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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More bike woes

I feel like a peddling version of Goldilocks at the moment. Priscilla is lame, and currently running on a duct-taped frame. GBM's bike is a 'proper' road bike, with actual functioning pedals and breaks and gears and all that convoluted stuff, but it's a boy's bike and that entails actual skill in dismounting. Plus the saddle is horribly uncomfortable, because the manufacturers were counting on cyclists wearing padded shorts, rather than friction-inducing jeans. The spare bike is a) too low on the saddle b) also low on braking ability and c) rickety on the wheels at best. 

So one is too high, one is too low, one is just right... but broken. 

I borrowed a bike for my cycle out to Oudekerk aan der Amstel the other evening, because I was not confident that Priscilla could do a 20km round trip without falling apart. The problem with my friend's bike is that it has back-pedal brakes and further to that, is monstrously heavy. 

I can use back pedal brakes. I stop when I need to stop. The problem is that I am in the habit of NOT using my pedals to stop. Priscilla has handbrakes, so when I'm free-wheeling over the top of a little canal bump, I take great delight in adjusting the pedals backwards to a comfy position (my default = right pedal at base, left at top), and I do the same to get to a comfy starting position from stand still. It doesn't affect my forward momentum. 

These are bad habits to develop before trying to use backpedal brakes. So I'd power the monstrously heavy borrowed bike all the way up and over a canal bridge and then I'd sit back and relax on the downhill... for all of 2 metres, before I unconsciously shifted my feet backwards... and inadvertently slammed on the brakes. And then, because almost all of the monstrous weight sits in the back wheel on this bike, the rear would swing out as its momentum continued despite the brakes kicking in. It was not fun. 

Similarly, from standing position, I'd do my hop-hop-jump start and unconsciously rock my foot back on the pedal to get it into (what is usually, on Priscilla) a better position to pedal from. But in doing so, I'd again inadvertently slam on brakes. Which is kinda counterproductive when you're trying to take off. 

Oh, and at the end of  it all, we chose to park our bikes underground - which entails walking down a flight of stairs while wheeling the bikes next to us on a very steep ramp. Again, with pretty Priscilla, this is no problem - apply handbrakes, stroll down at leisure. But without handbrakes for control and with a (have I mentioned this?) monstrously heavy arse of a bike, it was all I could do to stop myself and/or bike ending up in a tangled pile at the base of the ramp. 

So I want a bike that works, is in one piece, isn't ridonkulously heavy and preferably not one that is more suited for cycling the Argus. Is this too much to ask for?

This is not a drill

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Get your summer on, folks. 

This is not a drill.

Potential Pets, in no particular order

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's not to love? 

Tennis Pros

GBM and I are trying to play tennis more regularly these days. Unfortunately he's lost his tennis-playing glasses. He has his day-to-day pair, which are super-stylish, but they fall off very easily. Not so handy when trying to serve. He used to have prescription contacts, but he hasn't bothered to renew those and would need a new appointment. So we have been hunting the house upside and down to find the missing pair that actually stay on his nose during sporting activity.

GBM is adamant that I have hidden them to ensure ongoing amusement on the court. I'm not admitting any form of guilt, but I can understand why he might think this.

You see, he's short-sighted. So when he plays tennis without his glasses, he spends a lot of time guessing where the ball is going to land and then playing based on that judgement and last-ditch reflexes. More often than not, he gets it right and he can play a decent game. But when he gets it wrong, it's hysterical. Well, for me anyway. Literally, incapacitating. I can't play for tears of laughter.

Take today for example. He was playing at net, opposite me. My partner lobbed him - GBM knew the ball was going over his head, he'd estimated the distance of where it would land on the court, but he couldn't tell exactly on which side of his racket. He scrambled and, at the last second, realised that the ball was on his left rather than where he was expecting it on his right... plus he had over shot it. This meant he had to do almost a full-360, like a dog chasing its tail, and played a forehand from under his left elbow. I'll be damned if he didn't actually get the flipping shot over the net and back to me. And it was a winner too, because I had already collapsed with giggles.

The last time we played, he similarly misjudged a trajectory - expecting a serve to land on his forehand, when it snuck casually past him behind his back. He still gave a good hearty swing on his forehand. God loves a tryer. Apparently.

I'm not saying I don't misjudge shots too. Cos I do. Lots. But I'm not nearly as entertaining. I'll fresh air a shot because it came too fast, or too wide. But at least I know what side it's coming on before it gets within a metre of my body.

What I wasn't expecting the one that hit me directly on my lumbar spine when GBM and I were on the same side. Square on the back, full speed, first serve. Was not expecting that, at all. It didn't stop me laughing at him when he did another hop-skip-swing-and-a-miss later. So I can understand why he would think that I've hidden his glasses... the entertainment value alone would be worth it.

Not so proudly South African

The problem with trying to watch any rugby in this country is that the sport is not readily available on a private level. It is certainly not to be seen on local or any commercial TV providers. If you want to avoid the smelly after-taste of pub patrons, you can stream most games in the comfort of your own home... sort of... but usually through back-end online distributors and at very unhandy low-res. So we usually go to sports pubs.

The pubs themselves aren't necessarily the problem. They're as grimy, greasy and gritty as can be expected. This can be tolerated on most occasions. What bothers me more is that other South Africans frequent these places too. I don't mind meeting up with SAffers, as long as they are my friends. My friends are cool; these are people I want to see. But there's always that element of patriotic supporters who go to games with the apparent end goal of actually accruing new friends. Yuck. These are the ones who also assume that because we're shouting for the same team, in the same location, we should therefore be chums for life. More often than not, they are wrong.

When we first arrived in The Netherlands, I was amazed to see that there were so many young South African girls - dotted all over the country, and gathering in noticeably wild packs for any rugby game. They are predominantly Afrikaans, so the language is an easy transfer*, they are cheap labour (aaaah, the subjugation of Africa lives on) and they are out of their parents' control for the first time in their lives.

When they amass in the pubs, it's never pretty. It's usually downright embarrassing.

They always travel in packs of 10 or more. They are usually very, obnoxiously drunk - or get to this stage very quickly. They make a sport of screaming often, and are as shrill as humanly possible, any time anything representing their chosen team is shown. This includes: the players, the coaches, the mascot, the bench, supporters, team shirts or even just the associated colour. Blue Bulletijes are particularly fond of this tactic. They seldom actually watch the game, choosing instead to scream in each other's faces through the full 90 minutes. And after the game, they will try to strike up conversation with anyone wearing a shirt that might vaguely be construed as South African.

For this reason, I've become hesitant to wear my cute little rugby top to international games. Dear god, those kids might try to communicate with me. Worse yet, people might think I'm one of them! I cannot be having with that. I can be patriotic incognito, right?


* I have to admit to a stage when I contemplated similar employment when I first arrived in the UK. It was a desperate and short-lived fragment of an idea. A bolus of bile gathers in the back of my throat at the very recollection.

Poor Priscilla

Oh poor Priscilla. After my glowing account of our adventures together, I climbed on my beloved bike and immediately noticed a steering problem. Just a small one... the front frame had completely snapped down one side of the wheel. I'm not sure how it happened and I noticed it fast enough to be sure that I certainly hadn't cycled on her like that earlier the same day. 

My initial thought was "someone has sabotaged my bike!" because apparently I live in a world of espionage and subterfuge, where unseen enemies want me dead. Suspicions immediately jumped to volatile Mentopausal, as she has been particularly nice to me recently... obviously lulling me into a false sense of security. But then I took the paranoia down a notch and realised that the Prissy's frame had quite simply snapped like an osteoporosis-weakened scapula. One too many rough jolts, of which she's had a few. Poor thing. 

There was only one thing to do. I climbed back on and cycled her home, feeling completely guilty, like I was forcing a lame donkey to limp home with me on its back, despite suffering from a broken bone. Her tendons, I mean, cables are still fully connected, so the brakes still work just fine, but the the steering is completely shot. It was a bit like trying to direct two separate wheels home, one under my bum, one under my hands. Health and safety conclusion? Stupid. 

We have three bikes between GBM and myself. Well, technically four, but it's the landlady's and we don't have the key to the fourth, it just gets in the way in our basement storage. So I figured, I'd just use one of the other two and we'll sort out poor Priscilla's health situation on the weekend. 

Then, this morning... making breakfast, I managed to throw a full container of blackberries across the kitchen and dining table. The lid came off as I was removing them from the fridge, and instead of just letting it happen (this is sometimes a better option in my experience), I tried to catch them from underneath... which resulted in me changing their trajectory and hitting them back up in the air. Instead of leaving them all to fall on the kitchen counter, possibly onto the floor by my feet, I effectively splayed them in 270 degrees, across multiple dimensions. Some went down, some went up and forwards, others went left and right. It also turns out a few went behind me, which I learnt as I stepped back to assess the situation. It's amazing how many things look like a blackberry when you're at eye level with the floor. Dead flies, previous cooking remains (I think), possible rodent droppings...

Anywho, so once that was cleaned up, I went downstairs to assess the bike situation. GBM had removed himself from the vegetative carnage I had created in the kitchen and pottered off to gym, unfortunately taking both sets of keys to the remaining two spare bikes. I was left with two options a) tram b) cycle on my two-wheeled unicycle. 

I chose option B, but not before creating some semblance of a splint for poor Priscilla's shoulder blade. Insulation tape is a girl's best DIY friend. I hope it holds for the cycle home. And I hope it doesn't rain. 

My bike, I like

The other day I stupidly cycled over broken glass. I was on the phone at the time and admittedly was not paying as much attention to my path as I should've. I'm too much of a girl to fix my own punctures, so this required me to take my bike in to the repair shop and pay someone to do it for me. It's not the money that bothers me, it's the time lost. Sometimes they can fix it on the spot, but most of the time, it has to go in the queue and you pick it up later. A whole day later.

Me taking my bike in for repairs is not the point here. The point is my sense of loss when I have to do it. I'm without an appendage. I never thought I would get to that stage. But since I moved to Amsterdam, I cycle everywhere. I actually feel pretty pathetic, even incapacitated somewhat, catching the tram when I don't have a particular reason to do so (like travelling with other people who aren't on bikes, or typhoon weather). Of course, there are times when catching the tram is dryer... but it's also smellier, noisier and more crowded.

Cycling in the rain is not pleasant, don't get me wrong. I've just realised that I don't melt in the rain. I also realised fairly quickly, that unless there is absolutely not a breath of wind, I cannot cycle with an umbrella. At the first gust, my brolly is inside out and I am inelegantly trying to remain upright. So I don't bother. I simply don my sexy "regenbroeken", and my train-driver-hat as GBM likes to call it, and I am hot to trot.

I don't know if I could take up a hobby in competitive cycling though. I like the upright posture of my oumafiets, the gentle exertion required to get up and over a small canal bridge, followed by the brief exhilaration of free-"wheeeee"ling down the other side.

For the last four years, I have maintained that there is absolutely no better past time than cycling in the Netherlands - when the weather is good, and there is no wind to impede your blissful progress. It may not happen often, but when it does... sheer bliss. It's probably akin to the reason why so many amateur golfers stick with the love-hate sport.

I also delight in the fun of loudly ringing my bell to disperse flocks of pigeons and tourists when required. Bird and sightseer alike, the dull aimless expression followed by frantic flapping to get off the bike path never ceases to amuse me.

I never, ever thought I would say this, but I love my bike. Prissy Priscilla and I clatter around the cobbles and canals so happily, but we do get on much better when the elements are fair and I'm not in a particular hurry. I even managed to cycle with no hands the other day. Admittedly, I didn't realise I was doing it - I needed to button up my jacket and unthinkingly, just did it. As soon as I realised what I was doing, I wobbled dangerously and flung my hands back on the handlebar. I haven't had the courage to try it again.

Maybe tomorrow...

Brolly Folly

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phallic Demo 101? Welcome to Amsterdam, kids. 

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

Mentopausal

Blessed colleagues.

There are always a few characters, but my favourite at the moment is Mento. By general water-cooler consensus, we're all pretty sure she's on meds for cerebral reasons. I'm also fairly certain that she doesn't take them as regularly as she should. She is in her 60s, so for the most part we tolerate her... idiosyncrasies... 'cos, you know, some woman have issues with hormone levels at that stage of life.

She works on the other side of the office, but will on occasion take it upon herself to stroll over and inform me that she doesn't like what I'm having for lunch. It's never anything offensive. Maybe a potato salad, or a toasted sarmie... innocuous. It's not smelly and she can't see me from her desk. In short, she has to go out of her way to determine what I'm eating. So, just to be clear, she doesn't like what she is NOT eating, which nobody has asked her to eat and which by all accounts does not affect her all. 

Another favourite little trick is to stop at my desk and then rummage through my handbag. I don't know if this is part of her office supply stock-take, but she certainly didn't appreciate it when I asked her to let me know if I needed to buy more tampons. She looked at me as I'd lost the plot and quickly walked away without another word. Yes.... I'm the crazy one in this equation.

At least it's not personal. She has moments like that with everyone. She has on a previous occasion marched up to colleague and loudly informed him that he was going to Italy that weekend. Which he wasn't and when he pointed that out, she took offense, told him off for being rude and then stalked away leaving us all standing with bemused grins. We still have no idea what she based the statement on.

We're not sure if she genuinely lives in another universe, or if she's just fucking with us. Could be either. Both are equally disturbing.

Today, I was making lunch. Cheese on toast. Not smelly cheese, just your bog-average processed stuff. Not very exciting, for sure. Mento marches into the kitchen, peers over my shoulder, wrinkles her nose and proudly declares that she's having "a nice lunch". I put on my most tolerant smile and made suitably approving noises about her cottage cheese and bread selection. Very nice. Yes. Well done, you. 

All in all, fairly standard interaction with Mento. But then she upped the game. I stopped making my lunch when I realised that it was very quiet. Too quiet. There was no movement in the kitchen, even though she was still there. I turn around to see her standing right behind me, bread knife in hand. Just staring at the back of my head.

Not creepy at all.

She wanted to use the toaster, but instead of a) asking me to move so she could get to the appliance or b) waiting somewhere out of my personal space invasion range or c) coming back another time, she skipped straight to d) FUCKING PSYCHO.

I gently told her that a normal person would have vocalised their wish to use the same space, rather than standing over the offending person with a weapon. That, I explained is not what socially-aclimatised people do. Even I don't do that and I'm the first to admit I have aggression issues.

I departed the kitchen as calmly as possible, and think it says something to my bravery that I didn't break into a run screaming blue murder. I feel I need to publicise this little happening... just in case I come to a nasty end, where it looks like I accidentally tripped and fell on the bread knife seven times. It might not just be me being extra-clumsy. That's all I'm saying.

Lord, give me strength not to reply...

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


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

Hi everyone,

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

Thanks and regards,
Bob

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

It is so tempting to reply...

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

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

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

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

Dunkley's 419 scam

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

Original ad online:

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

---

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poetry.

Dance Class

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yuck. Yuck. Yuck. Yuck. Yuck.

French make toyi-toying look like child's play

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

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

Latest rant topic: The French.

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

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

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

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

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

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

See...? The rage is still there.

This article irritates me. Here's why:

Trailing American Christin Wurth-Thomas by some 20 metres with just 100 metres remaining, Semenya breezed past effortlessly to win with several strides to spare in a world-class time of 1min 59.90sec.

- telegraph.co.uk

Yes, it's from the Telegraph, so yes, I shouldn't have even read it.
Most of their submissions irk me. But I'm already in rant mode and there's no off-switch.

1) "It's obviously a human rights issue but human rights affect everyone in the race, not just one person," said Britain's Jemma Simpson, who finished fourth in 2min 0.57sec. "The rest of the field just gets ignored."

Okay, first things first. Jemma came fourth. So apparently she only has grievances with one person who beat her - what about the other two? Is she standing up for fellow athletes, or just irritated because she (personally) has no means of competing with Semenya?

2) "As athletes we feel frustrated because everyone is allowed to give their opinion except us," said [Diane] Cummins. "If we give an honest opinion, we're either seen as bad sports or we're not happy because we're being beaten.”

Diane came 8^th. So not only can she not compete with Semenya, she couldn’t compete with most of the field. So yes, Diane. You as a sore loser.

3) She adds: "Even if she is a female, she's on the very fringe of the normal athlete female biological composition from what I understand of hormone testing. So, from that perspective, most of us just feel that we are literally running against a man."

Fair enough. From what I have read in the papers, Semenya does border just on the female side of the chromosomal balance. But I would be very interested to see the results of similar tests for other female athletes, such as Mauresmo, the Williams sisters, a number of female hockey players (certainly the ones I used to play against.. I couldn't keep up with the national players. Hmmm... they must've had male hormones, it can't possibly have had anything to do with my natural talent - or lack thereof) and a few gymnasts to boot.

4) "It is certainly frustrating to be running against someone who seems to be doing it effortlessly," said Cummins. "We all believe that Caster Semenya, pushed to her full potential, could break the world record.”

Sorry, Diane… what was that? You resent her for beating you with ease? All I could hear was - Sore. Loser.

5) "That's [the women's 800m world record] 1:53, and that's what college guys are running. From that perspective, she's far superior to any female 800 metres runner we've ever had."

So what you’re saying, Diane, is that it is physically impossible for top world class female athletes to run against college-level (i.e. second rate) male athletes? Any woman who can do that is clearly a man? But clearly, someone has done it before because the record is there to be broken...

In 1976, a Russian lady called Tatyana Kazankina set the world record at the Montreal Olympic Games in the 800m, running 1:54:94. In 1980 Nadezhda Olizarenko (also from Russia) set a world record and also her personal best over 800 metres with 1:53.43; which record stood until 1983, when it was bettered by Jarmila Kratochvílová.

Kratochvilova entered a one-off 800m race in Munich, reportedly as a training exercise. She broke the world record with a run of 1:53.28 - with ease. At the World Championships 10 days later, she won the 800m easily (in what is still the 5th best time ever in the event). Kratochvílová's 800m time is still the official world record, and is currently the longest standing individual world record in any track and field event.

Several other female athletes who would’ve whipped a few college-level male athletes’ butts before even giving you, Missus I-Came-Nowhere, a second glance. Kratochvilova’s record stood for over two decades without anyone griping about her being a man.

Basically, everything is impossible - until someone proves it otherwise. Breaking the four-minute mile was considered an impossible barrier... until Roger Bannister did it in 1954. Since then, it's become a competitive standard. Surely everyone knows the improbability of Ussain Bolt's records - and he was setting world records in his teens.

Again, I don’t deny or refute that Semenya has gender issues. She has had to undergo serious hormonal treatments and medication, in order to compete on the international field. You can be sure everyone from the officials, to competitors, to the public will be watching every single thing that Semenya ingests, digests and subsequently ejects before race day.

Call me a cynic but it’s no small secret that professional athletes (male or female) do everything in their power to aid their competitive edge. A vitamin here, a blood transfusion there… it seems to me these girls are griping because Semenya has an edge over them naturally (in the loosest use of the term). Unfortunately their performance enhancing efforts can’t get them to the same level as a testosteronerally-weakened Semenya. And they’ve got fat sulky lips about it. Boo. Frikking. Hoo.

Another baking blog

On Sunday, with the low cloud setting in for the week, Mills and I decided to stay in and bake cupcakes. It's not something we do often, but having recently moved into a flat which hosts both a microwave AND an oven (oh the indulgence) we decided to make use of the facilities.

We had all the essentials as we had previously attempted cupcakes in the microwave in our old flat, and not with bad results either. It can be done - they're not the airiest of cupcakes, but they do the job. Anyway, so I did a brief perusal of the recipe books, found one that looked like it required minimal effort and we got to work.

First things first, deciding which bloody attachment to use on the hand beater. I usually go with the egg whisk looking-thingies first. But that didn't seem to be doing anything for softening the marg, so I switched them out for the swirley-looking attachments. That didn't do much either, but it did a splendid job of gathering all the marg in one lump around the swirly attachments. Back to the egg whisk thingies... and then I decided I was bored of that process, so we started adding the sugar and egg anyway. Then the flour. Now we're getting somewhere... once the cloud of floating powder had cleared enough to see the bowl, we realised our mixture was starting to look like dough.

Mills was in charge of the measurements of all ingredients. This is because I treat recipes and measurements as a hazy guideline, at best. For the most part, I use recipes as a bit of prereading inspiration and then I do what the hell I want - so I don't know if it even falls under "following the recipe". I substitute when I don't have a particular item (and am too lazy to go to the shops) and I use guesswork for amounts - which usually works out okay in cooking, but baking does not allow for the same flippant disregard. So Mills, being anal to the point of micrometres, is in charge of measurements when it comes to baking.

Right... Milk. I'm in charge of mixing (I always like to stir, no matter what the substance) and Mills is pouring...

And pouring...

And pouring.

And our mixture was rapidly becoming less like dough and more like porridge.

"This seems like a lot of milk," I shouted over the noise of the whirring hand beater. "Ja, it does..." he agreed as he tipped the last of a full cup measure into the bowl, adding "...and we've still got another two of these cups to go!"

I decided this needed some fact-checking. "How much does the recipe actually call for?"

"Seventy five mills," he casually replied, measuring out another 250ml.

I screeched to a halt. "SEVENTY FIVE? Or seven hundred and fifty?"

His eyes widened as his brain clicked from automatic to "oh shit".

I looked at our bowl of dough-flavoured porridge and decided a time out was required. After a regroup of our senses, we chucked it all out and decided to start again. This time, using just leeetle bit of milk.

We both commented on the fact that the mixture seemed very solid for cupcakes, but we were sure of the measurements this time so plodded on anyway. We portioned the blobs into the baking tray, put them in the oven... as recommended, for the time recommended. And then we waited - patiently. No opening of oven doors or any amateur mistakes like that.

When it came to taking them out, we noticed that the tops were definitely more crusted than we anticipated, but we plowed on with making our butter icing. Mmmm... icing sugar... good.

Finally it was time to ice our much anticipated cupcakes. A few sprinkles on top and... voila! C'est magnifique!
It was only on taking the first mouthful that I realised our "fairy cakes" were in fact a recipe for scones. And scones, it turns out, go much better with whipped cream than with butter icing.

Just something to keep in mind in future... scones are not the same as cupcakes.
Note to self.

Toilet Paper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh god, I need to wee. Again.

WARNING: This post may contain traces of swearing. If you don't like it, don't read it.

I blame the sun. The weather has just been too damn good for my passive-aggressive rants. There has been no incentive. But don't worry, the rain is back, the weather is turning. And I've just been through a UK airport.

Fuck I hate it. Just thinking about it gets my blood pressure up again. Inevitably I end up a) squeezing my eyes closed trying to will myself to not scream, hiss in someone's face or worse, attack a self-important uniform or b) in tears of pent up frustration, due to suppressing the mentioned emotions.

We had checked in online. You know, that marvelous little time saver, that they encourage you to do so that you can skip queues and have far more enjoyable travel experience? "Thank you for checking in online, if you do not have luggage to check in, you may proceed directly to departures. Have a nice flight!" or cheery misleading words to that effect.

What it doesn't say (well it does, in the fine print somewhere at the bottom of page 3 on your unnecessarily long boarding pass print out, just below the rental car adverts and above the gratutious hotel promotions) is that if you are a non-EU traveller, you have to get a stupid fudding piece of worthless crap red stamp from the airline you are flying with, to say that they have checked your documentation. But most times, this little red stamp isn't necessary (as it wasn't over Christmas and Easter when I flew in and out of the UK in the last 12 months), so we don't usually bother.

So, Mills goes to check in our one item of baggage, I wait in the background. If we can avoid them seeing that I am non-EU, it is usually much faster because the staff on the SleazyJet (or whichever airline we're flying) check-in counter, don't know which countries are EU and non-EU; they don't recognise a valid visa when it is sitting under the nose and inevitably we end up having to call over support staff while I explain that the card they are looking at is in fact valid EU identification. So we try to avoid them seeing my passport at all - it's USUALLY easier.

This time it wasn't. Checked in, boarding pass ready, we successfully beat the Russian tour group who appeared to also be milling towards the departures pathway... Definitely want to stay ahead of that confusion. Unfortunately the dudey checking boarding passes decided that, on this particular occassion, I did need the red stamp. I have no idea what determines when you should have it and when it doesn't matter. I think it largely depends on just how inconvenient it will be to my particular travel plans.

So I shouldercharged my way through the Russian cattle pack behind us, back to the SleazyJet (or equivalent) check-in counter, slammed my boarding pass on the counter and stated that I need a red stamp. Without looking up check-in dudette muttered, "what nationality?" She stamped the paper without asking for ID or even if I have a visa. She didnt even open my passport, and I don't think she looked at where I was going. But what a relief to know they have that red stamp system in place. Very effective measure of control.

Shouldercharged back to the departures queue, which was by this stage full of Russian tourists, lowing gently in their herd. Shoved red stamped boarding pass under dudey's nose and moved through to hand baggage - where this particular airport has decided to re-institute the "all liquids must be in a clear, see through, plastic bag".

Really? This hasn't been required for any of my flights this year. In fact, I'd actually heard vicious rumours and seen in articles that airports were easing the restrictions on liquids. But apparently, this particular airport had heard that the talent scouts for the "Anal and Aimed at bottlenecking painful Processes" awards were in the vicinity. And there were several contenders.

Right, so liquids must go into a clear plastic bag. I don't travel with one any more (because everyone else seems to have done away with this tedium, have I mentioned that?) But don't worry, for just 50p you can buy an empty plastic bag. Ja... about that... fuck off.

Instead, I grabbed a handful of my liquid/flammable products and simply held them in my hand. When I got to the front of the hand baggage queue, I shoved it into the lucky uniform's face and informed them that I didn't have 50p to buy a piece of fucking plastic (not in those words... I may have been irate, but I'm not stupid and I'm not finishing up a weekend away with a full body cavity search). Amazingly, she was able to produce a clear piece of plastic to hold my terror-inducing liquid and flammable products, for free.

I went through hand luggage without further incident. And here's the kicker - on the other side, I realised that I had only put half my liquid products into that essential "do it now, or admit that you are a suicide bomber" plastic bag. The other half went through without so much as a blink from the scanning operator. So I implore anyone who can answer this, to please explain... what the fuck is the point?

This sport is full of Kaka

Okay, I have to take a deep breath before writing this. It is not going to be objective - no pretense of that - but I am going to try to keep it lucid. I am going to try to explain why I don't make a habit of watching football/soccer on a more regular basis.

The sport itself is truly skilled. While most people in the world have trouble running in a straight line, these guys do it (not necessarily in a straight line, which makes it even more impressive) while propelling and controlling a ball - avoiding the overwhelming evolutionary temptation to simply pick the damn thing up. Also footballers are uber-fit, arguably some of the fittest athletes in the world. And yet, most top level footballers take pride in portraying themselves as eleven-year-old nancy-girls, desperate for sympathy from their overbearing mothers.*

I hate the fact that players are molly-coddled with a pet prodigy kind of affection when they make a habit of diving and performing after they've taken a glancing blow. I don't have a problem with actively looking for a penalty. Yes, it's frustrating - for both the fans and the player who has been forced into a wrongful position. But I think that is all part of the mental strategy of sport. Rugby teams do it. And I'll be the first to admit that I've put a few balls on to unsuspecting feet in the hockey-D (and received a fair few too). It happens.

But I hate that football (not soccer - I think that countries who still call it soccer are not [as] guilty of this) has made a culture of theatrical dives. Prima donna rolling and writhing is acceptable behaviour for a professional, grown man. This, in my eyes, puts international footballers on the same level as "professional" wrestling. When they do actually get hurt, I feel something similar to gloating... I feel like they deserve a little pain. Does that make me a bad person?

Don't get me wrong. I don't for one second think that these footballers can't handle pain. There's no doubt in my mind that they can. They are professional athletes, you don't get to that level without a little eina. Drogba is currently playing with a "FIFA-approved cast on his elbow". That's pretty hardcore. But the fact that they put such effort into acting hurt... that's what makes my blood boil. Just play the bloody sport. You've got the skill, we all know that. Now use it.

I've watched most of the World Cup games. I love the vibe. I've even downloaded a Vuvuzela app on my Koekie Kumquat... so that when Cloggies or Poms complain to me about the darn "South African trumpets" I can respond noisily without saying a word. But when I watch a South American team playing, I am reminded of why I cannot watch this sport on a regular basis. Because I cannot handle the theatrics every time someone so much as nudges past their elbow.

This is what I see on the screen:

It starts with a gentle tap from an opposition player in a stationary position... and the Brazilian is off! First, he opens the routine by pirouetting three times on the spot. Then he seamlessly bends his knees, crouches forward, and springs into elegant dive, twisting one-and-a-half times before planting his hands firmly on ground and completing seven elegant head-over-heels tucks... before eventually coming to a rocking stop, writhing back and forth while wailing and clutching at his left knee. No, it's his right knee.... No, it's his ankle - his left ankle must surely be broken! Bring on the stretcher! Oh... wait... it appears that no foul was awarded. He's shaking his head in disorientation and disgust, but after several months of therapy he may just be able to walk. He's up... he's limping... for all of one-and-a-half steps. Oh, he's fine.

(Hey, I warned this wasn't going to be objective. )

Once they've finished flailing on the ground and nobody has sufficiently bought their Raspberry Award winning act to give them a free kick, they decide that this is clearly because the ref simply can't see more than 30cm in front of his face. Which is something that we have all thought at some point in just about every sport. The footballers remedy this situation by aggressively demonstrating their case by shouting and flailing their arms directly in to the face of the ref. Again, this frustration is something that translates to every sport - but the difference is that even if you don't agree with the decision, in other sports (rugby, hockey, tennis) he who holds the whistle (or the mic, in tennis) has the final say. Massive, single-celled tighthead props might offer a monosyllabic objection to a rugby ref, but that's it. It's not a discussion, it's a decision. Footballers don't respect the ref, and I just can't bring myself to accept that.

I hate that Kaka got a red card in the recent Brazil-Ivory Coast game. The Brazilians had been diving as their livelihoods depended on it (as they do), and the Africans were getting visibly more and more agitated by this football style. Eventually one of the Ivory Coast players played them at their own game. He took a (horrible, over-dramatised) dive. Kaka got carded for it. Subsequently the Brazilians were the victims of an unjust decision and the Ivory Coast team were villified for their "cynical" behaviour. Say what now?? When the Brazilians were theatrically tripping over their own toes, the commentators were playfully offering constructive criticism on their diving technique. I wish the Africans hadn't played The Samba Kings at their own game, but they did. And they did it better.

But that match, and the way it made my blood boil, epitomises why I do not watch more football in a football-mad world. I would love to see a siting regulation set up for footballers. Where, upon subsequent TV-footage review, they could be penalised, post-match, for "cynical" and unsportsmanlike behaviour. In my happy (wishful) world - diving / tripping over your own feet / sending a swift elbow to your marking opponent's solar plexus would get you banned for the next three or four games, depending on perceived intention and severity. Then maybe I'd start watching.

But as it currently stands, I have full respect for the sport... I just have no respect for the players.

* Here's a video montage of some great nancy-girl Raspberry winning examples:

Monte-Carlo... almost as over-rated as Cape Town

"Koekie, have you met Roger Moore?" I was casually asked. As in, Sir-Roger-Moore? Um... no, I do not get much opportunity in my daily, mundane routine to meet Sir Roger Moore.

"Oh well, let me introduce you now! Kate, this is Sir Moore and his wife, Kiki."

That's how my week ended last week. I met James Bond.

I'm not gonna lie, it was pretty damn cool. But the week wasn't all A-list cavorting and hob-nobbing. In fact, it started out pretty shite.

My plan was as such - I was catching a taxi from my (new) flat in Amsterdam to Schiphol at 8am. I was flying out at 9.25am. I was landing at 11.30ish and would then hop in a pre-booked car from Nice to my hotel in Monte-Carlo, where I would check-in, freshen up and meet our TV stars arriving from the US.

8am came, and went. With no taxi. I phoned the taxi company, had a general argument with the operator who couldn't understand why I was upset that when I phoned to ask where my (pre-booked) taxi was, he replied with, "oh, I'll send him now."

You're only sending him NOW? I'm supposed to be halfway to the airport NOW.

Taxi arrived at 8.30. I arrived at the airport at 8.45. Of course, despite already checking in online, I still had to stand in the same queue as everyone else to get my baggage checked in. And, of course, being a first world country, everything is "Self-service!" (supposed to be read in a tone of mocking merriment - because big corporations would have us believe that doing away with real live people who can actually help is in the best interests of the general population. Which it is, of course, not. It is however in the best interests of their Accounts Payable budget. So who gives a snot about service with a smile, right?)

Anywho, so... of course... I get stuck in the queue behind the purple-rinsed granny flying to Florida - apparently for the first time - who has never seen a keyboard, never mind a touch screen. And as I watched in growing agitation over her shoulder, I was trying not to scream as she typed her destination into the self-check in machine, oh so bone-achingly, slowly... index finger extended... hovering... circling... *F*... pausing... concentrating... selecting... *L*... look down at paper... squint back at screen... extend index finger... hovering... searching... *O*... MY... GOD.

I had to remind myself that society does not take lightly to irrational, verbal attacks on pensioners. It's not her fault. Eventually I lost patience, grabbed the closest unfortunate lady walking past in a blue uniform and hissed, "she needs assistance, for the love of all sanity please get her off that machine!" I followed this successful diversion by shoving my way to the front of the queue next to me. I made my plane on the final boarding call.

Arriving in Nice, I learnt that drivers across the continent had no interest in transporting me. It was not specific to the Netherlands. Because I was there for a work event, I had been informed that a car had been arranged. There was nothing. No signage, no sign, no welcome. I eventually managed to get hold of a representative for the event and was greeted with the assuring tones of someone who knew absolutely nothing about my presence... "Koekie? From where? XYZ Studios International? I don't have that on my list of cars today. Sorry."

Awesomeness. So I forked out 100-euros for a taxi, which WILL be expensed back.
But it wasn't over yet.

Finally at my hotel, I went to the reception desk to check in.
They asked for credit card details as a deposit. Now... I don't own a credit card. I do not need a credit card in my personal life and I do not think that I should have to explain to a snotty Frenchman who is effectively nothing more than a bloody concierge on the doorstep of society, why I do not have my own credit card. But I digress. I know from past experience that hotels will always accept a cash deposit, which I asked to do instead...

Fine. That will be 2000-euros in cash. In case you thought that I had a seizure when hitting the zero digit, I'll put that into words: two thousand euros, in cash.

Right. Now that is a problem. Can I put it through as a bank transfer?
"Nooooh," said the keeper of the key, while sneering down his freakishly elongated nasal passages (perfect design for a Frenchman in customer service), "because zhen we will only get zhee deposit when... eef... zhee bank clears it tomorroh".

Well, fuck you very much. My colleague attending the event was on a plane at that stage. The only other people I could contact were all in the US, where it was the middle of the night.

And so, that is how I came to wander the streets of one of the most expensive, high-brow cities in the world, looking - and feeling - like a worthless bum who'd stolen a laptop.

But it did get better. While being pretentious and snooty, it is a spectacular city. And to be honest, I think the locals that I met were humble and just all about having fun (except for that front desk receptionist at my hotel; he was a big fat meanie). It's actually the tourists and the celebrities, tottering about in their haute couture, who make the city so over-rated.

But then again, I did meet some fantastically professional TV stars. On several occasions the Prince breezed past me (I didn't get to say hi, I was too busy being pressed up against a wall by his body guards. Sounds dodgy, but I promise I was only intimate with their elbows). I met James Bond, as well as some rappers of yester-year.

But the character that topped my list of heroes wasn't an on-camera personality. He's a local in Monaco. He's just your average family guy who makes a habit of escorting and playing tour guide to the stars. And he was the security/personal assitant assigned to Holly, Kendra and Bridget when they came to Monaco a few years ago. He was the person Kendra called when she got arrested outside the Prince's Palace at one o'clock in the morning. Which I found delightful. I met someone who worked with The Girls Next Door... that makes him a rock star, certainly in my books.

The red carpet: with the cool kids from NCIS and Dexter.