Ongelukje

I've never been in a bumper bashing (well, not outside my parent's driveway anyway), but today I had my first ve-hic-ular accident. I hit another bike. I hit it good.

He was coming from the opposite direction, turning left. I was going straight, with the intention of turning left after him. He turned in front of me and stopped at the traffic light. Unfortunately, whether he knew it or not, his back wheel was still in the bike path - I didn't have a choice, there was no time for me to stop or swerve - I hit his backwheel so hard that spokes dislodged and the frame bent.

I felt terrible and said so - but he was having none of it. It was my fault, I was stupid, I was blind, I hadn't even tried to stop. In fact, as far as he was concerned I had aimed. Again I apologised, and then pointed out that he had actually cut in front of me, was on my side of the road and hadn't left anywhere for me to go. This, of course, unleashed another tirade of abuse.

Sitting in the middle of intersecting bike paths, at peak hour, meant that our accident and my verbal bashing was becoming an obstructing spectacle. So I suggested we move to the pavement. He carried on cursing me and inspecting his bike. I started to wheel my bike around to the pavement. He decided I was making a runner for it, so he grabbed my arm and handlebars to pull me back.

"You're not going anywhere!" he shouted.
"I'm moving out of the way, you fucking arsehole!" I raised my voice in response. Classy.

With such a crowd of spectators and after his verbal - and bordering on physical - abuse, I was then surrounded by three very protective men who had witnessed at least the latter part of the incident. One giant of a gentleman made it very clear that he would be staying by my side until I said otherwise. I appreciated that and I hope that the aggressor felt like a tit. He certainly looked it.

The aggressor tried to tell my bodyguard in Dutch what a klote idioot I was, because I hadn't even looked before ploughing into him. I responded in Dutch, and defended myself, again, in English. My bodyguard responded in English and suggested that we keep the correspondence to English. I appreciated that too.

I do feel bad for the guy's bike. Not for him. It was mortifying to get shouted at so publicly. I know it fucked up his evening, but it sure as hell fucked up mine too.

What not to iron

Yesterday, I ironed my hip bone.

It's like this, you see... I was getting dressed to go out for the day. I had also been out not-celebrating Oranje the night before. Anywho. So I selected shirt and jeanpants, but as usual, my outfit assembly took a while. So having got as far as brassiere and thongie-thing, I then decided that my selected shirt was in need of ironing. Yes, it probably would've been better to simply select another top, but who ever did things the easy way?

Anywho, so ironing board out, iron on, I get so enraptured in my task (and possibly a bit distracted by something on TV) that I don't notice when I step on the iron cord. Iron cord pulls taut, hot iron nudges in towards self. On to exposed hip flesh.

"Oh goodness gracious, sweet mother of an innocent child," I exclaimed with my characteristic and dainty restraint.

I have since then been nursing a blistered line in a rather indiscreet region.

Poor me.

No further comment

I still don't think that Russia should even by playing in the European Cup.

The disappointment last night was palpable. I shouldn't have such an affinity for the oranje jongens, but you know... there are just no words for the game last night.

Poo.

Letter from Den Haag

Dear Bob

How's life in the world of despotic, rabid ruling? Violently badgered any opposition members lately? Ag, just kidding, hey... but I know your wicked sense of humour would appreciate the image. Saw you on telly the other day... you look fit and healthy, no traces of rolling eyeballs or frothing at the mouth, despite the other indications.

Anywho Bob, I was thinking of sending you a postcard, but am not sure how well the postal system is holding up in Zim, so here's an electronic picture of the Vredespaleis in The Hague. It's where the International Court of Justice is housed. It's prettier than the ICC (International Criminal Court) buildings, so I thought I'd brighten up this social letter. Now, I can hear you thinking out loud, why is she going on about these buildings in a country far away, in the land of the colonial oppressors? Ag, no particular reason, they're just two buildings where a number of international war criminals, genocide perpetrators and state tyrants have ended up. But not before killing off a few thousand of their minions each, so not to worry from your side!

Anyway.

Just thought I'd pop you a line to say keep fighting the good fight. I can see from the international news that you're catching quite a lot of heat at the moment. Hard to believe that everyone is ganging up on you like that. After all you've done. Hang in there, in just a short few months, the land will be completely bare of all resources and signs of life - and then it will be yours. All yours. And you will have won!

As a matter of interest, is there a name to your strategy? I know the Russians had the "scorched earth" technique during WWII, so perhaps yours will be known as the "destroy and implode" policy? Maybe you should start pushing the phrase now, so you'll be credited with the inception and naming of it. I don't mind, you can have full rights to the phrase - you've earned it.

Okay, Bob, I know you're a busy man - what with the arrival of all that ammunition from China, so I'll leave you to it. (By the way, I'm sorry that Sky News got hold of that story, it my great-auntie who leaked the news internationally - a little bit awkward at the time, but we're working through it.)

Sincerely

KoekSuster

ps. the moustache rocks. Never give in.

EK HotShots

In de rust van elke EK wedstrijd, kunnen iedereen Hotshots Lingerie op Veronica kijken. Twaalf vrouwenlijke teams bestaande uit vijf schaarsgeklede babes penalty's tegen elkaar*.... much to the delight of every male football supporter.

The beauty of this competition is the camera work. Chicks in bras and undies, clearly not selected on sporting prowess, taking 'shots' at each other. The camera focusses on bums and cleavages, regardless of where the ball goes (or doesn't go). If it were in England, they would be called "glamour models" (lit: prepared to take their kit off on camera). You can meet all the team members, here, if you feel so inclined.

The highlight on Hotshots this evening was the male streaker dashing across the penalty area. The conscientious producers at Veronica diligently blanked out the offender's face, but not his dangling gear. No ID parade, but there you go kiddies - full frontal nudity in prime time TV hours.

I love the cloggies.

*My attempt at Dutch: Between each European Championship game, everyone gets to watch Hotshots Lingerie on VeronicaTV. Twelve female teams consisting of five scarcely clothed babes take penalties against each other...

Ghent, Belgium

Mills and I went for a random weekend away in Ghent, Belgium. A beautiful city with medival/renaissance buildings. You can really see the French and Dutch influence... literally, one building will look like a Parisian home, the next has a pointed roof and gables.

The historic centre is really small, but has about 4 cathedrals and a castle, so plenty to see on the weekend. Ghent is often done with a visit to Brugge as well, but we decidedly to just relax and enjoy Ghent (it is half an hour closer to Den Haag and Brugge is apparently the European equivalent of a tourist village, and therefore more crowded. Ghent is more 'authentic', sneer the locals...)

It really was lovely - we stayed in a hotel just across from Castle Gravensteen, which used to house the Counts of Flanders and various other VIPs from the 1100s on. Every room in the castle seems to have some historic link to torture, even the abbey was at one stage used to 'contain' and get confessions from prisoners. There was a whole collection of medieval torture tools that absolutely turned my gut. Naaaasty stuff.

Walking through town was pleasant enough, although the weather didn't help, with random downpours that lasted 10-20 minutes at time. We tried to avoid them by stopping for a bite or some coffee each time it started raining, but our attempts were foiled by the rain gods - it would generally stop raining just as our food had arrived, then start raining again 5 minutes after stepping off on our walking tour...

It did not help that I had beautifully straightened my hair that morning, in an attempt to look nice for our planned romantic dinner later that day. Please understand that straightening my hair is not something to be taken lightly. It requires pre-preparation and reliable weather forecasts. Downpours of rain that wet the hair, then dry patches where the weather warms up, followed by downpour and dry patch (rinse and repeat) adds frizz upon frizz layer to my carefully 'straightened' hair, until eventually I look like a frothy capaccino. This weather led to a mild princess fit on my behalf, where I went off to the hotel room to regroup and Mills went off in another direction (any where other than where I was going) and returned with a placative offering of Belgium chocolates. Clever boy.

The next day was more of the same - more gothic cathedrals and medieval revisiting. More dry weather mixed with thundershowers. The fact that we had an umbrella with us did little to help our relationship... as Confucious would say, "one brolley a couple half happy does make". Or something similar. When Mills was controlling the umbrella, I had to walk with my body at 45degree angles and when I was controlling the umbrella... well, it was perfect, but he was muttering something and I wasn't really listening.

As the sky got darker and the rain got heavier, we decided to make our way back to the hotel for the final time. With the umbrella pulled as close to our heads as possible (TOO close - I felt like the spokes were growing out of my spinal column), and both of us trying to walk in different directions around puddles and piles of horse and/or dog poo, we were not making ground quickly. About 100m from our hotel it really started tipping down and we found shelter underneath scaffolding set up along the road. It seemed a good enough option, and we certainly weren't alone in our sanctuary. I noticed that we were actually down a slope from the road and even remember thinking that it was amazing that there was no water running underneath our feet....

...with that the weather gods weighed in again. The wind changed direction and rain started slanting directly into us. We had no where to go but sideways, and were now getting just as wet as if we had been standing in the middle of the bloody square opposite us. And it was now starting to flood under our feet. Quickly.

As the wind whipped around us, the umbrella went tits up (literally) and we decided we had nothing for it but to run to the hotel. It was just around the corner. Mills and I took off, to the delight of onlookers, safe in their residential shelter. Bastards. Halfway across the square, it started to hail. Hard.

By the time we squelched into the hotel we looked like we had just swum up the nearby river. But I'm glad we could amuse the locals as we squelched and squealed our way across that sodden square in the mother of all hailstorms.

Belgium - good food, good chocolates, shit weather.

EK-razy

Warning: there is going to be lots of orange in this post.

We're in the throws of the European Championship (EK, for Dutch locals), which means that everyone and everything has gone orange. Everything.




Orange flags, posters, promotions at every turn in every shop... they have a term for occassions such as this: Oranjegekte. Some buildings paint their entrances orange, and streets compete for the most orange decorations. This is not a drill; this is nation puts the fanatic into fan.




My personal favourite is the brul shirt that can be purchased at Blokker stores nationwide (click on the advert link in the website for the full affect). It's orange, obviously, and has a giant face of a lion on the front. But the shirt is deceptive... underneath the lion is another layer of material, when flipped open it becomes the lion's mouth.


Awesome. I really have to get me one of those shirts.


Mills has got his heart set on a Trom-Pet from Heineken. It's a drumming hat. See video link. I stand firm in my objection.

Oranje's recent trouncing of Italy has only upped the excitement. Bring on the NL-French game tomorrow... I can't wait to hear the trom-pet's drumming through the streets. Again.

I heard that the last time Oranje won the EK, there was a massive street party - with cheers erupting everytime the traffic lights changed to... orange. I can believe it.

Gym bunnies

Mills and I have joined a fancy-shmancy new gym. Everything is computerised, and our personalised gym programmes are memorised on a computer chip.

I'm not much of a gym bunny at the best of times, so the little memory stick does come in handy - it tells you at the beginning of the sessions exactly what you should be doing, how many sets on each apparatus, how long on the bike/treadmill etc.

At each apparatus, you insert your computer stick and the programme automatically loads for you. For the weight machines, it tells you what weight you should be on, how many you have left (handy for people like me who stop counting after seven), whether you should be doing them faster or slower and if you're over-extending, etc.

The bikes and other cardio machines all have TV sets in them, with headphones for each gym user. When you change from bike to treadmill, for example, the TV jumps to the channel that you were watching on the last machine. Like I said, shmancy.

Beautiful and simple, right? You get your programme set up for you by a personal trainer, they load it onto your memory stick; all you have to insert memory chip and you're off for your training session...

And it works just fine when Mills uses it. But when I use it, things go awry.

"Invalid selection" was my favourite on the leg press yesterday. What selection? There is no selection to make, you insert key, you do the sets. Somehow my computer chip decided that I had made the wrong decision.

Put it down to technical fluke. I move to the abductor machine. I start the first of my sets. One, two, three... beep beep beep. The computer informs me that after three crunches, my 2 sets are complete. Huh?

The really annoying thing is that at the end, the clever computer tallies up your results and plots them on a pretty graph, compared to what you should be doing. Because it didn't register two of my exercises, I have 'underperformed'. Computer says NO.

Still... I'll try to keep it up, I do quite enjoy watching cable movies on the bike.

Back home from the gym, I pounced on my boyfriend in a playful and energetic way (no euphamism on pounced, it's quite literal. I generally wait until he's watching his favourite program on TV). In my enthusiasm, my foot managed to knock over the full jug of water HE had left on the side table next to the couch. Full jug of water toppled off table and onto, over and under the extension cord and plugs next to it.

During the clean up operations that followed, Mills and I had the following debate: Who's to blame for this?

He maintains: Koekie did it, Koekie should take responsibility. End of story.
I maintain: Mills failed to Koekie-proof the house. After 6 years, Mills really should know better than to leave a full jug of water near my play area. Mills should be blamed.

What do you think?

Bag lady

The other day, I was going through my handbag, frantically searching for my minty Body Shop lip balm (shimmery, but not glittery, because that's a different lip balm, also somewhere in the bag). Of course, my lip stuff had all filtered down to the bottom, so I was forced to do a inventory check on my lap...

This is what I pulled out of my bag:

My wallet
My camera phone
My camera
Mills's camera
Two pens
One pair of shoes
One scarf
A book
A box of headache tablets
A box of muscle relaxants/cramp tablets
Two plasters
A handful of tampoons
Mouth ulcer cream
Foot blister plasters
Make up travel kit
One stack of chewing gum
(one chewed gum in a used tissue, yes... disgusting)
One box of chewy sweets
One comb
A multitude of hairbands and hairclips
Two lipsticks (different colours for different purposes)
One lipstick/lipbalm (depends which end of the stick you're using)
One lipice
Two glitter lipbalms (one for night, one for day wear)
One tub of Zambuk
One tub of vaseline
A packet of tissues
One tube of handcream
Business card holder
A travel guide of Paris
My house keys
Mills's house keys

...But no minty shimmery Body Shop lipbalm. Damn, I must've left that in my other hand bag.

The really scary thing is that, apart from the cameras and Paris travelguide, it wasn't actually that different from my daily handbag contents. My day-to-day inventory generally includes a change of shoes (heels vs flat, open vs closed toes... you just never know) and a scarf (cos you never know when that North Sea wind is going to kick up). My daily handbag will also most likely include a 'brat pack' - some biscuits or a snackbar to keep the irritable nibbles at bay.

And my handbag isn't even that big.

French Open 2008

My family aren't huge rugby fans. Sure, we would watch a game of national importance, but our Saturdays were never dominated by the the Super 10/12/14 etc. But tennis... that's a different barrel of balls.

So when I got to go to the French Open this weekend, I was like a 6-year-old on E. Tennis, tennis, tennis at Roland Garros. ROCK ON!

We headed down to Paris by car in a group of 12 on Saturday morning. Spent the afternoon wandering around gay Parrreeee and ended up in an awesome little dodgy club, with a beach-themed dance floor. We kicked our shoes off and danced the night away on the beach sand.. throwing some serious name in the process. The long walk home at 3am was totally worth it.

The only problem was that Sunday morning... 12 hungover revellers sat having coffee, croissants and breaking the previous night down in detailed description. This was all very well and gezellig, but I had ants in my pants. We had tickets for one day at the French Open and trying to get this group moving was like trying to herd jellyfish.

First everyone had coffee. Then a few people decided to have a full breakfast. Then when their omelettes arrived, a few more decided that looked quite good so more food was ordered. Finally we managed to pay the bill, but then we lost a few to the ladies' toilet queue. Just as they returned, someone realised they had to draw money. Then it was mentioned that everyone needed ID to get into the stadium (this was not news, they had been informed), so that one went back to fetch his ID. Then another realised that he also didn't have ID so he left as the other was coming back.

I was gritting my teeth and trying my best not to scream, but not hiding my irritation well (to say the least). I was trying not to get pushy, but we had me (frantic and fanatic) on the one end of the scale and then on the other end, we had a couple who weren't sure if the French Open was a tennis or golfing tournament.

Djokovic and Jankovic were playing on the big screen (we had el cheapo tickets, so no centre court seats for us), but we did get to see Cara Black (Zim) and Liezel Huber (USA, formerly RSA) win their 3rd round doubles game. We also watched another scintillating doubles duo as the Ukrainian Boderenko pair snatched a sure win from the French tennis darling - Alize Cornet and her partner.

Just as the doubles games finished, the heavens (and subsequently umbrellas) opened up and we decided it was time to head home. But not before I bought myself a little keepsake.... another teddy bear to add to my international collection. Cheesy as gouda, he's even wearing a Roland Garros t-shirt. His name is Philippe Chatrier. Of course.

Now I can say it: I've been to the French Open.

Been there... bought the teddy bear.

Flawed marketing plan

I went to pick up my pill this evening. It's the third renewal on the same prescription, at the same pharmacy. Nothing much has changed... I'm still using contraception, and guess what... when this lot runs out, I'll be back for more.

Why then, did the pharmacist feel the need to hand me the pamphlet on Kinderwens?

Do I fall into that target market, just because I'm female? Does he think that I'll see the note on fertilisation techniques and suddenly feel an overwhelming need to hump myself a baby?

Kinderwens handed out with every pill prescription. Talk about contradictory contraception.

Another one year anniversary to celebrate

At the end of this week, I will have been in recruitment for a whole year. It's been a steep learning curve, filled with targets and KPI's (unheard of in the newsrooms of my previous experience).

I was thinking about the different characters that I've met in my year so far...

There was the lady with the glass eye, and breathing disability. It didn't affect her working potential, although the glass eye would not be recommendable for cosmetic promotions. But the breathing was distracting. I couldn't quite figure it out, but I think she actually had some form of apparatus, that made a "psssssh" sound when she exhaled. Quite distracting.

There was the dwarf. Giant personality and cleavage to boot, but 1,34m in height (yes - they have height measurements on Dutch passports).

Another fave was the lovely Indian lady who lost the bones in her right arm after a car accident. The bones - not her arm. She owes what remains of her limb to the sexist regime of Indian matrimonials. You see, the kind doctor realised that she was unmarried and was unlikely to find a good husband if she only had one arm... so he surgically removed her humerus, radius and ulna in order to at least keep a semblance of her arm. What remains is similar to a thick wad of rubber. I've seen it, she even demonstrated it's bendy abilities for me. She still has all the bones in her hand though. It was fascinating.

There were also the super-bright, super-posh and super-boring... And don't forget the preachers and self-righteous (who get very upset to learn that I am in the country with my boyfriend... not my HUSBAND. God forbid).

I think my personal favourites, though, are the Big Fat Liars. These are the people who 'can't remember' what's on the CV; when questioned, admit that maybe they didn't actually have the position of sales manager, maybe they were interning under the sales assistant, but they saw what the sales manager did and they know they could do that. And besides, they have a diploma in Business Management, so they think they should start in that position. Big Fat Liars are fun when they squirm.

What would you do?

A friend's dad-in-law has recently been diagnosed with intestinal cancer. Not the 'cancer CAN be beaten' kind of cancer, but the bad kind. The kind where doctors admit that it wasn't caught early enough, there is no chance of chemo or operation and nothing further they can do.

My grandpa died of bowel cancer, I was young and it was a long time ago, but it was a painful loss and I can only begin to feel what my friend is going through now. Her dad has been sent home - a good and bad thing in the circumstances. A good thing because now the family can visit him without worrying about hospital hours, they can visit him in the 'comfort' of home. A bad thing because all he has now is morphine, and a waiting game.

One aspect that I had not thought of, was the Dutch approach to terminal diagnosis. I forgot that euthanasia is an option in this country - and it's an option that this patient has chosen. I can't say I blame him. His internal organs are riddled with cancer and he was diagnosed with days to live, a month ago. Perhaps the worst bit is that he is fully aware of what's happening (well, as aware as the drugs will allow him to be). How much longer can his body hold out?

So, euthanasia it is. This process has required a second opinion from another doctor, the papers had to be signed by two family witnesses (his wife and his son), the decision had to be legislated and agreed upon by a judicial body... and finally a date had to be chosen.

Can you imagine making that decision? The whole process has to happen while you can prove to be of sound mind. As much as he's aware of his surroundings, and technically hanging in there despite the doctor's dire prognosis, if he wants to opt for euthanasia, he has to start and complete the process before his brain gives up on him.

He's selected the day after his birthday this year. Imagine chosing your own death day?

The whole thing puts me in mind of family pets, who get too old to eat, move... they get taken to the vet and get put down, humanely without suffering. I agree with that concept, just as much as I fundamentally agree with the notion of euthanasia. But can you imagine actually making the decision? Or being the family member who as has to sign off the papers of a loved one's decision?

I also wonder - or presume - that there must be a "get out of jail free" clause, if you are still sound of mind on the designated day and have a change of heart. Technically, only the the euthanasee can make the call. Technically. A major concern from objectors is that there is still too much room for manipulation and abuse, despite the 13 or so signatures that have to be collected before the decision is approved.

This family hopes that it won't come to celebrating his birthday, followed by his death day. They're hoping that he will pass away naturally before it comes to that.

I'm glad I don't have to make that decision, either way.

Making headlines

This story is not funny.

It is not funny because two men died. And men dying is not funny, even if it is due to mature poo. It is also not funny because it mentions bull sperm. And bull sperm equals porn.

In other news, joggers in North Holland have more to worry about than mere muggings. Apparently, after four years of harrassment, an evil eagle is finally making headlines. She's probably just pissed off that she hadn't been allocated her 15 minutes of fame yet.

Enjoying it while it lasts

Hi - have you missed me? The reason for this recent hiatus is the fact that Spring has in fact springed, sprung and sproinged into Western Europe. Hoorah. We've spent the last two weeks or so doing as little as possible indoors and staying out as much as possible. It's been twenty-frikken-five degrees people. 25!

Although... (look how pessimistically local I've become)... they say the weather is going to turn from tomorrow. So I may just have more time to indoors and online. Summer could be over by the weekend. I'm lapping it up while it lasts.

Also haven't been online due to the fact that we was visiting 'em folks in London. Jolly good show and all that. Except that... once you hit Clapham Junction, you don't hear toff or chav accents, just Saffers. I didn't even hear that many Aussies. You know how we feel about Zimbabwe immigrants? That's how Londoners must feel about us. Bloody African infestation.

Anywho, lovely weather for that good ol' London tradition... braaing. It's been a while since Mills and I have enjoyed boerie and biltong. Delightful stuff to the palate. Was good to see most our graduating class while we were there, and the picnicking in Regents Park was particularly good for our souls. Here's a picture I took, to prove what a softy I've become, with all this heat going to my head and everything:

In other news, I dreamt that I was pregnant. Yes. I was pregnant with a black baby - which actually didn't even freak me out that much. It was more the fact that I was preggie that was perturbing me, and I was crying a whole lot in my dream. Very upsetting stuff that was. Now that I think about it, I wonder who the father was? Unless Mills's wonder ginger genes are hiding some 'dark' secrets... hahaha. I kill me.

Just your average day at work

I was eating snoepje (sweeties) today, and thoroughly enjoying it too. The Dutchies are known for their dropjes - licorice drops - and I love them.

Anyway, so I'm shnacking away on my shnoepje, when Jejo walks up and helps herself while casually stating.. "they use bull semen to make this stuff."

Sorry.
What?
Bull semem?

I repeated. "Bull semen?"

"What the hell are you guys talking about?" said Duckface from across the room.
Jejo repeated her statement. The fourth (loud) utterance of "bull semen" got KC's and SSAK's attention too.

Right, so now we have five colleagues productively discussing whether there could possibly ever be bull semen in something as pure as licorice. Think of how many child-like palates have been corrupted if this is the case...

Of course, I refuted her claim and turned to google, as one does, in absurd instances such as these.

'Licorice ingredient bull'
Click.

Nothing of interest in that search. So narrow it down a bit more. Offer a bit more info... at this stage, I had everyone gathered behind my computer, still twittering about the possibility of dropje containing anything more corrupt than aniseed.

'Licorice ingredient bull semen'
Click.

Result! "black... licorice... contents... semen... bull..."
Click.

Can anyone guess where this is going?

Porn. PORN. PORN. PORN.

My colleagues collapsed with collective shock and mirth behind me, while I squealed and frantically tried to click away.

Stop it, stop it, stop it! Faak! Make it go away! AAAAAH! Oh god, faaak! This is NOT funny! Jejo, if I get fired I'm dragging you with me! You and your fucking bull semen!

Full frontal, penetrative porn. And it wasn't just one image. No no, this was one of those charming websites that open more windows the more you try to click away.

PORN PORN PORN BULL SEMEN PORN.

There's something in the water

Today, another of my team mates announced her pregnancy. That makes three since I joined the team just over a year ago.

At work, in an office of just 16, two ladies have just had babies and one is 6 months pregnant.

And I can't even begin to count the preggie bellies at Mills's work - basically if you're female and working in that department, you are highly likely to be pregnant. If you're a partner of someone working in that department, you're pregnant. Every time I go to a work function with them, I meet another distended stomach. And with every announcement, the department turns as a team to Mills and I... Never mind the wedding pressure (which people have apparently lost interest in), now we just deal with baby pressure.

Sometimes it seems like everyone greeted the new year with "Happy 2008, here's your fertility shot."

And then, as if the distorted torsos weren't enough, they bring the babies in to show them off at work, just a few weeks after birth. I don't get this. I know this is going to sound callous, but what is the point? Congratulations, you popped one out. There's nothing new about it, in fact... if there was, you probably wouldn't be showing him off so happily. Your eight week old is hardly up there on the entertainment ranks. It's either crying, or sleeping - the first is annoying, the second is boring.

I don't hate babies, I just don't particularly like them. They tend to hold my attention for a very short age bracket - from when they start to develop a personality (around 9 months, me thinks) to when they start talking (which is when they start telling stories and asking questions, around 1 year, 18months? My baby book knowledge is hazy). Anyway, bring your baby in that gap. That's when they're getting interactive, but aren't yet annoyingly cocky.

Bringing children into the office is the best time to catch me at my most productive. Quick dial a number! Act busy! Don't get caught in awkward conversation about how fast he/she/it's growing. She's not pretty, she's not showing visible signs of genius and she looks like a monkey. And I know changing her nappy is perfectly normal for you, but could at least point her legs in another direction while I'm trying to eat my lunch?

So it's breeding season in the Netherlands. A recently relocated couple mentioned that they have been trying for a baby for the last three years. I'm fairly certain that after drinking this water for a few months, they'll be showing off sonograms too. No worries, baby.

I know it's supposed to be that stage of our lives. The 21st are over. Sigh. Now we're in the throws of the wedding and breeding age group. But I do think this whole pregnancy spurt is a little extreme. Suffice to say, I'm keeping my legs tightly crossed just in case it's contagious.

Klote haarkapper

Goddamn useless woman.

I went to the hairdresser today. This is always a bold move, because it means going to someone who has not earned my trust - and then allowing them full power over my fragile hair's self-esteem. Mills does not understand this. To men, a hairdresser is a hairdresser is a hairdresser. To woman a hairdresser is selected carefully, generally by process of trial-and-error elimination. They can make or break you emotionally. My beloved hairdresser is unfortunately in South Africa, and I can't afford the flight home for her to restyle my hair every three months.

Anyway, it had to be done so I went an booked an appointment. Awesome. They led me to a chair in front of the mirror. What do you want done, the young blonde kapper asked me. Just a trim and a thin, I replied - not wanting to allow room for too much drastic change.

She loosened my hair, picked up the scissors and seemed ready to chop.

Um, aren't you going to wash it first..? I quickly enquired.
Oh - do you want it washed too? She asked wide-eyed.

I don't know, is it just me, or is the wetting of the hair not standard before cutting it? I thought it was. Anyway, after the brusquest of washes (She even asked if I wanted conditioner too... yes, I want fucking conditioner... where the heck did you learn your trade? Are you kidding me? Needless to say, there was no gentle scalp massage included), I was back in the chair in front of the mirror.

She was clearly struggling with my thick curly locks. I know this because a) I could see it and b) she told me so a few times.

Very thick hair... very, very thick hair...
Yes, I know, I'm fairly accustomed to it; it growing on my head on a daily basis and all.

By this stage, I was damn sure she was going to do nothing to my hair but cut the dead-ends off and dry it straight. Not much room for error there. Even this turned out to be a mistake. First she had to clarify if I wanted it dried with a hairdryer and a hairbrush, or just with a towel and her blessed hands.

Are a towel and your hands likely to get my hair straight? No. Then I'll go for option A, please dearie.

The woman insisted that my hair was too thick to blow dry straight. This is crap because other hairdressers in the past have managed... and on much tighter curls than my own. Blondie (with her limp, thin hair) should be made to do community service in an African hair salon. Then she'd know all about challenging hair.

She tried to convince me that she should curl instead of trying to straighten. I figured I'd give her a break and agreed. Mistake number 2. Her attempt at curling my CURLY hair turned it into a cross between Medusa and an ambitious rabbi (minus the beard), with ringlets snaking out of control at 90 degrees from each other.

NO.

Now will you please blowdry my hair, possibly professionally, but if you can't manage that, at least just calm it down to below hurricane-inflicted, which is how it looks at the moment.

So, she did half a job and I left the salon with my hair half-wet, having had enough of her incompetent attempts. At least she only charged me half-price for doing more to stuff up my hair than repair it.

I stomped home, got out my brush and hairdryer and wouldn't you know it... straightened my hair.

To my true hairdresser back home, who also has curly "unstraightenable" hair (which she surprisingly can get perfectly straight)... I miss you!

Lesson learnt today:

Never tell a pregnant woman that she's "packing extra weight".

Even if it is funny (which I still maintain it was), expect staplers to fly in your general direction.

ps. I don't know what's with the stupid cartoon obsession at the moment. Bear with me, I think it's just a phase and I'm hoping to grow out of it soon.

Aaaaaaaaaah

I feel rejuvenated. Yesterday, I spent the majority of my afternoon just lying in the sun. Yes. The Sun.

And it was WARM.

Apparently, it was 16, maybe 17 degrees, and I celebrated by getting out a summer dress and lying in the sun on our balcony. The irony is not lost on me. Back home, if the forecast was 16 degrees, I wouldn't have gotten out of bed - other than to refill my hot water bottle.

Yesterday was the first time that the thermometre has gone past 11 degrees this year, and they've predicted similar temps for the week. I feel like a solar panel - recharged.