Brolly Folly

I will remember today as "the day I gave a condom demonstration on the train". 


It was raining. I was running to catch a train. Thank god, I had my umbrella. It's black, with "Amsterdam" scrawled all over it. For those who aren't sure what an umbrella and matching cover look like: 

It's small enough to be handy, and has a matching black cover which means I can put back in my bag still damp, without anything else getting wet. It's kitch and shitty and only effective when there is absolutely no wind, otherwise it turns inside out. But today, for that 100m dash, it did was it was supposed to do, kept me very dry in a very heavy downpour. 

I jumped on the train, into a partially full carriage with a noisy group of boys jabbering in Spanish. I plonked opposite them, along with two Dutch men (both wore grey suits with brown shoes: national trademark). Once I'd gathered my breath and felt the brolly had dripped sufficiently dry, I took to folding it to put back in my bag. 

Disclaimer: I was not thinking about what I was doing, nor where I was. I was listening to an audiobook, engrossed in my imagination. 

I rolled up the umbrella, tied the cord around the middle. Then, because it was still slightly wet and I didn't want to put it flat across my jeans, I balanced the umbrella upright on my seat. Right between my legs. 

Sitting in very unladylike fashion and lost in my own world, I gripped the stocky brolly with one hand and with the other, slowly slid the cover over the top.

Still looking down at my lap, I suddenly realised what I had just done. I had effectively taken what at first glance could well have looked like a black dildo, put it between my legs and caressed a plastic cover over the top of it. 

Phallic Demo 101? Welcome to Amsterdam, kids. 

My hearing focused outwards, past the audio book still chattering away. There was awkward silence in the carriage, I definitely had everyone's attention. I couldn't hear the audio book any more, suddenly all I could hear was blood pounding my ears. Funny that, how you can hear yourself blushing? Just then, the train pulled into my station. I was the first off the carriage and I did not look back.

Dance Class

I used to do ballroom dancing. Admittedly it was back in the days of varsity and other than a lang-arm fling around the dancefloor at hockey sokkies, I really haven't had opportunity to keep those skills up since then. So when a colleague recently said that she wanted to go to a tango "basis proefles" (beginner open class) in Amsterdam, I thought I'd keep her company, just for fun.

Unfortunately it turned out to be her fun, more than mine.

We arrived at the class ten minutes early. This in itself was our first mistake. Let me wet your taste buds by setting the scene....

Please bring to mind a classic rom-com called Strictly Ballroom (if you've finished matric in the last 20 years, I'm betting that you have seen it). The room where the dance class took place immediately brought the film to my mind. Chairs pushed up against the walls on two sides of the hall. Mirrors covering the other two walls. A handful of people sitting around awkwardly. One and a half couples practicing in the middle... two men and one woman, with the men dancing directly behind each other. I'm not sure if the middle man was entirely comfortable about the experience, but he was in luck, because his outer shadow had just clocked our arrival and was coming over to introduce himself.

Now... let me get a bit of character description in. It is necessary to fully appreciate this story.

First - my colleague and I: I am most likely to be described as a "skinny-milink". Straight up and down in all dimensions. No boobs, no discernible bum. My colleague on the other hand would most likely be referred to as "buxom". All boobs, BIG bum. She's blonde, I'm brunette. When we stand together, we look like a set of Roald Dahl characters or some sort of comedy sketch.

The man walking over to us was short. Old, at least 70 - and by the looks of it, he'd spent at least two thirds of those years cultivating a substantially bloated belly, as old men are prone to do. Also, like a large number of old men, he was frantically trying to cling to the remains of his virility, by keeping the last few clumps of hair long and combing them over the top.... because this fools all the chicks, all the time (it works especially well on short men, where all the chicks can get an extra good look at the full comb-over length). Stunning.

He had glasses and was unnervingly squint - one of those where you feel inclined to look over your shoulder to see what they're staring at. And, he only had eyes for me. I think. At least his face was always pointing in my direction when he spoke, even if his eyes actually weren't.

So he trotted up to the two of us and introduced himself as "Bird". After a bit of confusion we established that this was the Dutch pronunciation of Bert. It was fitting though, because he gave me the creeps, just as much as any other bird I've ever come across. He started telling us about how he joined the course in autumn and how wonderful it is to learn to dance and he added, with glee, how he was here to help beginners love the tango. My gag reflex was activated, in unconscious biological response.

I suddenly noticed he was talking to my chest. This had nothing to do with the squint. His entire head was talking to my breast plate (because that's all I have to show when I wear v-neck shirts). This was a first for me. As I don't need to point out - I literally have no boobs. If I were a stripper, I'd need to be labelled "front" and "back" so that the patrons would know when to cheer. Guys talking to my chest has never been an issue in my life, ever. Until that evening, I did not know what it felt like.

What was particularly odd was that Polly, my voluptuous colleague, was standing right next to me. If he was looking for cleave, all he had to do was turn his head. I wondered if he was bemused by my lack of mammary fat. This was possible - it had perplexed me for several years during puberty. I was tempted to inform him that if they haven't grown in the last 15 years, they weren't likely to have a sudden spurt that evening. Instead I put on my jersey, as if a line of wool would somehow protect me from the sleaze.

"He liked yoooou," Polly cackled in my ear as we moved off for the instructor's preamble about the tango being the dance of lovers. Yeah, no shit, I muttered back and cursed her for gloating. The lesson began.

We spread out in a circle around the instructor, pretty standard stuff. Except I couldn't move, because Bird had suctioned himself to my side. I couldn't step back, because he was there. I tried to step to the right, he stepped right with me. I gave him a little grimace and stepped forward, he moved with me. I was finding it very hard to listen to the instructor's history of the tango speech, because Birdy was muttering in my ear about helping me through the lesson. I swallowed a mouthful of bile.

Everyone had a partner. Mine was Bird. Polly got a socially-balanced Latino guy. She and I made eye contact, but we conveyed very different messages. She gloated a smile at me. I tried to eviscerate her with my eyes. We started moving in a circle.

Now, anyone who knows the tango, knows that when it's done well it is an incredibly sexy dance; it's passionate and explosive. When it's done well. But in a beginners class, it is not done well. It is stomped in a monotonous circle of slow-slow-quick-quick-slow, with most people looking down at their feet and muttering the steps out loud. As such, there is minimal actual contact - just a sort of frame between partners as the woman goes backwards and the guy moves forward. Nothing fancy. Making a full rotation of the room without stepping on your partner's feet, or your own, is considered a success.

This in itself was painful enough for me. Stomp... stomp... stomp-stomp-stop. Yawn. Stomp... Stomp... stomp-stomp-stop.

But Don Juan Birdy was insisting that we must assume the full tango body lock. I was not in favour of this. At all. He kept telling me to put my arm around the back of his neck. Gross. He was telling me to put our right shoulder bones against each other, our cheeks to respective cheeks. It was at this point that I noticed the mould growing in the nose bridge of Bird's glasses. As if I didn't already have enough reason to avoid contact.

I suggested that, seeing as this was just a little beginner class, we could give all that a skip. He relented a little, but still tried to pull my upper body towards his. My disgust aside, our chests touching was almost a physically impossibility due to his massive gut - which, I had the displeasure to know, was a solid mass of rock-hard adipose tissue. So while our feet were doing the stomping (with me keeping mine as close together as possible, so that at the very least, he could not get his leg between mine - I was going to keep some sanctity in amongst this trauma); our upper bodies were in a verifiable silent tussle.

He was trying to pull my chest towards his, our stomachs were crushed together, I was trying to keep my shoulders - and face - as far away from his mouldy nose-bridge as possible. My head was leaning so far back, I nearly gave myself whiplash out of relief when the music finally stopped.

Polly sauntered up to, she was feeling guilty about my obvious distress and came to rescue me. He was still holding onto my elbow - it was taking all my control to not run from the room, screaming and arms flailing.

Bird informed us that he attends the Wednesday and Friday classes every week. Polly said, "that's good to know" for reasons entirely different to what he thought or hoped she meant.

The instructor did his rounds, politely asking newcomers if they enjoyed the lesson and if they'd be signing up for the course. Polly said yes, on either Tuesdays or Thursdays. I thanked the instructor for his time, but said that there was not a chance in hell I was coming back. In fact, I added, I was going straight home to shower.

Just recounting the evening brings waves of nausea. I think the tango might forever be tainted in my mind. Less a dance of love and more a dance of horrifying trauma.

Yuck. Yuck. Yuck. Yuck. Yuck.

Classic Humour

Aaah... there's nothing like a good hearty chuckle, especially at someone else's expense (but often my own, too). A few of my favourite sources for such entertainment:

1) Situational. Like the recent evening that we spent with another young couple - where she and I 'accidentally' saw the answer on the back of the card, just as her boyfriend was about to act out "catwalk model" in charades. Yes, we should've told him, but he is about as macho as you can like to get and he had already started his runway impression.

So we let him go...and go... and go... feigning complete non-comprehension (although his runway walk was unnervingly good)... until he gave up on being a flamboyantly effeminate model and actually got down on hands and knees and pretended to be a cat. That was the closest I've come to wetting my pants in my adult life. You had to be there, I'm sorry you missed out.

2) Funny-because-it's-true news stories. Like the recent screening of porn on a children's network channel in the US. A spokesman called it a "technical glitch". With an uninterrupted duration of two hours. My understanding of a glitch is a "brief or sudden interruption" but sure.... I guess a glitch can also be a complete fek-up that continues for several hours. Eskom had a few of those in 2008. "Whoops, glitch... we'll be back up and running in the next few days!"

Seconds or maybe minutes - glitch. Hours = technical ERROR. Anyway, the real humour here is that this happened in North Carolina, one of the notoriously conservative Bible Belt states.

"The error occurred on the Kids On Demand and Kids Preschool On Demand channels where clips from Playboy TV appeared in the top right hand corner. A menu of available children's programmes was listed on the left of the screen, but nude women engaged in explicit conversations appeared where previews of children's shows normally appear."

You gotta love it when a plan comes together.

3) A well-written column. Dave Moseley, Chris Roper and Carol Lazaar have always been entertaining. Recently, Ben Trovato was brought to my attention (thank you, Mozzie). I love a good tale, especially one that ends up in the emergency room with an unsympathetic wife:

"...Brenda said girls against boys. "The way of the world," said Ted, racking the balls all wrong. I nudged him out of the way and he fell over the pool dog, who I have trained to retrieve balls that often ricochet off the table and disappear into places where no human would wish to go. Ted approaches pool in much the same way that he approaches his job - in a crablike fashion through the side entrance when no one is watching. I, on the other hand, approach the game like I approach an open bar - fast and recklessly.
Brenda and Mary play like all women play - they talk, giggle, drink, lie and cheat from start to finish. It's one of the reasons I married her. The only difference is that back then we would play for sexual favours and these days we play for the electricity bill. But let us not go down that filthy mugger's alley again.
Like all good pool tournaments that go on until 5am, the margin of error was inordinately high. Three windows were broken from balls cannoning off the table and the dog retired to bed in disgust..."

Pure poetry. You can read the full column here - it's worth it. Really.
I may be going back for more.

Bits and bytes

When I was finishing my studies, I did a brief stint with that stalwart show of my childhood... 50/50. As producer/researcher of a small segment, I was required to conduct an interview at one stage in a horse paddock. I don't like horses. Horses don't like me. Well, it's not that they don't like me - I don't think they actually care enough to like or dislike. There is only one mammal in control of any relationship I have with horses; and it is invariably not me. Horses are evil. Have you looked into the eye of a horse? I mean, really, looked into the eye of a horse? Pitch black and pure evil. I swear.

Anyway, so horses and I get along just fine when there's a fence or at least several hundred metres between us. On that day - despite my best attempts ("maybe you and the camera can be in the paddock, and I'll just shout the questions to you..?") - I found myself in a paddock surrounded by camera equipment, a horse breeder and several frolicking horses. The breeder, never mind the actual horses, could smell my anxiety but he assured me that the horses would pay no attention to me because he and his assistant had loaded their pockets with sugar cubes.

Okay then. Roll camera. I relaxed as I watched the horses butting and harrassing my interview subject, clearly loving the extra sugar and attention they were getting. So I failed to notice when a young filly left the group, sauntered up behind us and for some god forsaken reason... bit.. my.. ass. And I'm not talking 'Eyore' kind of ass, I'm talking right buttock cheek... ass.

Jaaaa-sus, it was sore. With a yelp I jumped forward, rubbing my tush and doing circles to keep away from the frisky filly. Of course, everyone found this highly amusing and the breeder even asked if I had anything in my pockets.

Oh sure, I carry those extra sugar cubes around with me for when I accidentally bump into playful equidae. No, I bloody don't have anything in my bloody pockets!

I don't know if that ever made it onto a bloopers reel (I don't think there's anyone at 50/50 who has enough humour to put something like that together). But I did have a U-shaped (horse-shoe-shaped?) bruise on my butt for a while afterwards. And a great anecdote... "did I tell you about the time when I got bitten on the butt by a horse, on camera?"

But it's not nearly as good as being bitten on the butt, by a pelican, and screaming like a 5-year-old girl to the delight of a live TV audience.



Aaaaah... watching a grown (Aussie) man whimper, wail and giggle nervously is always entertaining. Makes me laugh, every time.

Snow is over-rated

For those who are wondering about the lack of blogs this week, it is due to an impending visit to warmer climes. My brain is already in SA, and has been for quite some time now.

I leave you with two images:

1) From last weekend - me, getting stuck in a rather awkward embrace with the shower door at my boyfriend's sister flat. Boyfriend's sister had to assist in my escape, much to her amusement. The shower door remains unhinged, to say the least, but it started it. I swear.

2) Me, receiving a new iPhone (not from T-Mobile.. I am still waiting for my money back from them). The new iPhone is still in her box, sleeping peacefully. I will have to figure out how to unlock and register her, preferably not in Dutch. I decided not to do that while packing for SA*. So that will happen next week upon my return. It will not be a smooth process and I'm sure there will be further hiccups. But for now, my lovely new Kumquat remains innocence and unscathed, her virtue preserved.

*In a wild moment of panic, I decided that it was vitally important to pack a pair of knee-high boots... "I don't have boots! What if I need boots? Do you think I'll need boots? Is this enough? I can't possibly have packed sufficiently for one week in Joburg!?"

Fortunately, Mills was on hand give me a powerflick back to reality and remind me that I have never, ever had reason to wear boots (nay, closed shoes) in February in Joburg. So I didn't pack any boots. And yet somehow, I still filled an entire suitcase. It'll be interesting to see what else is in there. Possibly a duvet? An obsolete telephone directory**? Some crocheted pillow covers? Who knows.

**I have actually done this before.