- On Friday, we almost missed our early morning train, which caused us to almost miss our early morning flight to London. In fact, we probably would've missed it - if the plane itself hadn't been delayed. Fortunately we were travelling with the national representation of Trailer Park Trash, so we weren't bored. There are truly chavs in every country. They all wear burberry, they just use different languages (although they all use the same types of words).
- Maybe it was the effect of being surrounded by the mouth-breathing trailer park contingency (who took pictures of the plane as it was arriving, applauded when we took off and killed themselves laughing because one of them had a ring tone of a sheep on his phone), but when it came to filling in the obligatory landing card, I got it wrong not once, but twice. First I filled in the wrong side (for official use only). I got a second card and in the space requesting "Forename", I wrote, Forename. A proud moment for all graduates.
- Landed, found our way to Clapham Junction, got lost finding our way around Avos council housing estate.
- Met up with the old gang for an ergte Souf Afriken braai in Souf West London. Unfortunately, Mills and I both managed to eat a piece or two of what turned out to be dodgy biltong, resulting in us both spending a large part of the night in the loo. But that's what friends are for, right? Hosting you when you're in town for a short weekend and you've got the squits. Right?
- Flying out again, we were armed to the teeth with English newspapers, English books, English DVDs and a cricket bat. The last item caused slight complications when it came to getting it on the plane. You think they're sticky about nose clippers and tweezers? Try a very heavy and blunt object.
- Finally home, we learnt that one of our balcony doors had swung open during the weekend. Oops. I really don't understand how this happened, seeing as when I actually WANT to open the door, I can't. I shove it from the inside, I tug it from the outside... I cannot budge that door. But apparently, a bloody strong and very well-angled gust of wind managed to do what I couldn't and the door then merrily banged against the railing for the next 48 hours. How to make friends and influence people.
About half an hour after getting home and closing the door, our neighbour arrived to shit all over me - and rightly so - because of the banging door. I didn't protest, I didn't argue, I just tried to lean out of the direct line of her breath. The indignant neighbour must have been about two bottles of wine down. Expelling her very drunken breath at top volume, she told me (several times) that she did not appreciate having to listen to our door banging open for two nights - in fact, she'd even called the police. It was all I could do not to laugh. Do not smile. Just placate and slowly close the door.
Fortunately, even in the Netherlands, the police have other things to deal with than doors that are standing open on a second story balcony in a gated area, so I don't think we'll be getting a warrant just yet.