Dog meadow. Fog. Wet feet. The “finally-are-the-kids-in-school” aisle gathers. The question follows lazily: “Who will actually be Chancellor now?”
I whistle after the little dog who sniffs for mice and lose touch. My differentiated attempt to explain the probabilities of the traffic light and Jamaica coalition comes too late.
The attention has already drifted to more practical topics: Is it time to get the waterproof hiking boots from the attic, or is there another week of sneakers?
My environment seems like a large marine mammal after an exhausting Pacific crossing: Whale tired.
Even my quip that I picked up on Twitter, “Don’t even know whether they even need a new government in Jamaica” does not penetrate the humorous epicenter of the group.
All dogs are now digging at the mouse hole. My thoughts also work their way into the depths of everyday life.
Did little daughter actually learn vocabulary in English after she turned 5? Should I make pancakes or schnitzel today? Will I get an extension of the deadline for the wasted tax return? Maybe yes, if Scholz becomes chancellor in time, he shouldn’t be so close to taxes, at least if you’re a private bank.
Drizzle follows the fog. The group of dogs dissolves. The pedestrian traffic lights on the crowded federal highway take forever. I still have three weeks of vacation. Maybe a last minute to the Caribbean?
I’m really like Armin Laschet: I’m at the red light and dream of Jamaica.