![\"\"](\"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/10\/78670d8df485ae375d04cfa0354efefa.jpg\")
<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
The idea begins to take shape after the fortuitous discovery of the pale blue savings account book, wedged between two long-expired passports, and secured with an elastic band. It belonged to my deceased mother, and it reads Postsparbuch and Deutsche Bundespost. There\u2019s a posthorn-shaped logo near the top of it with stylised lightning flashes underneath, which reminds me of the muted posthorn symbol representing Thurn und Taxis in Thomas Pynchon\u2019s metafictional novel The Crying of Lot 49<\/em>. The final entry is from 28 July 1999. Since that also happens to be the same year in which Germany switched from the deutschmark to the euro, the balance is given in both currencies: 2154.68 DM versus 1101.67 EUR. It almost feels like unearthing buried treasure. In a sense, it is.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I email the Postbank, since that is what they are now called, attaching scans of my passport, my mother\u2019s death certificate, and the savings account book, and make enquiries to withdraw the money, which most definitely belongs to me and not to them. Unfortunately, it\u2019s not as simple as all that. Copies are not acceptable for inheritance purposes. Instead, I\u2019ll need to arrange a trip to Germany, armed with all the original documents. To that end, I order a two-prong power adapter for my mobile phone and it arrives promptly, the day before I\u2019m due to travel.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 As I\u2019ve grown older, sudden change and new experiences have become less and less attractive. If anything, I tend to avoid them and stick to a routine. But as a poor working-class writer, the thought of getting my hands on some extra money \u2013 which will have been augmented by 24 years of interest \u2013 is too great to resist.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 To be honest, I\u2019d forgotten all about this savings account. My late father, who was an avid grower of prize-winning exhibition leeks, used to be busy during the summer months feeding and watering his charges, so my mother would sometimes go on holiday to Germany on her own. She opened the account so that it would be a relatively simple matter for her to withdraw spending money as and when required, rather than needing to use the services of a bureau de change. After developing vascular dementia, she was unable to make any more such trips, and she died in 2007.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 So, on the 25th of September 2023, I set off for D\u00fcsseldorf. It makes sense to go to my mother\u2019s place of birth, given that I am travelling by Eurostar. If you know your geography, D\u00fcsseldorf, along with Aachen and Cologne, is one of the first major cities you encounter after the train crosses the border from Belgium into Germany. I already know there\u2019s a branch of the Postbank directly over the road from D\u00fcsseldorf Hauptbahnhof, which is handy.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It\u2019s nearly fifty years since I\u2019ve seriously been required to speak German, even though I\u2019m a translator from that language \u2013 my book Autumnal Elegies <\/em>is a translation of the poetry of the Austrian Expressionist Georg Trakl. So, first of all, I need to establish some essential vocabulary items. Testamentsvollstrecker <\/em>(executor) is a bit of a mouthful, as is Sterbeurkunde<\/em> (death certificate). They do so love their compound nouns, my splendid Kraut compatriots, God bless \u2019em!<\/p>\n Mittwoch\/Wednesday<\/strong><\/p>\n I\u2019ve made the journey from Darlington to Kings Cross many times. Over those years, only the trains and rolling stock have changed. First there was the era of the Class 55 Deltic, then the Class 43 HST, and now the Class 800 Azuma. So, here I am at Bank Top Station, waiting for the 9.00 a.m. service. I\u2019m in coach J and I\u2019ve got a window seat.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The arable fields look like they\u2019ve had the equivalent of a number one cut, whereas others have been recently ploughed. At this time of year, the crops have been harvested, by and large, though some corn is still standing in places. The farmers have dyed the fleeces of their sheep green for ownership purposes. Here and there, horses graze peacefully.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 As I compile these notes, it\u2019s awkward writing using the drop-down flap in the back of the seat. Next time I embark on such a project, I\u2019ll choose a seat with a proper table. Further on, there\u2019s the familiar sight of plumes of steam above the massive Drax power station, which provides 6% of the UK\u2019s electricity.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Whenever I set foot in London I\u2019m always reminded of these lines by Baudelaire from his \u201cLes Sept Vieillards\u201d:<\/p>\n Fourmillante cit\u00e9, cit\u00e9 pleine de r\u00eaves, Despite its numerous artistic and architectural attractions, I loathe the place. Its monstrous size overwhelms me, and navigating through it fills me with dread. But today is different, since all I need to do upon exiting Kings Cross is to make my way over the road near the taxi rank and enter St. Pancras station.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 One of the reasons for choosing to travel by Eurostar is for research purposes. The villain in the sequel to my thriller Black Art<\/em> is going to make his escape to the Continent using that means of transport, so I need to understand the security protocols he\u2019d encounter. As for myself, it\u2019s relatively painless, though I do manage to set off the metal detector when I walk through it and am brusquely frisked by a member of staff.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It\u2019s now time to wait amongst a throng of people for the train to be assigned a platform. Since I\u2019m a novice, I scrutinise the faces of those in my vicinity and find a likely candidate. He strikes me as being a businessman, so he\u2019s bound to know the ins and outs. He confirms that, given its coach number, my train to Brussels Midi will depart from one of three possible gates. In the event, I go through gate 6 because my coach number is 16. When I climb on board and find my seat, I estimate that only half of them are actually occupied. Because of the relatively short journey time, seating is maximised with no tables available in standard class.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Along the route, my ears pop a few times as we enter and emerge from various tunnels. At the approach to the Channel Tunnel in Folkestone, there are formidable sections of military-style fencing, like something you\u2019d see in the West Bank. Soon we are plunging down through the chalk marl layer below the English Channel. Whereas earlier my ears were popping, now they are unaffected. We are travelling at 99 mph and it only takes fifteen minutes before we emerge into the sunlight of the Pas-de-Calais. We are now in another country.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Looking out of the window, I see identical fields under the plough, just as they were back home, the only difference being the make of the machinery that these French farmers are using. You can also see a change in the style of the houses along the route with their characteristically steeply pitched roofs. There are only two scheduled stops: Lille, followed by Brussels Midi.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Although the time seems to have progressed somewhat, that\u2019s actually an illusion. The Continent is an hour in advance of the UK, and that\u2019s true in many other ways. The next train I\u2019m booked on is the TGV to Dortmund, which leaves at 5.25 p.m. It\u2019s due out from Platform 6A. Whenever I think of the Train \u00e0 Grande Vitesse, the album Trans Europa Express<\/em> by Kraftwerk comes to mind, and it\u2019s appropriate that the band\u2019s Kling Klang Studio used to be adjacent to D\u00fcsseldorf Hauptbahnhof.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Already I\u2019m juggling around the equivalent words in my head: platform, voie, gleis<\/em>. Becoming mentally attuned to my new environment, as it were. From now on, English is no longer preeminent. The passenger announcements obey a strict hierarchy: French, Dutch and German, before we finally get to English. I\u2019m fine with all that since I can understand French and German.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I find my seat, and a few moments later, a middle-aged woman joins me. When the ticket inspector reaches us, he already knows our surnames and so I decide to speak to my fellow passenger to work out which one of us is getting off first. She\u2019s travelling to Aachen to stay with friends, so that means I\u2019ll be fine to sit where I am in my window seat. The stops along the way include Aachen, Cologne and then D\u00fcsseldorf. I learn she\u2019s a Senior Teaching Associate in German Studies at Lancaster University, with a particular interest in the East German writer Brigitte Reimann. Having recently enjoyed John Kampfner\u2019s Why the Germans Do It Better<\/em>, I mention this to my neighbour, but she\u2019s already read that book and recommends it to her students.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The train pulls into D\u00fcsseldorf Hauptbahnhof at 8.30 p.m. local time. There are two exits and I choose the nearest one, which leads to the Bertha-von-Suttner-Platz. Walking a bit further, I soon realise that the surroundings don\u2019t correspond with those I\u2019ve seen on Google Street View. I therefore reluctantly retrace my steps and opt instead for the exit leading to the Konrad-Adenauer-Platz. That\u2019s more like it.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Emerging from the station, I cross the tram tracks and walk along the Bismarckstra\u00dfe before turning left into what I take to be the Karlstra\u00dfe, though with it being dark, I\u2019m unable to see any street sign. When I notice a couple approaching me, I stop them to confirm whether I\u2019m headed in the right direction, but they are from Berlin. After getting slightly lost, I make my way over the road and can read the street name \u2013 it\u2019s the Grupellostra\u00dfe, after all. If I walk along here the hotel should be on my left on the corner with the Oststra\u00dfe. And there it is \u2013 the Hotel Lindenhof.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Picking up my key from reception and filling in a paper form with my details, I receive a key to room 404, along with a slip of paper bearing the Wi-Fi code, and catch the lift to the fourth floor. After writing up some notes and plugging in the adapter to recharge my phone, I clean my teeth and prepare to go to bed. Since it\u2019s only 10 p.m. there\u2019s still some activity out in the street below near Yogi, the Korean restaurant, so I shut the window and draw the curtains. Intermittently, I hear emergency vehicles racing through the city streets, their wailing sirens illustrating and confirming the Doppler effect.<\/p>\n Donnerstag\/Thursday<\/strong><\/p>\n I\u2019m up for eight o\u2019clock, and after showering and dressing, I go down to breakfast. But by now it\u2019s nearly nine o\u2019clock, which is when the Postbank, which is situated on the Immermanstra\u00dfe, opens its doors to the public, so I decide to skip breakfast. I can always grab a snack later.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 When I arrive at the bank, only a handful of people are waiting to see one of the cashiers. Typically, the word for a queue in German is Schlange<\/em> (snake) which is an appropriate image for such a group of people as they wind along. Anyway, in less than five minutes I reach one of the cashiers, and from the word go, I\u2019m into my stride. From now on, the German language takes precedence \u2013 there\u2019ll be no lapsing back into English, I\u2019m afraid.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It turns out that the Postbank is already aware of my mother\u2019s death. As for the accrued interest, the revised account balance is now \u20ac1200. It\u2019s not much of an increase, given that the interest covers a period of 24 years, but it still makes my trip eminently worthwhile. I produce the last will and testament, the death certificate, the savings account book, and, for ID purposes, my own passport. I\u2019ve also brought along my mother\u2019s old passport and my original birth certificate, but they are not required.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Eventually, I\u2019m asked whether I have a bank account in Germany. I don\u2019t. What about a relative or friend? Nope. Well, that makes matters more complicated, I\u2019m afraid. I\u2019ll need to provide my 22-digit IBAN number so that the Postbank can make a bank transfer to my English account. The trouble is that I don\u2019t know my IBAN number. So what to do next?<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I abandon my quest for now and return to the hotel to think things through. I consider possible solutions. What about opening a bank account in Germany? After all, that\u2019s what my mother did. Instead, I decide to ring Lloyds Bank in the UK and ask them to give me my IBAN number. After a five-minute wait, I\u2019m through to the helpline and the call centre agent gives me my IBAN number along with the \u201cbig number\u201d whatever that is.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The snake at the Postbank is longer than last time. When I reach one of the cashiers, it\u2019s a different woman to the one with whom I spoke earlier. So, effectively, I need to go through the whole palaver once more, right from the beginning. At last, I\u2019m asked to sign a form, which will enable the money to be transferred to my bank account, and the old savings account book has its corner clipped like they do with expired passports. I volunteer my phone number in case there are any problems. Worst-case scenario, I\u2019ll receive a cheque in the post.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Exiting the Postbank, I notice that there\u2019s a language school next door called D\u00fcs-Eckert. That\u2019s hugely significant, given the fact that Eckert was my mother\u2019s maiden name, and that my cousin Ursula was a translator. I gather she even worked in that capacity for the European Parliament. What are the chances the language school bears the name of my mother\u2019s family because one of their number founded it? That\u2019s certainly something to bear in mind.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 In total, this rigmarole at the Postbank has taken nearly two hours to bring to a satisfactory conclusion and I\u2019m famished, so I go to the nearby Back-Factory where I opt for a freshly made br\u00f6tchen with salami which only costs \u20ac2.50. Admittedly, this br\u00f6tchen is not as fresh as the ones my uncle Hans used to bring us directly from the oven in his D\u00fcsseldorf bakery, but it\u2019s still pretty damned good all the same. Like an idiot \u2013 I blame my long distance spectacles for the error \u2013 I mistakenly hand over a fiver instead of a five-euro note. They are the same colour after all. The man behind the counter laughs and asks what it is. He hasn\u2019t seen one before. I tell him it\u2019s a five-pound note, hand him the correct currency and receive my change.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 After the stress of engaging in two prolonged conversations in a language that I haven\u2019t used for nearly fifty years, I go back to the hotel to write up some more travel notes before I go for a well-earned lie down. At least I\u2019ve managed to successfully negotiate the most difficult part of the trip.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 That evening I go for a mooch around the local area, now that I\u2019ve got to grips with its layout. These days, D\u00fcsseldorf is an exceedingly cosmopolitan city, and the area in the immediate vicinity of the hotel is known as Little Tokyo in terms of its many Japanese restaurants, although there are also establishments offering Thai, Korean, Vietnamese and Chinese cuisine. I have to admit that Japanese food isn\u2019t a favourite of mine, and sushi is a definite no-no, so I\u2019m going to grab some more conventional fare later on after I find a bar.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I ask for a helles Bier<\/em> (lager) and sit down at a table, temporarily distracted by a Sky Sports feature on Harry Kane, who has himself made the journey to Germany to play for Bayern Munich. When I check the drinks menu, I notice they sell bottled malzbier, a non-alcoholic beer I used to love as a kid. I\u2019m tempted to buy a bottle but don\u2019t fancy the hassle of carrying it about with me, so decide against it. Besides, I\u2019m ravenous by now, so I opt for some fast food instead.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I have a kebab at a place called Mangal near the railway station. It was opened only a few months ago by the former Arsenal footballer Lukas Podolski. Although there was no choice when it came to which language I spoke in the Postbank, now the challenge is to speak German whenever I get the chance. So, as in the bar, I approach the lads behind the counter, this time asking for D\u00f6ner mit Chiliso\u00dfe, bitte. <\/em>(Doner with chilli sauce, please.) But, if you do that, you always need to be prepared for the inevitable follow-up questions. What sort of meat do I want with my kebab? Rindfleich<\/em> (beef) or Huhn<\/em> (chicken)? Which items of salad would I like? Do I want mitnehmen<\/em> (takeaway) or hier-essen<\/em> (eat-in?) I opt for the latter.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I\u2019m back at the hotel by nine o\u2019clock. After I open the door to my room, something totally unexpected happens, which freaks me out. Despite having wiped my hands with a paper napkin in the kebab shop, I think to myself in German as I\u2019m standing outside the bathroom: Ich muss meine H\u00e4nde waschen<\/em>. (I must wash my hands.) At this rate, how long will it be before I start dreaming in German?<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Writing up a few more travel notes and recharging the phone, I clean my teeth and go to bed. The train back to Brussels Midi leaves at 6.16 a.m., so I\u2019ll need to get up for 4.30 a.m. or thereabouts, and as a precautionary measure I set the alarm on my phone.<\/p>\n Freitag\/Friday<\/strong><\/p>\n I\u2019m up at 4.30 a.m., without requiring the insurance of the alarm. After showering and dressing, I make sure I haven\u2019t left anything behind in the room and go down to the reception desk. When I describe the hotel as bequem<\/em> (comfortable) to the man behind the counter, he replies Alles klar<\/em> which almost makes me snigger, thinking of the character of Herr Lipp from The League of Gentlemen<\/em>.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 At the station, I spend some of my loose change on a bottle of pop and wait for the departure board to display the platform number for the 6.16 a.m. Thalys service to Brussels Midi. When the information becomes available, I stroll towards the relevant platform and make my way up the escalator. A German couple is waiting nearby, and the woman is carrying a capacious bag, featuring a London bus design. When the woman catches my eye, she asks me if I know the order of the coaches. I was just about to ask you the same thing, I reply. Since we are in the same coach, we stick together and eventually learn from one of the station staff that coach 28 is right at the front of the train, so we make our way towards it along the platform.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 There\u2019s not much to see with it being completely dark. The train begins to fill up after Aachen and soon it starts to get light. It makes me wonder if anyone has written about and studied the various graffiti tags and messages that are prominently sprayed on walls along the route. And as we approach Belgium, I wonder if the train goes past any of the controversial Belgian nuclear power plants, which, because of their proximity, led to a surge in support for the Greens in Germany.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Waiting for the train to be assigned a platform before it is able to come to a halt at Brussels Midi, I chat to a woman sitting in the corridor. She compliments me on my German, even though I\u2019m convinced it\u2019s barely adequate. I see her later in the queue for the Eurostar.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 On the 9.51 a.m. to St. Pancras, I sit with an orthodox Jewish man, his partner and their three boisterous children. The bespectacled paterfamilias observes the strict dress code of his religion and is wearing an impressive black hoiche hat which he removes, only to reveal the obligatory kippah underneath. He also has four tasselled strings attached to his trousers \u2013 the tzitzit. It\u2019s a largely uneventful journey and we are soon approaching St. Pancras.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Thankfully, there are no further passport or ticket checks before I exit the station. Over the road at Kings Cross, a black guy is schlepping around a duvet. He tries one of the cashpoints to no avail. All the time he\u2019s on his mobile asking about his ESA. It\u2019s a sobering thought to know there are always people in a worse position than yourself. While I wait for the platform number of my train to be confirmed, two people ask me for money, and one of them goes round the assembled passengers twice before he is actively discouraged from doing so by a member of the Kings Cross security staff. As it happens, I\u2019ve only got twenty-five euros in my bag and fifteen quid in my wallet, so I\u2019m hardly rolling in money at the moment.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 About to embark on the last leg of the journey, I buy a bottle of pop and a sandwich from the little Waitrose and a cup of coffee from Leon. Reflecting upon the events of the last three days, from a logistical point of view, travelling from Darlington to D\u00fcsseldorf by train makes no sense whatsoever. It\u2019s far too protracted. But as I remarked earlier, I had my reasons for doing so. If you live in the Northeast of England, you\u2019re certainly better off catching a train to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, taking the Metro to the airport and then boarding a flight, since the latter only takes 90 minutes. The Eurostar is therefore much more suitable for people living in the London area who might wish to visit Brussels or Paris. If those are your circumstances, it\u2019s definitely a no-brainer.<\/p>\n ****<\/p>\n Four months later, the money from Germany reaches my bank account. So my mother has come to the rescue once again, this time from beyond the grave. I\u2019m not talking about these matters purely from a financial perspective, but because this economic shot in the arm is arguably only made possible by the language skills which I inherited from her. As the woman said to me on D\u00fcsseldorf Hauptbahnhof, \u201cthink of the money in the Postbank as an early Christmas present,\u201d before adding, \u201cbesides, it\u2019s only right that it should be in your pocket rather than in theirs.\u201d Genau!<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The idea begins to take shape after the fortuitous discovery of the pale blue savings account book, wedged between two long-expired passports, and secured with an elastic…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":533,"featured_media":15676,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1641],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-15682","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-life-writing"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15682","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/533"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=15682"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15682\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/15676"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=15682"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=15682"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=15682"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}![\"MJ2\"](\"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/10\/MJ2.jpg\")
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O\u00f9 le spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant!<\/em><\/p>\n![\"MJ4\"](\"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/10\/MJ4.jpg\")
<\/p>\n![\"MJ5](\"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/10\/MJ5_Mangal_kebab_shop.jpg\")
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