“After twelve years of therapy my psychiatrist said something that brought tears to my eyes. He said, ‘No hablo ingles.’ “
Ronnie Shakes

Suddenly, the trees came out, and so did the pollen and I’ve gone onto my hayfever tablets again, though the strength of the birch seems to be over the level that they can control.

But it’s lovely to have the spring again, even though certain reminders of winter persist. The dampness experts are tantalising me with the prospect of industrial hoovers one minute and then withdrawing, now saying only that they need to repeat the “white gas” (read: “radioactive gas”) test. This is to finally establish the precise leakage point in the terrace above my rooms and it will happen on the 26^th April, though they are awaiting some “pallets” from England, so it depends on the English sending them quickly enough. I assured him they would arrive. I keep on telling them it has been dry since they mended something up there, but that doesn’t prove anything, apparently.

And now two key members of the team are lying ill in hospital, sadly. I hope I won’t be the next one, after so much white gas. Today was another day of visitors tutting, craning their necks through the hole in the ceiling with cameras and moisture meters and making exclamations in difficult Berlin dialect. The main thing, I suppose, is not to make any errors, so it’s good they’re being thorough.

Speaking of errors, I’m always worrying about certain things. Particularly language errors. Thank goodness, then, for this, which seems to offer the final word on some of those niggling little linguistic niceties that some people often get wrong…