Greek woman don't mess around

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Girly Gumption

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In sssshort

This is for Bruski...


Amsterdam woman finds snake in toilet

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

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

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

Don't get me started

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

I feel contrite simply thinking about typing it.

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

So good.

So good, that I feel ashamed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh.

I told you not to let me get started.

I'm back

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was.

Koekie is back.

A little Sunday snippet

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

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

Back by popular demand*

Hi.

Sooo...

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

Sort of like that feeling anyway.

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

Fan-fucking-tastic.

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

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

But I'll be back.
Maybe.

Tot zo!

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

Eurovision build-up: 2009

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

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

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

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

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

How do you respond when..?

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

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

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

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

Moving swiftly on.

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

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

Ew.

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

Ew.
Eew.

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

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

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

"Pppppppppppp."

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


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

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

Tweebuffelsmeteenskootmorsdoodgeskietfontein

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Protest?

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

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

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

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

Helicopters and octuplets

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

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

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

Poor bugger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dipshit.

Animal euthenasia?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Getting connected

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


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


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


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


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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now that wasn't so hard, was it?

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

Globalisation. What a great leveller of the service industry.

It's A-LIVE!

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

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

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

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

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

Learning curves

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WooHoo!

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

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

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

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

But WOOHOO! We have a new flat.

Fleshy fashion

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frolicking

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

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

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

I was born for this weather.

Blyg oisug howughowug

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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