3.05

The morning arrived with a sunlit glow. After checking my emails and replying to a few messages, I prepared breakfast—a simple meal of toast and tea. Later, I delved into my studies, focusing on the history of the German language. It’s fascinating to think that thousands of years ago, speakers of Proto-Indo-European (PIE), the ancestral language of German, Russian, and many others, lived as a cohesive community, likely in the Pontic-Caspian steppe (modern-day Ukraine and southern Russia). Over time, migrations and cultural shifts caused this language to split into distinct branches, such as Germanic, Slavic, and Indo-Iranian.

Meanwhile, the only surviving European languages directly descended from Proto-Indo-European include German, English, Spanish, Russian, and Hindi, among others. Each has evolved dramatically from its ancient roots, yet traces of PIE can still be found in shared vocabulary—such as the word for "mother" (māter in Latin, mutter in German, madre in Spanish).

I also read about Language development theory. Ancient shift while the birds were singing and about formation of the irregular verbs in German.

I've been fascinated by theories of language development, particularly how ancient shifts in communication might have emerged alongside natural phenomena like birdsong. This evolutionary perspective becomes even more intriguing when we examine specific languages - like German - where we can still see fossilized remnants of prehistoric linguistic patterns in its irregular verb system.

The German language preserves a remarkable linguistic timeline within its irregular verbs (starke Verben). These verbs, like singen-sang-gesungen ("to sing") or bleiben-blieb-geblieben ("to stay"), aren't random exceptions but rather living artifacts of Proto-Germanic grammar. Their vowel-changing patterns (Ablaut) represent an ancient communication system that predates modern grammatical rules, much like how early human language might have developed from natural sounds.

What's particularly fascinating is how these irregular forms have survived millennia of language evolution. High-frequency verbs like sein (to be: bin-war-gewesen) and haben (to have) have resisted regularisation precisely because they're used so often - their irregular forms become burned into our linguistic consciousness. This mirrors how fundamental sounds in nature, like birdsong, might have influenced the most basic elements of human communication.

After an hour of studying about the German language, I took my Chihuahua outside. The noon air warm and golden, carrying the faint sweetness of freshly cut grass from a nearby garden. Underfoot, the pavement still held the sun’s warmth, radiating gently through my shoes as we set off.

The weather was perfectly, lazily beautiful—the kind that makes you slow your steps just to savour it. Above, the sky stretched an endless blue, broken only by a few wispy clouds. The sun drenched everything in honeyed light, glinting off car windows and painting the leaves a brighter green. Birds chattered and trilled from the hedgerows, their songs mingling with the distant hum of lawnmowers.

As we turned onto the tree-lined path, other dogs appeared. A fluffy white poodle yapped sharply, its bark piercing the calm like a drill sergeant’s shout. Further ahead, a snub-nosed Pekinese lurched forward, lips curled to reveal tiny, needle-like teeth, its growl a low, gurgling threat. But my Chihuahua, nose held high, didn’t so much as flick an ear. The poodle’s shrill protests, the Pekinese’s rasping snarls—it all rolled off her like rain off a waxed jacket.

With the regal indifference of a queen, she trotted past them, her tiny paws tapping rhythmically against the pavement. The breeze ruffled her fur, carrying the musky scent of damp earth and the faintest trace of fish and chips from a far-off shop. A cyclist whirred by, leaving a brief wake of warm air and rubbery tang, but she didn’t break stride.

By the time we looped back home, the light had deepened to amber, and the first cool whispers of the afternoon brushed against my skin. My Chihuahua sighed, flopping onto her favourite spot on the sofa, as if the whole walk had been beneath her dignity—but her tail gave a single, satisfied thump.

After returning from the walk with my dog, I settled at my desk with a cup of earl grey tea, its bergamot scent. I revisited German lexicology, tracing my arrow along compound words that clattered together like train carriages – Schadenfreude, Weltschmerz, Zungenbrecher – their guttural syllables still clinging to my thoughts from earlier.

Later, I stretched and decided to venture out again. This time, alone. The air had cooled to a crisp, linen freshness, carrying whispers of woodsmoke and late-blooming honeysuckle from a neighbour’s garden. My footsteps crunched softly on the gravel path, the only sound besides the distant murmur of a television through an open window.

The sky melted into watercolour streaks of lavender and rose, and the first stars pricked through like pinlights. A bat flickered past, its wings silk-against-silk quiet. I walked until my breath slowed to match the rhythm of the night, until the cool press of dew on grass seeped through my shoes, and the peace felt less like weather and more like a held moment.

For late lunch, I tossed together a crisp, sunlit bowl of vegetable salad—shards of iceberg lettuce still beaded with water, ribbons of cucumber that snapped cleanly between my teeth, and carrot matchsticks that tasted faintly of earth and sweetness. A handful of plump cherry tomatoes burst with sharp, summery acidity, while a drizzle of olive oil pooled in golden swirls, clinging to the leaves. The only sound was the crunch of radish slices and the distant chime of cutlery from the kitchen.

In the evening I played agar. The evening’s solo battle on Agar.io was intense. I started as a tiny, vulnerable cell, darting around the map to scoop up pellets while avoiding larger players. The competition was fierce—every corner held threats, from swift, aggressive rivals to massive, slow-moving giants that could swallow me whole if I wasn’t careful.

I played defensively at first, weaving between clusters of viruses to shake off pursuers. As I grew, I became bolder, splitting strategically to trap smaller cells and steal their mass. A tense chase unfolded when a rival nearly cornered me, but I narrowly escaped by dodging through a maze of green viruses.

The real challenge came when I reached the top 10—suddenly, every move mattered. A skilled player tried to bait me into splitting, but I held back, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. In the end, I outmanoeuvred them, securing my place near the top of the leaderboard before a sudden ambush ended my run.

A thrilling, edge-of-the-seat battle—classic Agar.io!

Later, I had a proper natter with my mate Leo. He's from Austria but shares my obsession with languages, especially English and Chinese. At one point, he decided to give me an impromptu Mandarin lesson using techniques his old teacher swore by.

"Right," Leo said, "My teacher always started with tones – they're the bedrock. Say 'ma' four different ways with me..." He demonstrated with exaggerated pitch changes: "Mā , má , mǎ , mà. Go on, you try!"

I butchered the tones horribly. Leo winced but laughed. "Okay, that last one sounded like you're actually scolding someone!

He then scribbled some characters in paint. "My teacher made us learn radicals first – these building blocks. Makes remembering easier.

"Now for survival phrases," he said, switching to his best 'teacher voice'. "Repeat after me: (xiǎoxīn) – 'be careful'.

By the end, my brain was fried but weirdly inspired. "You're actually decent at this teaching lark," I told him.

"Just passing on what worked for me."

In the evening, I spent some time studying Russian history, particularly reading about the War of 1812—known in Russia as the Patriotic War 1812. This conflict, in which Napoleon’s Grande Armée invaded Russia, only to face catastrophic defeat, remains a defining moment in Russian national identity.

One of the most striking memorials dedicated to the soldiers who fought in this war is the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour in Moscow. Originally commissioned by Tsar Alexander I in gratitude for Russia’s victory, the cathedral was intended as a permanent monument to the sacrifices made during the war. Though the original structure was destroyed under Stalin, it was rebuilt in the 1990s and still serves as a symbol of resilience.

For supper, I ate a cheese sandwich, and then I watched shorts on YouTube and went to bed.