And we're back

The holiday started out well. I forgot my passport at home. An awesome realisation to make on the train, 5 minutes away from the airport. I had to race home by taxi, and paid 180 euros for the stress.

Now, remember the KLM dilemma? We booked KLM flights three months before our holiday. Then we learnt that we were not going to make our transfer (a once weekly event) to the ski lodge. We tried to change, NOT CANCEL, our KLM details. KLM would not allow this, not even two and a half months before. We were informed that we could not cancel our flights, we couldn't change, upgrade. Fuck nothing.

So, we booked a new outgoing flight through BA and left the KLM booking. Back to the actual day, we made our first flight into London. The transfer from London to Venice was delayed by 40 minutes due to the original flight staff being stuck in Manchester. The replacement staff could only have been called out of retirement, judging by the average age.

We got to our lodge at midnight on Saturday, to learn that our snowboarding lessons which I had requested for 14:30 on Sunday afternoon, were in fact booked for 08:30. I had email correspondence to prove otherwise. Mild chaos on Sunday morning as we arranged gear rental and rearranged lesson times.

The lessons themselves were relatively uneventful. Mills and I spent a lot of time on our bums, hips, knees and heads. During one tumble, I opened my eyes to see nothing but my snowboard - and clear blue sky. A few backsomersaults later, I was ready to try standing again.

On the Wednesday, just as I was getting bold enough to try a few slopes outside of the kindergarten area, I effectively demonstrated how to "catch edge" and flung myself facefirst down a slope, banging my knee properly in the process. A snowmobile was sent to transport me to meet an ambulance. I was mortified. The first aid dude couldn't speak English but kept insisting "Ambulenzi. Picture. Picture." and pointing at my knee. I insisted that I really didn't want an ambulenzi, so he eventually conceded to just take me back to the lodge. The only time I used the ski-in, ski-out facility of our accomodation was when I was on the back of the snowmobile. I stayed off the board for the rest of the week and focussed my attentions on dominating the table tennis tournaments.

Then on the final evening, Mills went to check in for our return flight home. Seasoned travellers will probably foresee what we didn't...

Although we couldn't cancel our tickets on request, apparently KLM can. When we didn't book in for our first leg, we apparently forfeited our return flight. It was in our terms and conditions, according to KLM. No compensation, no reimbursement. No after-sales. Fuck nothing.

We were forced to find alternative transport the night before. Three hours later, and 560 euros later, we had new transfer flights - again back through London. Unfortunately, our first flight was late on Saturday evening and the next was early Sunday. This entailed organising accommodation for Mills and I, as well as for my brother (who was supposed to be meeting us at the airport on our return... which wasn't going to happen now). We ended up crashing at Kop's place, who kindly slept on the couch (he didn't have much choice as he was out on the town when we crawled into his bed). You see how many people KLM have inconvenienced?

When preparing to check-in at Venice, I noticed "Cancellato" next to our flight. We decided to ignore this minor detail as there were two Easyjet flights at the same time. It simply was not an option to be considered.

Up at 4:30am on Sunday to make our 7am final flight. We had already been travelling for almost 24 hours - to get back from Italy, normally a 2 hours direct flight. Easyjet boarded our flight, then informed us that due to some twat checking in and not arriving for boarding, the baggage was being unpacked and we had missed our take-off time slot. The next take-off slot was in two hours time. We would not be disembarking. They offered all passengers a glass of water as compensation. A baby started screaming in the front row. I didn't blame it.

Finally, a full 30 hours after leaving our ski lodge, Mills and I trudged into our flat with my brother in tow.

And that is why I hate KLM. More to follow on that subject.

Despite all our travelling woes, the week was fantastic. A holiday with four vets, one dentist, two doctors, a biokinetisist (I'm too lazy to look up how to spell that) and a dietician leads to very interesting dinner conversation... "WHY are we talking about urinary tracts again??"

The vets also introduced me to a term called Vestiphobia. A fear of clothing. At first, I thought they were making it up - but I now truly believe they have an adversity to clothing. They even went snowboarding naked in fading daylight. Their enthusiasm was contagious, which resulted in naked bumboarding on the slope outside our lodge on the final night. Skidding off the bumboard brought a whole new meaning to freezer burn - and "bottom's up!"

Gone skiing

Back in March :-)

Happy anniversary to me

It's been a good day. For one, I made a 60k placement. It's my first big placement and it feels gooood.

"Ik ga direkt na huis. Daag, jongens. Doooie!" I called to my team mates before hopping on my bike after hockey. It was while listening to the radio on my MP3 player that I suddenly realised - as of yesterday - I have been living in the Netherlands for one year.

I have to admit, it's been a great year. Despite the visa issues, and the relocation issues, and then the visa issues again... the reems of paperwork and bureaucratic redtape... despite all that, I've found a good job, with good work mates, and I've learnt a whole lot about commercial business, targets, commission rates and even some financial formulas in Excel (that was a beeg learning curve). Mills and I have built a solid social network - to the point that I honestly don't have time to see everyone on a regular basis. We've travelled, we've kept active and I'm certainly fitter than I ever was in the UK or even back in Joburg.

I've re-learnt to ride a bike. I can confidently cycle with at least one hand in my pocket (this is a very big personal milestone). I can hold a semi-decent conversation in Dutch, I can certainly understand and read it with ease. This is a big thing for someone who spent 12 years of their education going out of their way to NOT learn Afrikaans.

This evening, the full moon was clearly visible and the mist hung low around the trunks of the trees in Haagse Bos. It was mystic and eery. And, while cycling home listening to the chilled tunes on VeronicaFM, I realised that I've learnt a lot in the last year.

I had one of 'those' moments. It's been good.

Zzzzzzz

Frek-sakes... it's frikken freezing here. We played football in zero visibility last night - I couldn't see the width of the pitch. And I can't get my toes warm. Even when I snuggle right up to Mills, seeking his body heat. I just don't seem to generate my own. Rather, I absorb his so that the point of contact actually becomes cold on his body. I like to think of it as a super human power. I absorb warmth.

Anywho, so the masked ball went well this weekend. I fitted in the bright BONT orange dress, and the shoes purchased by my personal shopper (aka Mills's sister in London) fitted like Cinderella's glass slipper. Bee-yatiful.

Although an excellent shopper, she's not much of a navigator. While driving around the little known town of Brid ("why on earth are you going to BRIDLINGTON?" Mills and I were asked on seperate occassions by different poms), I noticed that we had passed the same chav pushing a pram... three times. A few minutes later, our driver (aka Mills's Sister from London) suddenly asked, "does anyone else get the feeling that we're lost?"

Always encouraging from someone who used to live in the area.

Aimless driving aside (we eventually pulled over and had to be rescued by the sister-in-law), the 30th celebrations were good fun. On the big day, we excitedly gathered outside the birthday boy's room, and burst in, balloons, cake and candles at the ready... only to discover that the birthday boy was not in his bed. Actually, he was no where to be seen. I briefly contemplated the fact that he had escaped via the ensuite window.

Instead, he was watching us from his hiding place in the cupboard. Like a 6-year-old. So childish. (By this stage, the blazing candles has set off the fire alarm and melted most of the chocolate icing... Thirty emits a lot of heat.)

The ball itself was entertaining. Lots of lovely outfits, lots of interesting outfits. My personal favourite was the lady in a ball gown that didn't quite close (it was clearly fitted a few decades ago). I shouldn't laugh too loudly, because it was only once we got home from an evening of shaking our asses to dated music, that I realised my black g-string was very visible through the somewhat see-through orange material. Talk about VPL. Class with a capital ARSE.

Needless to say, a good weekend was had, but I'm still catching up on sleep. And probably will be for the rest of the week. Not much time for rest though, because we're all off for our skiing week on Saturday. Then my boet arrives for a few days, literally on our return.

I get tired just thinking about it.

So the blogging is going to be erratic until March. Apologies in advance. I still love you all dearly. If you're looking for random reading material on a daily basis while I'm gone, go here.

But please come back. I miss you already.

ps. I am delighted to say that the Ginger Beard is gone. Gone. My passion for my hairless one is reignited.

How many can you take?

Right, drama aside (and no further updates on the crazy neighbour status)... I'd like to wish all and sundry a belated commercially-decided-upon-day-of-soppiness.

The Special South African Kid was very upset that nobody else wore red in honour of the day. The truth is that everybody else in the office forgot. I got an e-card from Mills (above), after he called me an elephant, or a hippo, or something similarly endearing.

This evening, we dodged the lovey-dovey couples on shopping evening in order to search for the elusive shoes to match the dress this weekend, or find a dress suit for Mills (who's just realised he only has a tux jacket, no pants). When there is only one evening a week that offers night time shopping hours, and very few department stores, AND it's Valentines bloody Day, the shops are packed. Ergo, I had little tolerance when the 5-year-old decided to stop at the top of the escalator, with both hands running on the handrail on either side. For this reason, said snottie got walked over. I blame his granny for waiting proudly while the child explored the wonders of moving stairs with his bare hands, instead of removing him from a public walkway.

I backed my chances with the kid, because I had just completed this test:

25

So I knew I would win against one.

Hectic

God. There were so many other things I was going to blog about today. For once, I actually had material. And then I learnt that my upstairs neighbour threw herself off her balcony last night.

She survived (because our washing line broke her fall on the way down), and is in intensive care.

You read news articles about people trying to kill themselves (and succeeding), but this is - quite literally - close to home. There is a stain on the parking lot below. How desperate must you be to fling yourself off a second storey balcony? Of course, the police are investigating the husband's possible involvement. I know this, because Crazy Dame Olga filled me in.

I think what perturbs me the most is that I heard it. Well, I heard something hitting something else. It woke me up at 12:21. I couldn't decide what exactly had woken me, but I was aware that it was a noise. And, I thought, the neighbours are at it again. Then there was the commotion in the entrance stairwell and I could hear that the 10-year-old daughter was upset and awake. And I thought, it's a school night... she should be in bed. But still, I didn't get up. Then I heard the sirens, but I didn't realise they were stopping in the parking lot behind our flats. I just thought, the damn neighbours are at it again.

"Ja, but we are fighting, so."

That sentence irritated for a full two days after he snapped at me last week. Now I feel like it haunts me. I know this all sounds melodramatic.

So, I'm in shock for three reasons. One, a desperate (or desperately unhappy) lady flung herself past our window last night. Two, I feel like I completely misjudged the situation. I shrugged off my colleagues' concerns when they told me I should've called the police when we heard fighting last Sunday. I'm not saying that would've stopped the unfortunate incident last night, but still. And three, I'm in shock because I feel like one of those people who did nothing.

Last night, I heard the commotion and I consciously refused to get out of bed, because I didn't want to let the noisy neighbours 'win' in disrupting my sleep. I was an apathetic ignoree. When I was mugged a few years back, I screamed blue murder in a suburban street. I'll never forget the fact that not one light came on, no one in the vicinity responded to a female voice screaming, "no leave me alone." I feel like I became one of those people who would rather not get involved last night.

Melodramatic. It's a completely different situation, but I just think about that woman and her traumatic cry for help. Mostly, I feel sorry for the kid. I heard her crying, and presumed it was because she was upset about her parents arguing (again). I heard it, and I tossed and turned - irritated that my neighbours had woken me up again.

Random

On Friday, I went to the dentist. I'm sure you'll be relieved to know that it all went smoothly and I still have no cavities to be filled (never had one... so to me, a filling is a big, scary deal). While staring at my tandart's ceiling(and drooling all over her gloves), I wondered what leads someone to choose a profession where they spend all day sticking their hands into smelly stranger's mouths. Yuck.

Back at work today, the boss was ecstatic to point out that they have finally replaced the kitchen light fitting. It's plastic, and only cost 4 euros, so easier to replace than the glass one that I smashed last year... so she told me. She also recounted the quip from her 5-year-old when she brought the new purchase home.

"It's plastic, so it's unbreakable," she told the blonde snottie. "Does that mean that it's un-Koekie-able too?" asked the wise cracking peanut. She found that hilarious and recounted it a few times to my colleagues. Nothing like being the brunt of a preschooler's joke.

Anywho.

In other news, Mills and I are going to his brother's 30th birthday bash this weekend. We're going to a formal masked-ball affair. I cannot wait. I've already got my outfit selected (purchased from Edgars while in SA). Unfortunately the corset-type top is just a wee-bit on the tight side. This was not a problem, cos I figured I'd just eat healthily for a week before the event...

That resolution lasted for one day. Yesterday.

I've just finished the hot chocolate and the choc-chip icecream. I'm that weak. No self-control. On the upside, I could never be anorexic.

It's okay... I can still fit into the dress, all I have to do is give up breathing for the evening of the function.

Totally worth it though - stunning dress. Pity I can't find shoes to match.

Talking point

She was a pretty American girl, who disappeared one night without a trace.
He's the well-off son of a Dutch diplomat.
And he finally admitted to dumping her body in the ocean three years ago, off the coast of Aruba.

THIS is what the whole of the Netherlands is talking about at the moment. Investigative journalist, Peter de Vries, known for his criminal dogwork, finally managed to set Joran up and capture a confession about how he dumped Natalee's lifeless body into the sea in 2005 ("the ocean is a big place, they'll never find anything") without even checking if she was actually dead. It has been an established that Natalee and her friends had been drinking and snorting cocaine - a fact that Natalee's family tried to initially suppress, because it might sully their good daughter's name, of course.

For a time line on the events, click here (and then click on the red dots or the arrows, it took me a while to figure out).

Over half of the Netherlands population watched Peter de Vries's expose on Joran's confession, which aired last week. Maybe he didn't actually kill her, but surely when your 'friend' goes into convulsions and then lies still, you call 911 - not someone who has access to a boat at the wee-hours of the morning... but hey.

Carnaval

Okay kids... here it is... the weekend post that has now become a midweek post.

Carnaval is an annual celebration in the South Netherlands. It's at the same time of year as the Rio festival and has a similar 'religious' history, except revellers are inclined to wear more clothes (especially as it had been snowing this year).

I've included pictures from my time at Carnaval two years ago, because this year I didn't take a camera with me. Too much responsibility. But you'll get the general gist...

So NF is marrying into family in Valkenswaard (which sounds like it should be translated to Eagle's Fart, but it isn't). Every year, NF's fiancee potters down to Valkenswaard for the four-day Carnaval festivities. I've been there twice, and I've known the family long enough to sort of understand what goes on... but I still don't really know why they do half the things they do. There are themes and costumes and songs, princes and speeches, breakfasts, dinners and parades. And beer. Lots and lots of biertje.

This seems to be the general idea of the Dutch Carnaval: either you wear a precisely-constructed and socially-witty costume; or you dig around in your closet and wear whatever you wouldn't dare wear over the last 30 years, all at once. On the previous occassion that I joined NF, we donned bright wigs, a few feather boas and some mismatched clothing. This year, we were informed - in no uncertain terms - that we were to actually put some thought into our appearance. So, after discussing the fact that we really should plan our lives better, I finally purchased us two matching outfits the day before Carnaval. We were going as Robin Hood(s).

Right. Arriving in Valkenswaard, we were greeted by the fiancees Carnaval club - Het Kozakedeur. Outfit: red trousers [side note: every true Dutch person owns a pair of red trousers. Mills and I have yet to establish the reason behind this], yellow shirt, grey fluffy jacket and hat. NF and I rush to get dressed - put on our Robin Hood outfits and realise just how short the dresses/tops are. Interesting. Outfit consists of long shirt/skirt thing, brown tights, brown boots, brown boat-shaped hat. Plus false eyelashes as an impulse buy on my part.

We decided we were now called Robin Ho's.

Challenge No. 1: putting on false eyelashes. I'm not much of a make up fan and have certainly never donned falsies before. After a few attempts we finally got them right... sort of. Certainly not before:

a) putting them on too high

b) pulling them (and half my real eyelashes) off

c) putting them on skew

d) putting one higher/slantier than the other

e) glueing bottom - REAL - lashes to top eyelid.

With puffy, irritated and watery eyes, the Robin Ho's were finally ready.

Challenge No. 2: cycling into town. Wearing nothing but tights, Robin Ho skirt/shirt and a jacket that does not button down to my knees, cycling into town was a breezy affair. Not helped by the fact that I was having to hold my boat-shaped hat on my head. The koekie's jamjar has never felt so exposed in broad daylight (or any light, for that matter). To be honest, cycling in a short skirt is not an unpopular past time in the Netherlands. Although, godknows it should be. Eventually, I killed two birds with stone - so to speak - by using my hat to cover my decency. Sort of.

Once in town, Carnaval proceeded as I remembered it. Lots of Oompah-oompah type bands and marching songs. Lots of lyrics that go "lalala laaalaaa lalala" (when I was singing along anyway). And a ridiculously constant supply of beers. Anyone who thinks that Amsterdam is a culture shock, should try South Netherlands over Carnaval...

The Robin Ho's were a hit (obviously). What made it more amusing is that NF and I look vaguely alike - in the right light. In a dark pub, wearing the same outfit with matching false eyelashes, we were getting A LOT of double takes. Men are very easily confused. Very.

This weekend was also the only time I have had beer thrown at me by a jealous wife. That definitely was a first. You see, Carnaval is all about mingling and drinking and talking with random people. NF and I were talking to a short, fat Elvis (probably about something as innocuous as sustainable development) when I got hit on the head by a peanut. After some discussion, we realised which direction it had come from. "Oh," said Elvis, as he pointed behind us, "that's my wife." NF and I turned around to see the wife of Elvis literally take a handful of beer and fling it in our faces. I've spent a fair amount of time in pubs. I've never (that I can recall) actually received a deliberate beerful in my face.

Moving on.

I think the best part of Carnaval is really just looking at the fantastic outfits. Like mentioned earlier, a lot of people just seem to wear the ugliest clothes they can find. Others spend most of the year constructing just the right look. Again, this differs from Rio. The idea is not to look sexy. In fact, it seems that the frumpier and kitscher, the more 'carnaval' you are.

Carnaval is a must. If you're ever in the Netherlands at the beginning of Feb, look it up. It's only big in the South Netherlands (Northerners think Carnaval revellers are completely nuts - and with reason), so pay a visit to Eindhoven, Maastricht... or, of course, the little place inbetween called Eagle's Fart.

Blessed neighbours

Last night, after a long weekend at Carnaval, I crashed into bed at about 8:45pm. Tossed and turned a bit from overtiredness but eventually fell asleep. I was woken up about three hours later by my neighbour upstairs throwing something (god know what, but it certainly broke) on the floor (our ceiling) in a fit of rage.

This was complimented by screaming, shouting, stomping and doors slamming. Just your general domestic warfare on a Sunday evening - at midnight. They would settle down, then the woman would pick it up again. I knew that tone. It was the tone of a woman who was going to fight, no matter what or how the man tries to appease her. He would talk. She would shout.

Crash. Stomp. Bang.

After about forty minutes, I decided to personally point out to them that it was now after midnight. I went upstairs and rang the doorbell.

"JA?" came the highly irritable shout from inside. I waited. I sure as fuck wasn't going to shriek my request from the hallway through a closed door. I waited some more.

Eventually the husband came to the door. "JA?" He demanded a second time as if surprised that anybody else would be up at this hour.

"Rustig, alstublieft..." I started to ask. You know, just generally pointing out that we can hear every word of their exchange.

"But we are fighting. So."

That was his exact response. We are fighting, so... don't make your complaints my problem. We are fighting, so... stop interrupting us. We are fighting, so... what are you going to do about it. We are fighting... so fuck off.

I asked him to keep the fighting to a lower decibel level, and possibly the plate-breaking to a minimal. You know, just a consideration. To be fair, they were marginally quieter after that. And I think he silently read my thoughts about drugging her with elephant tranquilisers because eventually they did shut up.

Yes, as my colleagues pointed out this morning, I could've just called the police. But - colour me South African - I think people call on the police far too easily. Police should be called when there is a crime. Not when your neighbours are irritating you. Crazy Dame Olga called the police on us because our door was banging. I shit you not. And as much as there was drama, I don't think there was physical abuse. No one was hitting anyone. There were words and there was stomping. I've lived in a chav estate in London... I know what is sounds like when someone hits someone else in the room above mine. I know what violent domestic fighting sounds like. But that's a whole 'nother story.

Anyway, so I'm grumpy because the wench above our flat was shouting like a banshee until about 2am. So the post about my weekend at Carnaval will have to wait until tomorrow. Or maybe the day after - because Mills and I are hosting guests for dinner tomorrow. I hope Mills is cooking. For their sake.

In the headlines today

I like to think that only in the Netherlands can a newspaper get away with a full page picture from a classic porn film. On the front page, nogal. That's what happened yesterday.

Deep Throat is to be aired on national television. (I also love the fact that 'televisietieten' is an accepted term.) The truth is, that if the church minister had not kicked up a fuss, most of public probably wouldn't have even noticed it was on. Now everybody knows when it's being aired. Including me. Oh, and it will be followed by Spuiten en Slikken. I'm not translating that.

In other news, do sparrows really warrant an article topic? Surely not.

Mills and Koekie go gymming

Mills prepares to cycle on newly-purchased exercise bike. Koekie lays out yoga matt. Mills begins to cycle. Koekie flips and relays yoga matt. Then goes to check supper cooking in the oven. Tasting and smelling good.

Koekie returns to yoga matt and watches TV while scratching left elbow. Tests yoga ball's tension (sits on ball and bounces up and down). Koekie enquires as to how long Mills has been cycling. Twelve minutes, he informs.

Koekie contemplates belly button while continuing to sit on yoga ball. Leans back and then forward again. Repeats six times, only falling off once. Loses interest and goes to check on supper in the oven. Food still tasting and smelling good. Offers Mills a piece of banana-dwarf-bread. Mills continues to peddle furiously and declines.

Koekie returns to yoga matt. Lies across ball, stomach down. Pushes forward and pretends to be a soaring falcon, accompanied by the cry, "eeeeeeeagle!" Mills enquires if this is a legitimate yoga move. Koekie concedes it is not.

Mills finishes his cycle, but not before Koekie loses interest completely.

Supper was good though (besides the uncooked sweet potato slices).

Comfort zones

This weekend, Mills and I got adventurous.
No, not in that way.

He purchased himself a little gym. Exercise bike and ambitious weights, complete with a yoga set (apparently for me). Bear in mind that we live in a two bedroomed flat with open plan kitchen, lounge, dining room... and now: newly acquired gymming facility/obstacle course.

Having set up the bike incorrectly on the first attempt ("oh, the saddle goes that way up..." etc), my darling ginger bearded boyfriend (yes, the goatee persists) got Superman Syndrome. He started with a quick weights workout... which lasted an hour. As I pottered off to play indoor hockey, Mills was about to test his new cycling purchase. I smiled patronisingly, having watched his forehead crinkle in consternation with each bicep curl, and left him to it.

When I got home from hockey, my GBM (ginger beard man) was not happy. He cycled for a bit, then cycled for a bit more and had apparently ended up doing 30km on the exercise bike. On his first attempt. Superman Syndrome. As my mum would say... everything in moderation, dear.

Anywho, back to my little adventure this weekend. I am not a domestic treasure. But I have, on occassion, been known to attempt baking. This weekend, I felt inspired to try my mother's banana bread recipe... again.

This time, instead of muffin tins, I tried a casserole dish. (Note to self: really must think about purchasing a baking tin... and possibly some measuring cups)

I "blended", "whipped", "mashed" and "folded" until my fingers were spasming with repetitive stress syndrome. (Mills had SS, I had RSS.)

I tasted the mixture (always good) and even used the exact ingredients as listed in the recipe (a big no-no in the culinary history of Cooking with Koekie). Except for the flour and baking powder... where I used zelfrijzend bakmeel instead. As good as, I'm sure.

Anyway, maybe the lack of exact measurements did it, or maybe it was the lack of automated blending power, but either way... my banana bread still looks more like a weapon of concussion than a food type.

At least I got it out of the casserole/baking dish in one piece, which is definitely an improvement on last time. Even Mills, bless his goateed chin, conceded that, "it is getting better."

Nevertheless, my baked goods do tend to mimic the physical properties of seabed-dwelling ocean sponges. Left it to its own devices, I'm sure my banana bread would slowly make its way towards the beach at high tide.

I phoned my mom and told her of my kitchen exploits. I even demonstrated its solid consistency by hammering the newly baked product against the chopping board.

*Thunk thunk thud*
Koekie: "Can you hear that? Can you? That's solid."
*Thunkthunk*

Mum: "Yes dear. I can hear it. Put the bread down."
*Thud*

Koekie: "And the bits of banana are purple."
Mum: "How can the banana be purple?"
Koekie: "I don't know. There are definitely purple stringy bits."
Mum: "You are amazing. Did you mash the bananas properly?"
Koekie: "Mom! Of course, I mash.. okay, maybe not as well as I could've."
Mum: "Well, maybe it's just your oven that doesn't bake it properly."
Koekie: "Ja. Maybe. My banana bread also didn't work when I tried to bake it at your place, or when I tried the same recipe in Grahamstown, or at my place in Joburg, and now again in The Hague. But sure... let's blame it on the oven. I'll buy that."

Anyone for some banana/dwarf bread? Very handy in self-defence.

De Lamas

Busy times at work and play - by the time I got home every night this week it was close to midnight, hence the lack of blogging. Sorry, jongens!

On Thursday evening, I joined my hockey team for a theatre performance which was definitely the highlight of my week. De Lamas are the Dutch version of Drew Carey's: Who's Line Is It Anyway - a show I absolutely loved when it was on TV (is it still running?).

So, De Lamas are a group of comedians who tour around the Netherlands doing improvised skits and acts, obviously in Dutch. I was nervous about how much I would actually understand, but I'm a trooper and the whole team was going so I forked out the cash for a ticket. I don't regret it - three hours of nonstop hysterics.. they are a damn amusing bunch.

After a year of being in the Netherlands, I could understand most of it and at least had an idea of most of the celebrities and places they mentioned (you know, the mocking equivalents to Springs, Pofadder and Patricia Lewis).

I tried to embed a video of De Lamas, to give a taste of the entertainment, but I can't get the code right, so you'll just have to watch it here. This is a game called "Ik wil graag zie..." (I would like to see..._), where they act out bizarre topics. In this clip: bedrijfsongeval in die dieretuin, Maxime die vreemd gaat, Willem-Alexander die vreemd gaat. Loosely translated - Working accidents in the zoo, Maxime (the royal princess) acting strange, Willem-Alexander (crown prince) acting strange.

I thoroughly enjoyed the act on Thursday and I think my team were quietly proud - and surprised - at most of my comprehension. I'm quite proud of it too, even if I can't speak the damn language confidently. Yet.

In other news, the sun came out today, which was a pleasant surprise. And we're heading into tulip season again. Fantasties!

His milkshake brings all the boys to the yard

My two idiot colleagues (FB and Duckface) keep me amused with their bickering. They've known each other for years and they have that 'special' relationship that two guys develop after spending far too much time in each other's singular company.

Anyway, today's highlight was their argument over milkshakes and flavoured milk. The conversation theme ran throughout the entire day -after Duckface offered FB some of his "milkshake" (read: flavoured milk).

FB: That's not milkshake. If you pour it out of a carton, it's flavoured milk.
Duckface: Flavoured milk is the same as a milkshake.
FB: There's flavoured milk, and there's milkshake. Big difference. Huge.
Duckface: Any milk with flavour is a milkshake.
FB: You cannot be serious. That's like saying a tram and a train are the same thing because they both run on rails.
Duckface: Whatever, gimp.

Colleagues pretend to work for 20minutes.

FB: So what do you call that thick icecreamy stuff you get from MacDonalds?
Duckface: That's a milkshake.
FB: Exactly! And it's not the same as this.
Duckface: It's flavoured, it's a milkshake. Where I come from [Scottish Highlands], you add icecream, it's called "Milkshake with a floater".

[I am not making this shit up]

Me: You're kidding, right? When have you ever seen a menu that advertises 'floater' anything?
Duckface: The icecream is the floater.
FB: Do you even know what a floater is?
Duckface: It's icecream in a milk...shake.
FB: Just admit that this is not a milkshake.
Duckface: Shut up, gimp.

[contemplative typing]

Me: I can't find anything on google about floater milkshakes. Ergo, it does not exist.
FB: That's because milkshake equals milk plus icecream.
Duckface: I don't care. I'll take you to Scotland and prove that when you order a milkshake you'll get anything from flavoured milk to drinking icecream.
Me: Anyone who tries to serve me flavoured milk under the guise of a milkshake will get treated to a royal hissy fit.*
Duckface: I can believe that, Princess.
Me: You don't have to advertise that a milkshake has icecream. It's not an added nicety. It's a necessity. It's like here, where they try to serve warm milk as hot chocolate. Not The Same Thing.
FB: Just admit this isn't a milkshake.
Duckface: Do you mind? I'm trying to work here.
FB: Not a milkshake.
Duckface: Train, tram.

And so it continued. Every colleague who came past our desk was asked to define the two dairy products. Most looked confused. While he was in a meeting, Duckface's desktop was plastered with pictures, recipes and definitions of real, echte milkshakes.

Appraisals are coming up next week. I'm sure we'll be more focused by then.

*Mills reckons that royal hissy fit should not be seen as a measure of quality, as (apparently) princess tantrums tend to happen fairly often. I disagree, but I'll let him have his opinion. For now.

RLD

They're talking about cleaning up the Dam's Red Light District. Personally, I think I'll get over it. Life sex shows are boring. Well, certainly the ones in Amsterdam. I've heard different things about the Bangkok specialities.

Banana Bar is more interesting. You see, it's a bar... well, a counter. And the ladies serve drinks while standing on the counter, naked or close as. So I've heard. I've also heard of objects being 'projectiled' across the bar. ("Look, no hands!")

Holland/Amsterdam is known for the liberal approach to sins. Sex shops, sex shows, Coffee Shops (the weed, bru)... all available quite literally, liberally. Yet what I find mildly confusing is that when you go to the local chemist, you still have to ask for the elusive pack of condoms behind the counter. How 'Old South Africa' is that?

"Um sorry, where are the condoms?"

Attendent sullenly indicates over (inevitably) his shoulder.

"Okay, may I please have a box of the... uh... the pleasure max I think it's called... uh... no, not the blue box, um, no... if I could just have a closer look to read the labels... ummm...
...you know what, actually I'll just pop along to the red light district, where I can leisurely peruse my options, and probably get a free weed sucker with my purchase."

I don't think I really have a point here - other than it's bloody ridiculous that I have to ask for condoms in the Netherlands. Onbelachelijk, toch?

Beginner boarding

Mills and I are joining friends and family for our first ski holiday this year. So far we've learnt the very expensive lesson of booking our flight before checking transfer times from the airport to the resort (transfers only happen once a week). We tried to change/cancel/upgrade our flights, but KLM is hanging onto our money like a fat kid clutching the last cookie at the party. They have kindly offered to refund the airport taxes on our 600-euro tickets. Whoopty-fucking-doo. I can as good as see the money smeared around the airline's piehole, like chocolate icing on the forementioned fatty's face.

So, we can't get our money back - and our options are:

a) book accommodation overnight (thereby paying double as we've already paid for our first night accommodation at the ski lodge) and:
i) rent a car and drive through unfamiliar roads, on the wrong side of the road, in snow. Bear in mind that we can't drive through our childhood roads of Joburg without at least one of us losing the plot. Extra costs include SatNav.
ii) take the public transport from Venice to somewhere close to the ski lodge. From there, take a taxi. Arrive at ski lodge almost 24 hours after landing at Venice.

b) cancel flights with KLM, take our 50-euro consolation tax refund. KLM keeps our money, and gets to resell our seats. Pay 630-euros (each) for earlier flights on KLM. Smile sweetly at KLM while bending forward and take it...

c) don't cancel flights with fat bastards. Potentially inconvenience all the other passengers on the flight in order to ensure that KLM cannot resell our tickets. Book the cheapest alternative flight in order to make the once-off transfer to the ski lodge.

Each option expensive. We went for option C, mostly because it offered the quickest solution. I am not enthralled with KLM. Have I mentioned that enough? KLM. Fat smelly money-grabbing bastards.

Right, on with the ski holiday preparations... Last night, Mills and I had the opportunity to test our snowboarding skills on the indoor slope in Zoetemeer. For those of you who'll be hitting the bunny slopes with us in Feb, we are not cheating! These are not extra lessons. The fact that we struggled to get our feet into the boots, coupled with the fact that I tried to exchange my board "because it was too small", only to be told that I was trying to put my feet in back to front, should demonstrate that Mills and I need a headstart just to break even with the special needs class.

I've had opportunity to try skiing and boarding once before - very briefly - on the aptly named Snowy Mountains. I didn't enjoy the skiing. I could not get my legs to go in the same direction and once I was down, I couldn't get up without assistance. This was of particular embarrassment when I landed directly underneath the ski lifts and had to lie there with my bum in cramp until my brother came to my rescue. Boarding is a much better option for me, I only need to pick one direction (generally down) and I can flop like a fish out of water in order to manoeuvre myself up. My snowboarding attempt last night was relatively successful, largely because I never built up enough speed to do any damage.

Mills, on the other hand, was far more adventurous. He'd get to his feet, lean low and gun it down the hill. It was very impressive... right up to the point when he needed to stop, which is round about when he would fling himself headfirst to the ground, taking the unique approach of using his face as a braking mechanism. His beard looked very cute all icicled up.

We only lasted for an hour on the slope. I'm not sure how we're going to cope with this as an all-day excursion. What we have learnt from our adventure is that beginner snowboarding should not be attempted in demin jeans. My ass has never been so wet, so cold, so aching and so completely numb (yes, all at once) in my life.

Next stop... ski cloth shopping. More costs to be incurred.

Teething troubles

This is a headline running through an English news website (dutchnews.nl), with the following report:

Almost half of dentists think it is too difficult to fill holes in young children's milk teeth, according to health insurance council figures. Only 17% of the cavities in the teeth of five-year-olds are filled, partly because young children are too nervous during treatment.

Is it normal for five-year-olds to already have cavities in their milk teeth? What are they doing eating sugar and sweets? Shouldn't they be fed on nothing but mouldy bread and tepid water, under the staircase, until they're old enough to vote?

I have to find a taandarts. I've been going to the same dentist since the days when I was first fed mouldy bread and tepid water under the staircase*. Finding a new (Dutch) dentist literally scares the bejesus out of me. I've been putting it off for months. The hole in my tooth isn't getting any smaller...

Say it with me, "open wide".

AAAAAAAH!

*Disclaimer: this statement is not true - we never had a staircase.

Lost in translation

In search of mind-numbing viewing, I flipped from Girls of the Playboy Mansion (always amusing) to MTV... where Joss Stone was introducing her friend who breeds dogs. The Dutch subtitles translated her sentence thusly:

"Zij fokt honden."

For those of you who can't read Nederlands, just use your imagination. No matter how many times I see a similar translation, it amuses me. It's right up there with "douche" (shower) and "kont" (butt). It slays me.

My Ginger Beard Man

Every time my boyfriend and I share a moment of joint soppiness, he has to purse his lips out as far as possible and I wince my lips in anticipation. This is because Mills has grown some semblance of a beard over the festive season. He absentmindedly strokes it when he's concentrating - like a father, proud of what his testosterone has produced.

I'm not such a fan of pash-rash. I don't like the erratic spikes that attack my face every time he gets within smelling distance (this is why he has to purse his lips - in order to keep his chin hairs from touching me, if he wants any physical contact). And it's orange. He is aware of my objections, and he's okay with it.

I suppose it could be worse. At least he grooms it, chiselling and sculpting bits into some sort of shape. I tolerate it for now... but if this facial cultivation continues, I may have to enforce a full love embargo. I'm just not a fan of facial hair - well, not on someone I have to share personal space with anyway.

Still, you never know - it might just grow on me. Not literally, of course.
Although... people pay good money for freak shows. Is ginger-vitis contagious?

Koekie's Travels

I got to the airport fully aware of the fact that I was overweight in baggage. Despite specific instructions otherwise, Mills was also three kilos too heavy. I dragged my suitcase onto the scale and feigned indignant ignorance. "Twenty three point seven? Nevah!"

KLM didn't buy it.

Dragged luggage back to my parents, with my mother muttering something about how putting my brother on a plane was always much easier. Unpacked approximately two kilos into hand luggage, handed mother a further two kilos out of hand luggage (to be put back after weighing). Picked up bag... put bag down. Picked up everything thrown out of bag. Closed zip, THEN picked up bag. Trundled back to the scale, flirted unashamedly with male attendant. Weight: 21,2 kg. Put hands together under chin and fluttered my eyes (yes, I really really did that). Got the okay.

Mills took a different approach by donning two extra shirts, another jersey and any headgear he could find. Although I think the male flight attendant would have been equally (or more) receptive to the flirting approach...

[I've said it before, and I'll say it again - if it's a matter of weight on the plane, why can I take the same two (extra kilos) on as hand luggage? Why can Mills take the same two (extra) kilos on if he's wearing them, but not if they're in his suitcase?]

Anywho. Baggage was clingwrapped and checked in. We decided to grab a bite to eat with my folks as our flight was only leaving at 23:40 (yes the same KLM flight which had earlier had to turn back due to engine failure).

There's a new restaurant called Wandies at the International Departures. It's a buffet restaurant serving typically 'African' food (read: fatty meat, oily chicken, stodgy pap and grey mixed veggies) - for R80 a plate. No, thank you. They opened this week and I'll be interested to know whether this turns a profit. Generally, when I'm at the International Departures, I want to grab a quick bite, not a full meal - and would also appreciate some choice of food. Not a fatty plate load of starch and meat, with toddlers running rampant around the table. Okay, maybe it was just the screaming children that put me off... but still R80 is a lot of money for what I remember as a dodgy meal in the Rhodes dining halls. So we had one drink and Mills and I departed through passport control... where I paid R50 for a sandwich and one orange juice. Captive market sucks.

Wondered around departures until all the duty free shops closed, but not before getting stuck behind a family of - very, incredibly, dynamically smelly - Spanish tourists at a check-out till. The first guy paid over R1300 for god knows what. The second lady bought 12 tins of duck liver pate (yes, I counted them) and the third guy bought 8 cartons of cigarettes plus 4 bottles of some sort of alcohol. I realise duty free shops can be bargain-bargain... maar een beetje overdreven, niet waar?

Dashed through to the gate when announcement signs said we were boarding - to find that the gate wasn't even open yet. Got through the gate to find that the plane doors weren't open yet. Got bowled over by granny being pushed in a wheelchair, because they had apparently forgotten to load the disabled and decrepit beforehand.

Got on plane to find decrepit granny sitting in our row. Made granny stand up so that we could sit down. Established that the nearest TV was situated 3km down the aisle from our row. Spotted the three toddlers in the row behind us. Popped a few preemptive rescue pills and painkillers and settled in for the long haul.

No sleep and two watery meals later, we landed in Schiphol. I managed to get stuck in the All Passports queue behind a Middle Eastern who couldn't speak English, an African with visa issues and an Asian whose passport got confiscated; while Mills sailed through the EU Passport queue and taunted me from the other side with some sort of monkey celebration dance.

Recovered my bag from the conveyor belt, distressed to find that it had been squashed to the width of a flat screen TV, much to the amusement of my co-traveller. Made our weary way home on a packed train. We were in bed by 5:45. PM.

Got to work at 8:15 this morning, forgetting that no one would be in before 8:30. I love waiting in the cold wind for colleagues. It's good to be home.

Watching louries (sorry Grey African Birds) outside my window...

Blue skies, gentle breeze... another tough day in Africa. And I'm inside packing. And repacking. I told my tannie this morning that I see a gap in the market for Packing Coaching. I need someone to tell me how minimalise my packing. I cause myself such stress... my baggage already weighs 20kg and I haven't even included my toilettries. AND I've even cut down on my shoes (only 8 pairs, I left half of them here. Again.) AND I didn't even buy any new shoes today when mom and I were wistfully strolling up and down the isles at Shoe City (bargain, bargain, bargain).

Just to make my flight more comfortable, I paid a quick visit to our family dermatologist. Mumsy darling recently had a melanoma scare and is now on the rampage in the war against skin cancer, so I had to get checked before I left and today was the only day available. It's always a delight having your body scrutinised to the nth degree... the doctor (who looked about 15, when did doctors get so young?) even had a little zappy camera thing which took photos of every blemish/scar/pockmark on my skin. Trust me, you never want to see a mole that close - especially when you know it's happily manifesting itself on your left shoulder. That said, skin cancer sounds frivolous but it is a killer - and a quick one at that. Get your molie-molie-molie-moles checked - regularly!

Right, public service announcement done for the day.

I better get back to packing (and give my father back his computer... he's pacing behind me like a restless bear). Time to get home to the rain, wind and bikes!

Lists - but no resolutions... yet

My time in SA is drawing to a close. While on holiday, I was going to:

• blog
• catch up on my Dutch lessons
• taunt friends overseas (via facebook) about the weather
• exercise
• play golf, tennis, not pig out etc etc

I managed one thing on this list, and only just. And I'm doing it now.

I can't believe how quickly it's all gone. Mills and I will be back on a plane on Tuesday evening. Yuck. I must admit, I am starting to feel a vague need to get 'home', although I'm definitely not looking forward to the weather again... 4 degrees and raining. I just checked.

Being back in SA has made me realise that I have so little content to write about in the Netherlands. Have I become complacent in my first-world environment? Sure, I moan about the weather and having to slum it on public transport (hardly), but I've realised that I feel so much more passionately about issues in SA, such as:

• Bank charges. What can we do about bank charges, is South Africa one of the only countries to charge so exhorbitantly?
• Road rage. I haven't even been driving and I suffered from it. I want to punch the (sorry for people with internet censors) fucking arseholes, who are so special that a string of solid one-lane traffic on the road back from Bloem can be leapfrogged by 10, 13, however many cars at a time... forcing oncoming traffic to drive in the verge so that these fat sphincters can push in whenever it suits them. Of course, by pushing back into the queue further on, everybody else has to slam on their brakes behind them. Even if an accident occurs from this, the overgrown anus drives on unaffected. These people irritate me.
• Drunk driving. It seems to be something that only foreigners and returning expats are aware of. Drunk driving is still very much an accepted phenomenon in South African culture. I realise this is a huge generalisation - but when we stopped at a Engen One Stop, in the middle of nowhere, how can the guys behind us justify buying Hunters Dry? You are clearly going back on the road, in heavy holiday traffic, as there is no where else to go. The weather is stormy (lightning and hail) and it's almost twilight. Are those Hunters Dry really necessary, or are you just topping up your alcohol/blood stream after the festive season?
• Banning u-16 PDA. Public Display of Affection for under-16s. Obsene and disgusting, yes. Keep the saliva swopping to the school discos where I can't see it. But is this seriously a legality that has to be tackled? How about focussing on the number of people breaking already existing laws, instead of adding new - possibly unenforcable - laws for issues which should be tackled by communities, schools and (here's a thought) parents.

On a more positive note:

• Aids Awareness. Plenty of TV ads and publicity campaigns. People are trying to educate and lose the stigma of HIV and Aids, despite our leaders' best efforts. This makes me proud.
• Bus stops. Seems like a stupid observation, but I've noticed more (and new) bus stops dotted around Jozi, as well as in some rural - slowly developing - parts of Eastern Cape. It's nice to see where at least some of the tax money goes.
• Traffic police and cops. On the way home from the coast, they were very visible. Parked under trees on the side of the road, random road blocks here and there in residential areas. Maybe not completely effective, but it's a good first step.

All things that I would love to blog about... but not now. Not while I'm soaking up the last rays of warmth and sun (inbetween splots of rain). I'll think about New Years resolutions, when I'm done with turning my brain into mushy holiday slush.

Weather - again

The Netherlands is truly beautiful - when the wind's not blowing and the rain's not bucketing... I'm almost sad to leave it at this stage. With temperatures not rising much above zero, the still tree branches look like they've been sugar-dusted and the smaller canals are almost completely frozen. It's quite surreal - I'm used to seeing frost, but it generally melts off by 10am. The tree icicles last all day. I find the whiteness mesmorising.

But I'm not appreciating it as much as I feel I should... that's largely because tonight I'm too busy trying to squash 43kg worth of shoes, clothes and jewelry (but mostly shoes) into 20kg worth of baggage allowance. One day I'm going to get this right. One day, but probably not today.

Mills and I leave our winter wonderland and fly home for summer and sunshine tomorrow. Yes, I've heard it's been doing nothing but raining in SA at the moment. It is dampening - to say the least. But as long as the temps are over 25+, I'll be happy.

The Office

It's frikken minus-1 outside. Literally. It warmed up nicely during the day though, I think we almost hit 2+. Fortunately, I got to work nice and early, to discover that there was no one to let me into the office... for the next half an hour. Which gave me plenty of time to appreciate just how pretty all the cars look with an inch of frost on them. By the time my first work mate arrived, I was sure I had frostbite in my toes and on my nose. Friggen hell.

Anywho. This weekend was the work office party. I've really been so lucky with my new employment. They dig me, even though I never had commercial experience and I tend to knock things over. Often. We all socialise easily and have fun in the office, which really makes such a difference to a work environment (thank you, Captain Obvious).

Despite the awesome sociable colleagues, the Xmas work party was still like any Xmas work party ever scripted by Ricky Gervais. Initially everyone clusters in small groups, sticking to their group/comfort zone. Awkwardness. The hired singer tries to get the dancefloor going with a remix of Tina's Simply the Best, which only manages to interest the not-so-undercover gay guy and a few of his fag hags. Relentlessly, the champagne flows; the inhibitions loosen. Before you know it, the dance floor is warmed up and your boss is accidently kicking his shoe off, connecting directly with your team mate's head. You know how it goes.

I had an awesome time lang-arming with a newly acquainted colleague from Potch. Not that I have any clue how to lang-arm, but as long as he's leading and throwing a few twirls and dips, I'm game. We even treated the office to our (now choreographed) dance of The Rockstar (grab right ankle and hop in a circle on one foot, while pointing at the ceiling with free hand), followed by The Sprinkler (right hand behind head, left arm out straight, bring elbows together in time to the beat). Sometimes I make Mills so proud, he cries a little.

It's always good to give colleagues a little something to talk about the next week. Although, our dance routine was easily out-shadowed by the fact that our *ahem* Executive Recruiter was later thrown out of the ladies' bathrooms for attempting indecent dodginess with his missus. That's sure to get the tongues wagging around the water cooler.

Eau de toilette

I went to the toilet today, for a wee.
The end.


No, not really. That's just the beginning. So, there I was, sitting... as one does... when I noticed a small nondescript box under the basin. I've never seen the box before so, being catlike in nature, I picked it up. It was heavy, and floral and pink. I flipped it upside down (remember, still sitting on the loo) to investigate further. Turns out it was liquid soap - and it was open.

Unfortunately, I only realised this after I had released a few gallons of hand soap directly into the crotch of my pants. Not a problem - I'll just wipe it out with wet toilet paper. Undiluted soap + water... you can see this going wrong, can't you? I didn't.

Not only was my crotch reeking of lavender, now it was also looking rabid and foaming to boot.

I figured my two options were: remove pants entirely and rinse. Or attempt to wipe area dry with paper towels and deal with it later. I went for the latter. Reeking of toilettey freshness, I eventually made a beeline for my desk and remained there until it was time to put on my overcoat.

I think I just brought a whole new level to the term, feminine hygiene.

Who the hell moved Zimbabwe?

Facebook is addictive, but for the most part I've managed to avoid making my profile page look like a cancer-riddled colon with ridiculous amounts of application additions.

But I have added the Travellor IQ quiz. This is especially handy because the evenings are dark and cold and our TV is broken. I'm actually pretty proud of my geographical knowledge - and my North American knowledge turns out to be quite sharp too, which was pleasantly surprising. I can safely pinpoint Boston, Dallas, San Francisco, New York and Calgary (okay, that was a lucky guess).

Closer to home, I had a slight problem with differentiating between Botswana and Zimbabwe. For some reason, I have decided that our neighbouring countries go (from left to right): Namibia, Zimbabwe, Botswana and Mozambique. I KNOW where the Vic Falls are. And yet I still clicked on Botswana every time I was asked to point out Zim. Own up... who switched them? Personally, I blame Mugabe - but I have nothing to back up that accusation.

There are also more specific quizzes. I tested my knowledge on both Europe and Africa. I particularly liked the bit where they ask you to pinpoint historical monuments in each continent. In Europe, the monuments are listed by name and country. Ie. "Buckingham Palace, England".

In Africa, the only clue you get is the historical name. Ie. "Carlton Tower" and (I shit you not), "Independence Monument".

Please pick one random Independence Monument in Africa. What's that? They ALL have independence monuments? No.. no, but this is THE independence monument...

A quick google search for Independence Monument and Africa shows that the answer could be Ghana, Uganda, Mali, Cambodia (just to throw another option in there), Tanzania, Zambia...
which frekkin country do you have in mind, you geographical twits! They might as well ask us to pick a number between one and fourty two.

Besides this random discriminatory annoyance, I shmaak this application. I can also test my flag knowledge (which is very, very kak).

Would you recognise the national flag for Latvia?

What's the point?

Shewwie... what a can of worms religion spews forth. What is it about religion(s) that gets the blood boiling? Why can't we all just shrug and say, "I don't buy it, but if that's what you believe that's cool." Why do we have to make other people accept our distorted truths?

Yes, distorted. There is always more than one truth. That's my belief anyway. Now you'd better accept it, else I'm going to stomp and shout and scream until you admit that my truth is more righteous than yours.

I've only really been exposed to one religion in my life - Christianity. It was never forced on me, my parents were very adamant about that. If I chose to go to church, I could go to church. If I'd decided to become a buddhist, I think they would've been okay with that to (but I didn't, because Tibet was too far away and apparently there's that vow of silence thing, although shaving off my frizzy hair would've definitely been appealing). Anywho, so I learnt about Christianity and made what I think is an informed choice by naming it my faith.

This is where it gets complicated. You see, I believe in God. I believe in heaven and hell. I also absolutely accept evolution. And I blaspheme on a fairly regular basis. My soul is a seething pit of contradiction.

I don't think that the Bible is THE word. I think it is alegory, fables, street performance on paper - all rolled into one. A whole of lot of stories, ala broken telephone, through the ages. And it makes a good read. I don't believe the universe was created in seven days (although I know people who do wholly/holy prescribe to this - that's a bit silly, but hey); I don't believe that Jacob and his kin lived for centuries.

I don't think that people who don't believe in MY god are going to hell. From what I've been told, MY god is not a vengeful god. He is a personal god. I know 'good Christian' people, 'good' people and 'Christian' people. There is a difference between each. I reckon that when we get to the end (of what?), it'll be up to JC to decide who deserves to be partying behind the pearly gates. Not me - or anyone else in this lifetime.

I may have mentioned my unhealthy passion for Terry Pratchett. In his Discworld all religions are valid: whatever a particular individual buys into is what he receives in the afterlife. If someone believes they'll go to heaven, they do. If they believe in nothing, they drift along in blissful nihility. If they believe we all turn into potatoes on snuffing it, they reincarnate into a happy little spud. Why can't we all just get along?

It matters not how much we argue for our beliefs now, we're not likely to come to a conclusion in this day and age, are we? Sure, at Armageddon, it may all become clear. We may have a few embarrassed, "sorry for calling you and your belief the festering wound of civilisation" apologies. We may all shake hands and have a group hug. Or not.

Maybe we'll never know. Why argue? Right now, I'm going to put on a good tune and try to convince my heathen boyfriend to dance like no one's watching. No point to that either really, but at least it'll make me laugh.

Sinter Klaasje

Happy Sinterklaas allemaal!

Tonight is the evening of real festivities - Sint and his Pieten have been working hard to ensure that everybody gets a chocolate letter (I got four chocolate letters, because Mills informed Sinter Klaas that lots of chocolate makes the overcast Koekiemonster very happy).*

Everybody gets their naughty-or-nice presents this evening and we can finally stop being asked, "voor sinter klaas?" every time we try to pay for something at the shops. There is also a tradition of writing a naughty/mocking poem or riddle about the gift receiver. Fortunately, for the less creative, one can simply refer to the Gedicht Generating websites.

Insert name and present and run with it:

Pieter m'n knecht keek door de schoorsteen

En wist Koekies wensen meteen

Weet je wat Koekie in het schoentje vindt?

Een dildo met de groeten van Sint

Dit cadeau uit de zak van Zwarte Piet

Is iets waarvan Koekie heel veel geniet

Voor iemand die alles al heeft

Is het vinden van cadeaus iets waar zelfs Sint van beeft

Bij dit geschenk wil Sint nog even kwijt

Dat je voortaan heel voorzichtig rijdt

Ook al is de Sint heel erg oud

Hij hoopt maar dat dit cadeau hem niet berouwt

De heerlijke avond is bijna voorbij

Sint moet weer verder bij het kerend getij

Bedwing nog heel even je ongeduld

Wees dan maar blij en denk niet aan je schuld

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

*Seriously - it's chocolate moulded into the shape of a letter. It's as simple as that. I got four K's.

Whether the weather...

It's that time of year.
I've been through this before.

The rage.
The frustration.

The Weather.


I gnaw on my lip on the ride into work, dreaming of how I want to throttle people for sitting close to me. Sniffing. Coughing. Talking on the phone. The all-time favourite... spitting. I want to push people in front of oncoming buses.

I actively fantasise about headbutting colleagues when they repeatedly share bad jokes. I got the punchline the first time. I gave you a gratuitous guffaw. Can we please move on now? I would also settle for grabbing them by the shoulders and screaming directly into their confused faces like a feral degenerate.



It's dark when I get up, it's dark when I come home. The sun doesn't come out in between - and if it does, it's only to dash behind the next cloud like a self-conscious streaker. When it's not lashing down with rain, then it's drizzling a thin mist of precipitation - just enough to settle on you eyebrows and frizz the hair.

Small things irritate me. More than usual.

A colleague who moans about his work load when he has just as much work as the rest of us, irritates me. Bad emails irritate me. Sow does not equal sew. Their and there are not interchangeable. The space bar is not an option to be used like a thumbtack in pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. People who've bought Christmas presents, irritate me.

Unhelpful customer service...

Me: "I need to book an appointment please."
CSR: "We don't do that here any more."
Me: "Oh? Since when?"
CSR: "Since yesterday."
Me: "Awesome. Who should I be speaking to then?"
CSR: "I don't know."
Me: "So they've changed the system and offered you no forwarding information."
CSR: "Yes. Anything else I can help you with?"
Me: "I think you've done enough for one day. Why don't you have a lie down."

...irritates me.

I'm not depressed, per se. Actually, I'm very happy (irritably happy). I like where we live, I like who we socialise with, I love my job and - aggresive fantasies aside - my colleagues. But I could really do with some Sunshine D - au naturel. Plus the TV's not working.

Okay, maybe this is all een beetje overdreven, but thinking about my upcoming time in South Africa consumes me. I'm already wondering how I'm going to deal with the weather when I get back after three weeks of heat and traces of sun.

8 random things you wished you didn't know about me

A tad late after being tagged, but the TV is kapot and football was cancelled (but not before cycling to the pitch in RAINRAINRAINFEKKINGRAIN), so here we go:

1. A quote from my book of the moment: "Leonard's incredible brain sizzled away alarmingly, an overloaded chip pan on the Stove of Life." - Terry Prachett, Jingo.
2. I have been told that I look like Sigourney Weaver - more than once, by completely unrelated people. They generally mention it when I'm in a foul mood. I reckon its the pinched mouth that sells it.
3. I neglect my one remaining goldfish. Sucks to be Deaky.
4. I talk to myself. In Dutch.
5. I was reciting nursery rhymes by the time I was two. My parents thought I was a child genius. I soon learnt them wrong.
6. I have been known to swear like a hardened sailor brandishing his Tourettes talents like a weapon. (oooh... double simile. I impress me.)
7. My boss introduces me as follows, "this is Koekie. She breaks things."
8. I'm really thinking hard about actually getting around to that Christmas shopping list.

Pardon my Dutch

While trying to defrost my bones in the shower this afternoon, I was thinking about the worst weather conditions I've ever played hockey in... Sleet? Check. Wind? Check. Frozen pitches? Check. Not all at the same time though.

Today, we played in driving rain with bowl-you-over gusts of wind. And a maximum of 5 degrees C.

Kutweer. Pardon my Dutch.

The rain was unbelievable. We only played half a match (which felt like eternity) because eventually the match officials decided that the pitch was too water-logged. You don't say - we'd been gamely splashing around for 35 minutes, trying to play a ball which is not known for its floatation properties.

The events leading up to the game were entertaining - we got lost on our drive to the hosting club and decided to ask a passing police car for assistance. We arrived at the club via police escort.

We piled into the changing room, only to find ourselves locked inside. Tugging hard on the door handle simply pulled the knob out of its socket. Considering the weather outside, none of us were particularly keen on leaving the changing room anyway. Unfortunately somebody rescued us so we had to make a pretense of playing.

The shower when I got home was orgasmic. I can almost feel my toes again.

I curled up on the couch to watch some classic E! Network entertainment. Just as I was about to discover whether Lindsay Lohan's boobs were real or fake, our TV very quietly and sedately fizzled out. Mills is blaming me for breaking the TV.

The wind is howling, I'm finally warm and dry.
I have no TV. I'm going to bed now.
Bring on Christmas in SA. I need sun.

ps. By some miracle, Mills and I both passed our fluitencursus.

Still kicking

... just in case you were wondering.

Mills and I have to do our fluitencursuseksamens this evening. Every hockey club member in the NL is required to pass the umpiring exam. I think it's a good idea, cos that way you have no excuse to not pull your umpiring weight (a task that everybody hates doing). Studying the FIH rules again is a pain in the arse - not least aided by the fact that all the course material (including test exams) is in Dutch.

Me thinks we are slightly unprepared.

Small things

You know what they say about small things...

• My musical toothbrush. Whoever thought of putting Queen to dental hygiene... genius.
• Over the last few days of nullifying TV viewing, I've seen expert witness from a Jeff Mountain, of the New Zealand Institute of Geology; and another from Mark Childs, arguing for more local children's programming in Britain. Nominative determination always makes me laugh.
• There was also the scintillating interview with Britain's Bingo Caller of the Year. Apparently selected for his outstanding personality - which does not translate well on TV. I've seen brickwalls change facial expression with more enthusiasm. Still, amusing for the content.

I've also learnt that creme fraiche is not the same thing as cooking cream. Similar to the lesson learnt that waxpaper is not the same as Gladwrap (although the latter incident resulted in a screaming fire alarm and a severely charred butternut).

Back to work tomorrow, I can't handle any more day time BBC interviews.

Bored

I've spent the last few days coughing and spluttering like an emphasemic old-age home... The Common Cold. What a delight.

On Friday evening, I was going to a warehouse factory sale. Hot fashion clothes at ridiculously low prices. Saturday I was going to get the Christmas shopping done - I'd even made a list and everything.

Of course, directly related to Murphy's Law - my body collapsed on me (not least aided by the fact that my colleague was meant to give me a lift into work, he overslept and I wasted half an hour waiting in the rain). The post-nasal drip led to a stomach bug, on top of all the snotting, coughing and sneezing. So hot.

Anyway, so the factory warehouse sale with ridiculously cheap clothing didn't happen. Neither did the Xmas shopping. I'm also most annoyed that I managed to get sick over the weekend - who would want to get sick and stay off work? Not that I'm bitter or anything.

Fortunately, I have my collection of Terry Pratchett books to get me through the boredom. I'm slightly obsessive about this. Every time I go through an airport terminal, I compulsively buy a Terry Prachett book if I can find one (or more). Even if I'm already reading a good book - I still buy more TP. In a bookshop, Mills will turn his back on me for thirty seconds and return to find me grinning madly, clutching three new books in a packet. I just can't help it.

And these are most likely books that I've read before. And I'll read them again. And again. I can't get enough of Terry Pratchett's Discworld. I can't explain it so I'm going to stop trying.

I may have overdosed on them in the last day though - when I needed a break from the antics of Sir Samuel Vimes, Granny Weatherwax and Rincewind, I tried to stare down Deaky in a battle of non-productivity levels. I was outfoxed by the fish, every time.

The height of boredom - attempting to interact with a goldfish.

Three days

Sunday: Got hit with a hockey ball in the face. Fortunately it just glanced off my cheekbone - the black eye could've been a lot worse. Same hockey game - ball popped up in the air, I lost sight of it. While I was turning in a circle, wailing "I don't know where the fek it is!", it made itself known by bouncing off the top of my head. Fortunately, my hair is thick enough to take on mattress properties. Most objects simply deflect in a new direction with me unharmed.

Monday: while leaning over our staircase to drop keys down to my boyfriend, my slippered feet did what they do best, and I slipp(er)ed down a couple of concrete steps. Fortunately, the railing that I was already leaning against broke my fall - mostly by slamming itself against my knee and elbow - hard.

Tuesday: on my way to work, I popped a lozenge in my mouth. One suck, two suck... whoops... swallowed. A chunky anti-flu sweet does not slide down the esophagus with ease. It also does not sit well with the digestive tract. I was burping fumes of minty freshness (and other active ingredients) for the rest of the day. Not comfortable.

Wednesday: the black eye is itchy and irritable. At least my colleagues find it amusing.

Festive Season

This weekend, Mills and I went to see Sinter Klaas arriving in The Hague. Before you jump to conclusions, Sinter Klaas is NOT this guy:

Sinter Klaas was Saint Nicholas, who originated from Turkey, or Spain, or Morocco, or something. His birthday is celebrated on 5th December every year, and he arrives by steamboat to every town in the Netherlands about three weeks beforehand. Every night from his arrival until the first week of December, children leave their shoes out to receive "snoepje" (candy/sweets) the next morning... probably tasting mildly of stale socks.

Anywho, so we cycled uphill to get to Scheveningensehaven (say that ten times fast - even just once or twice. I dare you) to watch Sinter Klaas arriving on his steamboat. Unfortunately, the head-on wind slowed our progress down, so we missed the actual arrival and only caught one glimpse of the Sint before we had to elbow our way through the throngs of eager parents and bright-eyed little people (mostly dressed as Zwarte Piet).

Sinter Klaas arrives on his boat... with his black man servants (generally white men dipped in shoe polish). Tons of Zwarte Pieten accompany the single Sinter Klaas on a parade through the streets of each town. Kids dress up to look like Sinter or Zwarte. Most mimic the latter - probably because it means painting yourself like a licorice stick. Good, bad, hmm... certainly controversial.

There are songs, and balloons and sweets and lots of waving of arms and singing along to kids songs - similar to Christmas carols, but more interactive. Quite an atmosphere. Not sure if it's something for non-parents to do, but at least I can say I've been in the middle of it. Literally.

Word of warning: do not get between a new mom and Sinter Klaas. It's like trying to face down a traumatised rhino. Next time I do something like that, I'm taking along an empty pram to give me more weight in the scrum.

Sinter Klaas is NOT Santa Clause. Dutch kids know about Christmas, know about Santa Clause - and know he's not real. Sinter Klaas, however, is. It's a huge build up.

The final evening - 5th December - sees friends and family getting together to exchange gifts, accompanied by entertaining/sarcastic/bitingly honest poems or riddles read out loud about the receivers. I'm told that Christmas sort of comes and goes without much notice.

Fortunately, Mills and I will be here for Sinter Klaas and in SA for Santa Clause... the best of both worlds.

It's all relative

This morning, I greeted my boss by flinging myself into his arms. Not on purpose. You see, I simply tripped on the kitchen floor.

His first reaction was to steady me and ask if I was okay. His second was to look behind me and ask what exactly tripped me up. The answer is nothing. Surely everybody has days where they trip over smooth surfaces? Yes? No?

Anyway, later I was talking to the same boss, standing in one place. Nothing too coordinated about that. Until my ankle gave way and I stumbled again. From a standing start.

His first reaction was to ask if I was okay. His second was to ask if I was drunk. I can't blame him really.

So, my boss thinks I'm a drunk, but I'm okay with it... because at least I'm not this guy.

To be fair, I don't think the poor bugger really deserved a judicial sentence. He was in his own room, entertaining himself, and not hurting anyone else. I hope he at least bought his bike a drink first...

Lavatorial

Sticking with a toilet theme this week...

At work today, we reopened that age-old discussion: when is a toilet seat in its correct position?

I feel I should point out that we have shared toilets at work. None of this his&hers segregation. And we never have issues with the toilet seat in the office - the boys are well trained (and outnumbered 5 to 1), but we still argue the virtues of the toilet seat.

The guys maintain that "we need it up, you need it down. We put it up when you leave it down, you can put it down when we need it up." I strongly, vehemently don't agree with this piss-poor argument.

If men didn't move the thing in the first place, I would have no need - and certainly no desire - to touch the toilet seat. Boys are so proud of the fact that they can pee standing up, and yet they need every assistance to aim their 2mm stream of urine into a large, gaping (and most noticably - unmoving) bowl. If you're having such a problem with not splashing the edges, plant your tush like Sitting Bull... in which case, you will be needing the toilet seat down, thank you very much.

A toilet seat is hinged. It works like any other door hinge - it has an open and a closed position. Do you leave you kitchen cupboards open? Your fridge door? The oven?

If a man can work those hinges, why can't he work a toilet seat hinge?

Open.
Closed.

It's as simple as that.

Unplayable

I feel that my colleagues are truly getting to know me. While on the phone the other day, I knocked over something. I'm still not sure what, I can't find it. It made a noticable "thunk" on impact with the ground, whatever it was. From the room next door, my boss called, "Koekie's in the house!"

And today, when I asked to borrow scissors off my manager's desk, he calmly reminded me not to hurt myself or anyone else.

I'm accident-prone and they accept me.

Now... let me introduce you to a friend. FS is from the USA. His favourite comment is, "I'm American, I'm allowed to be a jackass. People are pleasantly surprised when I'm not."

FS recently got locked in his house. It's a long and complicated story, which involved him having to break OUT of his house. Then, this weekend, we were talking about things we've lost over the years.

"I flushed my watch down the toilet," confessed FS. Collectively, we settled back for what we knew was going to be a good tale. Any story with that opening line is going to be a goodie.

You see, FS had a decorative watch with two buckles, one on either side. Both were non-functional, so when one buckle broke off, he didn't worry about it. Anyway, FS goes to the loo one day [unnecessary details omitted]... and turns around to flush the toilet.

As he's pulling his hand back over the gurgling whirlpool... *plip* goes the second strap on his watch and *plop* goes the watch in the water.

There's more.

Instead of gasping with disbelief and cursing the gods, FS automatically attemped to retrieve his watch from the bowels of the swirling latrine. Not only was he without his accessory, but he also ended up to his elbow in toilet water.

I'm a bit jealous. I don't think I can compete with FS. I've only ever flushed my work ID card down the toilet. I didn't tell HR that when I was requesting a new one. Actually, now that I think about it... I wonder how many things end up on the other side of the sewerage plant?

Eurotrip

Three weeks ago, it was Bournemouth. Two weeks ago, it was London. This weekend, I was in Copenhagen. Now I'm done. For a while, anyway.

Mills and I joined friends for a little football tournament on Saturday. Little... just 250 teams competing in a one day tournament. Each team plays a total of 3 games in the first round (5 minutes per indoor game). We only played the first round, so we effectively flew into Denmark for a 15-minute run-around. Totally worth it.

After the tournament (which we didn't win), there was a dinner for all 1000-odd competitors. It reminded me of Rhodes Hall Balls, with mass catered food, cat-pee wine and people trying to out-dance each other. Good times.

After gaping at all the beautiful Danes and Swedes walking around that evening, I can safely say: I never want to live in either country. For any hot blooded male, it's a dream. For any normal to moderately fashioned female, it's deflating. I did feel a little like Ugly Betty at the ball. Every girl is plucked, pruned, preened to perfection. What an effort.

Flying home was an unexpected highlight, as the check-in chick informed Mills that he needed a visa for his Irish passport. This is usually a line of questioning reserved for me, so I found it particularly amusing. Mills and I explained that Ireland was in fact a member of the Schengen community. "Computer says no," said our check-in friend. Guess she must have slept through the lesson on EU member states.

Eventually she let Mills board, but not before having the last laugh - by seating us five rows apart on a half-booked flight. Cheeky wench. And now, I'm thinking about staying in the country for a while. At least until next month anyway.

Just one of those days

I started my day badly. I forgot my scarf (I never leave home with a cold neck). After checking that the bus was nowhere in sight, I ran home to pick up my scarf. Murphy's Law: if you're running 30seconds late, the bus will be on time. If you're on time, or early, the bus will not arrive.

Fortunately, I managed to flag down the bus by frantically waving my retrieved scarf, so it was all worth it. Not very elegant though.

It was a frustrating day. My job entails finding jobs - mostly for non-Dutch, EU members. In order to (ligitimately) work in the EU, all you need is a valid ID. Generally, your passport. That's all. One document, which requires renewal once every ten years. No visas, no paperwork, no questioning at passport control. So it astounds me that so many people let their passports expire.

These are people who have travelled, not your rural goat-herders. And yet still, the amount of times I've had to explain to people that they cannot legally be added to a company's books because their passport has expired... they have no concept of ID-checks.

It's a perverted irony - as this insignificant African gets to walk them through the fact that they're actually not legit.

"This document is not legal. We cannot represent you."
"But I'm an EU-citizen!"
"According to this, you've expired... a few months ago"

To own an all-boundaries passport and just let it expire... ARGH! I want to beat them across the head with their useless ID.

I got through the rest of the day by knocking over a few things, dropping my lunch upside-down on the kitchen floor and tripping down the stairs. Fortunately the wall broke my fall, so that was okay.

Waiting at the bus stop to go home, I got my first taste of the proper Dutch winter - with gusts of wind strong enough to blow you off your bike (hence the fact that I've declined to cycle of late). Top that with stinging rain and biting cold... it was a grumpy trip home.

... until the bus turned down the main road outside our house and I saw the Christmas lights. Prrrrreeetty. The sight lifted my spirits immediately.

... not enough to prevent me from falling into a puddle as I stepped off the bus, but some things just can't be helped.

Tock tick

Is there something wrong with me? I keep asking myself this. I'm 26. Most of my friends' biological clocks have been ticking for several years now. I know I go on about this, but I'm allowed to on this page. Cosmo says my writing is neurotic. They may have a point. (sorry I had throw that in there... this Twisted Koekie got a mention in Cosmo. All the way from the Land of Cloggies. I rock.)

Anyway, last week I received news that yet another friend is with sprog. I'm nearing my late-twenties (I shall remain in my mid-twenties until two days before my thirtieth), and I still pull up my lip with distaste at the thought of pregnancy. Am I malfunctioning?

I've mentioned this to other woman. Most don't believe it when I say that babies leave me cold. I literally feel nothing. I can hold a baby, burp a baby, comfort a squawling kid, but I feel nothing doing it. I don't love them; I don't hate them. I nothing them.

The scariest book I've read in recent times was We Need To Talk About Kevin. This book, quite literally, scared the crap out of me. What if there is something to be said about an uncaring, unfeeling maternal figure - dare I say it... mother.

I try to convince myself that I would feel different if I - god forbid - actually fell pregnant. I struggle to type it without spluttering (a difficult action to illustrate over cyberspace). But I just can't picture myself cheerfully 'celebrating the gift of life' - a process which would entail stretch-marks, ripping and tearing of parts that I am fairly determined to keep in one piece, and subsequent loss of free time and privacy.

It's more than just being selfish or avoiding the responsibility. I genuinely feel no inclination to find out which of my genes are most dominant. Besides, I'm pretty sure anything I produce will have unruly hair, untannable skin, IBS and freakish acne from a young age. I also struggle to keep pet gold fish alive.

Anyway, back to the friend with sprog. I sent her heartfelt congratulations - because I know it's what she wanted and she's delighted. But I just don't understand why.

Hab-humour

Combining a play on words with my biggest crush... now that's my kind of humour.

If I wasn't so tired, I think I would actually laugh.

ps. Mills pointed out that Cherryflava hosted this picture on their blog. Cheers guys!

Weighing in

I'm going away for a work event this weekend. The marketing material alone weighs over five kilos, so I know I'm going to be overweight. I'm always overweight on planes. Packing last night and this morning has got me all worked up again - I'm a weightist.

I've been trying to find out why airlines have to regulate weight so stringently. The most common answer is: because they like taking money from us. I even read one article that suggests check-in staff get bonuses depending on how many overweight charges they extract from passengers. I hope there's nothing to that.

Two main schools of thought seem to be: overweight charges are due to fuel consumption or flight safety. Maybe somebody with more inside info can help me out here? I'm open to suggestions.

Right, if the overweight charges are due to fuel consumption, I want to know if staff rush around adding extra fuel before take off, to ensure we have enough to compensate for my excess 3kg baggage. I don't think they do.

General safety. This one I can (almost) accept. We are going in something that we expect to defy the laws of gravity, maintain this defiance for at least an hour, then bring us back to land without hurting us. Maybe weight restrictions do have something to do with the physics. But then... surely weight restrictions should apply to, um, weight?

I'm a weightist. I may have mentioned this before. It pisses me off beyond rational thought when I get told I cannot take 3 extra kilos on board... now please move to the side so that we can check in the 120kg fattie and his obese family behind you.

If it's about weight, then passengers should be weighed with their luggage. THEN charge overweight costs.

Passenger weighing 120kg plus 20kg luggage = 140kg. No overweight?
Me plus luggage plus excess = 80kg (at a push). Here's your charge, suck it up.

If the issue is about weight, then please be consistent and make it about everybody's weight. That's all I'm saying. Admittedly, thinner people probably have more money to spend on excess because they haven't bought - and eaten - all the pies.

Yes, I'm a weightist. But I don't think I'm being unfair. Consider it a public service announcement. It would be an incentive to lose body mass - and possibly lessen the risk of cancer (yet another brilliant Beeb headline... groundbreaking stuff again, simply years ahead of its time. Fat = unhealthy. Who'd have thunk it.)

Anyway. I know that any excess charges on this trip will be charged to the company, so it's not really my problem. But still - overweight charges should be about overall weight.

That's all I'm saying.