Things are happening in our village. Seriously exciting things. And no, I don't just mean the "exceptionally good" crop of strawberries that Frau Schwarz has managed to grow this year. Not even the announcement of the start of the new girl guide/boy scout group. Oh no. Much better than that, if you can possibly get your heads around that prospect.
Film crews are here and they are making a film of which our house may well be a part. Well, the outside anyway. Needless to say, last week as I spotted men-with-cameras sizing up the joint, the first thing I set about doing was a spot of research. Turns out, contrary to my admittedly desperate hopes, they only have to show you the money if they use the inside of your home.
Bugger.
Anyway, half an egg and all that. It is all quite exciting. The film is to be a modern take on some fairytale or other and the main character is apparently quite famous. When his name was mentioned by some hat wearing arty-farty flashy type, my blank expression caused him some consternation. "You don't know who Helmut Frazlesteinmacher (or whoever) is?" The question was asked in the same tone of voice with which one might ask the question "You ate a live baby?"
I've really never heard of the chap but then if it's not the Clooney bloke I'm not all that interested to be honest.
Finje, hasn't quite grasped the concept of film-making which largely requires those in the surrounding vicinity to keep quiet. And really, stay out of the way. But of course it's all too enthralling for little person. The main part of the film seems to be taking place outside the church next to our home. Finje keeps disappearing off and I, of course, being the good mother I am, and not at all interested in the goings on, have to go and retrieve her. Still hauling round the hope that my inner Meryl Streep will some day be discovered, I hung around like a film groupie shamelessly using Finje as my excuse.
"Oh is she here again? I'm so sorry!"
It all came to an abrupt halt, as it was bound to, when a half naked crumb covered four year old child, who turned out to be mine, ran right across the middle of Helmut whatchamacallit's big scene. Lots of unhappy arty types and the end of my acting career before it even started.
Oh well, their loss, daaahrling.