Know your passport, Mr Armstrong

Last night, Mills had a little mini-rant (mini, in comparison to the rage he flies into about hippies and Australian and Australian hippies), about a tweet that he saw from Lance Armstrong: "Well, made it in to SA. Not the friendliest welcome I've ever received but we've all seen immigration officers like that."

You see, Lance's passport was full so there was nowhere for the SA official to stamp on his entry. Apparently you are supposed to have at least two blank pages when entering SA, and I think this stands for several other countries too. Yes, it does feel that some of these regulations are in place simply to inconvenience us (me) personally. Yes Lance, we've all had our experience with pain-in-the-ass immigration officers. Trust me... every single bloody time I take a step to the left or the right. But it's highly unlikely that any passport official in any country would let it slide. Can you imagine? Sitting with their little dated stamp ready to whack down on any available spot, licking their lips in anticipation of their important step in your commute... until they realise that there is nowhere to stamp....

"Oh I give up," says the passport official with a wink and a smile as he hands back the unmarked pamphlet, in this hypothetical and completely-unrealistic situation, "so we'll just let you through this one time. We all know that passports are just another means of intergovernmental control anyway, ensuring that you will never find out who really instigated the 9/11 bombings and caused global warming. Have a nice day now!"

Not. Likely.

The fact is, annoying or not, your passport is full. It is not something that has a little monitor that beeps at you when you are starting to reach maximum capacity. It is something that you should consciously be aware of. As much as I hate airports, I love travelling, and I have to take responsibility for my travel documents. Even the almighty Lance Armstrong, be he a god in so many other fields, still has to assume mere mortal status and go through border control just like the rest of us bleeting sheep. As such, he or (if he really is far too busy and above checking his own documents) his PA or manager perpetrated a major oversight by not being aware that his passport is running out. This is not the fault of the poor bloody (admittedly bureaucratic because it's his bloody job) passport official. Incompetent he was not. He was just doing a shitty, shitty job and it was made all the worse because he had to do it to someone who is held in such infallible high esteem. Sucks to be you, dude.

Unlike people with an EU/GB or US passports, who often take visa-less entry for granted, I have the unenviable privilege of proving residence, gainful employment, liquidity and health clearance on an all too regular basis. With the various visas and permits ranging from EU to UK to US approval, the pages in my passport are worth at least R15,000 easily. Never mind the time, sweat, blood and tears that have gone into acquiring permission for each of those precious documents.

On our recent trip to SA, I realised that I only have five blank pages remaining in my passport. The rest are full. Choc-a-blok. Considering that I've only had it for four years, the chances are very likely that my passport is going to fill up before the expiration date in 2016 and I'm guessing that there will not be a public outcry on my behalf when I am informed that entry is denied due to lack of stamping space. So, despite six years remaining, I have already put in an application for a passport renewal. Not just any renewal, I've asked for a maxi-pad, I mean maxi-passport. 64 pages, baby.

If anything, I have learnt to play embassies and consulates at their own game. I have a visa folder. It includes, but is not limited to:

Passports (old and current, relevant pages copied);
Dutch residence permit (in original and both sides copied);
South African ID book (and copy);
Unabridged birth certificate (certified and copied);
Certificate of non-marriage status (certified and copied, this is apparently important in the Netherlands for some reason);
Police clearance (certified and copied);
Three months of recent bank statements (and copies);
Letter of motivation for why I am applying for passport renewal/more pages in passport/visa for particular country;
Letter from employer indicating gainful and ongoing employment;
Letter from hosts in respective country (if appropriate);
Planned itinerary or booked flights (if appropriate);
At least four bio-metrically accepted ID photos (no teeth showing, no head gear, hair away from face, generally a peculiarly bemused facial expression);
Sometimes this folder will also include a letter from a doctor stating my continued health and (on one occasion) x-rays showing a TB-free set of lungs.

I smile, and have a friendly chat, and then absolutely drown them in paperwork. "... and here are two copies of my ID, here's by birth certificate in copy and original, here's my father's ID number and place of birth, here's my most recent pay slip and a copy for you, here's my contract indicating intention to extend... " Inevitably they don't know what to do with it all, hand it back and tell me my application has been approved.

So the maxi-passport will take up to 20 weeks (I nearly typed "20 years"... it feels about as long). But It's not a straight forward renewal - I've requested that I keep my current passport as it has at least three valid visas. So, I am hopefully going to have a massive passport for my stamp collection, as well as the old passport with the ongoing visas still running in that. I can't wait wait to explain that to passport control.

Maybe I'm too unsympathetic towards people who have no idea about when their passport will expire, or exactly what is required for entry into any given country. Maybe I'm far too aware of my passport, because I travel on third world status. I know that if I need a new visa in my passport I will need at least - at least - one blank double page. Not two pages somewhere in my passport, but two pages directly opposite each other.

I also know that if my passport is expiring within the next few weeks or months, I'm most likely not going to be allowed entry into various countries because they require that your passport run past a certain date after your expected date of return. This little point came as a rude surprise to a British friend who was recently not even allowed to board her plane for Cape Town as her passport expired within three weeks from that date. Here's a tip to any other international travellers to SA... not only do you need to have space to stamp in your passport, but you also need to be aware that it cannot expire within one month of your scheduled return date. They will not even let you on the plane.

It's not me... it's the system.

During my studies I spent a lot of time reading about parliamentary models and electoral procedures. I enjoyed the topics and even came to understand politics - in theory. But I still do not understand politics in practice. In practice, watching the people who actually do the politicking, I can only sigh.

Take Julius Melanoma for example. Why do people pay attention to him? Why do people support him? Stop putting him on a pedestal! If we all close our eyes and block our ears, he'll lose interest and hopefully start investigating an open electrical socket. Is he really going to be prepped for presidency? I'm not even going to pretend that IQ has anything to do with running a country. We all know that's bollocks (just ask the US of A). I just hope they get a better speech writer, and find some way to turn him off at appropriate moments. Unfortunately, Julius and I have one thing in common (the very thought is enough for me to revisit my mindset)... neither of us want to let go of our "youth". Step down Melanoma, you're no longer one of the young 'uns. Please stop moulding (in every sense of the word) their minds.

Before I become too worked up about this one particular individual, let's look outside of SA politics. Can you guess where the following gents are from?

1. A criminal history from his teens, including assault and robbery (the convictions were later overturned, but have subsequently been revisited due to a question of 'falsification of court documents'); formerly Prime Minister, forced to step down in 2004 after a vote of no-confidence; accused of being accomplice (if not perpetrator) in the assault and rape of a woman in 2004; reinstated as Prime Minister in 2006 and most recently elected as President... is any of this sounding familiar?
2. Accused of inciting hate speech, bigotry, racism, banned for entry into the UK and currently (and quickly) gaining popularity amongst his constituents. Incidentally and interestingly, for all his hate speech against non-Aryans, he is of mix-race origin (isn't it always the case?). Also regularly accused of a very bad hair-do.
3. Without actually making it your full time job, I don't think anyone can keep track of the amount of times that this guy has been accused of fraud, propaganda, organised crime, falsification of records, corruption, bribery, adultery (including solicitation of prostitutes)... the list just goes on and on and on... I think when it comes to political sleazebags, he tops the lot.

Drum roll please....

1. Viktor Yanukovych. Formerly PM, now President of the Ukraine.
2. My local pet peeve: Geert Wilders, currently gaining power and notoriety in local elections in the Netherlands.
3. Silvio "gives me the absolute chills just thinking about him" Berlusconi. Prime Minister of Italy since 2008.

And they're all in Europe.

I think what bothers me the most is is not the fact that these are men who are blatantly in it for the betterment of themselves (unlike Malema, who is only driving a C-class Merc as a political statement against all those racist and slutty people set on destroying his good name), but they have all had a history of being corrupt or violent or just plain idiotic BEFORE they were voted into power. So the masses accepted this and said with a shrug, "meh, there's no one else to vote for", or they don't vote at all and just let the said-politician bulldoze their way past any opposition.

Bear this in mind when lambasting the state of politics in South Africa. More than it being a problem with 'our' government, I think it's just the type of personality that politics attract. Would you want to get into politics? Why not? Probably because you can't bear the thought of being involved in that name-calling, mud-slinging, self-marketeering environment. But who would that appeal to? More often than not it's self-aggrandising 'entrepeneurs' who end up representing you, me and country. While we cringe.

I'm not saying that all politicians are wince-worthy. I like to think that there truly are some noble campaigners and I commend them for even trying to represent the people as Plato intended. I just don't think they last long in the system - they either get out or get sucked in to the dark side. The Malemas, the Wilders, the Berlusconis will somehow always float to the top. Unfortunately.

Bits and bytes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Notes from SA

First, I'd like to thank everyone in Joburg for arranging a wonderful week with nothing but sunshine while we were out there. From the sounds of it, it stopped raining the day before we arrived and started again the day after we left. As much as we miss a good highveld thunderstorm, rain is not a novelty or a tourist attraction coming from the Netherlands. So we really appreciated your cooperation in this particular area. My brain is still in SA. No doubt about that. I am in denial about this grey, miserable wet weather pissing about outside my window. And to those of you who are subsequently blaming me for taking the sun from Jozi, I'm sorry to say that I must've dropped it somewhere over the DRC cos it certainly ain't here with me!

Let's see... some highlights from the week...

Going to an old varsity mate's wedding.

These are always great as they are a good opportunity for a reunion kick up. They also make for great awkward opportunities - such as me asking a (formerly) good friend whether he was seeing anyone at the moment. "Um, yes... Tarryn. My fiancee. Who I've been with since varsity". Oh. Right. Her. Good. And obviously she didn't leave much of an impression on me. Whoops.

Having a twisting dance-off with one of the waitresses at the venue. Needless to say, she's black and she won. I tried. I just looked stupid.
...but not as stupid as the Fatkid who attempted a mop dance-off with one of the other staff waitresses. Yes. A mop. Dance off. Why? What do you usually accessorize with on the dance floor? Pah. Amateurs.

Going to watch a Bulls game at Loftus.

As much as I try to fight it, Pretoria is strong in my gene-pant heritage. So I coerced a bunch of friends and family and we went marching to Pretoria - where we spent more time commenting on the fans than the players. In our group of ten, we had 1 x Australian and 1 x AA-approved gentleman of darker hue. This is important to note, as the two members happened to sit down next to each other as we were engulfed in the sea of blue on the stands.

Now, we had explained to our interested Aussie that these people are VERY serious about their rugby. Very. Like, you see that large gentleman walking with a very small newborn baby (swaddled in blue, of course)? You see how he is holding the baby out to the Bulls mascot like an reverent Catholic might hold their child up for papal blessing at the Vatican? That child is going to be a God-fearing, Loftus-loving, horn-wearing, bakkie-driving Bulls fan for life. And despite how he may be inclined, he will not be gay and he will marry a lovely poppie from Hatfield. End of story. Being a Bull supporter is more than a "yeah, I watch 'em on the weekend sometimes..." kind of thing.

So when our Aussie decided to cheer as loudly as she could at the announcement of the Brumbies' names (the one lone voice in a stadium of boos), our resident AA-approved gent became a little nervous. I offered to switch seats with him - and before I could finish the thought he was out of his seat and standing over mine, muttering something about feeling like the X on his back had grown exponentially in relation to his proximity with the one Brumbies' supporter. I couldn't argue with that. As the game progressed, and the fans became more and more aggro at the Bulls (who were down in the first half), our Aussie supporter's cheers became just a little bit more muted. Even if the vloeking is in Afrikaans, anger does not need a translation. Ag, but you know, eventually the Bulle came through and it was only an early game in the Super14 after all, so any Bulls fans who did notice the Aussie in our midst seemed to find it more amusing than aggravating. It helped that she is cute and quite naaaice to look at too.

My favourite quote from the game came from X when, after yet another Bull try, I asked him if he would care to join me in celebrating with a clenched fist in the air while shouting, "Amaaaaaandla!". He declined, and with a wry smile explained, "I choose life." Again, I couldn't argue.

Good times. Also, I nearly got taken home by a lekker-ding covered from head-to-toe in blue body art (the traditional war attire for the most ardent of fans). Fortunately Mills was there to frighten him off with his massive bulk. It was good to be home.

The 2010 build up.

It's awesome. It's positive, it's enthusiastic, it's pretty. There are soccer balls everywhere. Even on top of the ferris wheels at Gold Reef City. We saw Soccer City from a distance and the Calabash stadium looks amazing. I've heard that the stadium in Nelspruit has a huge giraffe design around its perimeter. The Gautrain - progressing, ongoing, again positive. Brilliant in theory. Can't wait to see it in practice.

Yes, I can say this from a 'tourist' point of view. And yes, I would probably also be griping about the anticipated throngs of ignorami who will soon be flooding the cities, most likely pointing at ferral dogs and asking inane questions like, "is that a hyeeeeena?" But to the nay-sayers about whether we'll be ready or not for the influx of tourists, bear in the mind that the Greeks were still digging, erecting and constructing frantically just two weeks before they hosted the summer Olympics in 2004. And they had that little Goldmann-Sachs trump card up their sleeve. By the day of the opening ceremony, there was not a trace of construction to be seen. It's a massive project. No country makes it look easy. Not even the most financially lubricated.

Ayoba!

Snow is over-rated

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

I leave you with two images:

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

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

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

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

**I have actually done this before.

On women (and their bodies)

According to the BBC: "Abortion rates for women aged 40 to 44 match those for the under 16s, figures for England and Wales show."

The article goes on to state that this could be due to the health risks for both mom and foetus, but "anecdotal evidence" suggests that it generally just boils down to 'oh... I didn't realise I could still get pregnant at my age'.

It just blows me away - if you don't want to get pregnant, use contraception. It's really not hard. Internal, external, oral, hormonal et al. how many ways and means are there nowadays? You can pretty much use any orifice of your fancy (although this range of choice may get too complicated for some people... swallowing a diaphragm or putting a condom on a banana has not been known to help much. That said, if you can't figure out how to operate an IUD then you automatically fail the IQ/EQ test. Sirens should sound and you should be installed with a chastity belt which does the family planning for you. End parenthesis.).

I wonder if there is any social/cultural background correlation between teen pregnancies and the women who are having these 'Surprise! You're pregnant!' abortions in their forties. I'm guessing there is - which just goes to show that wisdom does not in fact come with age. I don't have issues with women who voluntarily (or actively) seek pregnancy in their mid to later years, but any woman in her forties who is "surprised" that unprotected sex has resulted in one up her spout deserves a severe swat to the forehead. Hormonal teenagers can get away with a claim of ignorance. You cannot. *FLICK*

Then...

... there is allegedly a motion in Australia to ban pictorial depictions of women with small breasts because "such images encourage pedophilia."

Now, I'm not sure how I feel about this. Being a woman with two very neatly proportioned A-cups, I feel enraged and belittled all at the same time. I have three personal interpretations of this supposed story:

1) What you're saying is that if a child molester ever accidentally caught a glimpse of my neat little noombies, I would get him (or her, I guess) all riled up? I find this very unlikely.
2) Okay, so what you're saying... because my boyfriend finds me attractive and quite likes to get a viewing (inadvertent or not), he has pedo-tendencies? Equally unlikely.
3) Full grown females with small boobs do not really count as full bodied "women" and cannot therefore been depicted as "adult". So... what you're saying is that I have a disability? In that case, I shall be applying to the Australian government, who seem to recognise this handicap, for compensation shortly.

No? So what exactly are you saying then?

To quote a friend on this matter, "it's like killing Aborigines to end discrimination".
Aaaah, now wouldn't that be funny if it were true... um... oh wait.

"Only in [insert appropriate country here]..."

Well, if I was feeling unjustly put-upon yesterday, just imagine how these students have been feeling. Being Iranian in origin, some universities in the Netherlands have decided that these learners cannot be allowed to study nuclear physics. I particularly love the infamous use of the ubiquitous "them" in the last paragraph:

Twente University went even further by closing its doors to all students from Iran, arguing it is impossible to keep them* away from open lectures.

[*my Italics]

I know it's just the way it was written by this source, but it always sounds like a judgment, doesn't it? Them. Those people. That kind. Generally uttered in hushed tones, while eyeballing one of them... whomever they happen to be on that particular occasion.

It's stories like this that make me realise that the application of idiotic, bureaucratic policies is not particular to South Africa. I can't say whether it should make you feel better or more horrified when you realise that governing systems are the same world wide.

Let's not forget the previous story about safety vests being handed out to immigrants of darker hue - which still makes me laugh every time I go outside looking like this:

Fortunately I am an immigrant of lighter hue, so people can see my pale skin reflected in their headlights... right?

Getting back to the Iranian students (many of whom are actually Dutch), I feel the need to point out that they are not completely ostracised in the Netherlands... at least they can still sign up for a T-Mobile contract.

Why I will not be joining the T-Mobile network

About two weeks ago, I finally gave in to the temptation. I decided to get an iPhone. And because Steve Jobs is a man who is big on controlling the market wherever possible, there is only one "reputable" distributor of the iPhone in the Netherlands - similar to UK and US markets. Now, knowing that something will always go wrong with anything I order, I decided to avoid any "unlocked" iPhone offers. I needed something with a promise of after-sales and customer support.

So I went through the official distributor. T-MOBILE. I decided that the easiest process would be online. That's the beauty of the first world. You can buy things like phone contracts online. I filled in the forms - the usual... address, phone number, work address, mother's maiden name, bank details, intended name(s) of unborn child(ren), the works. I also had to add ID details, which I duly did.

E-voilà!

My registration was accepted and I received an email informing me that I could now pay them the upfront 60-euros. How very exciting, I was one step closer to getting my Kumquat iPhone!

At said time of delivery (after wasting a day waiting at home), I flew down the stairs ready with ID and open arms.

*SSSSCCCCCREEEEEEEEEEECH!* ...you knew someone was going to hit the brakes on this happy story, right?

The delivery guy (iPhone tantalisingly in hand) looked at my ID... the same details that I had submitted on my online registration... and said, "oh, but this is a residence permit. You're South African."

Yes. I did not make a secret of this. I eyeballed him warily, knowing full well what was coming and barely concealing my urge to introduce my kneecap to his overall-covered groin.

"You're South African," he repeated. (YES. WE'VE BEEN THROUGH THIS) "I have you on the system as having an EU ID. This means I can't give you the phone today. You have to go through a different order system."

I didn't argue with him. I knew it was pointless. He would only do what it said on his clipboard. Trying to keep the furious trembling to a minimum, I went back up to my flat and phoned the T-MOBILE customer non-service centre.

After being told (three times) how important I was to their organisation, I got through to a CSR. Maintaining my pitch in what I thought was a fairly even squeal, I explained what I had just gone through and friendly Fred said he would check... Five minutes later he was back. "Um, yes, there has been a bit of a mess with your ID. If you are South African, then you can get an iPhone but your order has to be under your South African passport. So what you need to do... " I'm sorry, what? What I need to do..? Your system accepted my ID and my money, and now I must fix your fuck up?

"Um, yes... so what you need to do is cancel the order and then after a few days you can start a new order again, but this time you need to point out that you are South African."

End conversation.

Now, you're probably wondering at this stage why I didn't just list my South African passport from the start, right? Well, here's the kicker. T-MOBILE is apparently very sporadic about which nationalities are recognised. Here is the full list as offered when ordering on www.t-mobile.nl:

America (United States of); Belgium; Bosnia-Herzegovina; Bulgaria; China; Croatia; Egypt; England (Great Britain); France; Germany; Ghana; Greece; Great Britain; Hungary; Ireland; Indonesia; Iran; Iraq; Israel; Luxembourg; Mexico; Morocco; Netherlands; Nigeria; North Ireland; Poland; Portugal; Russia; Slovenia; Somalia; Spain; Suriname; Turkey; United Kingdom (Great Britain); United States of America.

That is the FULL selection. A seemingly random sample of about 30 of the 190-odd internationally-accepted sovereign nations. If you're really astute, you'll have noticed that of the 35 mentioned here, UK is listed not just once by three times and the US is listed twice. So make that 32. And I can't even play the race card, because Nigeria cracks the nod and they're quite widely recognised as a nation of darker hue. Somalia also gets a look in, which is nice for the pirates.

Upon reflection, I thought that maybe this sporadic list is representative of the countries that T-MOBILE is active in. Because that would sort of, almost, make sense. Maybe. But when I looked on the global locations on t-mobile.com, they have the following listed:


The mystery and intrigue continues! Because now you see some countries that are listed on the ".com" website, which are not listed on the ".nl" site. So other expats who would be similarly discriminated from this list would be Canadians, Japanese and Indians.

(Interestingly, when I was googling "t-mobile global", the first automatic entry suggestion came up as "t-mobile global outrage". This made me feel less lonely in my fury.)

So... back to me. I didn't have a choice to enter my nationality. The cruel "now you see it, now you don't" non-delivery happened a week ago.

Today I again phoned the T-MOBILE Customer Non-Service Centre. Just out of interest, wondering what the hell was being done about the fact that I had paid over two weeks ago and hadn't received anything. This time it was friendly Sally who I got through to (could've been Suzy or Fred. They all sound the same).

"Okay, yes... I can see that your order is almost cancelled.. it should be fully cancelled by the end of the week."

Almost? Should be? Apparently it takes more than an entire working week to click CANCEL. I wonder if they had to train someone up, special, for that. Or perhaps it takes longer because "it has to go through a different process" when you have a cheeky non-EU resident trying to give you money for your non-services. In that case you have to click the button that reads: "Delivery aborted due to non-listed nationality". That would probably take longer 'cos it takes longer to type.

And when can I expect my money back?

"Oh, that'll be returned within the next six weeks."

Six weeks. One day for me to make my one-way payment to you guys. Six weeks, give or take a month, to get it returned when YOU cancel the delivery. Well, Sally, I know you're only saying what's on the script, but you and I both know that that's just a pile of wank. Don't we?

So T-MOBILE... It's been short, and very frustrating. Based on this, I'll be paying another shitty mobile provider for their shitty non-service, on a monthly basis. Just thought I'd let you know.

ps. Get a fucking atlas. With the borders coloured in.

A snippet of IM romance

Koekie: I think you should pay me more compliments

Sent at 4:42 PM on Monday

Mills: Your bum wobbles like jelly and I like jelly
Sent at 4:52 PM on Monday
Koekie: I'm going to blog that

Mills: Sure. You can also blog that I don't approve of your softening stance towards Andy Murray.

Sent at 4:55 PM on Monday

End.

Sports headlines

Murray put up a good show today. I particularly liked the bit where he cried... but not because I'm happy to see him lose (well, a little bit). Mostly because he actually showed some range of personality. A touch of any emotion other than ugly, open-mouthed screeching (which I've realised he gets from his mother).

Credit where credit's due - he put up a good fight, and he is a great scrambler. He returns some amazing shots and when he develops a bit more mental stamina and consistency, he's going to win a grand slam. Probably. One day.

I've also realised what bothers me so much about his looks: his physical similarity to the latter half of Beavis and Butthead. And that's all I'm going to say on Andy Murray... until next time.

I cannot believe Togo have been both fined and banned for two years from the CAF Cup. This column offers a bit more insight, as well as good summation of my general feeling in his opening statement.

What the hell? While I can almost understand the argument that the Togo government was involved (indeed critical) in the decision to withdraw the team, how can you punish the team - and the fans - with such a heavy ban? Fine them. That much I could accept. Make a point about governmental involvement (hahahaha, I'm trying not to snort when I think about the complete lack of governmental involvement in ANY national sport in SA).

All I can think about is the obvious analogy of victims of crime being further victimised and villified when they require trauma counselling. So I'm going to stop thinking and am going to bed.

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!