old Country. I have had my first visitor - or even visitors - from Germany (a grand total of 2 - is this one person who has visited twice, or two separate individuals who have stumbled upon my witterings?) Herzlich Willkommen!
Someone also tipped up in a fruitless search for a translation of the Danish phrase "sitting between two chairs". This sounds to me as if it has been translated from a foreign language into English (a little literally) and now the original language is required again. (This is known as a "back translation" and I am booked to do one next Tuesday for a psychological test for a human resources department....). I think the phrase my visitor really wanted was "falling between two stools". I did a quick bit of research and found this phrase on the internet (disclaimer: no responsibility taken for inaccuracy. I have only consulted one source - and I still haven't got round to looking at Chapter 4 of Teach Yourself Danish..) in case the searcher is still looking: sætte sig mellem to stole - which looks to me as if it literally says "to seat oneself between two chairs". Perhaps it will be useful - perhaps it's utter rubbish.
Which reminds me of a slogan I was asked to comment on this week. I suspect from the way my client phrased her email that the person who had translated the text was not a native speaker of English as she asked for "your native speaker input". Of course, as usual, I wasn't given any context or the original text. It read along the lines of: "over the hill and aged to perfection". You don't have to be a translator to realise that these two phrases are opposites of one another - the first somewhat pejorative and the second a compliment. In my reply to my client, I had to cover myself from all angles as I didn't know what the end client was trying to sell - or even convey. It could be what they want to say for all I know but I doubted it. My client agreed with me having read my reply - with examples - on the subject.
There is a bit of a harumphy PS to this story: my client asked me to comment on the proposed slogan for no payment. As I have already pointed out, you don't have to have special qualifications to see that this particular slogan doesn't work. So you could argue that anyone could do the job and therefore it is not really worth much in monetary terms. On the other hand, you could argue that by giving the client my full and considered professional response (having broken off from another job to do so), I have saved her client a whole shed load of money - not to
mention face - by not committing a ghastly faux pas in blitzing a totally inappropriate slogan around the world. Ought to be worth a bob or two, no? Harumph.
So, what has kept me away from the Wonderful World of Wibble? All will be revealed in another post. Stand by your beds!
Lost In Translation 
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