Why I hate Andy Murray

Truly, I don't know where to start.

1) He is a Scottish twat. Not that I have anything against his nationality. Some of my best friends are Scottish (I'm that open-minded). If he were British, he'd be a pommie twat; Australian, aussie twat; American, yankie twat... I just wanted to throw in an additional adjective before twat. Forgive me.

2) He is annoying, on court and off. During play, he falls into that bracket of unnecessary noise-makers. But, further to this, he also shouts encouragement to himself when his opponents make unforced errors. Fine, psyche yourself up when you actually win a point through your own game (because I will begrudgingly admit that Murray can play good tennis - when he's not being an asshole). But when your opponent mishits a ball it doesn't mean you psyched them out. Subsequently shouting "Coooome ON!" to yourself is unsporting and undeniably twattish.

3) His pre- and post-match interviews show no sign of personality, other than arrogance. Which does not equal confidence. There is a difference - something he would've learnt from friends at school, if he'd had any. He likes to talk himself up and more than not, it goes down on record as a great big pile of blag. And when that happens, I do a bum-shaking jig of unrequited joy in my living room. Because humility is so much more attractive, Murray. Just ask Fed - he's the one who gets all the big sponsorship deals.

4) Because of his face. Seriously. I can't stand it. You know how there always seems to be one kid in class whose doting mother has told him that he's a lady killer and he therefore carries with him the misguided air that he is far superior in looks and physique to every one else? That's what Andy's mom did about twenty years ago and he is still dragging this around with him.

Unfortunately someone must've told him to stop wearing black socks, so I can't complain about that part of his wardrobe any more, which deflates me somewhat. But I truly hope that someone (preferably a loved one, which may convey more sincerity) will tell him that he does not have the body of Adonis.

Yes, you are MORE muscular than you once were, but let's be honest when you're working with twigs and sinew there's only so much you can do. My boet has a similar physique and the closest he got to being seriously buff was when I photoshopped his head onto a cover of Men's Health. It's funny because it's true.

Let's take a moment for a biology schematic:

Also, he has vampire teeth. Seriously he should get that seen to before he inadvertently puts out someone's eye, or jugular.

5) The unapologetic adoration that the British press lump on him. I think this is the main reason. Like an adoring parent who won't stop talking about their precious little pumpkin and how clever/beautiful/special they are - you end up hating the offspring more than the product. The poms delight in nicknaming him "Supreme Murray", "Magnificent Murray"... excuse me while I go eat something just so that I can throw it up.

Murray is through to the Semi-finals in the Aussie Open. Here's how the headline should read: "Murray through after Nadal withdraws". Yet here's how the fawning Brits put it: "Brilliant Murray brings Nadal to his knees". Completely glazing over the fact that he was playing a limping opponent, no no... Murray defeated him with his strength, wit and dastardly genius. In short, he was so brilliant that Nadal capitulated, faking an excuse just to get off the court and away from the incandescence that is Andy.

Last year, when Murray got knocked out of Wimbledon the BBC - that pinnacle of unbiased reporting - went with something along the lines of "Murray sets his sights on winning the US Open". Not, "Federer/Nadal/[whoever is actually still in contention] set their sights on winning THE CURRENT grand slam".

In fact, the only reason that Murray hasn't won a grand slam yet is simply because he is just too damn good. He outplays himself. I think this sums it up. Really. Just read it. I don't even have the words to deconstruct it.

I'm surprised we haven't seen a wave of Chuck Norris style internet jokes.

- Andy Murray is so fast, he can return his own service.

- The only person who can beat Andy Murray, is Andy Murray.

- Andy Murray is such a giant twat, he gave birth to himself.

... hmmmm, I might be on to something with that last one.

Here's a schematic recap:

Let me paint you a picture

I'm sitting at my desk. Fortunately I have my own office because I am currently wearing slippers. This is not unusual, after trekking into work through the ice and snow I have taken to keeping slippers next to the radiator under my desk. When I put those warm puppies on, my toes have a little party in their socks. The three people who see me on a daily basis don't care and the people who I deal with via email and telephone don't know.

I'm also wearing jean-pants (standard) and a zip up tracksuit top (not so standard). My more work-appropriate tops (all three layers today) are currently hanging over the aforementioned radiator under my desk.

The K-Way tracksuit top has two zips, one that starts at the bottom and one that starts at the top. I've got it unzipped at the bottom - exposing bare flabby tummy - and zipped all the way to the top (in a pathetic attempt to maintain warmth).

Why am I baring my midriff in such a slovenly manner?

Well, thank you for asking. The reason is simple. I tipped a cup of freshly boiled water down my front and the skin on my stomach did not take this well.

It's not the first time - and it's unlikely to be my last accident. More often that not, when I tip something (generally liquidy in nature) over, I tend to pull it towards myself.

Mills recently admitted that one of the things he finds most fascinating about me is my "belligerent refusal to learn from my mistakes". So why should I start now?

I can say this much - you soon forget about the sub-freezing temps outside when you're frantically clawing scalding clothing away from your torso.

Two completely fictional characters, not based on reality at all

Two people, let's call them M and K, are enjoying a cold but gentle saunter around The Hague. Suddenly, M takes a slightly bigger step with his left foot while his right knee seems to buckle somewhat... but then he's back in stride as if nothing has happened. K notes this, finds it rather peculiar but she generally finds him rather peculiar so mentions nothing of it.

A few metres later, M does it again - the same abrupt, slightly longer stride that looks like an aborted half-lunge. And then, back into step as if nothing has happened. Again, K says nothing because she is starting to look forward to this move. On the third such step-lunge, K collapses into incapacitating giggles (usually reserved for precarious balancing chores, such as when they are trying to rotate the sleeper couch and M is bearing most of the weight).

Bemused, M queries this sudden outburst of laughter. K asks what the new goose-step is all about. M explains that the bottom of his jean-pant keeps getting caught underneath his right heel, so instead of doing the foot-out-shake-it-all-about dance, he opted for the jolt-lunge-step. "I thought it was more subtle," he concludes.

"It's not," K assures him, demonstrating her delight with sporadic limp-step-lunges the rest of the way home.

Another little M+K walkabout incident -

M and K go to the shops on a busy Saturday afternoon. After an hour and a bit, while standing in one of the swankiest stores on the swankiest shopping street (M and K don't usually shop there, but sometimes they like to pretend they belong), M happens to look down and finally notices why things were a bit breezier than they should be.

M: Aaaaah crap... my fly is down.
K: Oh ja, I noticed when we were leaving the flat.
M: WHAT? Were you planning on telling me, like, ever?
K: Sure... but then I got distracted and forgot.
M throws his head back in exasperation (while surreptitiously trying to redress himself)
K: Whaaaat... how many people have actually studied your crotch in the last ninety minutes? No one cares.
M: Except me.
K shrugs: Except you.

Some may ask why M puts up with K.
M asks himself this regularly.

Zulu Warriors

Do you remember the South African song we learnt as kids? That little camp fire round that had no reason, just rhythm..?

Izika zumba zumba zumba
Izika zumba zumba zay
Izika zumba zumba zumba
Izika zumba zumba zay

Hold him dooooooown, you Zulu warrior
Hold him down, you Zulu chief (chief, chief, chief)

Repeat... Repeatedly.

I don't know the correct lyrics and couldn't find anything official on the web, so it's guaranteed that my phonetic spelling is probably way off from what the actual Zulu words should be. Also bear in mind that I learnt this song, as a whitey at Brownie camp (yes. Brownies. Feel free to point and laugh now), while growing up under the wagging finger of PW Botha and his predecessors. Probably not the best starting point for learning non-European ditties.

Based on what little remains of my high school Zulu knowledge, I think the lyrics should probably be something closer to "asika mzimba", which would mean "he/she/it/they cut the body". I think. Which is what a bunch of Zulu warriors would likely do to someone/thing/it they are holding down. In theory.

Is there a point to this blog? Not really. It's more a semi-educational sojourn down memory lane for anyone who grew up in SA.

What I really wanted to do is get that song in your head(s), just like I've had it for the last 36 hours.

Mwaahahahahaha.... [phonetic attempt at evil maniacal laughter].

Did it work?

Three most annoying questions, in no particular order

1) So, do you want kids?

Okay, this question in itself is not that annoying. It's a query based on biological prerogative. I get it. What actually irks me is the follow up comment, generally from people who I have just met or hardly know me...

Person: "So, do you want kids?"
Me: "No."
Person, tilts head and smiles patronisingly: "Aaaah, but you are female and in your twenties. Therefore, you will one day. I predict within the next four months."
Me, pretending to contemplate this banality thus lulling Person into a false sense of security before flicking them in the forehead: "I'm sorry, that action was triggered by my biological clock. It doesn't like presumption."

2) So, when are you getting married?

Answer: when every person on earth has asked me that. Including children as yet unborn and those too young to speak.

Look, it's not that I have anything against marriage. I don't. I'm happy for my friends who get married. I have no problem with people formalising their relationships. And weddings are (generally) awesome reunions for friends and family. I love the idea of a wedding... which is effectively just a party, gifts and everyone telling me how pretty I look. Sounds great. Who needs a groom for that? I can understand if kids are involved, then it's important 'cause both parents get equal rights and tax purposes and blah... blah.. blah. What irritates me is when people presume that you cannot be in a committed, monogamous relationship if it has not been validated with a marriage certificate.

Person: "how long have you been with your boyfriend?"
Me: "Seven years, or so."
Person: "Wow. That's a long time. When are you getting married?"
Me, suppressing urge to power-flick: "No plans. No wedding bells."
Person, tilting head with concern: "Oh... hasn't he asked yet?"
[note: "he" is always emphasised, I think this is because they are trying to insinuate that it must be something wrong with him; to make me feel better. "Yet" is optional - presumably in order to give me some hope after seven years of clearly unfounded anticipation]
Me, through gritted teeth due to imminent head implosion: "No, because he actually knows me. I'm bored of this conversation. You're dismissed."

3) So, when are you coming to visit us in London/Cape Town?

Very good question. When did you last make any effort to visit us, outside of London/Cape Town? Both are fantastic touristy cities (and of course, if we're turning it into a competition between the two, Cape Town wins. Hands down) but for some reason it seems that when people - native or not - move to either of these cities, actual physical acquaintance can only be considered within the respective city's borders. Don't get me wrong, I want to see these people and I love visiting both cities... I think it's just the qualifying location in the question that actually bugs me. Seldom are there other options, like, "Hey let's meet up in Swansea/Springfontein or somewhere in between." Generally it comes across as, 'you come to us or we don't see you. Kapish?'*

Person: "Hey! How you doing... great to hear from you! So when are you coming to visit us in Cape Town/London [delete appropriate]?"
Me: "Dunno. When are you coming to visit us in Joburg/The Hague [delete appropriate]?"
Error... Does not compute. Error... Does not compute. Error...
Me: "It's okay, relax, I was just kidding. We're coming next month. See you then."

*To the friends who have made an effort to visit us outside of Cape Town/London/Benoni and/or Boksburg: I love you and you are still on my Christmas card list (which may actually get sent one of these years).

Excessive

Wow - it must've been a really weak pool for Best Motion Picture Drama at the Golden Globes this year. I haven't seen Precious, Up In The Air, The Hurt Locker or (sad, but true) Inglorious Basterds, but I have seen Avatar... and I cannot believe that it actually won an award for best drama. It's a compelling movie - I enjoyed it, it's got heaps of action and little splotches of humour. Not laugh out loud stuff, but then it didn't bring me to tears either.

So, sure, it had traces of drama in it. But the best? Really? And let's all get a grip... it did not bring me to the brink of suicidal contemplation. Is this why it got Best Drama? Because of the amount of idiots who've supposedly been so severely affected? I think Avatar deserved Best Drama about as much as Obama deserved the Nobel Peace Prize. But aaaaanywho, putting that rant down and moving onto something closer to home...

"Everything in moderation. "

That's what my mother used to say (probably still does), over and over again... mostly applied to food. It's a little adage that probably would do wonders in the fight against obesity. And quite good to keep in mind, as these days it seems you can't pick up a fork without someone pointing out that WHATEVER you are about to consume will increase/decrease your chance of weight gain/weight loss/heart disease/longevity/brain tumours/brain activity/brain cancer etc etc...

So this one's for you, Mum.

Mills and I went out for sushi last night. It's 'our' thing. We love sushi, as much as our budgets can afford, and there's a great restaurant around the corner that does all-you-can-eat deals. You can order basically as much as you like and you can do this for up to 8 rounds per table. Eight rounds filled largely with rice and very very salty soy sauce (we're pretty sure they proactively add salt to make sure you're filling yourself up on liquid in between rounds). However, if you do not finish everything that you have ordered, you will be charged for the remaining pieces. Fair enough... waste not, want not.

I figure two, even three, rounds is a good effort but Mills sees the "8" as a target. So even if we are both full - absolutely stuffed - he must order more. Must. Eat. More.

It always gets to the point where I won't help him. That's it. I am full. End of. Mills was ordering round 3 when this happened last night. "We can't let them win!" he cried. 'Them' being those dastardly restaurant owners... if Mills was a gambler he'd be trying to beat the system in Vegas right now. I emphasised that I would not eat any more. He lambasted me for being a quitter. I called him an assortment of names. I raised my eyebrows then and shut up, because a) he's a big boy and must suffer the consequences and b) I like a good 'told you so' situation as much as the next girlfriend.

As we waited for HIS order, the rice began to expand in his stomach and his brain latched onto the fact that a fair amount had been ingested. "Oh dear... I am feeling a bit full now..." he conceded, shortly before they placed another 25 pieces of sushi on our table. Yup, I bet you are. You warthog.

After my celebratory "I told you so" song and dance, I suggested that maybe he should just pay up. But no, paying up would mean that 'they' win. And we could never let that happen.

So the real entertainment began. I watched my boyfriend slowly binge himself on chopstick-laden mouthfuls. It wasn't about the food, or paying. Oh no, it was a game of strategy. In between labouriously chewing, he would muse about ways to hide the sushi. "Hmmm, what if I break this piece up and hide it under the lettuce? How much do you think the people at the table next door would pay for these pieces? Maybe I can stuff the last pieces into my cheeks... do you think they'll notice? You'll have to ask for and pay the bill then... I can spit it out once we're outside."

This is just one reason why we don't, and can't ever, have children. After seven years of dating, we still end up playing "hide the veggies from mom" (alternatively known as "hide the raw fish and rice bundles from the beady eyes of the Japanese matron").

ps. He ate it all... I think I helped with all of two pieces. He ate the rest. Unbelievable.

Pocahontas II

WARNING: THIS BLOG CONTAINS SPOILERS

Have you heard about the new James Cameron movie? If you haven't, you clearly do not live on this planet. Which is, in fact, a real planet. Knock him all you want, but Cameron is a creative genius. The man can turn a flammable reel of single-frame images into a big, fat pile of shiny gold.

Terminator (times three, or four, or is it five?) >> ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching.
Titanic (just the one, but it felt like three) >> ka-ching.
Avatar >> ka-(still waiting for full results, but likely to be yet another resounding)-ching.

In short, Avatar is a movie set on a planet called Pandora. On Pandora there is a material called "unobtainium". Everyone wants to obtain this stuff, because as the name so cryptically states, it's not very easy to come by. The planet is inhabited by a race called Na'vi. These are giant, blue alien-type people. This info can be gleaned from the trailers alone, and from what I've heard there's not actually much more to the movie (which I have not seen). But I feel the need to share something anyway. This is where the gigantic spoiler comes in. Look away now if you don't want to know...

....James Cameron made it all up.

He created this world in his imagination and then he turned it into a movie. Apparently, the portrayal of the planet and the creatures on it is breathtakingly spectacular - so he must've run out of creative juice when it came to names for everything (Pandora? Unobtainium? Excuse me, I just threw up a little on the cheese factor). But back to my point, this planet does not exist. It is a setting for a movie, created by human imagination and computer graphics. Otherwise known as "science fiction". Or more simply put... "play-play", "pretend" or "make believe".

So anyone who complains about post-delusional depression and suicidal tendencies because "they long to enjoy the beauty of the alien world Pandora" deserves to be stripped naked, doused with a bucket of water (or better yet hosed down with fire fighting equipment) and shoved head first into the snow. We will call it ICE BUCKET / WELCOME TO REALITY treatment. If you find anybody suffering from similar delusions in the warmer southern hemisphere, please feel free to strip them naked, douse with hot oil and then shove them head first into a nest of fire ants.

One sufferer, called Mike, "even contemplated suicide, thinking that he will be rebirthed [sic] in a world similar to Pandora and everything will be the same as in Avatar." Do us all a Darwinian favour, Mikey. Please. I hope you haven't reproduced yet, but judging by that comment alone I would guess that you are probably still waiting for your Klingon mail-order bride anyway.

Pssst... Star Trek is made up too.

And while we're on the subject of Avatar, since when are we supposed to care what the Vatican thinks about a movie? It's been centuries since humanity shrugged out of the dark ages and the Roman Catholic Church no longer dictates what books can or can't be seen (weeeeell... unless you buy into the Da Vinci Code, but let's put that down before it leads to another tangle in this already bewildered blog). So why should we suddenly care what they think about a secular movie? How does a Vatican movie review hold any weight in the news? Is this their way of trying to 'stay in touch with the popular culture'? Surely they should stick to how the Bible is being interpretted (yes, interpretted - because it is not a factual textbook) or more pressing issues, like the attempted firebombings of churches in Malayasia (another point I'm going to put down before I go on yet another rampaging tangent).

The only way the Vatican should be sharing a headline with Avatar is if the Pope was suffering from post-Pandora delusional depression. Now that would be newsworthy.

I haven't seen the movie yet, but I do intend to. I'm a sucker for big action in 3D. And I'm sure Mills will be happy to oblige with an ice bucket if my grip on reality starts to slip... any further.

You are not unique

Similar to most people in the western world, I work for a big international company. We have big international mailing lists. These are for corporate communications such as: new CEO; annual reports; marketing updates... and, apparently, a mid-level manager's baby announcement.

Some guy I have never met, never heard of and will never hear from again, has decided to inform everyone of the birth of his new son. I am so, so very tempted to reply:

Dear Harry

You did what over 100 million people did last year. It is not an exclusive club and does not count as news. Believe it or not, mammals have been doing this - without fanfare - for several thousand years. You are not special and neither is your kid.

Congratu-fucking-lations. I don't care.

I can feel the rage pulsing through my fingers. It's good to be back.

I masticate, you masticate, we masticate!

I have a new best friend. Her name is MK. She is Moroccan - and 10 years old. Little MK came to the Netherlands with her mom in April this year. She could not speak a word of English. She could however speak Arabic, French and Spanish. She picked up the language quickly, as children do, and now converses casually in English and can also say a few things in Dutch, with near-perfect accent. It's unbelievable.

So her mom has asked me to help with her English development. I don't speak down to her, she really is incredibly bright (or is it just that all children soak up information so easily?). She's come from a very conservative household in Tangier to the far more liberal culture of the Netherlands, which has opened her eyes (and her mother's) fast. Even so, she is still very naive compared to other children of her age.

Shortly after dinner on Saturday, MK was told to get ready for bed. As she was leaving, the adults carried on with the banter around the table which at that stage was focussed on (of all things) how well do you really need to chew your food. Now, every time I have an opportunity to use this word, I use it. It's funny. It gets a reaction. A lot of people don't know it, and it sounds like something else. So, in my usual unthinking mode, I announced that it's "always important to masticate". This got the desired reaction - one guy laughed, Mills called me out for being a show-off, MK's mom wanted to know what it meant.

MK stopped on her way up the stairs and with a proud grin, loudly proclaimed, "I masticate! You masticate! We masticate!"

I shrivelled.
Mills glared at me.
MK's mom and her partner tried not to make a big deal of it, while at the same time tried to focus her on other tasks, in the hope that she would soon forget this word.

Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap.

What is it about children that makes them pick up - immediately - on the words that they shouldn't? Seriously, I had thrown tons of words at her over a friendly game of scrabble earlier that afternoon and THIS was the one she chooses to commit to memory? How do you explain to a young innocent girl that this is just a silly word that she really doesn't need to remember and that she really shouldn't shout out in the playground, because it sounds like another word which is not so silly, which some of her classmates probably already know and will either get her into trouble or laughed at because they sound so similar. Omigod, please forget that word. Instantly!

Crap.

HelLA, baby

It's been a while. I know. Again. Sorry.

So. I started a new job. I'm travelling 3 hours a day to work, but I love the new job so it's worth it. It helps that they flew me to LA to meet the team that I'm currently working with on a daily basis (well, on daily rotation, considering that they get into work at 6pm my time). I was in the land of fake buildings, fake boobs and Californication. I got to meet a few schlebs, which was quite cool. Sort of. And I can confidently state this much - Michael Jackson isn't dead. He has multiplied and is strutting his white-socked stuff for tourists, on every block of Hollywood Boulevard.

My new boss also got to learn that I'm a klutz. This is something I had managed to keep hidden throughout the hiring process, largely by ensuring that my former employer made no mention of previous exploits in the flammable/falling/breaking department(s).

The first clue for my new boss was when I dropped a colleague's wedding pictures in the soy sauce over our sushi dinner. Why, why, why would you bring these out after everyone (i.e. me) has had a few glasses of wine? Especially as I had spent all evening politely refraining from dousing myself - or my colleagues - in condiments. My coordination basket was empty. I didn't know there was going to be a surprise test at the end of the meal. She put the pictures away very quickly after that. Whoops.

The next day, in front of other colleagues, I managed to walk into a glass door. Not too spectacularly - I thought it needed a push when in fact it needed a pull. But my pushing (crunching) into it apparently jammed the lock mechanism, leaving us stranded out there until someone came from the other side to release it. It was during this awkward wait that my boss stated the obvious. "Omigod... you're a klutz."

Yes. Yes, I am. Thank you for noticing.

So, by the time we got to the set of NCIS (I love this ensemble show. Like, totally, LOVE NCIS) he was getting an inkling of what I was capable of, especially as the first thing I did was fall over a prop. Who puts them in the middle of the floor anyway? I got to watch some of the filming which was really cool and spent a large amount of time pretending to look professional and aloof, while in my head I was jumping up and down and screaming "OH MY GAAAWD!" like every contestant on Extreme Home Makeover.

Everyone was talking and getting on with their work, I was standing out of the way when Mark Harmon insisted that I pull up a chair. There weren't any chairs remaining so he insisted I sit in his cast chair. You know, those high ones with the 'talent' names printed on them. I didn't put up too much of an argument. My internal monologue had gotten over the hysterical screaming and had now gone into a muted whisper of "omigod, Mark Harmon's chair. I'm sitting in Mark Harmon's chair."

Then with a *crack* my internal monologue changed to, "omigod, I just broke Mark Harmon's chair."

As surreptitiously as possible, I looked down. Yup. There was now a crossbar hanging at an angle below my feet. That hulk of a man sits on the chair every day, but it breaks when I reverently place one butt cheek on it. Great. I didn't move again, praying to god that the chair wouldn't completely collapse. At least not while the cast were hanging around. Finally, they went back to filming and I slipped off the chair, relieved that it was still (at least visibly) in one piece. I diligently pointed it out to a crew member, who quickly reassembled where necessary. Easily solved.

I spent about 3 hours on that set, talking to cast and crew, and I couldn't tell you what was discussed. All I can remember is my internal horror repeating over and over again, "omigod, I just broke Mark Harmon's chair. Please don't collapse. Please don't collapse..."

Screw the shrimps

It's been a while (again), but there's been good reason for that. I just have a few nights of sleep and some correspondence to catch up on now. In the meantime, I had to bring your attention to this little treat. Yes, it's dated to the beginning of this month, but some pearlers are just timeless.

On a recent visit to Mexico, the Crown Prince of The Netherlands gave what he thought to be a erudite speech:

'Let me conclude by giving you a Mexican proverb: Cámaron que se duerme se lo lleva la chingada, or in English: a shrimp that sleeps gets carried by the tide,' the prince said.

However, the translator used the word chingada rather than corriente - so the prince actually said the shrimp got screwed.

To make things worse, while chingada is considered everyday language in most of South America, in Mexico it is considered extremely vulgar, a fact the Argentine translator was not apparently aware of."

Poor Prince Willem-Alexander... he thought that he was being all philosophical, but instead he was bamboozling his audience with misdirected connotations worthy of a script from 'Allo 'Allo.

Not only did he screw the shrimps, but he insulted them while doing it. Perhaps even more embarrassing is that his wife is of Argentine origin. It really does seem that someone on the prince's team should've picked that up earlier.

Political whoopsie, to say the least.

Meet Priscilla

I'm getting quite good at this cycling lark. I cycle to the station and back every day in the rain, sun or wind (the former and the latter more often than the mid-der). I hop on and off a still-moving bike with confidence... an amazing progression considering that I used to stop my bike, disembark and turn it around a corner manually. Now I love my bike, I talk to her. I've started calling her Priscilla - Prissy Priscilla - because I think she likes it.

When I first arrived in the country, I thought that Dutch women had an aversion to make up and hair stylists, now I realise that there's just no point. If you're cycling (no matter how far) chances are your hair is going to be mussed up and your make up smudged due to the afore-mentioned wind, rain and related watering eyes. So now I'm the same. Don't bother with straigthening the hair, get the station, give it a brush (optional) and do the make up on the train (again, optional).

I park my bike in the multi-storey parking lot and yes, I have lost it on ocassion. It's fine if you remember which level and on which side you parked. At least then you know where to start looking. I generally try to park on the same side, on the same level and try to remember which light/sign/distinguishing mark is closest. Sometimes I'm in a hurry and I forget. Fortunately, by the time I get home in the evenings the bikes have thinned out a bit, so I have less options to wander past before I get to mine. There is no reassuring 'bloop bloop' or tail lights flashing as you hit the remote key. I've found that calling out her name doesn't help either. Some people don their bikes with fake flowers, or paint it with flourescent colours. I can't say it's a bad idea.

Last night I got home to find that someone hadn't bothered to actually find a rack for their bike. They were clearly in too much of a hurry to actually park, so they just took their bike and RAMMED it in next to mine. When I got back to the my station, I found that Prissy was being indecently molested by some vulgarity. I had to wrench them apart and console my poor traumatised bike while I untangled the bike stand from the pedal (which had been wedged due to unnecessary roughness).

Once this was complete, I was free to go... but not before I took the offending bike (still locked by the back wheel - but this doesn't mean you can't pick it up and walk) and moved to some where completely different. Different level, different side, different rack.

Moral of the story? People park like dicks whether they're on a bike or in a car. Bikes are just easier to move.

What constitutes discrimination?

1. In the darkness of winter, some colours are harder to see at night. That's why the council of Limburg has decided to donate safety vests to refugees of a darker hue.

2. Then, this column brought my attention to the fact that some gravitationally-challenged folks are claiming they are targetted because of their weight.

Sooo... are the Dutchies discriminating against darkies in Limburg? And... should victimisation of fatties count as discrimination?

I know how I feel on the latter and am ambivalent about the former. I don't have an objection to safety vests being given to the immigrants. What makes it an issue is that the people of Limburg have actually specified that only black immigrants will receive this freebie. Completely disregarding the fact that most people - black, white, local or otherwise - wear black or dark colours in winter. I'm about as pasty pale as you can get, but in the middle of winter all you can see of me are my eyeballs - as the rest is smothered in hat, gloves, scarf, coat, boots etc. So I guess, well-intended and misguided though it may have been, I think the Limburgers discriminated.

Now onto issue number two. The one that I feel is black-and-white. I am a fattist. Or a weightist. Or an adipophobe (new word I'm trying out... "fear of excessive adipose tissue"). I really struggle to sympathise with the obese. I know that some people are just bigger, much bigger. Some people have hormonal imbalance and medical reasons for why they rapidly gain weight and then cannot lose it. But I think for most, weight gain is something that is just too much effort to consider fighting. A former colleague of mine is 5'6 and weighs over 100kg. He constantly complained about his discomfort, his heart pains and his sweating. He's 28. One particular meal I saw him put away - fast - was a full plate of fries topped with 500g of minced meat and cheese. Then he would tell us that he didn't know what to do about getting healthier. Lose the fries and try eat a tomato or two, for a start.

Weight you can do something about. Skin colour (Michael Jackson aside), you can't.

Here comes another airline rant

I just booked our tickets for Christmas in the UK - had a look at a few different websites and decided that jet2 was the most competitive. I'm not stupid. I know that's not going to be final cost, but yes please, I'll take two for Christmas Eve, return.

Click.

120 base fare, times two.
Plus taxes. Times two.

And before you know it, you're up to 388 total.
Right, now we need to check in a bag - it being Christmas, and us hoping to bring home a loot. Just the one bag between the two of us. That'll be 26 euro extra. For wanting to bring luggage on holiday.

Then we get charged for the option of online check-in. 11 euro for the both of us. But wait, it's not actually an option... it's just a charge. They did away with their front desk, AND they're charging for the lack of service. Suck on that!

That's 212.50 pp, in case you're keeping count.

Oh but wait... are you wanting to sit down on the flight? Cos that'll be another 6 euros per actual seat (no ma'am, sitting on one bum cheek will not half that cost... snigger). So add another 24euros return for the - mandatory - luxury of sitting down.

Before you know it, the tickets of 120 pp have shot up to 224,50 pp. Oh, plus 10.50 from the credit card company and... always love this one... 16 euros booking cost - for using their website and paying for my own paper and ink when I have to print the obligatory boarding pass (confirmation code can be found hidden somewhere on page four, after several pages of legal jargon, full colour pictures and adverts encouraging me to book affliated hotels, rent cars and buy orphans from Bulgaria).

Low cost, s'foot. That said, the total cost was still lower than KLM (a.k.a. Satan's Porthole).

News snippets

Snippet of news from the Netherlands: Massive drug bust
However, my favourite part of the story is not the amount of houses that were searched or subsequent percentage of plantations uncovered. It's the following paragraph:

Police moved in at 7.45am, placing the Kastelenbuurt neighbourhood under emergency rule and only allowing people to leave their homes if they had to go
to work or take children to school.

Emergency rule doesn't sound so scary... Sort of sounds like normal everyday life, really. So you can't leave your house, unless you have to do some errands. Probably a bit inconvenient, but police tend to cordone off everything within 3km of any incident so it's not unusual to trip over or around chevron tape on your way to the shops anyway.

Another thing Dutchies don't do right... Strike. Sounds threatening right? This one could've been a real bitch for me, seeing as it already takes me 90 minutes to get to work by public transport. But don't worry, the court said NO. So the employees shrugged and agreed to get back to work.

How bout that? I don't know whether to be proud of a functioning legislative system or whether to send over some toyi-toyers to show them how to bring a country to its knees. To be honest, it was going to be piss poor strike - intended from 7 to 8.30am. Seeing as most people only start work at about 9.30, it probably wouldn't have been so crippling.

Crisis

Since I was about 17 I've looked older than I was. Or people have just thought I looked older than I was. Whatever, either way the only time I got asked for ID was when I was standing with particularly young looking friends. It was cool. Everyone wants to look older than they are... when they're a teen.

Ten years (or so) later, it's not so cool. I've just started a new job and am getting to know the new colleagues. I was talking about being in my late-twenties and the big 30 looming in the next few years. "Really," said a co-worker without so much as a smirk, "I thought you were at least 33, or closer to Nellie's age!"

Nellie is 37. Are you kidding me, bitch?

So that's what prompted me to spend excessive amounts on Nivea products earlier today. Standing with my shoulders slumped in the facial product isle, Mills recognised that I needed a supportive hug. Do I really look like I'm in my mid-thirties? Is it these dark bags under my eyes? I thought I'd be able to hit thirty before I had to buy eye cream or wrinkle-free anything.

Poepie.

Greek woman don't mess around

I have a friend affectionately known as The Greek (which is not such an effective nickname when actually visiting her in Athens). She is gorgeous - great figure, beautiful olive skin and dark hair... brains, scathing tongue and wit to balance it all off.

And I just can't help picturing her in this story, reported on BBC website. Although, 'my' Greek would have been more likely to castrate the man with a scrotum-shrinking comment. A less physical, but equally scorching, tactic - and one that I have had the delight of witnessing on occassion over the years. Good times.

Back to the story on the Beeb... I love the fact that the woman is reported as the 'attacker'. It couldn't be construed as an 'alleged attack', or possibly, a 'retaliation'. I know some women can be slightly, um, expressive.. but I don't know many women, all nationalities considered, who fire off precious cocktails as liquid ammunition with no provocation whatsoever.

But my favourite part is that the loving father claims his innocent, assailed son did nothing to provoke it. Hands up anyone (anyone?) who buys that. Sorry to be that person who lumps all people of a certain gender, of a certain age bracket, of a certain nationality in one basket, but I've seen and dealt with enough drunk pommie prats on holiday (Red Light District anyone?) to call shenanigans on that. Slappers back home may be up for some over-the-bra action, but that's not going to fly with the locals on the Med.

Unlikely that we'll find out what actually happened (and I don't care that much to actually try to follow the story further), but here on my top three conjectures:

1. He was drunkenly harrassing anything with ovaries, she flipped her drink on him and (as she claims) stalked off. One of her friends (or a fellow harrassee) saw the opportunity to further ignite the situation and took a lighter to his loins.
2. He (the attackee) was so persistant in his groping, or eventually did something so reprehensible, that she threw him with a cocktail of molotov consequences.
3. She flipped her drink on him in front of his mates (they tend to travel in packs) and stalked off. In a drunken attempt to save face, he tries to turn the public rebuffal into a party trick and sets fire to his own crotch.

Personally, I'm more inclined to the third option.

Girly Gumption

A few weeks ago, I was in London. While there, I was attempting to get from my lodgings in NW to central London. The easiest route was via the Jubilee Line. What I wasn't counting on was getting stuck in throngs of (drunken)(sweaty) Ashes cricket fans as they left after the day's play.

What I also wasn't counting on was the Jubilee line being closed to an unfortunate 'body falling onto the tracks' (read: drunken cricket fan), and me being stuck on an underground platform with several thousand Australian and English sporting fans rehashing the good, the bad and the ugly of the second test. Now would probably be a good time to indicate that the function I was going to had a pink theme. So I was wearing pink nail polish, pink accessories and pink lipstick and killer heels. Fitting right in with the play-weary cricket fans.

With the Jubilee line closed, I filed out with the rest of the people on the platform and tried to figure out a Plan B. I calculated that following the crowds wouldn't help. There were just so many people trying to get back into London. So I walked in the complete opposite direction. And walked and walked and walked. I was now over an hour late for the start of my intended party and so gatvol that I figured the first cabbie I saw, I was getting. Unfortunately, two other gentlemen just in front of men were having similar thoughts about their own trip into London.

This is where Mills tells me I am pathetic. Because this is where I consciously decided to play up my "me, girl... lost" *blink*flutter*flutter*. I struck up a conversation. They were British and obviously picked up on my SA accent quickly.

Did I live in London, they asked? Me - hell no (truth), in fact it's my first time to London (bare-faced lie). I have no idea where I am (half-truth). We established that they were also trying to get into Central London, not too far from where I was going (not that I would know that, of course... it being my first time into London and all). They suggested that we share a cab - if we could find one - into town. I concurred.

A short while later, the first cab appeared in the distance. I was not the only to spot it, unfortunately. Fortunately, I was the only one dressed to kill in heels. With a coy flick of my hair, I made sure I got the cabbie's attention. The cabbie, in turn, made sure to blatantly ignore the three pissed cricket louts in the process of jaywalking to his cab.

True to my word, I asked the cab driver to wait for my two new found friends. Mostly because they were nice enough blokes, but also because I was pretty sure I would get out of paying the cab fare if we travelled together.

What? It's true. I knew it, they knew, the driver knew it. I put up with their touristic spurts of information as we drove through the London West End. Wow, really? The theatre district? Cool.

I got door-to-door service (well, technically streetwalking-to-door service), and they got to perve a little bit longer before I got out of the cab. I was younger than them and dolled up to the nines. They were wearing beer goggles and happy for some eye candy after waiting on a smelly platform for a tube that didn't arrive. See, it worked out for everyone.

Mills thinks that this story is pathetic - I am pathetic - for consciously flaunting myself as a naive and helpless damsel. I have no such compunction. To (mis)quote a wise ol' friend... sometimes it's handy to play up to the type cast.

"Me, girl, lost" got me to my party much faster than "Me. Woman. Independent." ever would've.
We all know it's true.

In sssshort

This is for Bruski...


Amsterdam woman finds snake in toilet

A woman living in Central Amsterdam got the shock of her life on Wednesday morning when she lifted the lif of the toilet in her home, to find a 50cm brown and orange snake, The Parool reports.

The snake, which was still in the toilet after she returned from alerting the police, is thought to be a corn snake, which is not poisonous. Cornsnakes are common in the US and it is a complete mystery how it ended up in a city centre flat, The Parool says.

The reaction from my colleagues was great. Especially as they recognised the snake to be the same that I was holding in one of my profile pictures.

Don't get me started

I have a problem. It's one that other people won't and don't share... it's that bad.

I feel contrite simply thinking about typing it.

It's more than an addiction. It's not a fad. It's not something I'm likely to grow out of. In fact, it can only get worse. Mills has tried to control me, out of love and concern, but he has realised that It is bigger than him. He has called for support, he has tried to reason. It is financially draining, it is not easy to procure, but when I do get It, it's good.

So good.

So good, that I feel ashamed.

My closest friends and family know about It. I've told them about my compulsion and they've seen it for themselves. It's not pretty. They try to make light of the situation, but I know they discuss it behind my back. I can see their supportive smiles that quiver ever so slightly at the corners of their mouths, out of concern - and a little bit of mirth.

It is Tupperware. There, I said it. It's out. Go ahead, judge me. From some of the reactions I receive, I think prostituting myself in the Red Light District would be more socially acceptable.

I love Tupperware. I am as far from a Domestic Treasure as you are likely to get, never knew the 1950s Good Housewife regulations, and yet I still love Tupperware. Please don't insult me by thinking about Euro-buster mass-produced soft containers that melt and buckle and stain after three weeks... I am not talking about the plastic shit you get off the Pick 'n Pay bottom shelf.

I'm talking about name-brand 30-euros-a-piece high-class plastic. Yes, it's bad. Even when people keel over, derisively clutching their throats as they choke on the very thought of spending so much on 'a piece of plastic', I find myself earnestly justifying the expense...

I mean come on people, there isn't a mother out there who doesn't still use that Tupperware container/mixer/baking bowl that was first purchased when you were in diapers. You know it's true. Tupperware lasts.

And it's (largely) unbreakable. I don't care if you have to sit through a Tupperware demonstration to get it. It's worth it.

Sigh.

I told you not to let me get started.

I'm back

Last week: my new manager mentioned that she had heard vicious rumours about me being a chaotic whirlwind of distruction. But as yet, I haven't broken anything at my new office. Why is that - she asked me, slightly nervously.

My theory, I explained, is that I concentrate in new surroundings. But don't worry - in a few weeks time I'll be smashing shelves with a glance.

The next day: I fell down a flight of stairs.
The day after: I broke a glass in the kitchen.

Then, this evening, at home: I was on the phone to my brother when my mobile rang - this was urgent, I explained to Bruski, as I was expecting a call from my Tupperware rep.

Without ending his call, I held the cordless (landline) away from my ear and picked up the mobi with my other hand. Multitasking = me.

Discussed drop-off logistics and payment with Tupperware rep. As I'd paid by bank transfer, I promised to check that my monthly earnings had gone through to her account. I put down the mobi phone and picked up the other. The line was dead. No tone at all.

That was when I realised that I had terminated both my mobile and landline calls and was now trying to talk into my bank card reader. It has digits on it and options to clear and/or OK a numerical selection, so it was a mistake easily made I think. Still, a serious backfire in the co-ord department nonetheless.

I called Bruski again, to apologise for mild brain fart. His first line when he answered was - "I know this is going to be good."

It was.

Koekie is back.

A little Sunday snippet

I've always maintained that there is a definite possibility that a few rugger-buggers might like a grope in the scrum. I think these New Zealander students have helped to strengthen my argument.

How many hockey/football/tennis players would be prepared to play their respective sport in this condition?

Back by popular demand*

Hi.

Sooo...

This is awkward. The same sort of feeling you get when you bump into someone who you have really truly been meaning to contact for a good ol' catch up, but just haven't done so in, oh say, several months (or years).... and when you do finally cross paths in the parking lot with a bag full of MacD, or on the way to do your recycling, or something similarly pressing, you feel inclined to tell them that you actually really did enjoy their company and maybe it would be fun to jol again, but how can you do that without insinuating that you clearly haven't been thinking about them that much because you just haven't needed them in your life lately.

Sort of like that feeling anyway.

The truth is that I haven't had anything to blog about lately. Well, okay. Maybe I have, but I've just been lazy. And - this will shock old colleagues and friends - I actually haven't spent that much time online lately. The weather has been good for a few weeks... yes, folks - the Netherlands has been hit with an unseasonal bout of summer (summer is unseasonal all year round). There have actually been blue skies, gentle breezes and temperatures in the mid-20s.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

It's perfectly fitting that the weather should be so good, because true to Koekie's life story.... the start of this 'summer' pretty much exactly corresponds to my employment relocation. I am no longer working just 10 minutes by bike from home, and just 10 minutes from the beach front. Which would've been awesome in this weather. No. As of the beginning of June, I am now working an hour away, in Schiphol (quite literally at the airport), in perfectly airconditioned surroundings with no windows or fresh air. Once I get on the train from Den Haag Centraal at 8am, I do not smell a whiff of unconditioned air until at least 5.30 when I step out from the same said station on return in the evening.

In this country you have to make hay while the sun, quite literally, shines. So I'm not sitting behind this computer any longer this evening.

But I'll be back.
Maybe.

Tot zo!

*Alternative title: "Back due to persistant nagging from family and friends, whose greatest delight is (apparently) wasting work hours on my waffling."

Eurovision build-up: 2009

I know it's been a while, but I finally have something to share. This made my morning as I was avoiding getting ready for work today...

The infamous Eurovision contest is on this weekend. Muchos excitement all round. I'm even attending a party just to watch the show, which largely (and for some reason proudly) consists of badly produced Eastern Block pop stars.

Just in case you've always wondered where talents like Bles Bridges and Steve Hofmeyr got their genes from, here is the entry from the Netherlands. Look past the spandex glitter outfits, look past the lyrics (Shine! Shine! Shine!) and please watch the back up dancers. They're my favourite: http://www.belgovision.com/en/index_f.php?id=5471

I nearly fell off my chair, laughing. Then I watched it again and clapped with pure unadulterated enjoyment. Now that is entertaining.

Unfortunately it looks like the cloggies didn't make it, otherwise I would've definitely been supporting them on Saturday!

How do you respond when..?

At a social function this weekend (read: raucous birthday party), I found myself in two awkward situations.

The first was when I decided to show my newly married friend, who is very excitable about engagements and betrothals, my spiffy glow-in-the-dark nail art. I did this by holding my hand up to her face, similar to how... say... a fiancee might brandish some new jewelry.

LA's face lit up. She inhaled a giant gulp of air and I could hear the squeal forming in the back of her throat, when I realised what she thought I had just tried to tell her*. At the same time, she realised that there was, in fact, no jewelry to brandish. The squeal petered out and her expression went from delighted to bemused, while my hand went from stationary to frantically flapping.

"No, no, no, no... it's not that! Oh god, no. Sorry. Look at the nails.... they glow. In the dark. Um. Not so exciting now, after all of that."

Moving swiftly on.

Later that same night, LA and I had the (dis)pleasure of meeting a Dodgy Old Man. Urrrgh, I get the grils just thinking about him now. Dodgy Old Man was introduced to me, shook my hand and stepped in closer for a few cheek-to-cheek kisses. Now, it may be the Dutch way to greet people with three cheek-kisses (right cheek, left cheek, and right again) - but that's for people that you know and have met before. for people you have just met, you shake hands. Klaar.

Anywho, there's more to this story. So, he gets a few cheek kisses in, when his girlfriend pipes up with, "that's how we met... we went from cheek kisses to french kissing in one action!"

Ew.

But there's more. They demonstrated this 'action', in case we were having any difficulty trying not to picture it.

Ew.
Eew.

LA and I tried to carry on as politely as we could. We got the topic back on to safer ground and he mentioned his daughter. I asked how old she was.

Dodgy Old Man: "She's thirty four."
Dodgy Old Man's GF: "Same age as me!"
Dodgy Old Man: "Except she's five months older."

I had nothing. He's 61, she's 34. I had just seen them snogging for public benefit and now learnt that he might as well be shagging his own daughter. Lost for words, I felt there was nothing to do - except blow the party blower I happened to be holding.

"Pppppppppppp."

And on that note I walked away. I'm really not sure what the etiquette books would recommend for that situation. What do you think?


* Note: this is not unlike the email I recently sent to Little Big Sis, which - for lack of a better subject - was titled 'Week 11'. Little Big Sis is apparently in a very fertile crowd at the moment and so knows lots of pregnant women - all of whom give her weekly updates, "week 12 through to 36... ".

Little Big Sis initially thought my email was a pregnancy announcement. Sorry to disappoint everyone. I am not engaged and I am not pregnant. Just thought I'd clear that up.

Tweebuffelsmeteenskootmorsdoodgeskietfontein

Hi. So, it's been a while. Some would say, almost a month. Pathetic. I promise to start blogging more regularly again. I also promised to start going to gym and eat healthier. So... ja. Hmm.

I have no excuses. Things are quiet at work. Turns out people aren't so big on hiring new people when there's a credit crunch/economic crisis/recession/global warming, whatever the papers are calling it. So there aren't many vacancies going, but there are lots of desperate people around. It's not fun - a completely different side to recruitment to what I've been dealing with over the last two years.

When previously job hunters could pick and choose from three job offers at a time, now hiring managers can faff and fart about making a decision between ten top notch candidates for weeks - because they know the applicants will still be there, or if they're not then others just as employable will be.

In other news, I haven't broken anything - on me or any one else - for a while either. Makes for boring blogging. Oh sure, there was the odd glass or two (Mills keeps insisting that we need to purchase a new 'full' set of glasses, but I maintain the mix-and-match look is in this season) but that's nothing new.

Oooh, big news is that we're going to the French Open to watch (hopefully) some of the big boys play in the final weekend. Ticketing opened on March 1 at midnight and Mills and I spent the first three hours of the morning just trying to get onto the website. It was totally worth it. Come Friday 5th June we will be sitting in Phillipe Chatier centre court, hopefully watching Federer or Nadal in the semi-finals. Dear god, please don't let it be that twat Andy Murray. I wish someone would caption one of his 'gun show' poses with, "I am mouse, hear me squeak", preferably complimenting it with a rippling shot of Roger and Rafa on either side. I don't know why, but that twit really grinds my cogs.

Besides the French Open, Mills and I don't have any other big adventures planned for this year. Yet. We definitely need a holiday in the sun somewhere...

Speaking of holidays, I've recently learnt about three places that I would love to be able to say I've been to...

Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch (in Wales)
Tetaumatawhakatangihangakoauaotamateaurehaeaturipukapihimaungahoronukupokaiwhenuaakitanarahu(in New Zealand)
And Krungthepmahanakornamornratanakosinmahintarayutthayamahadilokphopnopparatrajathaniburiromudomrajaniwesmahasatharnamornphimarnavatarnsathitsakkattiyavisanukamprasit (in Thailand apparently)

Unfortunately, I can't say any of them. Having only just got the hang of Tweebuffelsmeteenskootmorsdoodgeskietfontein, I don't think I'm going to master those names any time soon. Maybe I could just write about it, once I've been there.

Protest?

I'm not sure I understand the logic...

I'm not presuming to know these people's life stories, but I'm guessing they're living in a camp because they have no where else to go. They have nothing. The authorities want to relocate them somewhere else. True, it's not nice to relocate. I for one will do pretty much anything to stay in my comfort zone. But I would not burn my home, burn everything I own, in order to protest about moving somewhere else. But I guess that's just me.

So now you still have to move, but the good news is... you have nothing to move. Well played.

In other news, he may be single-handedly destroying our ice caps by endorsing fuel-guzzling motor races to the North Pole and such like, but let's face it... Jeremy Clarkson can write a column. Bless him for adding Joburg to his list of politically incorrect rants.

Helicopters and octuplets

Today, during our morning meeting, an emergency helicopter landed outside our office door. Helicopter was followed by two ambulances, four or five police cars and a fire truck. Naturally, we assumed that there had been yet another accident at our intersection.

But the emergency personnel weren't paying much attention to the tram tracks. In fact, we couldn't find any particular reason for their appearance... until we looked in the other direction, three doors down from our office. People were rushing in and out and we established that someone had hanged themselves. Successfully.

Sad, desperate and a conversation point to say the least. What I couldn't understand was if it was 'just' a hanging (I don't mean to be callous, but as far as death goes there are certainly more violent stories listed in history), what was with all 20-odd cops and paramedics? I can understand that they needed a rescue chopper in case the dude/chick survived with a spinal injury and had to be airlifted to a hospital. But the two other ambulances? Were they each planning on taking a limb or appendage?

Poor bugger.

Moving on. I know I've been particularly bad at blogging regularly... my entries are starting to read like an Adrian Mole (aged 17 and 7months) extract.

March 22: I missed my mother's birthday again. It's hard to remember, especially it's on the same day as actual Mother's Day.
April 12: I am definitely going to write in my diary EVERY DAY...
April 25: I got to work today and realised I was wearing odd socks. Am I losing my mind? Fortunately eccentricity is expected when one is an intellectual and a genius at the same time.

... So, not blogging as regularly as I promised, but today I found something to get me fired up. This woman.

This really irritates me. It is dillusional, irrational or just plain selfish? When I first heard the hoo-hah about her having 8 babies, I thought "poor woman". Now it transpires that she's had 14 - FOURTEEN - children since 2001. I can understand (but cannot relate) to a childless couple wanting children. I can almost understand a single, lonely woman wanting a child to love, nurture and fill a gaping hole in her life (paraphrasing).

I cannot understand a woman having six within less than a decade of each other and then still proceeding with IVF, knowing full well the chances of multiple birth. Is she addicted to labour? Hi doc, I'm back, hook me up with some more of that sweet epidural you do so well.

She is one of the reasons why I do not want children. I don't want to breed while people like her are populating 14-fold. What is your life goal? "Let's just have babies... because we CAN!"
Consequences? What consequences?

Dipshit.

Animal euthenasia?

As I type, Miller is trying to hang frames on our wall. I've helping by staying out of the way. Aside from him having to reconstruct one of the frames, it seems to be going smoothly.

On to bigger issues (while Miller hammers away, my participation not required), I learnt of another idiosyncrasy in Dutch bureaucracy this weekend...

Jejo's cat has developed severe bladder infection, gallstones and other ailments (including old age, obesity and having a particularly small penis. Poor bugger). He expressed these ailments by peeing and pooping everywhere around Jejo's apartment. Literally, everywhere. One of the side affects of all these afflictions is that the cat refused to wee where it had already wee-weed. So every part of the flat was being marked.

The vet's diagnosis was not good: medication, tranquilisers, and keeping the cat somewhere isolated for the rest of its life. Apparently it is suffering of something that can only be medicated, not cured, so the best thing is to keep it in a quarantined area and resign yourself to the smell.

Jejo and her boyfriend simply do not have space to designate a whole confined area to kitty litter. Now from my experience, the best decision would be to put this sick pet down with a simple and humane injection. The owners could choose to be present, or not, depending on how close they are to the pet.

But apparently in the Netherlands, you cannot put down pets. They die of old age or illness, but are not put down. If they get too sick, or cannot be cared for any more, they have to be put in a pet 'asylum'. From there, I'm not completely sure what happens. I think the asylum carers just look after them until they die, but I'm guessing... sometimes the pet must get put down. Surely.

Apparently, as an owner, you are not legally allowed to make this decision for your ailing pet. It seems very strange to me - especially in a country that has legalised euthenasia.

So Jejo sent her cat to a dierenasiel this weekend - which I think is more traumatic than putting your pet down. It's almost a case of 'out of sight, out of mind.' Don't you think it's vierd?

After hearing this horror story of a cat-gone-wrong, I've decided that I don't want a pet just yet. The smell would be a bitch to get out of the carpets.

Getting connected

Recently Little Big Sis moved to the arse-end of nowhere - I mean, Limpopo - with her hubby. Obviously, this is a big move for a trendy young couple with two puppies. They had to get used to waking up to beautiful sunrises, drinking sundowners on their farmhouse patio, listening to the cries of the wild...


Anyway, when she's not sipping on G&T's and commiserating about how much she misses sirens and taxi's hooting through the night, Little Big Sis has been trying to get internet connection set up from home. As you might imagine, broadband is not handed out by the local petrol attendant in Limpopo. It took her four months to get a satellite internet connection, but by the sounds of it, she's been successful. She's back online.


Now, switch to the Netherlands. Third most populated country in Europe (after Malta and Monaco, but you knew that of course), hub of business and travel. The Hague, situated right in the middle of the Randstad region - international headquarters of oil conglomerates, EU judicial bodies... fairly central location in terms of first-world living.


And yet, it took us two months to get internet.


First we had to choose a provider - one of the joys of healthy competition. But wait... of the four or five 'competitive' providers, only one actually provides service to our area. In the middle of The Hague. Difficult location perhaps? Does the queen's palace get in the way of the signal?


Okay, so much for choice. We'll go for that one then. Now for a time line...


6th December: request internet and telephone connection. Receive confirmation that our request will be processed 8th January.

30th December: receive confirmation that our signal has been activated. Phone provider to ask if that signal comes with a telephone connection/modem, or should we just shove stripped wires into the back-end of our phone. Book technician appointment for 19th December.

19th January: sit home waiting for technician "between the hours of 11am and 6pm". Would hate to be too specific on this one. Techie arrives, rips hole in wall and informs me that he can't find the right wire to connect our internet up.

20th January: call landlord to request information on general phone set up for apartment block. Landlord yawns and says he's "99% sure that it's somewhere in the grey box downstairs." Thanks Dipshit.

23rd January: call provider to arrange new installation appointment, based on 99% information. Provider says they can't use their system at the moment, but they will call us back "within 5 days" to arrange a new appointment.

30th January: call provider to enquire about the call back we never received. Provider says they have a problem with their system and will have to call back. I get snotty with underpaid service rep and give up hope of getting internet before Easter.

4th February: provider actually calls back to arrange appointment for 8am tomorrow morning. I think it's a hoax call due to promptness of response and immediacy of suggested appointment, but accept anyway.

5th February, 8am: techie arrives, can't find general phone connection in "grey box downstairs" and quotes 400-EUROS for digging up the street in search of missing connection point. I convey quote to landlord. Landlord has a sudden rush of blood to the brain and remembers that there may be another point around the side of the flats, on the outside, behind the bike parking. Maybe. Isn't it just amazing how quoting a large payment can jog the memory?
5th February, 10am: technie locates 'maybe' telecom connection around side of house, re-rips a whole in our wall and within 15 minutes we have internet and landline access.

Now that wasn't so hard, was it?

The moral of the story? No matter where you live - 50km from the nearest ox-wagon watering hole, or next to Renaissance royal blood in urban overpopulation - you're likely to get the same service.

Globalisation. What a great leveller of the service industry.

It's A-LIVE!

I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm bac.

God, I've missed it. So, despite what you might think, I did not fall off the face of the earth, was not eaten by flesh-chowing sheep and have not run away with Roger Federer (but only because he was in Australia and I wasn't). No, instead I've just been fighting with first-world customer service and bureaucractic bullshit to get telecom connections set up.

It only took two months. We're actually quite delighted to be online today because we were only on our third attempt to book an appointment.

Anyway, short story - back online. Christmas was spent in England and the rest of the time I've been freezing my little tits off in Holland. We are successfully relocated into our new apartment close to the Dutch Queenie's working palace, which can prove slightly inconvenient when she has dignitaries over while I'm on my way to work.

So this is a very uninspired entry simply to say, I'm back baby. I'm back!

Learning curves

This weekend, I learnt:
- that I can not get masking tape to stick to anything. Except my fingers.
- I really do not have the patience for finicky things, like laying masking tape for painting.
- painting is unavoidably messy.
- whatever colour you chose, it will not look like it did on the colour swatch.
- when painting on a stepladder, do not just step backwards.

One room down, two more to paint, then we can move in!

Now that we're back at our still-furnished current home, I have time for some Christmas online shopping. So, dear user-friendly Woolworths website, please walk me through this:

I am looking for nice Christmas hampers, in December. December is the time for Christmas shopping, so I guess that the Woolies website would have a link to their lovely Christmas hampers online.

Go to home page (that's www.woolworths.co.za), if you'd like to follow along.
Login (as learnt from experience, if you don't log on at first step it will lose everything that you have packed into your shopping cart over the last 20 minutes. No remorse. It's my own fault really, for not knowing this).
Look! Right in the middle of the page, a handy little 'Christmas Destination' link. Click Here.
*click*
Now, hampers. Christmas hampers.... 'Fragrance Fair' No. 'Delicious meals and treats'? Hopeful, but no, that's recipes. '1001 reasons to love Christmas, I mean Woolworths'? Not right at this moment, thank you. Okay, let's try the top tool bar. 'Gifts'
*click*
Hmmm, no, no no. No hampers. And we seem to have lost the Christmas spirit altogether.
*back*
Let's try the shop for gifts link at the bottom of the page. Obscure, but this is what Christmas is all about... frustration in not finding what you're looking for.
*click*
Ooookay, might still be on the right track, general theme of red and silver decorations. Hazard an educated guess at Foodies Gifts.
*click*
HOORAY! Five clicks later and I've found what I'm looking for. That's not including the clicks that it took me to find it the first time, then lose it all because I failed to log on before starting the process.

Who does their web research? Without reading the stats, I'm guessing that online shopping baskets at this time of year largely include Christmas gifts. Therefore, put a easy to find link on the home page, make it easier for people to buy more. Call it MAR-KET-ING.

I was getting close to sending my family money in an envelope. Less clicks and aggrevation, and more for a lucky postal worker along the way. Woolies. You aggrevate me.

The website is still aggrevating me because I am STILL trying to put through my purchase. I realise that I have confused the system because I am trying to request a different address to the one that I used in 2005. Things change. It would be great if their database could reflect that.

Woolies, please ensure that my purchases get to their recipients in time. That would make up for your useless website.

WooHoo!

After many viewings, much negotiation and frustration, we have finally found a new flat in The Hague. It's little (most places in the city are), but it's liveable. We have the keys, but not before paying a whopping 2500 euros. In the Netherlands, if you rent a place through a real estate agent you, the lessee, have to pay the commission - standard one month rent. Plus the month deposit and first month up front. Ouch.

But we have the keys. Woo hoo! It's on a trendy street, with many restaurants and boutiquets and conventiently directly across from our local pub. Hmmm... I have already informed Mills's mates (yes they are HIS mates in this case), that they will not be crashing at our place after O'Caseys closes every Saturday. Forget about it.

Now for the painting - although the landlord pays for the paint, we have to paint the place ourselves (or arrange for someone else to do it). No cardboard signs attached to lamp posts with "Peter the Painter" and a cell number scrawled across it.... Sometimes, I miss cheap labour.

Once the paint work is done we can move in. It's going to be interesting to see how and where we are going to fit everything in. I think we might end up looking like an eccentric second-hand furniture store, but Mills reckons that I am just being my usual paranoid self. We'll see...

But WOOHOO! We have a new flat.

Fleshy fashion

I managed to wangle an invite to a factory warehouse sale.. it was awesome. I got two pairs of (Brazilian leather) shoes, one handbag, one pair of leather gloves (a must in these winters), one top, a bracelet, a ring and two sets of cufflinks (I had to come home with something from Mills)... all for 52 euros. That's R670 of brandwear folks. Awesome, I tell you. Awesome.

It was also another learning experience in Dutch culture. Being a warehouse, there weren't many facilities, and there certainly weren't any changerooms. I'm not a fan of wating in lines for a changeroom anyway, so I try on things as discreetly as possible, when possible. Discretion is not in the Dutch vocab. Literally. If you find a set of jeanpants that you want to try on, and you're in the middle of a warehouse, you just drop your pants and try them on. No shame, no worries.

Same applies to shirts. One lady browsed in the middle of the hall by the cashiers, completely topless (bra only), without any rush to re-clothe after unsuccessfully trying on one top.

I was there with a Scottish friend and a Dutch friend. The Scot and I thought this was hysterical and giggled like school girls at the sight of all these undies (male and female unlike). The Dutchie couldn't understand the fuss. Her argument: you walk around the beach in a bikini, right?

Our response: Yes, but this isn't a beach. It's just different.

Flesh is a complete non-issue with Dutch people. After almost two years, I'm still not used to it.

Frolicking

It started snowing on Friday. Slushy, sleeting, hail-ish snow. It's pretty in flight, but mushy in landing. I was not impressed.

But, by Sunday, the Netherlands was in a little mini-blizzard. It didn't last very long, but as Africans in Europe, of course Mills and I had to get out into the snow. We attempted to catch snowflakes on our tongues (massive fail), and I received my first snowball to the back of my head. Fortunately, I was so well insulated that I didn't actually feel it and just saw splatterings of ice as they bounced off my head.

Here's a picture of me in the snow...

I was born for this weather.

Blyg oisug howughowug

Fing... ers.... are... rusty... can... 't... re... re... re... mem... bah... how... to... ytpe...

Since the last post I have: planned my forthcoming holiday up Kilimanjaro, had high tea with the Queen B's grandkids and completed my memoirs. Or more likely, I have been too lazy to write anything.

After Mama Afrika's final visit, Mills and I were inspired to see Ladysmith Black Mambazo, briefly performing in Rotterdam. I wasn't sure what to expect. I know and love the vocals of the group, but how would they translate it to a European audience, who only know of the performers due to a collaboration with Paul Simon? The answer was surprisingly obvious - charisma and showboating. After an energetic first half, they patiently taught the audience a lullaby; a short couplet repeated syllable by syllable. We were then challenged to out-sing Ladysmith Black Mambazo. A matinee panto crowd couldn't have been more enthusiastic. I thought it was a great way to capture attention... and market their new CD (on sale at the door as you leave, don't be shy now folks!).

The real highlight of the show, however, involved members of the audience trying to master Zulu warrior dancing. Proving yet again that white men can't dance. I almost fell out of my seat laughing.

Otherwise, we've been having a fun time sorting out flat/relocation issues/coupled with visa issues. Long story made short: we were informed that if Mills is unemployed, my visa becomes invalid. This came from a fairly reliable source, but investigation has turned up three other similarly reliable sources who suggest this is not the case. We're not sure who to believe or how to proceed... rather stressful seeing as Mills will be unemployed in two weeks time. So 2009 could either see me happily setting up house in a new flat in Den Haag, or frantically packing my bags before expulsion from Cloggieland.

On the flat hunt, we may have found suitable accommodation and are currently in negotiation with the landlords and their makelaars (real estate sharks) regarding monthly rent. In this country, if successful in finding accommodation through a makelaar, you are charged the standard one month rent up front (fair enough), borg (deposit of one month rent) and an 'admin' fee (commission) of one month rent. So if you're paying 800-euros (about standard for 60-square metres in The Hague), you have an initial outlay of 2400 before you get the key.

In the case of this particular flat, it has a great bathroom (WITH BATH - very rare in this town), but a slight issue in that the washing machine and tumble dryer for the entire apartment block sit in an indentation into 'our' flat's entrance... with a thin plastercast wall doing nothing to stop noise from the machines. Not ideal if you have an uber-hygienic insomniac as a neighbour (a very real threat, judging by my luck with previous flats).

So, we'll see if we can get the rent to reflect his inconvenience. We're still looking at other places and have until the middle of December to vacate our current home. The next few weeks should be fun.

Bruski - just for your boredom levels, I shall endeavour to post more regularly.

Mama Afrika

A series of events lead to me joining NCF for a concert on Friday. NCF received a set of tickets from her new hubby, which he was unfortunately unable to attend. I was invited to accompany her on that evening. I couldn't believe my luck and delightedly accepted.

So, off we pottered to watch what turned out to be Miriam Makeba's final public appearance. She performed at the Paridiso in Amsterdam, an entertaining and charismatic singer to the last. I didn't expect to be as emotional as I was when she hobbled, bare-foot, onto the stage. Hell, I can only hope to be 76 and still shaking ass (literally) like she did on Friday. I think she has earned her rest.

The only indication she gave that she might be slowing down, was when she closed the show and mentioned that her "sons" (the men accompanying her on stage), would still remain the Miriam Makeba band... with or without her.

I can't believe she's passed away. What a character on stage. Of course her songs will live on, with her sons and others, but I doubt that anyone else will every manage to capture her energy, her voice and most uniquely, her endearing facial expressions during heart-felt performances.

Hamba kahle, Mama Afrika.

New horizons

Mills and I are looking for a new apartment.

We recently made the huge decision to stay in the Netherlands for a while longer. This is a full 180 from going home on Mills's expat contract.

As of December 5th, we will no longer be expats. We will be gewone internationals living in the Netherlands. Mills has handed in his notice and as of December will be unemployed. I have extended my contract as recruitment consultant. Our beautiful flat will no longer be ours to call home as this was a lovely expat perk.

Welcome back to the Real World, here's a full cream pie in your face.
Splat.

So we are looking for a new apartment - one that we can afford.

We've seen a number of places. Some are great - and too expensive. Others are nice-ish, affordable-ish and pretty blah. Some are just plain weird.

Like the one with a shower room. Room, with shower head and faucets. Oh and a connection for the washing machine. No towel rails, or water retainers. At least you can watch your washing while you shower, although I don't know how happy I would be showering with electrical appliances.

Another one had the toilet outside of the apartment. Not a shared facility, but the toilet is in the entrance landing, while the rest of the flat is behind the front door. On the upside, this situation would probably help eliminate any trailing... odours.

A personal favourite was the shower cabin in the kitchen. Kitchen plus clear perspex shower. Very... interactive. I think the scariest thing is that Cloggies don't seem to find this set up weird. A shower in your kitchen is apparently normal.

By-passing the comical kitchen/shower situation if you have guests staying over, the bathroom basin was in the lounge cupboard. Odd? All things considered, I think it was actually the large playground outside the terrace that really killed that option for me.

The search continues.

Club Bed

We had our company trip last weekend. We knew nothing about where we were going, but got told to pack the following:

• passport and/or EU ID card
• casual/comfy clothes for travelling
• sport shoes - very NB
• sport clothes
• respectable sleeping gear... you won't be sleeping alone
• dashing clothes for Friday evening
• even more dashing clothes for Saturday evening
• ps. the temp is expected to be between 15-23 degrees.

Now, you must understand, the thought of temps between 15-23 was just so exciting after suffering a few days of very chilly early winter, that my colleagues and I were just about peeing our broekies with anticipation. And what was this dashing event we were supposed to be ready for?

On Friday morning, still without a clue, we were picked up from various destinations and driven to Rotterdam Airport, where we learnt that we were going to South France... to a Club Med.

Nice? Naaaaaice.

I didn't know much about Club Meds, but I had heard rumours about luxury accomodation and facilities. The dress code was to ensure that we were suitably attired for dinner each evening. What I hadn't heard about was the food. Full three-course buffet meals, three times a day. All-you-can-eat lobster, paella, seafood, steak, pasta, pizza, salad, cheese, desserts... drinks, beers, liquors, wine, cocktails included. Omigod.

Unfortunately, there was a major mix up with our luggage. This lead to the first team building exercise. There were 25 people in our group, staying in 13 different rooms - all strewn across the resort (about the size of the Cabanas at Sun City). Instead of leaving our luggage in one place, the very helpful French staff took two items of luggage to each room, regardless of who was actually staying in each room. So my roomie and I ended up with KC and AM's luggage, JJ ended up with mine, and my roomie was left running around in uncharacteristic stormy weather trying to establish which room was blessed with her personal belongings. Fun game.

The Club Med was awesome, but there is something to be said for such a large resort with so many family activities... people bring their whole family. There were far too many children under foot for my liking.

The food and free cocktails soon appeased our frayed nerves and we made full use of the all-inclusive price. The dashing outfits were slightly tainted by the glow in the dark jewelry that we managed to get hold of. Classy. The staff hated us... "these English twats, who drink all night and scream all day". Unfortunately for the French barman, we have a number of native French speakers on our staff, who responded accordingly to his pissy comment. We made sure to keep him busy with cocktail orders aaaaaaall night, being as obnoxious as possible. He hated us, but we were okay with it.

It was round about this time that I started to witness why Club Med is called Club Bed by some Europeans. BB was soon having horizontal sex with one of the pool boys (cliche!), but BB is single, 30-something and very able to mingle with whom she choses. Other colleagues were equally indiscreet, but with people within our group, four of them pairing off throughout the weekend. It seriously disturbs me. They all have partners, who they talk about openly. One is married, but basically only together with his wife because of their daughter. I don't think this was his first indiscretion, but it was certainly his first with one of my team mates. Another colleague has just moved in with his girlfriend. He tells everyone that she is The One, and then he has a one night stand with his engaged co-worker in admistration.

Ew.

They are all consenting adults and I try to tell myself that I really shouldn't judge. But I do. I don't know any of them that well - and after this weekend, I don't want to. Am I being too harsh? Am I condescending because I don't feel the need to frolick openly and butt-naked in the heated pool with colleagues at the end of the night? Am I just lucky because I have a ginger hottie (who is growing a MOustache for the month of MOvember) waiting for me at home?

I don't get it.

I (and most of the party) stuck to more wholesome activities of the sporting nature... tennis, volleyball, football, archery and swimming, saunas and Turkish Baths... but only when the frolickers weren't in there, steaming up the facilities further. Ew.

Define funny

I think there's something wrong with my sense of humour. This is not a new realisation. My concern actually started around the time that Jeremy Mansfield was first plumping his Laugh Out Loud show. I almost tried to watch a whole episode once, but I just couldn't do it. I don't get how embarrassing people, pretending to steal their car/wife/dog, making someone believe that Ferdi Ferdinand has flung himself out of a window, qualifies as funny.

Same goes for Ashton Kutcher's PUNKd. I can see why it makes good TV, dramatically inclined people acting out unwitting personal dramas leads to easy ratings, but funny? Not so much.

There's a regular show every evening in the Netherlands, called Trick or Treat. Similar premise. They humiliate/aggrevate/irritate unsuspecting members of the public, and then surprise them with a cheque of 10,000 euros. For example, pretending to be municipal officials, with a permit to dig up a happily retired couple's prize-winning garden (complete with threatening digging machine hanging over their shrubbery). The old lady was threatening to phone the police and the old man was just about having a heartattack when the pretty lady jumps out and goes, "surprise! we're just kidding! Here's your check." A nice price for not knowing you're on camera, but again... funny? Not so much for the old man who was still clutching his chest when the show ended. It's more thuggery with a smile in the name of 'good fun'.

Russel Brand and Jonathan Ross. Calling a grandpa and leaving abusive messages on his answering machine..? Why is this entertaining? I just don't get it.

An overweight chairman breaking his chair and disappearing from shot in a too-serious news show... Now THAT'S funny.

Interesting people

I have a confession. Sometimes I try to distance myself from South Africans. Like watching the Currie Cup final this weekend, at a local Irish pub. We were unfortunate enough to arrive after a group of young South African girls, who were already dominating the front tables at the big screen. Right from the start, it was obvious that it was going to be a long match to watch.

First, they were noisy. Very very noisy. They were a group of about 15 twenty-somethings I guess, who did not speak, or talk, but rather screeched and squawked. Mostly in Afrikaans, with a colourful vocab that made even my ears burn.

When you're in a pub with expats, a large number of whom who can speak Dutch and understand Afrikaans, this is extremely embarrassing. The Dutch think of Afrikaans as baby talk. Less developed and civilised. The kind of talk where you would pat the head of the person attempting to communicate and reward them with a patronising lollypop. When Afrikaans is used in this context, at this volume, it could seem to add weight to how uncivilised this little previous Dutch outpost still is.

We soon concluded that these girls weren't actually rugby fans. They certainly weren't there for the after-game discussion and contemplation of the Springbok squad. We gathered this because the girls SCREAMED every time the Shark/Bull logo was shown, every time the change room was shown and every time the spectators were shown, but oddly enough were not interested when the teams ran onto the field and the match actually began.

Instead, this was when these delicate wallflowers decided to out-support each other by screaming into each other's face, pulling zaps across the room and shouting SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP! at each other. It was delightful. Other South Africans in the room cringed, while some non-South Africans went home - deciding they weren't that interested in the rugby to sit through a full 80 minutes of this torment.

One of the girls, with the same size and endearing charm of Kelly Osborne on drugs, took to screaming in the faces of random, unrelated supporters sitting behind her. Particularly shrieking (in a tone that set the neighbourhood dogs howling) at everyone in the pub to SHUT UUUUUUP! every time the Sharks were lining up for a penalty. The fact that everyone stared at her in stunned silence did not deter her from shouting this catchy refrain through the kick (missed or not). Kelly later ended her evening (a good effort at 7pm) by puking all over herself.

Truly charming. And so proudly South African too.

On the flip side, that same night I met a Swedish gentleman who did his nation proud by explaining to me that he was staunchly right-wing and did not believe in racial and class mingling. And that Nelson Mandela should still be on the recognised terrorist list. I asked him if he truly believed that a 90-year-old man, who can hardly stumble across a stage, was really a risk to world peace... but that was just as Kelly Osborne graced the pub with her gastro-technic skills so we never got to finish that conversation.

All types, eh?

Lost in translation

Today I met a lady from the Philipines. Lovely lady, although her English and general knowledge needs a bit of work. She asked me where I was from and our conversation went like this:

Me: I'm from South Africa.
Her: I don't know where that is.
Me: It's south, in Africa.
Me continuing, thinking she might know parts of SA: Have you heard of Cape Town, or Table Mountain?
Her: No.
Me: Oh. Well, it's a pretty country.
Her [smiling enthusiastically]: Yes! You are pretty. You look like Barbie!
Me: Riiiight..

I decided not to get into the fact that my dark hair and flat chest have never made me an obvious contender for Barbie look-a-like talent, and also chose to ignore the point that she apparently thought I had said that I was pretty.

Later, I told my colleagues I was going to Schuytstraat, which is traditionally pronounced 'Shcout straat'. Being of foreign origins, I tend to make these things up and my pronounciation was closer to 'Shkate straat'. My Dutch colleagues' eyes watered as they tried not to laugh at my attempt.

Today I learnt that sh-kate (schijt-) means 'shit'. I told them that I was heading up Shit Street.