From Belfast to Berlin (1)

“Did the British ever apologise for The Famine?”

Fifteen minutes into my Big Fresh Start and I’m standing in a German kitchen explaining sectarian voting patterns to an owlishly attractive yoga instructor.

My host used to be married to a Derry man. I make a joke about Derry-Londonderry and sigh inside.

His father was a soldier and his mother was Catholic.

“Problems with his psyche” she offers, obliquely.

“Aren’t the unionists part of the government now?”

Well, they are, and they aren’t.

“Can’t the Queen step in and take charge? Is that against the constitution?”

Well, they don’t really have one.

I’m tired. Still humming with travel palpitations.

My host teaches English during the day. I agree to come to her class and explain Northern Irish politics to elderly, curious middle-class Germans.

“You will have to speak slow and loud, they have hearing aides.” Okay.

“But not too loud or they break!” Right.

I make a mental note to Google “cash for ash”. “So, would you like anything?” I would like to go to bed.

“I have PG Tips?”