There are some things couples do which the rest of us just don’t need to know about. I’m not talking about THOSE things - that bottom drawer filled with sordid depravities. I’m referring to another kind of intimacy performed between consenting adults - softer, gentler and not requiring an external power source. It’s called “the cutsies”, and though the name sounds harmless, innocent observers of these acts will be overcome by the same compulsion to take a long shower with gasoline and a wire brush as if they’d just stumbled upon a bondage starter kit tucked away in their parents’ basement. Eeeewwww-yuck!

Exactly what is a cutsie? no one asks. Well, let me tell you anyway. Cutsies can be just about anything: secret code pet names, lovers conducting a “No, I love you more” duel in a park on a warm spring day, refusing to be the first to hang up on your partner on a business trip, wearing the other’s underwear while cleaning the house. The vomit-inducing list is endless.

And that’s okay. It really is. As far as we here at The Typing Chimps can tell, winning an overstuffed pink unicorn at the county fair, expressing yourself in sonnets or making love-song compilation CDs for that someone special in your life are not crimes. Yet. But our high-priced team of barrister baboons has determined that getting caught doing these things is. And the penalty, dear reader, is anything but cute.

One of the defining characteristics of a cutsie is its habitual nature. It is a sign of affection which, through repetition and mutation, has evolved into a peculiar ritual completely detached from its original meaning. One warm Monday morning long ago, Katrin and I said goodbye to each other for the day at our apartment door. “Have a good day,” I stated. “Thanks. You too,” she responded. I closed the door behind her and decided to water the balcony plants before the sun reduced them to ashes. While watering, I saw Katrin walking across the courtyard below. “So long, baby,” I called. She turned around and looked up. “Bye!” She smiled, waved and was gone.

Behold! A cutsie was born. What started off as a single chance opportunity on the balcony became a regularly kept engagement within a short amount of time. Naturally I assured myself in the beginning that I was only on the balcony at 7:30 every morning because of my responsibility to the delicate flora and - oh, by the way, there goes your wife, who you just saw 18 seconds earlier. Wave bye-bye again! But even on rainy mornings, no sooner had Katrin left than I went to the kitchen, where I would stand sheltered in the balcony doorway, hoping she would turn around to see my hand fanning the air hidden behind well hydrated plants. She would, and waved back too. Autumn and winter came, and still you’d find me, now devoid of all botanical pretenses, snug in a plush bathrobe and toboggan, furiously waving as much to keep me warm as to bid her farewell. The cutsie lived on.

Until last week. That’s when I discovered I had been committing a very serious crime. To my red-faced shame, I learned I had been observed by our neighbors. It was another warm sunny morning. There’s Chris in position, here comes Katrin. Action! Cue the wave. Go to blow-the-kiss (a relatively new development in the ceremony). And … cut! Suddenly from the balcony across the courtyard I heard a female voice. “It’s the same thing every day with you two!” Caught! We’d been caught! In a most intimate moment. How long had she been watching us? How long had I been embarrassing myself in front of others? Oh the humiliation! I can never show my face on the balcony again.

I am guilty. Guilty of being cute.

There’s nothing I look forward to more during the year than in early autumn when we help Katrin’s godfather, Onkel Werner, harvest the grapes at Boselberg, his vineyard. Katrin, her parents and I arrive early in the morning to his house in Meissen, a small town near Dresden known more for its world-class porcelain than its dry white wines. We expect to be greeted by Werner and his wife Erika with hearty handshakes, smiles and a tray loaded with glasses of homemade Traminer, Grauburgunder or Mueller-Thurgau. Both are in their 80s, but they share a vim which people half their age would envy - like two walking advertisements for wine’s youth-preserving qualities.

Youthful they are. Spring chickens they’re not. In fact, a recent loss has reminded us all that old age still trumps vitality. As young men, Werner and his brother Manfred married two sisters, Erika and Irmhild. The couples have spent their entire lives together in the same village, developing a close friendship. The two brothers inherited the vineyard from their father, and the four of them have maintained it with a passionate enthusiasm since. When I came to help the first year I remember my sense of disbelief that four old people could perform the work necessary to run a vineyard. But they did, these super-people, year in and year out, only needing help in early autumn when it came time to cut the heavy grapes from their stems and carry them up the slope.

A few weeks ago I attended the funeral of Manfred’s wife, Irmhild, who finally succumbed to cancer after fighting for two years. Since the first sinister spots appeared on her back I had not seen her, but I always imagined that it would not be long before she returned to the sunny steep hills of Boselberg. I was silly to think this and was shocked to hear she’d died. At the funeral, a small service attended mostly by older friends, I finally saw Werner, Erika and poor Manfred for what they really are: old people. Later, at the reception, Werner asked Katrin, her father Matthias and me if we could help him at the vineyard the next weekend. There was a lot of summer work to do, and Manfred understandably would not be able to help.

As we walked from the car to the side door at nine the following Saturday morning, we didn’t know what to expect, but didn’t have to wait long to find out. In the doorway was Werner with a tray of wine glasses and a buoyant smile. Erika was in the kitchen already preparing a meal for us when we returned. The scene was identical to harvest time, plus a summery eighty-five degrees. After turning down a second glass - I had to work with a wood chipper that day - we made our way the short distance to Boselberg.

After unloading the car in front of the large wooden gate, we carried everything down the slope to Werner’s plot. Weeds needed to be pulled, brush cleared, walls repaired and vines trimmed. Matthias, always well prepared, had thought to bring a wood chipper and weed eater to speed up the process. But the power wouldn’t work, leaving us for the moment with little to do. Out came the wine bottle, a glass for each, zum Wohl! Werner seemed completely at ease with our major setback, and I almost expected him to surrender to our fate and suggest we just finish the few bottles he brought while sitting on the hillside watching the paddle ships glide up and down the Elbe. The weather was pleasant and I almost warmed up to the idea of not having to work, but I should have known Matthias would have a back-up plan. From some hidden place up his sleeve or in his shoe he conjured up sickles, axes and clippers for us all. Unbelievable, I thought. Not quite. He then produced a whetting stone from behind his ear. “Otherwise we couldn’t work past the hour,” he explained. How thoughtful.

Comrade Chris. Friend of the People

There are very few things in this world that I do well. To be nakedly honest, there is nothing in this world that I do well. There are, however, countless things which I do quite un-well. This is already a long entry so I won’t insert the list, but close to the top of it you’d find “manual skills with tools”. Matthias handed me a sickle, a tool whose purpose I’d never known other than to adorn the flags of various communist countries. “Let’s go cut some grass,” he said. I nodded confidently, as if I understood it was possible to cut grass with a round blade. It was, and I learned how to. I also learned how to use a whetting stone (on a round blade), an ax and branch trimmers. Yes, our little Chris will one day be a man.

At the end of the day we were beat. The work was more difficult than carrying baskets of grapes up a hill, but I felt something here I never feel when doing my own work at home: a sense of accomplishment. And surrounded by some of the most beautiful landscape Germany has to offer, it’s a crime to even call it work. When Katrin and I got home, very dirty and slightly bruised, we decided we want to involve ourselves more in the daily maintenance of Boselberg. It would be a serious commitment - almost every weekend during the summer - but they need us. And we need them.

During more youthful days