Squirmalicious

That moment when you're eating lunch, look down on your plate and see a squirming worm making a break for it.

First thought. Where did that come from.. everything on my plate has either been in a sealed wrapper, the fridge, or the microwave.

Second thought. At least it's still whole, so I know I don't have the other half in my mouth.

Third, fourth and fifth thoughts. Is he alone? Are there others? Have I already eaten them?

Oh god. He (I don't know why or when he became male, but there it is) is still desperately trying to escape my plate. What do I do with him? Squish him? Tip him outside? Cook him? Would he taste better with butter, or coconut? Hmmm....

And thus ended lunch.

Snot shower

Cycling to work at the moment is glorious. It's nippy... but that early-morning pre-warmth chill, rather than this-is-as-good-as-it's-gonna-get winter chill. 

The sun is coming up later, so now I find myself cycling to work just after sunrise. Which, while somewhat depressing (long days are over), is beautiful as the low rays strike through the trees and settle and shimmer on the still canals. We deserve it, after the rotten, sodden summer that we were subjected too. It's so good that even GBM is prepared to take a gentle cycle into town with me, just to enjoy the decent-ish weather while it lasts. 

So there we were, cycling together this morning along a particularly tranquil patch of unkempt grass, looking beautiful in its unmanicured state. The dew was still fresh and sparkly on the leaves, warmed with a slight orange hue from the early morning rays that were just starting to kiss the ground. Everything in front of us was in golden silhouette, as we topped a small bridge, heading directly towards the rising sun. 

We were behind a slower cyclist, and GBM had just made to pass him when the guy turned his head in the same direction, put his right hand up to his face - and without-hesitation, explosively blew out the contents of his left nostril. I was close enough behind the nasal expulsion to get a beautiful demonstration of just how far snot can fly when backlit by early morning sun. 

The fact that the two of us were directly in his mucous-trajectory did not perturb the snotter in the slightest. He turned his head the other way, raised left hand and loudly expelled the remains from his other nostril, complete with the same spectacular splay of visual mucousity. 

I'm fairly confident I caught both angles directly in the face. I'm so glad we could share that moment with him, and will shortly be sharing his cold and flu germs too. It was awesome. 

Overheard in Amsterdam

As I was walking back from the shops yesterday, I heard a lady talking to a guy, in impeccable English... beautifully enunciated... which made the following all the more surprisingly...

"When we get home, I'm going to spank your bottom. And then..."

Unfortunately they moved out of ear shot very quickly. But because it was so clear, and in perfect English, I  have no doubt about what was being said. I know what I heard, but I do wonder what else was in store for the poor (or lucky) bugger.

Offline

Well, almost. But not quite.

After a merry weekend filled with extreme frisbee, extreme one-touch soccer, extreme hedge-barging and extreme catering, I checked in online for my flight yesterday. We didn't have a printer, so I chose the marvelous option of sending a scan/barcode to my email on my Kumquat (iPhone).

Two hours (and multiple GBP worth of downloaded data) later, I was still eagerly hoping to receive my electronic boarding pass. I tried again, this time requesting the confirmation by SMS. Download refresh. Download refresh. Download refresh. Nothing.

Every time I checked my phone, the battery dropped another notch, so about half an hour before I due to get a lift to the station, to catch a train, to catch a bus, to catch a plane, I quickly put my phone on the charger. You know, just a quick top-up to make sure I had enough juice to give me a few hours worth of audiobooks and iTunes and preloaded TV shows.

And that was the last time I thought of my phone before I was dropped off an hour later at the station. Sans Kumquat.

And oddly enough, I didn't actually care. I was pissed off with myself for being stupid enough not to pick it up before leaving, but on the other hand... it was one less thing to care about. I currently have two passports - one old and almost completely fill, but with functioning EU and US visas attached to it, the other new and almost untouched, but with one very important 5-year UK visa in it. I've got my work crackberry and usually have my Kumquat that contains pretty much my entire life.

I didn't panic because I knew exactly where it was and I knew that GBM could pick it up and bring it back home at some stage. And I usually ignore my phone when it rings anyway - I hate talking on the phone. I wasn't completely devoid of entertainment as I refuse to go paperless and had a magazine and a novel to keep me busy at the airport. So the only thing that bothered me, really, was that I was forced to listen to my surroundings again. Old school.

I think I'm getting tired of technology. I love that I can use it, but the moment I didn't have the choice, I was actually quite okay with it. That said, I don't know if I can last for a whole week (when GBM is due to return). Which is why I've asked him to drop it off at our London office tomorrow. I don't know if I can last a weekend sans Kumquat. That might be too much of an ask.

Just a couple of coupons

So on Saturday, we went swinging through the trees thanks to a deal voucher. The week before, GBM and I went for an 8-dish tapas meal for the price of one main meal.

This evening, we enjoyed a three course meal at a fancy-shmancy restaurant for 40% off. Next week, I'm going with a friend for a "wellness day" of facials, head massage and general niceties - also at half the usual price. And I still need to figure out when I'm going to make use of my '10 Zumba classes for the price of four' vouchers.

Cycling home today, I realised that I might be developing a bit of a problem with this. GBM is also suffering from the affliction, eagerly signing up for regular mailing lists that announce discounts on work shirts and similar.

I think we've got it under control so far. We've been able to refrain from the seriously silly deals - like lazer eye-surgery and teeth whitening services.

But still... we're becoming a couponing couple. Which means one of two things for me...

a) we're getting old. I don't know why, but I associate coupons with old people dragging shopping carts on wheels. And blocking supermarket queues while they pay with every five cent piece in their position. GBM already does that, but without the cart.
b) we're becoming Dutch. The cloggies love a money-saver.

Neither option is good, in my eyes.

For monkeys, big and small

On Saturday, GBM and I took ourselves around a little forest adventure. I'd seen the course before, but it didn't look like much - more like team-building activities or kids' parties. But, ever the sucker(s) for a good online deal, we thought we'd have a bash when we saw a three-hour session advertised at 40% discount. It's not like we had anything better to do on a Saturday morning anyway. 

So off we went, signed the indemnity form, listened to the standard do's and dont's and got our special helmuts with the tag on it, indicating that we were English. And as much as I'm interested in learning new words in Dutch, I really want to understand the safety intricacies that will entail me securely attaching myself to a platform several metres up in a tree. We took the special helmuts without shame.


A few short minutes later, I had fully earned my 'special' status. GBM had stepped into his safety harness and was securing the buckles, while I was still trying to figure out which legs went where and why it was all so uncomfortable. I couldn't reach any of the buckles, I couldn't get them tight enough, it was just a silly design. Fortunately GBM saved me from public humiliation by quietly pointing out each leg strap was actually labelled "left" and "right" (clear as mud, in English). Not only that, but the lettering was upside down. So I had it on the wrong way round, AND upside down. Superb. 


Once we had that sorted out, we were ready for our private (English-Only) instruction course. They ran us through the safety procedures of ensuring that at least one of your two safety lines were connected at all times, proper placement of carabines on the safety cables and where and when it was safe to follow behind the person in front of you. Standard stuff. We passed the demonstration quickly enough and then (this is what I love about the lackadaisical H&S attitude in the Netherlands)... we were free to run loose in the trees.


There are 8 adventure courses with various degrees of difficulty. We started on course 3... thought we wouldn't get too cocky straight away. It was fun, just a few metres above ground, wonkly platforms and a bit of balance required.


Course 5 followed shortly, which entailed a bit more muscle-control and core balance. But by now, we had the hang of the safety harness technique and could get a bit more playful. I had a particularly good laugh watching GBM trying to negotiate across an uneven level of individually-strung stepping stones. He started on his left foot and as soon as he lifted his right to step forward, his entire body shot to the left, which meant that had to take an eeeeextra big step (as if moon-walking) to reach the next foot hold on the right. Now it was all he could do to stop from doing the splits (well, technically, the harness at his waist was doing the most to stop that - but at the same time, giving him a superb wedgie effect, all the more entertaining to watch from the back). Left foot up... body weight all on right... beeeeg moon-step to reach the next one on the left. 


Watching his progress in slow-motion brought to mind the stomp-precarious-totter style that toddlers often have as they learn to walk by not falling over. Of course, I then had to follow suit, which was not helped by the fact that I now had the giggles. 

Course 6 was the best - lots of nice long ziplines. Which was awesome, once I figured out how to launch myself without twisting my body in the process. Roaring uncontrollably up to a tree, arse-first, is not as much fun as some might like to think. 

The final course required extra instruction and is for "experienced climbers only". GBM and I were high on the success from our previous courses and decided to give it a shot. One of the obstacles was a tarzan-like swing, from one platform to the next. Being no fool myself, I made GBM go first. He secured his safety harness and launched himself forward, swung and landed on the platform. But, before he could get his balance enough to step forward, the weight of his body and the momentum of the rope pulled him backwards. Frantically he grabbed for anything on the tree to hold himself there, and failed. 

I supported his efforts by doubling over with laughter. When I realised that he was now officially stuck, I did try (genuinely) to help him back to the platform I was on, but it was quite a steep incline and I frankly did not have the strength to pull him back up. Assistance was hailed, much to GBM's embarrassment (and my amusement) as he clung to the rope like an uncertain newborn monkey. 

Once he was rescued, we could move on and complete the course, but after almost three hours of core and upper body strength we were absolutely shattered. We took a very slow cycle home and collapsed on the couch for the rest of the day. I cannot recommend it enough - childish fun in the treetops. 

SWAG

Shit We All Get. 

I went to a Ladies Night at the movies yesterday. The highlight of the evening (for me) is never the movie, but rather the drinks and snacks before hand (champagne and macarons last night) and the free goodies bags.

Yeah! 'Cos who doesn't love free shit?

Of course, as with all marketing ploys, you have to plough through a plethora of pamphlets and printed adverts. Blah blah blah blah, chuck that shit in the bin. Thanks for trying to get my attention, but you have been disqualified for laziness and lack of imagination.

Moving swiftly onto the actual marketing awards in this week's bag of SWAG. First, the winners, the one's who have a budget (or the savvy to realise that marketing actually requires expense).

A new product launch (hand cream sample) from Body Shop. Score!
John Frieda Frizz Ease hair shampoo sample. Score!
Bike bell from a shop that I hadn't heard about, but now want to see what other hip trendy stuff they can add to my bike. Well done, Chopperdome, give yourselves a gold star.
And two points for the movie house, who handed out packets of sweet and salty Jimmy's popcorn and diet Coco-Cola (not pictured, due to previous consumption). Well played, m'lords.

And, now, the ones who have tried. And failed.

Ice Watch. What is it? I don't know. I'm assuming some sort of attempt at trendy time keepers. There's a website included on the "we wanna start a social revolution" bracelet. This company provided a very nice gift bag, complete with ribbon insert and branding - which I presume would usually be supplied to paying customers once they have actually been into their store and bought a watch. So, minus points for marketing laziness. And they put a rubber/plastic band with their branding on. These bracelets only work as a fashion statement when they are making exactly that - a statement. WWJD or Livestrong. Product placement? Who's going to carry your website around on their wrist without gaining anything from it? Binning that shit. Fail.

Hair product. I guess. From Amsterdam with love? Okay, now I'm a bit nervous about the lubricant-looking content. Um, do I put this on my hair? The back has a single line that reads: "softening action with corn flower and aloe flower extract". Softening of what? What are you actually marketing here? Oh wait, in the corner, almost visible, is another line. Hotel V. Okay, so I assume this is some sort of hotel in Amsterdam, one that feels their biggest sell point is their free shampoo. Or some sort of salad dressing. Um... okay. Not so sure about this. Fail.

True, they've succeeded in the base requirement of marketing - I've learnt about their brand. Both groups of brands have spent money on this marketing. But am I enticed to use Ice Watch and Hotel V brands, visit their website or try their products? Not a chance.

If I like the John Frieda Frizz Ease or the Body Shop hand cream... will I tell people about it, choose to buy their products? Probably, yes. Win.

Special kids

I recently caught up with a friend who I hadn't seen for a while. One of her first questions to me was, "how are you and GBM, still going strong?" I gave affirmation to her query. 

Her response amused and bemused me. "Oh thank god! 'Cos let's be honest... it's not like anyone else would have either of you!"

Say what now?

She then went on to point out a few situations which she felt only GBM and I could possibly find entertaining. Like waiting in ambush for each other in our own home, to see who can give the other one a bigger fright late at night. Or me waking GBM up from an afternoon nap by dripping water on to his exposed neck. Okay, I might've found this more amusing than him. But to be fair, just the evening before he had chucked a handful of water in my face as I emerged from a loo break. So childish.

Or sabotaging each other's drinks (alcoholic or not) by spiking the beverage with sugar-coated sweets. How is this not amusing? It activates the carbonate and makes the drink taste horrific to the unsuspecting palate. Double whammy!

I realised she might have a point. 

The other day, GBM made the mistake of leaving home without any form of rain protection. Amateur mistake. So later, when it (not unsurprisingly) started raining, I took great delight in taunting him with all my layers. 

"Oh my, look at that. It's raining. I think I better put on my RAIN coat. Oh, and what's this... I have a hat too! I hate it when my hair gets wet because I am unprepared for Dutch weather."

GBM responded as any mature adult would, by merrily donning a bright red plastic packet on his head. This, he claimed, had the duel function of keeping his perfectly-styled hair dry and protecting his glasses from rain drops.

He looked like Papa Smurf, sans-beard. I was highly entertained. I'm glad we've found each other - this level of humour would be wasted on the unappreciative. 

Anti-neat freak

I don't know why it has to be so hard. I tidy it up, and I give myself a stern talking to each time. "There..." I tell myself, "now all you have to do, is just put things back as you use them/don't need them. It's so easy really, I don't know why I didn't think of it before.."

It should be that simple. And yet, just a few days later (a week, if I'm particularly well behaved), we're back to the same stage: 

Piles, lumps and clumps of clothing, hair accessories, toiletries, jewelry. Which will get moved around or regrouped as when items are required and discarded. It's horrifying. I literally disgust myself.

I don't consider myself a complete slob. I generally take a vague interest in looking somewhat presentable when I go out in public. My handbag is always organised, my car (when I had one) was never a pigsty. I am a logical, rational person. I like order. Not chaos. Why then, can I not simply put things away in an reasonable fashion?

I've tried the tricks. I've got the tubs and containers to keep jewelry and hair products in their place. But they somehow still end up encroaching and intermingling with each other, along with make-up and possibly feminine hygiene products. It does not make for easy locating of the matching earring when you can't see the counter for tampons and face creams.

So why do I put it off until it all gets to a complete state of disarray - to the point that I want to (and do) scream in frustration because I can't find ANYTHING. Literally, a room full of crap on the floor and I can't find ANYTHING.

I blame my upbringing. I don't know why, but I think this is the appropriate course of action for personality malfunctions. Which this clearly is. It's not me, it's my personality.

Right, procrastination over... I really need to tidy my room now.

Different POVs

Every morning when I wake up, I have to gently or not so gently roll GBM back onto 'his' side of the bed. The gentleness/force required is directly dependent on his body position at that stage. 


If he's on his side, I can use a variation on the classic Friends "hug... and roll".  

My variation is a gentle squeeze, while at the same time nudging his bodyweight so it rolls away, back on his side. If he's on his front or back, this is more difficult and will usually require a less-subtle prod from my elbow or knee. 

So... I can kinda understand why he didn't believe that when I accidentally (genuinely) smacked him in the eye socket the other morning, I swear I did it in my sleep and not on purpose... I woke up to the slow realisation that I had hit something fairly solid with my elbow, and rolled over to see him clutching his face, looking very confused and bewildered. But let's be honest here, he was obviously encroaching on my side in order to be within range of my bent arm.

[He wants to know what I'm blogging about now. I reckon I'll leave the slumber-hog to read it himself.]

From GBM's side, he doesn't see my problem. To be fair, his head is always on 'his' pillow. That's not my issue. The encroachment always happens from torso down, usually ending with his leg in the lower bottom half of 'my' side of the bed. This means that I have to contour to what space is left. I can't curl up, because this sends my knees into him, or off the edge of the bed. And I can't fully stretch out without having to kick him out the way first.  Which is usually my choice of action; cos I've learnt that politely asking doesn't work. 

Proper consumption of Zoo Biscuits

The absolutely wrong way to eat a Zoo Biscuit: 

Friendships have ended over less. 

Everybody who's anybody knows that the first step in Zoo Biscuit consumption is to nibble the edges, like so:

Then (as a personal preference) I like to eat the biscuit off the back, whittling down to sugar only. 

The next bit is where opinion's differ. Some people choose to lick the animal icing off the top at this stage. They are wrong. What you should do, is nibble around the white icing, gnawing the appropriate animal-shaped cut-out. Then you consume the white icing and sugar layer at your leisure. 

Your Zoo Biscuit treat is now complete. And my job here, is done. 

NB: The squirrel/flat tortoise/amorphous blob was saved from incorrect consumption -

*No Zoo Animals were harmed in the making of this blog*

Warning: do not come between a girl and her ice cream

A perk in my office is that we occassionally get DVDs. Some good, some bad, but they're new and up-coming shows so it's fun to watch before the rest of the world gets to them. I receive them, cos that's my department and I I make the other minions aware that a DVD titled "Blahdittyblah" or "Working Title" has been received. We generally don't know much or anything about the shows. They're unknown entities, view at your own risk. 

So this morning, I got a short email from a colleague in the finance dept asking if they could borrow one to screen at lunch time in the boardroom as a treat for his team, it being summer and quiet season. Sure, I replied, I'll put Blahdittyblah on your desk for when you get in. He thanked me and that was the end of our correspondence. 

At 1pm, as I was just starting to tuck into my post-lunch treat, he stormed up to my desk to demand why the screening wasn't "set up". I was genuinely taken back - I didn't realise that I was supposed to be putting on the DVD and pressing play. So I duly escorted him to the boardroom, where his team were waiting in eager anticipation. 

Facing him and his team, I held the DVD like a game-show prize on display. "Dee-Vee-Dee", I started, loudly and clearly.

"Dee-Vee-Dee Ma-chine", I pointed to the appropriate device, making sure I had everyone's attention, before pressing the open/close button, placing the disk in and closing it.

"Turn on Tee-Vee", I continued in Troglodyte. With a sweeping (and some might say, sarcastic) gesture, I pressed the button like Eddie Eckstein in his prime on Telly Fun Quiz.  

"So, in summation, DVD goes in machine, TV goes on. DVD starts automatically. Here is the remote for volume." I handed the remote to the team manager. "I think you can handle it from here."

I know the patronising tone was not necessary, but if he had made it clear that he wanted or needed me to coordinate his group screening, instead of arriving and bombing on me for his lack of communication, it might have been a different situation.

Maybe... but we'll never know for sure. Because the main reason for my irritation was that he completely destroyed my ice-cream indulgence experience.

Ben'n'Jerry's can only be fully be enjoyed without disruption or distraction; it melts much too fast when subjected to rude and unnecessary interruptions. 

Consider yourselves informed for future reference: Ice-cream comes before dumbasses on my list of daily priorities. 

This is not a drill

I don't know if I'll ever take summer sun for granted again. I see friends back in SA complaining about how miserably cold it is in winter, and I know I used to be like that. I would bitch and moan when day-time temps did not soar past 15 in winter. But now, I choose to take my breakfast on the balcony as long as it's in double figures and sunny. 

With 90mm rain received seemingly solidly over two weeks, and gusts of wind 90kmph to boot, July was not a good month for summery breakfasts. The average temperature was a whopping 15 degrees across the Netherlands and according to the KNMI weather website, we accrued a grand total 157 hours of sunshine. We're supposed to get about 15 hours of sunshine a day in theory, at this stage of the year. So of the 465 hours of potential sunshine, we got barely a third of our allocated share. Bastard rain clouds. Amsterdam received a solid 179mm over the month, only slightly higher than the 81mm average. Other areas of the country received as much as almost 300mm.

Good news though, the Netherlands is no longer in drought... not that I realised we were experiencing this in the first place. I cross more than a handful of canals on my way to work every day. They all looked pretty damn full last time I checked.  

But my point today is that when the sun came out and it soared to a whopping 26 degrees yesterday, the entire country wasted no time in getting out and getting semi-clad. I took the opportunity to cycle (fully-clad) to a small town along the Amstel river, for no reason other than "get outside! Get some sunshine! This is not a drill!"

And today, again... what is this strange bright burning ball in the sky? It makes my eyes hurt, and it burns my skin when exposed. What is it called again? I have faint recollections of days gone by when this was a normal experience. 

Everyone is out and enjoying as many summery things as possible, because we know it can't last. It's going to rain again and it's going to rain soon (probably tomorrow).

So this is what I hope to be doing by 7pm this evening. 

Get your summer on, folks. 

This is not a drill.

Potential Pets, in no particular order

Snakes - I love handling non-venomous snakes. I'm not stupid about this option, I don't have a death wish, but the little constrictors are cool. They're much softer and silkier than most people (who haven't touched one) would think. Feeling them wrap around your appendages when they use you as a climb frame is actually quite exhilarating. And not in a life-or-death drama kinda way, but in a "woah, that thing is just one massive muscle" kinda way. 

Pros - they are clean, once you've got the terrarium sorted; they don't need much maintenance and shed about once a month. They eat once a week, they poop (about) once a week. They don't need socialising. 

Cons - they can live for up to 20 years, it's a massive commitment. Predominantly live curled up, in a box. Not particularly interactive. Most partners/housemates are not happy to share freezer space with pre-killed snake prey.

Chameleons - I just threw this option in 'cos I think these dudes are cool. They're just so... chillaxed, you know? They check you out sideways whether they dig you or not and they will not be rushed. Unless they're lining up to eat some tasty tidbit. But they're not big on being handled and when I did get to hold one in school, it chose to climb onto my head, using my earhole as a foot rest. I don't think I ever recovered from that. So I guess these are just on the list 'cos I wouldn't mind sharing a living space with one, nothing more than that.

Pigs - I've always loved the idea of having a pet pig. Just saying it makes me feel happy... Pet Pig. I firmly believe that when they're not living in a sty layered with their own faeces, pigs are probably very good pets. 

Pros - They're highly intelligent, apparently easy to train (do you need more evidence than Babe? I think not). Tea Cup pigs are possibly the most adorable things I have EVER seen. Maternal hormones peak every time I see one. That's not weird, is it?

Cons - Apparently they are very big on pecking orders and will try to "subordinate" house guests by charging, barging and possibly biting. This could be awkward, especially if you want those guests to ever come back. Also, there's a small chance that you could unwittingly purchase what you think is a tea cup pig, which turns out to be a potbelly... Not cool.

Rats - I'd love a rat. I think they're fabulous. Again, similar to pigs, they probably make very rewarding pets when they're not scurrying through raw sewage. I don't understand the aversion to domestic rats. Why are hamsters so much more acceptable? They're less smart and less interactive - rats are more social in nature and bond easier with their owners, whereas hamsters are just... there. Running frantically in a wheel. Going nowhere. 

Pros - it's not a long-term commitment, they live for about 3 years. While they might use you as a climbing frame (see Snakes and Chameleon), they're affectionate with owners. Apparently. 

Cons - females go into heat about once a flipping week. No wonder you're 'never more than six feet away' from a city rat. 

Cats - I'm not cat-person per se, but I like cats. I don't have anything against them. I love their haughty attitude and they make great pets, as long as you don't expect any gratitude in return. They amuse me when they try to pounce on reflected lights or lose shoelaces. As someone who can blow and catch bubbles for hours at a time, I can relate to this kind of frivolous fixation. 

Pros - they clean themselves. They only poop in the litter tray (supposedly). They are relatively low-maintenance and can be left alone all day or even overnight. 

Cons - the associated reputation. Just typing "cats as pets" into Google quickly brings up, "do cats have souls" followed closely by "80 ways to share cat pictures". Getting a cat might result in other feline owners thinking we have something in common. I can't be having with this. 

Dogs - what's not to like? Dogs are social, affectionate, intelligent and inquisitive. They greet their owners, and generally guests, with enthusiasm. They almost always seem happy, or at least pleasantly surprised, to see you. Dogs respond to the mood of their owners and can be trained to play or calm down on cue. 

It's hard to draw up a quick list of pros and cons. Depending on the type of dog you want, or the space/facilities you can offer, a dog can be high maintenance or can just fit in with its owner's schedule. Probably the biggest con for me, would be associated with people who think they are dog owners, when they actually treat them as animated accessories. 

If you want a pet that size, get a guinea pig. Stop trying to pretend it's descended from domesticated wolves.

What's not to love? 

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.

Lord, give me strength not to reply...

...Because it will get me into trouble. I share nothing with this email sender, besides our email domain.


-----Original Message-----
From: Bob
To: @International All
Subject: Announcement: My son

Hi everyone,

I would like to announce the birth of my son, born Friday 5/8/11 at 7:39 am. He weighs 5 lbs, 12 oz. and is 18.5 in. Both he and Mommy are doing just fine.

Thanks and regards,
Bob

------------------------

It is so tempting to reply...

"No, thank YOU Bob, how lovely to hear from you. I recently visited the gynae myself and she was just telling me how many people have babies. Every day. And not just people... Mammals do it too, successfully, on a daily basis without sending out a global newsburst. Congratulations to you and your wife nonetheless.

Please do keep me updated as the little tyke develops, I love random newsletters from strangers. It saves me the hassle of having to buy a newspaper just for the classified announcements.

By the way, I got the all clear on any STDs and ovarian cysts from the doc. Thought I'd reciprocate with an update from my side - I know how much you value this level of interaction.

Huge hugs and fondly inappropriate smoochies to you and wifey -
Koekie

Dunkley's 419 scam

I may need to find a new apartment in the next few months, so I'm keeping an eye out on the usual online websites and classified ads. Unfortunately dodgy scammers also like to keep an eye for housing hopefuls trawling these sites, so most of my interest has been met with crapola.

Original ad online:

EUR700 / 1br - FULLY FURNISHED 1 Bedroom Apartment (amsterdam)

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Datum: 2011-03-14, 12:14PM CET
Antwoorden naar:

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This is one bedroom FULLY FURNISHED apartment boasts over 60 square meters of living space. Luxuriously appointed and includes a modern kitchen with SMEG stainless steel appliances, air conditioning, open plan spacious living area, generous sized bathroom, balcony and internal laundry.Make use of the luxurious shared facilities which include a 20m indoor heated lap pool, spa, sauna.

• Lokatie: amsterdam
• Deze adverteerder kan NIET gecontacteerd worden met diensten of andere commerciële aanbiedingen

Right, so I have to admit, I saw the luxurious shared facilities and gave a little snort, but okay - let's see what this is about. 700 euros is relatively cheap for Amsterdam, but as with any city it depends what area, what neighbourhood and what size you're actually talking about. And "living space" can include stairwells and basements. Chances are, if it is for real, it's in a neighbourhood that I don't want to be living in, but anywho, go on... let's have a laugh.

I responded asking for the usual details on location and maybe some pictures.
I got this (I've edited some of the crap out, because it was just too long):

On Wed, Mar 16, 2011 at 9:20 AM, htr gwegw sdrdjfhvbhm@hotmail.com> wrote:

Thanks for your interest and inquiries about my apartment.Yes the Apartment is still available for rent and we are looking for a responsible person/family to occupy and maintain the Apartment now that I am not around.

I just traveled to West Africa [ED: in the region of Nigerian perhaps?] for a programme called Empowering Youth to Fight Racism, HIV/AIDS, Poverty and Lack of Education, the programme is taking place in major countries in Europe and Africa [blah-blah- blah about how he is such a good godly Christian blah-blah-blah]... We will be away for 3 to 5 years or more that is why I have made up my mind to put up my Apartment for rent to whomever that will take good care of it. Here are details of the Apartment:

Bedroom:1
Bathroom:1
FEATURES :
Electric Range [wow - electricity? And at a range too? Surely not!]Electric Heat
Garage [hahahahaha - NO ONE has covered parking in Amsterdam. Except maybe the queen]
AMENITIES:
Air Conditioning [and don't forget the electric heat mentioned above]Patio/Party Deck
Cable TV
Ceiling Fans
24 hours Internet service [this guy definitely comes from Africa]Dishwasher
Firepit [this is my favourite feature. I am sad that this flat does not really exist]Garbage Disposal [rubbish]Microwave
security alarm
Refrigerator
Washer / Dryer

Rent:700Euro per month
Security deposit:700Euro
Please feel free to ask any questions you do not understand and i will be looking forward to recieve your email as soon as possible.
Here is my phone number: Here is my phone number 0112348132758551 or +2348132758551 [this is a question for the class in general... who knows the dialing code for Nigeria?]
I am not around to show the inside, you can go check out the Apartment and the neighborhood from the outside and get back to me if you really like it for more information [great idea, how about an address or should I just stroll around Amsterdam?]

*********RENT APPLICATION FORM********
(Private and Confidential)

Also, Pls let me get answer to the application below :-
1)Your Full Name ?
2)Your Full Address Where You Reside Right Now ?
3)Reachable Mobile Phone Number ?
4)Age ? [No longer nubile. Too old for human trafficking]
5) Sex ? [Yes, so of no virginal value. Sorry]6)Are You Married ? [No, but I am worth 33 camels, 9 sheep and 4 goats]7)How many people will be living in the apartment? [dunno - how many other people have fallen for this?]8)Copy of Photo ID..(Optional)? [Optional, because we're going to slap someone else's face on the new ID we make from all this info anyway]9)Do You have a Car ?
10)Occupation ?
11) Citizen Of Which Country ?
12) How Many Month Rent Are You Willing To Pay ( First 1month rent + security deposit ) or If You Pay ( First 2months rent + security deposit) And Get 1 Month Free...So which one do you prefer ? [Call now and we'll include a free mail-order bride from Thailand!]
Looking forward to hear from you with all this details so that i can have it in my file in case of issuing the receipt in your name and contacting you. Await your urgent reply so that we can discuss on how to get the documents and the keys to you, please we are giving you all this based on trust and again i want you to stick to your words. We are putting everything into God's hand, so please do not let us down in this property of ours and God bless you more as you do this. Hope to read from you as soon as possible. Thanks and GOD bless you. I look forward to hearing from you asap.

Cheers!
Dunkley [hahaha, funniest part of the entire email!]

Other responses I've received have been less detailed, less obvious. Some of these guys actually bother to find a Dutch-sounding name (Nienke, Thom) and can even respond with pictures of some random flat, but all are unfortunately out of the country, unavailable to actually show the place in person - but with the security of a cash deposit "they can send the keys via Fedex in good faith".

I wonder how many people they actually catch out? Blessed be the meek and stupid, who shall inherit the earth - and then, god-willing, hand it all to the good Christian scammers from Nigeria anyway.

I'm thinking about changing my email signature... "We are putting everything into God's hand,so please do not let us down... God bless you more as you do this."

Poetry.

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.

French make toyi-toying look like child's play

I am not Sam. I don't eat eggs and ham. But here... I .... am.

No apologies this time. I've had complaints, I've ignored the cries and you all got over it. I don't know why I don't blog any more. I still rant. It's not like I've run out of material. There's plenty to get angry about. I just don't care to put it on the blog. Does this make me a bad person? Unarguably, yes. Do I care? Not even slightly.

Latest rant topic: The French.

I don't know many French citizens. Those I do know, I like. But as a nation, I hate the French. I do not understand their accent, and they don't understand mine. Once I've given up trying to communicate in broken basic French, I switch to the classic s-l-o-w and LOUD tourist English, well known to all western travellers. And invariably the French person I'm trying to speak to, asks me if I can speak English rather. This really, really annoys me.

I also don't like the French because they take striking and rioting to a whole new level. Please don't give me that shit about "it only happens in Africa". Things fall apart and people do stupid mob activities everywhere. But particularly well in France.

They are currently demonstrating (read: burning cars and generally looting with gay abandon) because they do not want the retirement age to go from 60 years up to 62, amongst other obstructive and uneducated demands. Never mind the fact that France has the lowest age of state pension (and therefore the longest burden of retirement on the state) than any other country IN THE WORLD; and, like every other European country, are currently staring down the barrels of a very large budget deficit. Never mind all that. They don't want to have to compromise to save their own flipping arses down the line. So unions are bringing the economy to a standstill, because they are too short-sighted to realise that if the amount of years worked is not extended across the population, there won't be any pension to claim anyway.

But I'm sure when they look back from their rotting and neglected rocking chairs at the age of 90, retired for 30 years and eating cat food out of the tin, they'll stutter to themselves, "hey, didn't we have fun blockading and burning and generally running amok back in 2010? We got our way and it was totally worth it."

It's never cool to know that you are going to be doing a shit job with shit pay for longer than you expected. Newsflash: every other country is going through similar reforms. It sucks but it's happening everywhere.. a little economic phenomenon called a recession. You might've heard about it? Pension ages are rising. State funding is being cut. Jobs are being lost. But the French are being a nation of whining, temper-tantrum throwing pre-teens about it, because apparently they don't deserve to have it happen to THEM.

Mostly the French irritate me because, due to their little frothy fit that they are currently throwing, I might not have a train to catch to visit my boyfriend in France next week. And then I'll be really upset with the whiny, whingy nation of nancy-pancy striking bastards.

See...? The rage is still there.

Toilet Paper

Yeah, you heard me. Toilet paper. TP, LP, bogroll, the thinking man's note book, that stuff.
So simple, so elementary, so useful. So fucking annoying at the most inopportune of daily moments.

Take for example the bog-roll in our office loos. It shouldn't stretch your imagination too much if I ask you to picture a standard communal/staff loo. The toilet paper is of course deeply ensconced in a metal casing. With a lock on top. Because of all things to steal, managers HATE to see whole rolls of TP waltzing out the door in their staff's back pockets.

Post-it notes and pens are fine. Epson finest quality printing paper? That's right there in the storage cabinet. We've got reams of the stuff. Free access to it - no questions asked. One-ply bottom of the range, most-quantity-for-least-quality, cheap-ass TP? We lock that shit away.

Anyway, so... metal casing. A tiny slot at the bottom (or the side, depending on model or sadistic tendency of the maker) through which the long-suffering cleaner/toilet staff will patiently feed the one-ply, recycled paper. And then the bog-user can patiently, and with great care, break off individual squares at their own discretion (we have no choice... the paper is so fine and the serrated line is so effective that even the minutest gust of wind is likely to break the perforations). So, square by precious square you are able to gather enough to complete your daily business.

But this only works for the first roll - and only as long as it does NOT break off at that precarious point when the weight of the remaining roll will rip the free end back through the feeding slot. Anyone.. it can happen to anyone, okay - because the toilet god hates us all. But most of all, the toilet god hates chicks. Especially chicks with tiny bladders. He is definitely a misogynistic god.

So there you sit, ablutions done, gently... geeeently... attempting to coax the toilet paper just a leeeetle further out of the metal box. Just one, maybe two more squares that's all you need to complete the deed. Suddenly, you feel the pressure changing. No-no-no-no-no! Riiiip... *Klunk* (heard from the back of the metal case as the toilet roll bashes against the wall with momentum from falling backwards and out of reach. If you listen closely, you can also hear a cackle and a hoarse whisper of, "my precious, I have you all, my precious.")

Frantically, you try to regain control of the toilet paper roll (oh, the saddest of power struggles). You can get one, maybe two fingernails through the gap in the metal box. You can almost, almost rock it back and forth... maybe just enough to find the torn remnants of your bogroll. You claw, you plead, you wheedle... but you cannot find purchase. There is nothing to grip. Eventually you lose patience (and all trace of sanity). You scratch at the inaccessible toilet paper like a cat that can smell the catnip but can't find it, attempting to create a new edge... a desperate attempt to start again. But now, contrary to all indications shown previously, you simply cannot get the 1-ply, rice-paper thin bog roll to break. It has taken on the consistency of malleable rubber. You can dent it, but you cannot tear it.

Realising that you have to be back your desk to coordinate a conference call in less than two minutes time, you gouge your finger around the side of the roll and scrape it back. Finally! You have succeeded getting some loo paper! Sure, it's the size - and length - of your index finger (which is now bleeding somewhat profusely), but it feels like one-ply gold sheet in your hand. Plus you have created a new edge with which to pull yourself to freedom to the end of this lavatory break.

You just wanted a wee... why couldn't you have been born a man? The world is their urinal; they don't have to fight for their dignity (and three squares of toilet paper) every time their bladder calls.

Yeah, this may be one occasion where I'll admit to having penis envy...
In. Unzip. Wee. Zip up. Wash hands [optional]. Out. Done.

Oh god, I need to wee. Again.