If they are not taking their big butch dogs for a walk, nicht lead, of course, Berliners seemingly take their drink for a stroll. Usually it’s a beer, though often it’s Bionade, the lurid-coloured drink of choice invented by master brewer, and more importantly to him probably, patent holder, Dieter Leipold.

Bio stands for organic, and its brewed organically innit (”Fermentation naturlicher”, as it says on the label). You don’t see Berliners drinking anything else, apart from beer that is. The drink, naturally, fermented Herr Leipold millions.

Try the litschi (lychee), pictured above (OK, most bottles don’t stand up like this, that would defy gravity, but it’s getting late and technology is annoying me, like a Jack Russell, albeit one not shagging my leg).

At least I think it’s lychee. Rather refreshing, and not half as sweet as some of the other flavours. Lets call them orange, pink, green, red and purple.

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Why do the Germans have those odd toilet bowls, the one with a flat shelf which leaves one’s deposits readily available for immediate inspection, like an early morning roll call for der stuhls?

I’ve heard various descriptions of the toilet: “Viewing platform”, “the lay and display”, “the flush and brush”; or “the continental shelf.” (the word continental applies, I’m sure, to European geography, not the medical condition)

Immediate inspection may hold the key. When I asked mein Deutsche friend, wondering whether the shelf allows immediate assessment as to your state of health, she replied: “Ja, I guess so. Never really thought about it.”

Marcus implied it was down to the lack of splash, and therefore more hygienic. Another chum suggested it was down to the amount of water the flush conserved.

Not every toilet has this shelf life, of course, and it seems das bogs are being slowly replaced with the Anglo pot, but most Deutsche bogs still do. Without going into details, it’s quite irksome, espceially for the senses, albeit sometimes engaging, depending on one’s deposit.

There’s nothing quite like leaving the toilet and thinking, “Well done fellah, still on course for a good innings, you’ve been a good boy.”

The again, there’s nicht worse than leaving thinking, “Easy Tiger!”

For more on this subject, and it may need parental guidance, click here.

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If there’s one thing liable to put you off smoking, it’s waking up in the morning, ambling onto the balcony, lighting up a tab and staring at a funeral parlour, full-on in the face. The coffins, all oak and mahogany, almost rubbing their handles gleefully as they stare blankly at you.

It’s depressing, though not as depressing as waking up at 7.30am each day to the sound of drilling and banging, and a balcony on Falkensteinstrasse, Kreuzberg, that resembles a war zone; albeit a war zone ensconced in scaffolding.

Not just scaffolding. It seems the works does not involve repainting, per se, but insulation. The Turkish builders are lining the facier with six-inch thick mottled grey and white polystyrene, cemented to the wall and then cut away, before facing with plaster and filling with some sort of insulating goo. I wonder what colour they will eventually paint it. I rather like the mottled hue; it’s rather now, so textile.

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Berlin’s cafes are full at most times of day; definitely for lunch; busy late afternoon and always packed after 6pm, usually until early morning.

The only time of day the cafes seem slack is before 10am, largely because no one is up before that time, and the cafes are closed. Trying to find a pleasant functioning cafe befor 10am is like trying to find the northwest passage, armed only with a U-Bahn map and dressed in nada but a pair of slippers.

does anyone work in Berlin? There’s a palpable feeling that no one actually does. Most peopleweI have met are “freelance” or “on holiday”, or between jobs. By Freelance, we do not mean self-employed, a zealous slave to their productive bent, but casually going about their creative calling, on an ad hoc, ambling basis.

In one month, we have only met two people with a full-time job. Everuone it seems is either a stage or textile designer, freelance film director or multimedia artist, lighting engineer or DJ, party organiser or screenplay writer, freelance journalist or illustrator etc; all working from laptops in the crowded cafes which lap every street. Think London’s Hackney, writ large; a creative smorgasbord.

Berliners complain that Berlin has little or no work to offer, save for casual bar or cafe work, paid gigs that are jealously guarded, if you have one. Non-Berliners would love to work in Berlin, too, but reasonably paid opportunities are rare, they say. Unemployment, particularly in the suburbs is rife. Twenty-five percent, some claim, more if you include under-employment and illegal immigrants not covered by the statistics.

It’s why, perhaps, Berliners are so thrifty. Every pfennig counts here. People cycle everywhere, like Amsterdam, or walk. The U-Bahn is expensive, comparatively speaking, and often bunked. Annoyingly, if there are six of you, restaurant bills and bar tabs are totted up separately. Which can make for  a painful exprience: “No, I only had one sausage, Nena, honest!”

After that, they fill, with souls

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