Fit a joy on Monday when my quine copied me the text she’d got from my grand Toot’s school, praising her recent German test results.
Losh, was I chuffed. Since she up to secondary in August, I’ve been offering my services as a tutor, keen to spik away to her auf Deutsch, although I suspect her knowledge is already overtaking mine, even though I studied it for seven years.
So I Google-translated a reply amounting to: “I’m affa prood of you,” then admitted I’d looked it up, but I could spik it like a native.
That was the thing I discovered about German back in 1960 when I went to the High.
For Doric/Aiberdeen-common spikkers, it was a caker.
That back ‘ch’ came as naturally to us as a flech or fecht, compared to the gutteral back ‘rrrrhhh‘ in Frrchancais, which made us sound like we were hoachin’ phlegm.
And some of the words are so similar to oor ain, like the Kuh.
We teenage numpties went feel when we discovered ‘manure’ translated as ‘Kuhdung,’ and ‘have a good trip,’ as ‘Gute Fahrt.’
My mum was furious I’d chosen German
No laughing matter to my mum, furious I’d chosen German as a second to French instead of Latin.
Not because she was a fan of the classical dead language, but because, even though World War II ended 15 years before, it was still too raw for her.
Loathed hearing me even whispering it during my homework.
Come our third year, the Madchens at the all-fraulein High went hysterical with the sensational news we were getting a German student teacher … wait for it … ein Mann – a species which hadn’t ever ventured through the one-sex portals, if you didn’t count aged musical-master Mr Cutbush.
Woo-woo. Although any kind of make-up was verboten, we’d rummle into his class reeking of Woolie’s best Midnight In Paris, pan stick caked ower oor plooks, skirts an extra roll higher roon the waist.
Herr Wiesand wisnae exactly knock-oot gorgeous – sort of cross between a ginger-haired Beach Boys Brian Wilson and Z-Cars Brian Blessed – but we were, to a fraulein, totally in love.
Never did I hate my best pal so much as when he told her: “Dein Deutsch ist perfekt.”
After six years of it at school and a B in my Highers, Hell’s Bells I’d to do another year at Aberdeen Uni to get two languages to qualify for the Eng Lit course.
(The other was Old English – infinitely easier than New German.)
I’m delighted Aberdeen uni will still offer joint degree courses
I’m delighted Aberdeen has finally sorted out its modern language crisis, still offering joint degree courses.
Mind you, there’s nothing better than learning at the chalk face.
My Higher C French improved exponentially years later after several holidays in Provence. But my Deutsch was a bummer.
Spik aboot shock reading the degree results at King’s College and discovering I’d passed.
Just then, one of our lecturers approached. Said Herr Martin: “Moreen, you’ve astonished our department how you could write such brilliant essays on German literature when you obviously couldn’t understand a word of the language.”
Nae that I telt him I read a’thing in English translations. And nae that I’ll tell my affa clever Enkelin (grand-daughter) either!
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press and Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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