Slippers

Now that it’s starting to look like winter really is about to start, I’ve started hunting for slippers. You’d think that this wouldn’t be difficult, but have you seen what’s available out there?? If you eliminate the fluffy, the impractical, the pink, the prissy, and the downright ugly, the list is very short my friends. Very short indeed.
Currently I’m swishing around in my last pair of embroidered blue silk slippers I picked up in China Town, Singapore, during the Chinese New Year celebrations, but they won’t last forever and frankly despite having a high drop-dead gorgeous factor, they aren’t exactly warm.
Today I wandered through a couple of shoe shops in Zutphen looking for something wearable. I spotted some Ug Boots – if you’re not an Antipodean you probably call them sheepskin boots – and out of sheer nostalgia picked one up and looked at the price tag. Holy shit, I kid you not; they were 149 euros!! We used to slop around in Ug boots as kids on the farm, back when they were fashionable the first time around (yes I’m that old). I’m embarrassed to admit to actually having worn these outside of the house on several occasions, apparently convinced I was making a bold fashion statement rather than looking like a Neanderthal twit.
Mind you, I was tempted to order these Play Boy slippers from Amazon, not because they would be practical or functional or even comfortable, but simply because left unattended in a corner they would remind me of several real house bunnies I’ve had in the past, trying to look inconspicuous while actually plotting to chew through the telephone cable or strip the wallpaper.

On the website they are right next to the ‘Bedroom Athletics Women’s Muffin Slipper’- now if that isn’t a name created to grab your attention, I don’t know what is!
What I really want is for the companies who make kids slippers to start turning them out in adult sizes. I mean check out these Dr Who slippers; who wouldn’t want a matching pair of Daleks on their feet??

What about these ‘Junior Dare’ slippers – I would TOTALLY answer the door wearing these!

And how about these froggy ones…how cute are these?

Come on slipper manufacturers, you're missing out on catering to a major market segment!

Pointy Bit Up Please

Winter is fast approaching here in Cloggie land, although the unseasonably mild weather is giving us all a false sense of security about how bad the winter may be. One of these days we’re going to wake up to find the car is frozen to the driveway and I’ll have to chip my way in with a pickaxe, but in the meantime we’re practically basking in temperatures around 10-13 degrees C. However the short days mean it’s time to get out into the garden for a last rummage in the dirt, and in Holland, the land of tulips, that means it’s time to plant flower bulbs.
Now let me start by saying that although I enjoy gardening and getting a bit muddy, I can quite confidently say that I’m a fairly crap gardener. My plants don’t flourish; they limp along until a season changes enough for them to flop limply in relief at not having to pretend they will ever live up to the promieses on their labels. The soil around our house is awful – any topsoil was strip-mined and sold off by the developers – and the borders are characterized by either endless shade or desert-like over exposure to the sun.
However these factors haven’t deterred me from spending money on new plants like a pro, and hope, if not my garden, sprouts eternal. In this respect, bulbs are the perfect plants for me. You just chuck them in the ground, do nothing for a few months, and hey presto, you have flowers in the spring time.

I clearly remember the very first time I planted bulbs (yes really). It was back on our farm near Matamata, in the North Island of New Zealand. We had a fairly large fruit orchard next to the house, which my Dad had rigged with a lethally impressive electric fence system. Wires running along the base of the fruit trees were cunningly arranged at just the right height to allow the resident sheep to nibble the grass around the base, but not chew on the tree trunks. Over time the sheep actually learned to stand on their hind legs to reach the lower branches, and it wasn’t unusual to look out the window to the very odd sight of what appeared to be a flock of dancing sheep staggering around under the trees, snouts raised in the air. As an added bonus the electric fence also prevented possum damage. These beasties are a huge pest in New Zealand; having been imported from Australia years ago to a land with a mild climate and no predators the population has boomed to millions, and one possum will happily strip a fruit tree in a night. However if you were a wayward possum daring to cavort around our house at night, there was a very good chance the last thing you would ever see was my Dad, his Y-fronts glowing in the moonlight, squinting down the barrel of a .22 getting ready to change your mind manually.

I decided to brighten the orchard with daffodils. Having read that the best way to achieve a natural looking placement of bulbs was to literally toss them in handfuls over the area and plant them when they landed, I subsequently spent the next half hour cursing and trying to locate the bloody things again while avoiding the electric fences. Having done that, I pretty much sabotaged my chances of a bumper flower crop by planting them…upside down. For some reason it seemed logical that the pointy bit would stick downwards. With such a hopeless record of bulb planting, who could EVER have guessed I would end up with Dutch nationality??

Hail, Caesar!

A few days ago I was pottering around upstairs, pouring the kids out of their pj's and into something warm to face the cooling autumn weather, when I heard Carl making strange noises in his room. Eventually I figured out he was practising the noise of a cracking whip. He and Big Brother are into Romans and gladiators at the moment so I figured he was having an imaginary chariot race.
A few minutes later I went in to put on his socks - I know, some 5 year olds have mastered this tricky task but it takes Carl FOREVER and sometimes it's just easier to do it yourself, you know? So there he is, lying on his bed, feet in the air and as I lean forward to roll on the first sock he swings his arm to give me a lash of his pretend whip, complete with sound effects, and yells: "Come on slave, faster!!"

Bodiam Castle

You're probably thinking that there isn't much more we could pack into our short UK break, but you'd be wrong. As they say in advertising; but wait - there's more! Wednesday dawned grey and drizzly but even this couldn't put us off our mission to visit Bodiam Castle in East Sussex. My friend Anna had recommended this castle and it was magnificent; a quintessentially medieval fortification, square in shape with round towers at each corner, and a large picturesque moat.

Before I carry on, a quick confession; I didn't take these photos. It basically peed down with rain the whole time we were there, Niels threw a hissy fit when I growled at him about not pushing his brother down a stone stairway and refused to face the camera, and I had cold water dripping down my neck most of the time. So my photos suck. These ones however, from the National Trust, are lovely so I'm stealing them instead.

The castle was built in 1385 by Sir Edward Dalyngrigge in the days of Richard 11 in order to defend the surrounding area from the mauranding French. Touted as one of Britains most famous castle it was only after we returned home that we realised how often it appears in the kids history books.

While the walls, ramparts and towering gate houses of the castle are all intact, the once grand inner structure of the castle was deliberately destroyed, possibly by Cromwells men during the Britsh Civil War to avoid it being used as a defensive outpost.

Now owned by the National Trust, the castle is well maintained and several people dressed in medieval costume braved the weather with us to lend an air of authenticity.

By mid afternoon we squelched our way back to the car and headed 'home', the sun helpfully breaking through the clouds just as we drove out of the carpark.

Make Haste to Hastings!

One of the great things about Kent is that there is so much to do in a fairly compact area. Having sated our appetite for planes and cathedrals, it was time to immerse ourselves in even more history. Perhaps I should point out that we all enjoy our history, although hubby and Niels are real fans. Top of Niels lists of favourite historial events is now the Battle of Hastings, as a result of our day spent exploring the area and delving into the story of the Battle of 1066.

First stop however was Smugglers Adventure, a series of caves dug into the sandstone cliffs of Hastings itself. Nobody knows who dug the first caves, but British smugglers enlarged them to hide their booty to avoid paying the high taxes imposed on most goods to finance the 100 Year War with France. Based on this period the Smugglers Adventure invites visitors to walk through the dimly lit caves, learning about the smugglers, their booty, and what happened to them if they got caught. It wasn't too grisly and the boys had a blast.

Nearby are the ruins of Hastings Castle, which must have been an incredibly impressive sight before most of it tumbled into the sea a few hundred years ago. The film 'The Story of 1066' explained the history of the battle, who was fighting and who won, and prevented me from asking embarresing questions like"King Harold?? Are you sure that was his name? Wasn't he the one in Shrek?"

The fact that poor old Harold was apparently killed after being shot in the right eye by an arrow was the icing on the cake for the boys. They have been re-enacting that particular moment non-stop ever since, complete with squelchy eye popping sound effects and blood curdling death cries. Lovely.
After riding on the cute little West Cliff Victorian railway down to the seaside again, we enjoyed an excellent lunch of traditional fish & chips at a nice little restaurant before wandering back to the car. Fired up by the history oozing from the ground around us we stopped at the imaginatively named town of Battle, site of....you guessed it...the Battle of Hastings. A huge Abbey was built beside the battle field by William the Conqueror and Holger was keen to take a look, as was Niels. I bowed out - one cathedral a week is enough for me - and instead took Carl to visit Yesteryear, a museum andshop full of nostalgic things from days gone by. I bought the guys a very retro-looking gam of Tiddlywinks and a couple of traditional pop-guns (the kind with a cork on a string which pops out when you pump the handle), perhaps subconsciously hoping to distract them from the whole arrow-in-the-eye obessession.

When he emerged from the Abbey hubby was having a chuckle at something he'd seen. A concrete tile marked the spot where King Harold had died, and some patriotic Brit had placed flowers there with a note saying "In remembrance of the last true English King". Who would have thought it possible to hold a grudge for 950 years??

RAF Manston Spitfire Museum; Take Aim and Fire!!!

Our first port of call after arriving in Kent was of couse the RAF Manston Spitfire and Hawker Hurricane Memorial Museum in Ramsgate. I say of course because anyone who has met my children will realise that few things in life will ever top the moment they walked through the doors and came face to face with one of their favourite objects on the planet. Of course I may have slightly ruined the moment by squealing "Oh look Niels, a real Spitfire!!!" whereupon he turned to me with a withering look and grumbled "That's a Hawker Hurricane, not a Spitfire!"

Ok, so I'm not such a big fan but even I enjoyed the museum. It's fairly small by most standards, with just the two planes, and tonnes of memorabilia, but it was the perfect size for two little boys. Each one had actually flown in combat and been lovingly restored. After lunch in the quintessially British cafe next door we strolled around the Battle of Britain memorial - still strewn with wreaths commemorating the 65th anniversary the weekend before - then wandered across the lawn to the collection of more modern aircraft which is displayed in a much larger hanger-like facility next door. Jet fighters, rescue helicopters, and all kinds of other aircraft are collected here. When they ran out of room they simply started chopping the cockpits off the planes and displaying those instead, which seems like quite a sensible solution to me.

We left with a new collection of model planes which have been lovingly played with every day since, and a resolution to recommend this place to whoever we can. So there you go - if you like planes, history, or running around the lawn withyour arms outstretched yelling "budda-budda-budda YOU'RE DEAD" at your brother, you should visit this very worthy museum. It's staffed by volunteers (many of whom are former pilots) and survives on donations.

On the way back to our cottage we couldn't drive past Canterbury without calling in for a visit. I've heard about this place all my life and finally this was a chance to see it. Since the days when I studied Chaucer I've wondered what Canterbury is like; and after passing through the high stone gates into the cathedral grounds, I imagine that little has changed since he himself was last here. The cathedral is simply magnificent, as you would expect it to be, although we were a little stunned at the entrance fee of GBP 21.50 for a family ticket. However we weren't going to come this way again so in we went. We found the statues of Thomas Beckett and The Black Prince, strolled through the Quoir and along the endless nave.

Having developed a slight case of ABC Syndrome since moving to Europe (that's 'Another Bloody Cathedral Syndrome' to those of you who aren't in the know) I'm not usually a big fan, but it was an impressive place, dripping with history. We quickly breezed through the very, very large souvenir shop - religion has obviously been commercialised since my last visit to a cathedral - to exit into the bright sunlight again and headed on our way. This was shaping up to be a great holiday.

Blue Skies Over the White Cliffs of Dover

Last week we headed off for much-anticipated mid-term break to the UK. Journeying to a holiday destination by car still holds a certain thrill for me; firstly I love the fact that no-one is going to weigh my luggage so if I decide to completely over-pack, it's my business and won't involve handing over a credit card. Secondly, it brings back fond memories of being a kid, huddled together with my sisters in the enormous back seat of our big V8 Holden, roaring off in the early misty morning for Te Kaha or Paihia for a week of living on crayfish, paua, butterfish and all sorts of other goodies Dad would bring home and Mum would cook to perfection with just one pot and a rusty spatula. Days spent playing on the beach, crunching sand with all our food and not really caring, and hair so full of sea salt it would take three shampoo washes before it would even move again. Ten cents pocket money each day - a real treat since we never had pocket money as growing up on a farm meant there wasn't anywhere to spend it anyway - and hours spent hanging upside down on the monkey bars at the local park or building huts under the Pohutukawa trees at the beach, in the days before parents started looking sideways at every potential child snatcher walking past. I also vividly remember being pretty ill on some hoildays, with bronchitis and chest infections necessitating trips to strange doctors we didn't know. I particularly have very crystal clear memories of being prescribed a cough medicine by an elderly witch doctor in Paihia which was dark blue in colour and so vile tasting it actually made me vomit and stained my tongue and teeth. Aah, the fond recollections of our youth!

I digress. Just before we headed off our new toy arrived; a Tom Tom. Ok, we must be the last people on the planet to get one but hey, we've survived with maps up until now. After reading the instruction book cover to cover (I admit it's an obsession but it's one I can live with), I programmed in our destination - to Dunkirke then from Dover to near Tunbridge Wells - and off we set. Ah, the bliss of not having to track our progress kilometre by kilometre, one finger pressed firmly into the map book so as not to lose our place. I even downloaded - get this - a female NEW ZEALAND voice for the Tom Tom - my squeals of "honey I found a voice without ANY ACCENT AT ALL!!!! probably audible across half of Lochem. Can't imagine why hubby was rolling his eyes and mumbling, but I swear it took less than 24 hours for him to start ignoring that machine, so maybe an accent like mine was asking for trouble.

All was well until we got close to Antwerp, and then Moana (that's what I christened) her died. No more power. At all. Turns out there was a faulty fuse in that little hole you shove the power cable into (and yes I do believe that is the technical name thank you very much) so it wasn't charging. However we still had our trusty maps, so off we sped to the ferry terminal.

Ferries are so much more relaxing than planes. We simply drove up to customs point where the cheerful officials briefly squinted at our passports to make sure they were the right colour (yes that's why I married him darling) before being waved onto the vessel. We lounged about a bit and then, get this, I had a MASSAGE on the boat before we docked in Dover. Let's see that happen on a plane. Plus the return trip cost just 60 euros for all of us, the car, and Moana (on Norfolk Line). Unblievable.

Arriving at our converted stable cum cottage in Shipbourne, the sun was still shining, the golden autumn leaves were sighing in the breeze, and it was the perfect time to crack open the bottle of Tanquery I'd picked up on board for half the price we pay at home, ready for a pre-dinner G&T. We were officially in holiday mode.

Father & Son

There's not much I wanted to add to the picture (taken on the Dragon Ride at Legoland, on perhaps the 452nd time Niels rode it), except have you ever seen a boy and his Dad having more fun together?

Aaaaaaarrrrgggghhhhhhhhh!

I defy anybody to look at the photo above and not crack up laughing. Taken during our summer holiday at Legoland, this is our first ride on the Lego Canoe...the first of about 15 times we did this. The looks on the kids faces are classic; Niels is old enough to realise that if this was truly dangerous, that (a) Mum and Dad wouldn't let him do it, and (b) or in any case would not be sitting in the canoe with him!
Carl however, with less life experience to draw on is clearly thinking: "We're all going to die!!!". Those popping eyes, muscles clenched in terror and hair standing on end all show that he fully expects the smiling young teenagers who work at Legoland to be seiving bodyparts from the foaming pool at the bottom of this slope for the next two hours. D-Day has arrived.
Now let's examine that emotion a little more closely...

...and then marvel at the fact that the very first thing he said when we reached the bottom - once he resumed breathing - was "AGAIN!!!"

Looking For A New Job

Life as a parent can be so frustrating at times, and I often seem to be moaning to hubby about how little the kids listen to me. At times it feels like I'm talking to myself. Take today, for instance. Both of the boys had been so difficult at different times, and I found myself telling them to do simple things like put on their shoes or get in the car ten times. By the time bedtime rolled round I was feeling so frazzled, I decided enough was enough. After a serious talking to I made them tidy their rooms and put away the ten thousand toys strewn around the house before I'd read them a story. Then when they were in bed I spent ten minutes with each one individually talking about how they needed to listen to me more, not just ignore me when I asked them to do something or talked to them and generally pull their fingers out and behave.
Niels listened quietly and we ended with a hug and a promise to try harder. When it was Carls turn he also listened intently, nodded his head that he understood then gave me a quick goodnight kiss before demanding: "how long until Papa comes home?" Obviously he's given up on me and has decided the other parent show more promise.
Actually it's the second time this week he's made me feel like that. He loves to kick around a football after dininer, devising elaborate rules that only he can understand to explain why when he kicks the ball in my goal (the entire garden fence) he gets 3 points, yet when I kick it into his goal (a 20 cm wide zone of the fence which moves at random) I either get 1 point, or -1 point. It's always a laugh and its hard to keep a straight face when he takes it so seriously. A couple of nights ago he was getting increasingly pissed off because I didn't understand his ever-changing rules, and when I finally gave up and just kicked the ball towards him glared at me, thrust out his arm with an indignant finger pointing straight at me and yelled "that's it, YOU'RE FIRED!"
Time to find a new job.

Airborne Museum 'Hartenstein' in Arnhem

Last week the Airborne Museum in Arnhem was officially reopened after having been cosed for extensive renovations and extensions for the past year. it's the sort of place we tend to visit; lots of history and interesting info, plus of course the endless appeal of soldiers and battle stories for the kids. The museum is located in Hartenstein, which before WWII was the rather posh Hotel Hartenstein. It played a key role the famous battle of Arnhem, Operation Market Garden, which was immortalised in history for the exceptional courage of the soldiers involved, the enormous bloodshed that resulted, and for more recent generations in numerous books and films, most notably A Bridge To Far by Cornelius Ryan.

As part of a major advance the Allies landed across Holland and moved North and East into Germany. Many troops were landed behind enemy lines, and about 35,000 men were deployed in the operation. Those unfortunate souls who were sent in to take and defend the bridge in Arnhem were landed about 8 miles away, and were expected to regroup then advance through the town of Oosterbeek to Arnhem. Sadly those 8 miles may as well have been 100. Intense fighting around Oosterbeek saw the British dig in and fight fiercely, bun faced with heavy bombardment by the German artillery the Allies were forced to withdraw. The Hotel Hartenstein was used as the command post and hospital for the Allied troops and was itself the scene of fierce and bloody fighting.

Today it's hard to imagine the bombs landing and men killing each other in the peaceful woods and manicured lawns around this stately old building. Yet just last year more unexploded ordinance was found in the front lawn which had to be blown up and removed for public safety.

During the rebuild a new entrance was built and more display area created, and what a good job they've made of this rebuild. Inside the displys are well thought out, interesting, and presented in Dutch, German, and English. There were crowds of people enjoying a day out in the sun when we called in this afternoon, and the film room was full. We wandered through the elegant rooms, still adorned with flowery murals and delicately plastered ceilings, trying to reconcile the photos and films of the battle around the building with the sun-filled rooms we passed through. In the basement a whole new level has been created where you walk thorough trenches and it really does feel like you're under enemy fire; real jeeps and demolished cars and buildings, the smell of smoke and flicking films on the walls create an eerily realistic effect. It was a bit to realistic for Carl so I whizzed him through this part, but Niels found it fascinating, as did we. If you visit you should allow about an hour to walk through the museum, and the small gift shop at the end is worth a visit. The boys found model airplanes and military Lego (well it looks like Lego but is actually a copy) to take home, and hubby enjoyed poking about among the books and DVDs about the history of the battle and the area.

The museum is well worth a visit, especially if like me you're from abroad and are interested in learning more about the local history. Mind you the excellent displays and great location make this a good place for anyone to visit, especially military history buffs. Entrance costs 8 euros per adult, 5 euros for children.

Bird of Prey Show, Silkeborg

There's something about birds of prey that is captivating, and the sport of falconry has always struck me as particularly cool. I can imagine that in medieval times it would have been handy to be able to hunt with a falcon or buzzard, and even now as a sport it has a noble association. Plus it must take a huge amount of dedication to train a bird of prey, and no small amount of courage to let it loose every day and hope like hell that it chooses to return rather than disappear into the wild blue yonder.

When we were in Denmark we passed a sign for a bird of prey show several times on our trips to Silkeborg where we seemed to spend most of our time looking for, or hanging around, a laundromat. Eventually we couldn't resist the temptation and called it to investigate. As luck would have it we had arrived only ten minutes before the daily show - perfect timing!

If you're ever in the Silkeborg area you have to check out this show. The host was a young guy who obviously was passionate about his sport. What looked like brand-new, purpose built facilities housed a wide variety of birds, and his presentation was funny, quirky and really interesting. At different times volunteers could have a go at putting on a falconry glove and feeling what it was like to have a bird on their hand; once Niels had tried it there was no stopping Carl, despite the fact that the owl was almost bigger than he was!

Egeskov Castle - A True Danish Delight

About eight years ago hubby and I visited a beautiful castle south of Odense, on the island of Funen, in Denmark. Niels was only about six weeks old at the time so it was a very different trip to the one we did last month when we headed off to re-visit the place during our holiday. We weren't the only ones to have changed: the grounds around Egeskov Castle have been developed into a well designed park with loads of stuff to keep us and the boys interested.

The castle itself was built around 450 years ago in 1554 and claims to be the best preserved moat castle in all of Europe. Approached over a stone bridge and through an impressive portcullis and gate house, most of the castle is not only open to the public but also still fully furnished with furniture dating back to the first inhabitants. The castle was built in the middle of a lake on a foundation of oak pilings in such quantities that it was said that "it took an oak forest to build it". Lucky there was no Greenpeace back then!

In 1784, Egeskov was sold to Henrik Bille whose descendants have owned the castle ever since. In 1883, Julius Ahlefeldt-Laurvig-Bille moved into Egeskov and, during his time at the castle, it was restored by Helgo Zettervall, a Swedish architect. During this period, the castle was developed into an up-to-date model farm with its own dairy, power station and railway track to Kværndrup, and this formed the economic basis for the large, modern farm that Egeskov is to this day.

Now the fun part. In the 1960s a vintage car/motorbike museum was created which eventually spread to fill several of the huge barns on the estate. There is a Falck museum filled with fire engines and other rescue equipment from throughout history which Niels hasn't stopped talking about since. There are planes hanging from the ceiling, London buses parked in the corners, motorbikes dating from the 1920s gathered from every corner of the earth including one used in a James Bond movie. Once you finally mange to get through that huge collection, you can go through the horse-drawn carriage museum, where we spotted the same type of carriage as the one we rode in when we got married (a Landauer). There's also an agricultural museum, and no less than FIVE mazes on the property to get happily lost in.
A tree-top walk has recently been constructed; not for the faint hearted it wobbles its way between trees, suspended several metres above the ground. And surrounding that is an expansive playground, which has been constructed as lots of small play stations spread through the trees, perfect for playing hide and seek.

If you're in this part of Denmark it's well worth stopping of for a long visit. You can get your entry tickets converted into season passes at no extra charge which means you'll be keen to come back for a second visit to do all the things you didn't get around to the first time, as we did.

Legoland 2 - Still Can't Get Enough!

Our holiday to Denmark (and Legoland) was just too much fun to limit to one posting, so I'm going to start raving about it again.

After all, we are still in serious Lego mode here; the boys have had me putting together all their Lego toys in a non-stop marathon since we arrived home, resulting in me re-discovering many rarely used muscles I had forgotten I actually possessed since the last Lego marathon which I described here. Now that the creidt card bills have rolled in we've also been able to confirm our suspicions - Denmark is a pretty expensive place. It didn't help that it isn't part of the Euro zone, a small detail which had completely escaped me until the day before we were to leave when hubby suggested we go through the Money Drawer to see if we had any Danish Kroners. Any what? You mean we have to change money? Inside Europe?? Bugger.

After rummaging through our money drawer, I happily found a small stock of Kronies to take with us. The Money Drawer used to get a lot more use, but since we all became part of Euro land, the number of envelopes stuffed with currencies have diminished somewhat. There is always a handful of British pounds, since hubby travels back and forth between Aberdeen and Amsterdam every month, and a stack of Swedish Kroner for the annual visits to his sister in Uppsala. Then there is of course a wad of Kiwi dollars, some Norwegian thingies (Kroner again? How unoriginal) for business trips to Stavanger, and a pile of Singaporean dollars which is sadly depleted after my last stopover. Other that that there are what we call the orphan currencies; bits and bobs from Indonesia, Malaysia, South Africa, the US and a couple of other places we'll probably not get back to for a long time. However I digress - we at least had some Danish Krondongs.

Now I don't know about any of you, but doing currency exchanges in my head is not a natural talent. Euro to New Zealand or Singaporean dollar? No problem, the rate is always about 1:2. But Danish Kring-alings? Those suckers trade at 7.3 to the euro, and who the hell can work that out?? Let's just suffice to say I would suck 2,500 of them out of an ATM every second day and they seemed to disappear at an alarming rate. It didn't help that our new credit cards which we hadn't requested didn't work (thanks ING bank!). Our Postbank was recently taken over by the ING bank and our perfectly working pale blue credit cards were prematurely swapped for hideous bright orange ones which only work with a pin number. Nice move guys, just when we're about to go on holiday, too! Feeling like complete dinosaurs, neither of us knew our pin number, having always just signed for purchases in the past. Hence the 10,000 Koronas-a-week habit we developed on holiday.

On the bright side, having only a vague idea as to how rapidly we were depleting our daily account did help to curb any leanings towards holiday splurges, with the exception of boxes of Lego of course. At the end of the day, the chance to get away from reality for two weeks made it all worth while. And we still have some Kro-magnons left in the Money Drawer.

Vuelta comes to Lochem (this one's for the girls)

Nobody could ever accuse me of being a fan of cycling. A bicycle is a useful tool to get from A to B, and I enjoy doing my shopping on my bike like every other person in Holland in order to avoid traffic congestion, parking problems, and of course to do my little bit for the environment. However watching cycling as a competitive sport has always seemed about as interesting as watching snooker, chess, or golf on the TV; a complete waste of time.

Once I moved to Holland of course I found I was in the minority. They love their cycling over here, and they are good at it too. From the regular outdoor cycling races to the confusing, bizarre and seemingly no-rules sport of indoor sprinting, the Dutch will glue themselves to their TVs to cheer on their favourite cyclist, although to be honest they all look the same to me in their tight little body suits, silly pointed helmets and funny shoes. Plus every time a winner raises his arms in triumph I have to bite my tongue and resist the urge to shout "two hands, hold on with two hands!!!" at the TV as my mothering instinct kicks in amid memories of Niels and Carl face-planting off their bikes.

This week the country is agog at the Vuelta, a cycling race which starts in Spain and ends up travelling through Holland. Now I just know someone is going to correct me here, but frankly I just spent 15 minutes trying to find out why and where and for how long this is all about on the Internet but as a child of the Now Generation, if I can't find what I need on line in quarter of an hour I give up. Suffice to say a large crowd of guys would be whizzing past the town, and the kids school had decided to turn out in support to watch. After Carl had asked me "are you coming Mum? Are you gonna come and watch? Are you? Are you? Are you gonna come too?" about fifty times while bouncing manically on his toes I thought it best to mosey along if only to stop him throwing himself under the first bike in a fit of excitement . Stifling a yawn and feigning enthusiasm I walked with other Mums and Dads and about 100 incredibly noisy kids to stand behind hastily erected barriers on the main road.

And actually it was fun. Every two minutes a police motorbike would zoom pass, greeted by a deafening chorus of cheers and totally uncoordinated Indian waves from the kids. Then Spanish police started cruising by, cooler by a factor of ten with their confident smiles and slow waves. The kids were about ready to explode when the official race motorbikes started cruising by, tooting their horns and returning the waving enthusiastically. By the time the race cars, laden with spare bikes and wheels and sprouting bunches of antennae cruised past Carl had reached the point where his adrenalin was just about used up and his little face was squeezed against the metal railings, the effort of all that waving and screaming just all too much. Pushing away thoughts of having to call the fire brigade to cut his head loose should he actually manage to squeeze it through, I focused on the action long enough to see three cyclists whizz past so quickly they were a blur of orange of blue. Was that it?? No, just the leaders.

Thankfully not five minutes later the main bunch arrived, pedalling hard but steadily, eyes focused unwaveringly on the road ahead, silent in their intense concentration. And Oh.My.God. Suddenly I got it. The realisation of why this sport is so popular - at least amongst women - suddenly blossomed in my brain like an ink drop in water. These guys are hot. Never mind your helicopter shots of crowded bikes jockeying for position; up close and within touching distance those cyclists are pure tanned muscle from their chiseled calves to their razor sharp pecs, with buns so hard they look carved from granite. Thighs that could crack walnuts pump rhythmically while sculptured forearms grasp the hand grips . They were past in a few seconds but in the frenzied cheering that followed I noticed I was not the only Mum suddenly joining in the Indian wave, and we all shared a secret little smile on the walk back to school.

Love Is In The Air...At Last

In the rush to get away on holiday I forgot to update you all on a most important occurance here at Matchmaking Central. After months of anguish (that would be me), stamping feet and upturned noses (that would be them), and rivers of blood from savaged ankles (me again), Rocco and Punky Muffin are finally bonded.

An item...

....hot stuff...

...in luuuuuurrrrve!

You may recall that I thought we were well on the way to bonding them about a month after Punky arrived. She'd been through a botched spey - never ever let a vet put external stitches in a rabbit as they rip them out in seconds - so I kept her well away from Rocco while she recovered and settled in. They were happy enough to hop around the garden together and I separated them at night. Then one dreadful day he tried to hump her once too often and she flipped. Luckily I was standing close by admiring what a lovely couple I thought they made when she attacked him, he retaliated, and I fortunately managed to keep them apart by fending them off with my feet. Hence the bloody ankles. There followed a couple of months of serious time out.

I was beginning to despair when finally it happened. After days of spending just a couple of minutes a day together in neutral territory (locked in the kitchen) while they reacquainted themselves, I dared to let them loose in the garden and...nothing. He humped her, she sneered disdainfully at him before hopping off with a flippant flick of her ears. He was all "mon cherie, I vant to ravish your body and make ze muzik of lurve..." and she was all "like, whatEVER", and that was that. They were a couple.

Such are bunnies.

This might be a good time to point out that humping is about dominance in this situation; they are both desexed of course and basically whoever gets to be on top is the boss. A contentious issue if you're a feisty young thing like Punky.

However despite the age difference they are very happy together. He's a true dirty old man at 7 .5 years, the equivalent of about 75 in human terms, while she's a veritable teenager at just 18 months or so. He does have the slightly offputting habit of occasionally spraying a few drops of urine on her, a practice which while no doubt is in demand for a fetching price in certain clubs in Amsterdam, is treated by Punky with the same sneering indifference as all his displays of lapine love. He hops after her devotedly all day wanting nothing more than to be pressed against her glossy body from the tip of his furry nose to the point of his fluffy tail, whereas she frankly prefers a good dig in the sandpit to lust on the lawn.

But at least they are a couple at last.

Now if only I could convince them they aren't supposed to sneak into the kitchen every time the door opens...

Back from Legoland at Last

Wow, now that's a break from blogging! Yes we're back in the country, after two fun-filled weeks in Denmark. While a diet consisting solely of hotdogs and spicy mayonnaise and the humorously sing-songy language may seem reason enough to visit the land of the Vikings, our real motivation was always to visit Legoland again. And again...and again, as it turned out.

In fact Legoland was so good - and we were savvy enough to pre-order season tickets on line to avoid queues and pressurised visits -that we returned no less than FOUR times. I'm so impressed with us that I'm going to repeat that: WE VISITED LEGOLAND FOUR TIMES.

We have been there before so knew what to expect. Holger had visited the place as a kid and while the 'old part' with the miniature cities and world landmarks constructed solely of Lego blocks are still there, useful things like electricity and hot food have been invented since those dark days and this is now an awesomely entertaining park for kids up to about 10 years old and their sentimental 'ol Mum & Dad. We couldn't wipe the goofy grins off our faces as we rode the Lego monorail, whizzed down the Viking water ride (block your ears to protect them from screaming girlies) and ripped around the loopy track on the Dragon ride. There is just enough adrenaline to keep the kids pumped, not enough to reduce them to tears. At every ride there's a huge bin of over-sized Lego blocks for kids to play in just in case there's a queue, although we rarely had to wait for more than 10 minutes.

We visited every inch of that park and still didn't get sick of it. From the very high tech Power Builder ride, where you pre-program your own personal chipcard with a series of moves which are later executed while you are strapped into a pod whirling on the end of a huge robot arm in a massive darkened building, to the Falck Fire Engines where families compete against each other to 'drive' their engine down a track, douse a fire then race back to the finish line, everything is fun. The underwater world with its Lego submarines and divers hovering in a real aquarium filled with sharks, rays and fish was brilliant. The 4D Bob the Builder movie was fun, especially watching the kids trying to grab the images on the screen then shrieking when they were sprayed with water from jets hidden in the backs of the seat in front. Even the pimply students manning the rides and snack venues are having fun, having sword fights with kids on the rides with foam Lego swords, and dressed in costumes as pirates, princesses and rogues.

Because we had season tickets we took life pretty easy, spending about 4 hours at the park before leaving, and returning a couple of days later. That avoided anyone getting too tired or sick of the place and prevented us from having to try and talk the kids out of wanting to go again. We'd all discussed beforehand exactly what they were allowed to buy from the huge Lego shop at the exit, a tactic which worked well to prevent the endless whines of "I want" that every parent knows and dreads.

Of course we did do other things in Denmark; we visited a very cool Castle, swam in the frigid Baltic Sea and flew Niels awesome kite on the beach. However I'll save those for another day. I'm still enjoying reminiscing about Legoland too much.

A Box Full Of What???

I know, as a non-native speaker of Dutch I shouldn't take the piss, but honestly...sometimes they just ask for it. Just outside of our village is a paper recycling depot where you can deliver boxes of...you guessed it..paper and cardboard for recycling. Being conscientious little greenies we are often there doing our bit. The depot is run by two wizened little old men who have obviously decided that a life of retirement with the missus doesn't offer as much excitement as sitting on a hard wooden bench every day overseeing deliveries of old paper which they then chuck into a huge metal container, to await transport by truck to a central depository.

These two old guys are true Achterhoek relics: they must be eighty if they're a day and are faithfully turned out in their wooden clogs and cloth ccaps every time I see them. Only the fat cigar is missing, although this may have more to do with the flammable nature of their business than some moral code.

Anyway, I turned up recently with a car full of paper-stuffed boxes. That's the problem with recycling, isn't it? The stuff builds up into a huge looming pile until you either simply have to deliver it to its rightful resting place or spend half an hour jumping up and down on your wheelie-bin trying to stuff everything in before the rubbish truck arrives.

This day I was feeling quite proud of myself; not only was I about to recycle a months worth of paper junk, it was all packaged neatly into the moving boxes left over from the Big Move from Singapore. I merrily slung the boxes into the metal container until one of the old codgers offered to help. Picking up the first box, he suddenly turned to me and said (in the broadest Lochem dialect you have ever heard and which I can barely understand): "This box is pretty light..it ain't full of Tampax is it???!!"

I swear, the world stopped turning for at least 15 seconds while I absorbed this. Had I understood him correctly? Did he seriously think I would deliver boxes of TAMPONS to him to recycle? What sort of pervert was this? What sort of pervet did he think I was? And what the hell did he think I would say in reply? Before I could gather my senses enough to even stutter he continued: "Lots of people try to pass off Tampax on us, you know. Fill up their boxes, they do. Think we won't notice. I'll just have to take a quick look..." I mean eeeuuuuuuwwww!

By this stage I'm calculating the distance between me and the car and the degree of disappointment he's going to feel when he tears open one of my boxes to discover its only filled with old paper and cartons. The newspaper headlines are flashing through my mind as I back towards the car: "Foreigner killed in tampon rage", or "If only she'd confessed her tampon crime I wouldn't ha' killed da bitch".

Just as my hand reached the doorpost I suddenly had a flashback to my local friend who runs a D.I.Y. shop. From the depths of my mouldering gray matter I suddenly recall that years ago she had explained to me that Tampax was the Dutch name for the foam chips commonly used to package fragile goods when they are shipped - I was safe! The old pervert wasn't really a pervert, just another weird local! With a laugh of relief which bordered only slightly on the hysterical I got into my car and sped away just a little too fast with a compensatory friendly wave to the two local characters. Now that's something I never had to deal with in Singapore!