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Amok Mama: My German-GERMAN-German friend

Jacinta Nandi has a date. Try to guess with who? Even her boyfriend doesn't believe it.

“So,” said my boyfriend, after I’d violently smashed the alarm clock off on Sunday morning, “you going to come out for breakfast with me?”

“No,” I said.

“What?” He said.

“I can’t come out for breakfast with you,” I said.

He looked at me in surprise.

“What?” He asked.

“I don’t wanna have German breakfast with you,” I explained. “Well, I can’t, anyways.”

He stared at me and blinked a bit.

“I’ll pay,” he said, after he’d blinked for, like, 10 seconds or something. “I’ll pay for the breakfast.”

“No,” I said. “I’m meeting up with a friend.”

I prised myself out of bed and started getting dressed. It was a Sunday, I told myself, it didn’t matter what I wore – I could have holes in my tights, I could put on mismatching socks. I could even, like, fish around in the dirty washing for knickers if I wanted to – and that’s what I did. I save my clean knickers for when I’m being paid, you know. My boyfriend sat up very straight in our bed and blinked at me disapprovingly while I got dressed.

“A friend?” he asked. “You’re meeting up with a friend for breakfast?”

“Not just any friend,” I said. “A German friend.”

“A German friend?”

“A German friend.”

“When you say German,” he began.

“I mean German-German,” I said.

“You mean a Russland-Deutsche,” he said.

“No,” I said. “I mean German-German.”

“You mean, like, someone who’s like an army brat,” he said. “Their mum’s German but their dad’s American. You mean someone who’s like, almost German.”

“I fucking don’t,” I said, insulted. “For once in my life I am fucking verabredet for fucking breakfast with a fucking German. A German-German-German-GERMAN.”

“You mean, like, a Turkish German,” he said.

“I’m meeting a German for breakfast!” I shouted at him.

He blinked at me, like a newt in the sunlight, and, after a few minutes of blinking, he said, sceptically:

“You’re meeting up with a German-German-German-GERMAN-German for breakfast?”

“Yes,” I answered. “And I better leave now, or I might be late.” I turned around at the door and asked, hesitantly:

“Do I look alright?”

He gave me a look that was half a grimace and half a wince. In fact, to be honest, we need a new word dafür. I’d suggest wimace. Or grince.

“Hmmmm,” he said, “maybe you better change your top. You look a bit, you know, scruffy and that. How you’re dressed. At the moment.”

“You reckon?” I asked.

“You’re better auf einer Nummer sicher gehen and all that. I mean, it’s not every day you get to have breakfast with a German-German-German-German-GERMAN-German.”

“No,” I said. “You’re right there.”