I am not certain whether I have explained the actual purpose of this column "Viennoiserie". It is supposed to serve as a tiny window of surveillance on the things going on in my life, but not in a dreary diary-way, but rather providing snapshots. Oh, and it is of course all ye cunning folks from outside of Austria for whom I provide this exclusive and very personal service.

Days and nights are currently filled with wild thoughts about ... export credit agencies and environmental and social standards. I am applying for a PhD scholarship granted by the Austrian Academy of Sciences, which means I have to provide them with some kind of exposé. Deadline is next Tuesday; funny how I always get a touch of a flu when I have to concentrate...

Apart from struggling with a slight fever and the painful defeat of my football team against the German side of Dortmund yesterday night, I get increasingly worried by a feeling of growing old. Just look at the recordings currently on heavy rotation on my stereo:



Call me an old bore, but I get a godzillian times more kicks out of Mr Ferry`s frail version of "The Way You Look Tonight" than out of anything on the contemporary pop charts. Apart from that, I started buying cut flowers occasionally, not for reasons of courtship, certainly, but for strictly decorative purposes. Yes. This IS pathetic.

Anyway, judged from the outside, my days pass as uneventful as could be. Occasionally, glittering sparks of excitement appear. Like the unveiling of the identity of a certain Mr Darren Spooner ...

"German road maps instantly make me think of Deutsche Bundesliga and Herbert Grönemeyer songs", says F. as I try to find the shortcut from Karlsruhe to Stuttgart through the Pfälzer Wald.

I cannot object. Eight hours on Belgian and German motorways, screaming heat that melts away my last Cote d`Or bar within thirty minutes. An unintended one-hour`s break devoted to a search for petrol in Luxembourg, due to our penny-pinching madness. The car filled with the choking combination of diesel and refreshment tissues.
We are not desperate as regards our future. We are tense. Within these eight hours (and the three which followed until we entered into Austria), we accomplished a comprehensive analysis of the job market for bright young things we assume to be. No, no assumption. We ARE the crème de la crème - even if the future that`s been mapped out is nothing much to shout about...

As the sun sets in France or somewhere beyond, F.`s Golf chasing down it`s own shadow, our car stereo tunes into Ö3. How I hate that station. But on this Sunday night, I am delighted. "Summerwine". Lee Hazlewood. Mountains approaching, still and strangely damp. We agree it is a beautiful country, but we are not so sure about its inhabitants.
"I want to get back to Brussels as soon as possible", F. says. I understand why.

I admit that my capability to focus on one issue at a time is as feeble as Alastair Campbell`s tolerance of dissenting media opinions. Nonethess I am going to spend the sad rest of my even sadder last Commission salary to buy this volume, in spite of the waist-high pile of unread books next to my bed.

Maybe it`ll yield the truth about Mr Cocker performing a series of shows sitting in a wheelchair (after having broking his hip in a freak Wickerman-cum-Spiderman stunt), just to get out of it at the end of the last concert and walk off stage.