OMG It's Another Birthday

We are in the throes of planning another birthday party - Niels is turning 8 shortly and we want to have both the 'grown ups' and the 'kids' parties before hubby returns to sea next week. Hopefully the incredibly crap weather will brighten up so we can celebrate it outdoors, something we've been able to do since the year he was born. While sorting out the party streamers, paper napkins, cups and whistles decorated with Play Mobil pirates which I brought back from Singapore (how I miss the party shop in Great World City!) it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn't posted about Carls 5th birthday way back in February.

Before you all nod sagely and say that this only confirms you're suspicions that the only reason I had kids was so I could poke fun at them mercilessly on my blog, I must point out that I was in New Zealand at the time, and Carl was in Sweden. He celebrated the day in fine style with TWO birthday cakes which, oddly enough, were eaten for breakfast. They were seasoned with piles of sweets and washed down with sweet drinks, and I can only say that I was pleased not to be there to try and contain Carl and his brother once all that sugar hit their system 30 minutes later.

Fortunately they were surrounded by metres of snow, and few things burn off a kids energy quite so efficiently as running around in ten layers of clothing trying not to slip over on the ice or trip up in the powder.

My sister in law kindly provided a cake, which hubby decorated with Bob The Builder toys he'd secretly smuggled up there from home. This is Carl's third Bob The Builder birthday cake in his life, and I can't guarantee he won't request another for his next birthday.

At least it was easier to assemble than the daunting task which faces me this weekend: Niels wants his cake to be either a Spitfire or a Hawker Hurricane. Lucky me.

A Koninginnendag Like No Other

Yesterday was the Dutch Queen's birthday celebration, a national day of fun and street parties - not to mention a public holiday - that sees hundreds of thousands of people pour into streets decorated with a sea of flags. It's always a fun day in every town, with about 600,000 people travelling to Amsterdam alone to join in the street parties and traditional markets. It's also a fun family day, with lots of games and events being organsed for kids. Another highlight is the 'vrij markt', the opportunity for kids up to 12 years old to sell toys or anything else they want in the town centres.
We were particularly looking forward to the day for several reasons. The kids are old enough to undersand what's going on, the location had been moved from the centre of town (which is being completely remodelled at the moment) to the huge grass field just around the corner from us, and because the kids had agreed to sell all their old toys. An ideal chance for them to generate some cash to buy new toys, and for us to empty the house of loads of stuff they no longer play with.

The day dawned with a clear blue sky and friendly sunshine, perfect spring weather. By 9:45 the kids were at school with Dad, collecting balloons to which they tied a special name and address tag. These would be released later on and the idea is that someone in Germany, Belgium, or even further afield will post the card back to you and you win a prize. They had a ball playing as many of the almost 30 organised games on the grass field as they could, before stuffing themselves with bright orange 'tompuss' cream cakes in preparation for the market. Bang on 1:45 we rolled up with a cart loaded with toys and two picnic blankets, and found a spot amongst the dozens of others peddling their wares. Niels was in a 'playback show' which was organised amongst the local primary schools, a kind of kids kareoke show which kept him busy most of the afternoon (that's him in the black t-shirt on the right, playing electric guitar).

Despite my trepidation Carl didn't mind parting with his old toys as the money rolled in, nor did he try to wrestle to the ground any kid who walked off with 'his' gear. Admittendly at ten cents per car and the most expensive item costing 2.50 they weren't going to get rich, but by the end of the day he and Niels had 30 euros to share between them. It would have been a perfect day...

...if only a lunatic in the town of Apeldoorn, where the Queen and the royal family were visiting this year to celebrate among the people, hadn't decided to drive his car at high speed into the crowd in attempt to crash into the royal bus. We saw it on the news that afternoon, a surreal moment captured by tv cameras from every angle showing men, women and children being struck so hard their bodies flew through the air to come crashing down in a shower of clothing, lost shoes, and blood. By the time the car stopped - smashing into a momument just metres from the royal bus - 17 people had been mowed down on what had been a beautiful spring day full of fun.
Cheering and laughter turned to screams and horror as people rushed to help. Ambulances and police were on the scene in seconds yet the damage was done. By today the death toll has risen to 7, with 10 more people still critically injured in hospital. As we watched the sickening event unfold we felt that those victoms could be ourselves, we were also out celebrating this day amongst the crowds, any of our friends or loved ones could have decided to go to Apeldoorn to catch a glimpse of the royal family.

It seems unbelievable that this could happen on this most relaxed and fun day of the year - in the past the queen has been kissed by a passer-by, her husband has given a bicycle ride to a pretty girl, and all of the royal family take part in good nautred fun and games without having overt security spoiling the atmosphere.

Now all that has changed with the action of one cruel and selfish person, who having died of his injuries will never be able to offer any explanation (if there could ever be one) for why he did this.

It was a Koninginenndag like no other, and we can only hope that it stays that way in the years to come.

Welcome home Daddy

A couple of nights ago I was downstairs watching t.v. at about 9:30 pm when I thought I heard a noise upstairs. I muted the tv and listened...and soon heard the distinctive sound of little feet padding down the stairs. The door slowly opened, and Niels stepped into the room looking a bit flushed. "Sorry Mum...." he mumbled. "I just threw up. I did try to clean it up though...."
No problem, I assured him, I'll take care of it. And then:
"And actually I was in your bed"
Great. Vomi-bomb in Mummy's bed, what a nice surprise. Then his little face brightened and he added in a perky voice:
"Don't worry though, I wasn't sleeping on your side!".

Can't wait to tell hubby when he gets home tomorrow.

Goodbye Ashley, Hello....Punky Muffin??

As I mentioned in my earlier post, our female rabbit Ashley died recently. Above is one of the last photos I have of her, taken just a few weeks ago. While it may seem harsh to 'replace' her straight away, her death left her mate, Rocco all alone and for an elderly gentleman like him - he's seven which is about the human equivalent of an 80 year old - that's not a good thing. He needs somebunny to snuggle up to when it's cold, to take turns grooming, and to smooth down his fluffy ears on windy days. Also he may be old but by God, he knows how to show the girls a good time and isn't past (ahem) proving it. Being de-sexed is apparently no impediment to a horny old bugger like Rocco. Perhaps the fact that he was 'done' late in life - at three years old - has something to do with this.

Anyway, I digress. Liesbeth from the rabbit rescue centre Opvang Franky in Eindhoven has years of experience in matchmaking lonely bunnies and had a few lovely ladies in mind for our Adventurous Male Of Advanced Years. The final choice was a simply beautiful, sleek girlie named Arabica who had been brought to the centre by a family who could no longer keep her because they were moving. She is 18 months old, about Roccos size without all that hair, and has a pert set of uppy ears in contrast to his loppy ones. He was immediately smitten. After spending a couple of hours together separated by nothing but a huge generaton gap and some chicken wire, it seemed they would be likely to bond.

You can't just chuck strange rabbits in together; they need to be carefully bonded or will fight viciously. I can vividly remember the fairly grim experience I had trying to bond former bunnies Flopsy and Coco, a drawn out process that took 7 long weeks and saw us divide our apartment at that time in two with a roll of wire. I was more than 8 months pregnant by the time they finally decided they could share a cage without killing each other and my main mode of keeping fit was heaving my huge belly over the wire divider with the aid of two strategically placed chairs every time I needed to cross the room.

I haven't had to go through the bonding process since then; all of my bunnies who have passed away have thoughtfully done so while in someone else's care. Each time Liesbeth has managed to find new mates and have them neatly bonded by the time I returned from New Zealand or Singapore or where ever we were at the time. Now however, it's up to me. Arabica is now living in a cage, sniffing noses with Rocco but not yet free to frolic with him until she is speyed next week (which will make her less territorial and easier to bond as well as protecting her from uterine cancer) and they are on good terms. In the mean time I've been putting her cage on the lawn with the door open, trying to tempt her to come out for some exercise and grass. Until this afternoon she didn't dare poke more than a cautious nose out, so eventually I got sick of waiting, picked her up, and sat her on the grass. To be honest I don't think she's ever been on grass before, she lolloped around like it was tickling her feet, practically tip-toeing. It was the funniest sight. Finally after about 20 minutes of circling the perimeter and getting her bearings she decided this was SERIOUS FUN and starting racing around the lawn at top speed, flicking her ears and bouncing side to side like she was going through a slalom course. I would show you a photo but she was going too fast to photograph.

Meanwhile she has been renamed; the kids were so upset about Ashley dying I told them they could name the new bunny. Having vetoed Carl's vote (Transformer), we had settled on Punky Muffin, which both boys think is perfect. Punky for short.

Easter Bunny Makes An Early Delivery

We had a sad happening here last weekend; one of our beloved bunnies, Ashley, died after a short illness of about 24 hours. Sadly it's not uncommon for rabbits to die very quickly when they fall ill and despite the vet's intervention she didn't make it. This of course left Rocco as a widower, not a pleasant state for a lovable old boy who has reached the grand old age of 7 years. So it was off to Eindhoven to visit Liesbeth, and check out the many eligible ladies she has at her rabbit rescue centre.

Needless to say we did find a lovely young bun we hope will be the perfect match for Rocco, and he certainly thinks she's the tastiest bit of crumpet he's seen since...well, since his last bit of crumpet. However before I go into that, check out these pictures. Two tiny, week-old kits were brought to Liesbeth last week, motherless and desperately in need of a great deal of TLC. I was lucky enough to be there when they needed feeding and it was so cool to hold these tiny little snugglies - perfect replicas of rabbits except absolutely tiny and with eyes still closed - and gently feed them a special milk formula via miniscule syringes.

One expects baby animals, and especially such tiny new borns as these, to mew and cry when handled or hungry, but these little guys are totally silent. I'm guessing that because rabbits are prey animals it's a survival mechanism; any noisy individuals would be the first to be eaten. They are however incredibly wriggly and needed to be snugly rolled up in a baby towel to be easily fed. If there is anything cuter in this world, I haven't seen it yet. All together now: "Ahhhhhhhhhhh............"

P.S. For information about caring for rabbits or to give a second-hand rabbit a second chance through adoption, check out http://www.opvangfranky.nl.

Our Little Scout

We were still in Singapore when we decided to enrol Niels in the local Scout group once we returned to Holland. It seemed like the ideal activity for him; charging around in the forest with lots of other little boys, burning off energy and learning essential survival skills like how to toast marshmallows, pitch tents, and swear with conviction. It all seemed very tetosterone charged to me, but actually there are a few girls is his group - or horde as it's called - and it's more civilised than I'd expected. We are lucky that in this part of Holland we're surrounded by forest, and the Scout hut is a great location, about a 10 minutes cycle away, nestled beneath the pine and beech trees. It's also the perfect excuse to get muddy without getting into trouble, something that really appeals to little boys.

Holger was a Scout for years when he was a boy, and he gets all misty-eyed and nostalgic when he recalls his glory days, so hopefully Niels will one day look back on his Scouting experience with a smuch enthusiasm.

Niels was allowed to attend three meetings before deciding whether or not to join, and when the big day came he very bravely memorised the Scout creed and perfected his salute. We were quite a contingent, Opa, Papa, Mummy, and Carl, watching from the sidelines and dripping steadily onto the bare wooden floor on what must have been the rainiest day we've had since we moved back. One of the Scout leaders turns up to every meeting in a huge pair of clogs which I always thought was quite funny. However as we slithered our way through the mud and rain last Saturday it suddenly struck me how convenient it would be to be wearing what is essentially a huge wooden bucket on each foot. Nothing could dampen Niels enthusiasm however, and he was initiated into the Welp Horde with great ceremony. The flag was unfurled, his fellow hoard-ees stood to attention in a circle around him, and he was solemnly saluted after receiving his first badges. As the ceremony finished he seriously returned the salute to the group before joinng the circling...and flicking us a quick peace sign and an impish grin before taking his place. This is Niels, after all.

Back In The Saddle Again

You may have been wondering where the hell I've been the past few weeks...but part of returning to Holland and starting up our 'normal' life again has included me going back to work. In an office. Behind a desk. With a computer that isn't beside a pool. What fun.

Actually it has been fun, I've really missed having colleagues to talk to and swapping jokes around the coffee machine. It's almost worth taking up smoking just to hang out with the group of regulars who huddle outside a few times a day and seem to be having a whale of a time. I've got my plant on my desk, my Cambodian silk hanging on the wall, and get to hang out with my bookclub all day, since almost all of them work here too! And would you believe it, I'm even going to get paid.

Also I've now got my own baby oops I mean magazine, which I haven't had since my brief stint as editor of Meat International a few years ago. I'm seriously considering putting Madam Editor on my business cards just to watch people's faces when they read it. For those who care, the magazine is Focus On Nuclear Power Generation, and isn't it kind of ironic that the new editor is the only person in the company who comes from New Zealand, the world's only official Nuclear Free Zone? Let's just say that I'm not expecting much fan mail from down that way. And no that's not my photo in the editorial section, that's my lovely boss.

Anyway, settling into the job, decorating my office, and figuring out which flavour of coffee contains the highest level of caffeine has all been extremely time consuming which is why I've neglected my blog. I will be more attentive in future, I promise. In the mean time if you're someone who does have time to kill, try clicking on the following link for a chuckle courtesy of YouTube. I've never had a flight attendent do for me what this guy does...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ivjybzdXVmI

Gone But Not Forgotten

So here we are, all back in the same country at the same time, getting on with our ordinary lives again. New Zealand is already fading into the distant past, and it seems strange to think I was there just last week. As I was flying from Tauranga to Auckland, in a plane so small it was more like a flying taxi than a grown-up Jet Stream, I gazed out the window at the green ground rushing past below and wondered when I would be back again. The tidy suburbs of Tauranga, liberally sprinkled with swimming pools glistening like opals in the sun-drenched backyards, crowded around the bays and estuaries that make up the city boundaries before we swooped away over farmland and orchards. Orderly rows of kiwifruit - large commercial properties that export their furry brown vitamin bombs around the world and even as far as Lochem - bristled like a giants stubble, the orderly lines belying the tangle of vines at ground level.

It wasn't long before we left even those behind and the land became hilly then abruptly transformed into dense bush. It's never far away in New Zealand, where it's rare to be able to lift your eyes to the horizon without seeing a bush clad hill crouching in the distance. Kiwis have grown to love the abundance of wild country in the land but it wasn't always so. Settlers struggled with suffocatingly dense growth so different from the stately forests of their home lands that they must have felt they'd landed on the shores of another planet. Early farmers hacked and burned and tore the bush from the soil to plant their farms, while burgeoning towns slashed at the crowding natives trees and shrubs to build their houses and roads. One of our great artists, Colin McCahon, once described the New Zealand landscape as "a land with too few lovers".

Yet now, fortunately, the forests are preserved and vast tracts of national park ensure that the bush remains undisturbed today apart from hikers and hunters wanting to flex their muscles. As kids our Mum and Dad took us on day trips, hiking up mountains, to waterfalls, and through hilly ranges. Ask any New Zealander what the bush is like and they will be able to close their eyes and instantly be transported to a world of deep green light filtering through the dense canopy, cool damp undergrowth pressly lushly against the moss covered trunks of tree ferns, palms and massive podacarps rising to the light above, and hear the whistle and call of native birds.

No matter how far I travel, all it takes is a moment's reflection to be taken back there again, and that was a comforting thought as I sped away chased by the shadow of the plane far below.

What Time Zone Am I In...

One of the advantages of travel these days is that (some) airports are so much more convenient. I mean here I am, at Singapore's lovely Changi ariport, checking my emails and updating my blog for free, having just enjoyed an hour long massage followed by a hot shower. Mmmm, that hits the spot after a 12 hour flight from New Zealand, I can tell you.
And as I'm flying Singapore Airlines (who else?) I'm also benefitting from the new Terminal 3 which opened in October last year, if memory serves me correctly. It's all very flash and state of the art, and one of the best parts is that despite being enormous you don't have to walk for miles to reach your gate. Although the buiding is a couple of kms long the architects cleverly built an internal shuttle to transport passengers from one end to the other. Essentially it's an un-manned electric train which stops at each end (and perhaps half way along), and basically shoots through a glass tube which runs the length of the terminal, delivering you in fine shape to catch your flight. Very handy if you tend to get stuck in the shops, like me, necessitating a mad dash to the gate before your luggage gets evicted from the plane.
Also, the toilets have to be seen to be believed and would put many a posh hotel to shame; in fact I've even discreetly snapped a cuople of pics on my phone to prove my point, but I'll have to upload them later.
For now I need to find a quiet corner somewhere to catch a few zzzzz's; it's the equivalent of 4 am for me and I seriously need to sleep. Back soon!

From the Warm Place...

Hi, yes there are still signs of life down here in New Zealand, where the weather is warm, the surf is high and rush hour means there is a queue of five cars at the traffic lights instead of one. Seriously.

At the moment I'm camped out in Tauranga where practically all of my family has settled. Mum turned 70 on Saturday, so my sister and I treated her out to a fab dinner at the Mount Bistro at Mount Maunganui. For those non-Kiwis out there, the Mount is very close to Tauranga, just a short drive over the bridge, and hanging out on the beach here is as much a part of life as visitng the supermarket. Quite frankly, not a bad place to be! It's not hard to see what the family has decided to cluster themselves in the sunny Bay of Plenty region. It's a great walk around the base of this little hill, which would no doubt qualify as a mountain in the Netherlands. We would all highly recommend the bistro which is snuggled up to the base of the hill, serving up fabulously fresh seafood caught locally.

Other than eating this trip has been a chance to catch up with my sick grandmother who turned 94 the other day, and my sisters, one of whom also had a birthday! So many candles, so little puff left to blow them out...

I'll be back in touch in a few days.

On the Eve of Departure

Today Carl went into hospital and had new grommets (buisjes) fitted in his ears. It's the third time he's had them and he takes the whole experience in his stride. The operation is over in a few minutes, he doesn't react badly to the light anaesthetic, and generally he sees it as a great opportunity to milk his mother for sympathy, sweets, and a trip to the toy store for being such as good boy. Not a bad deal in exchange for going into a hospital filled with friendly staff and having "a little sleep" which would allow him to hear better.
Tonight at dinner he and Niels were arguing about something they had just seen on t.v.
Niels was insisting Lucky Luke had said one thing, Carl insisted he's said something else, both adament they'd heard it correctly. This went back and forwards a few times until Carl seemed to lose interest. He returned his attention to his dinner, scooped up some rice with his spoon then quietly murmured in a voice I only just picked up "Maybe you need to go to the hospital for a little sleep too".

Score 1:0 to Carl for witty humour! Pretty good considering he hasn't even turned five yet.

Niels' comments are altogether more brutal. What he lacks in subtlety he makes up for in delivery. This afternoon he was singing away at the top of his voice, so I started dancing along, thinking he'd be pleased to have me join in the fun. Instead he stopped dead mid-word, rolled his eyes and said "You crazy old lady".

Gee thanks.

Tomorrow I'm off the New Zealand for a couple of weeks, leaving the boys in the capable hands of their grandparents and, by the end of the week, their father. For the first time in years I'll be able to watch the end ofa movie on the plane, eat my meal without ending up wearing half of the kids, and not have my hand luggage monopolised by changes of little undies and t-shirts, new toys designed to distract small minds from the monotony of flight and favourite stuffed toys that don't fit in the kids bags. With a day's stopover in Singapore to catch up with the girls (we're talking coffee, lunch, pedicure, shopping and dinner all meticulously planned beforehand!) then 11 hours of uninterruped sleep (hopefully) on the leg to Auckland, I'm thinking, to hell with the holiday, I'll just be happy to have the journey! Wasn't it Hemmingway who said the point of travel was not the destination but the journey itself? That's how it's starting to feel to me.

I'll be back in touch from sunny kiwi-land. Eventually.

Probably.

First hints of a thaw...

Just three more days and I will be heading off to New Zealand to see the family. My Mum, my grandmother, and one of my sisters will all be having a birthday while I'm there, so that's more than enough good reasons to make the long journey. Plus I'll get to spend a day in Singapore on the way through, where I've arranged to meet friends for coffee, lunch, and pedicures! Just what every weary traveller needs.

Ironically, they are in the middle of a heat wave. My sister told me this morning that temperatures reached 34 C today, which is exceptionally hot for that part of New Zealand (Tauranga). Thank goodness I'm not going to Australia where they are suffering temps in the 40s. I have to admit I'm looking forward to the warmth though. Winter has lasted long enough and I am so sick of being buried in clothes whenever I venture outside. The kids seem to have adapted well enough and it's certainly no where near as cold as it was, but still...

However it pays to look on the bright side of course, and it's heartening to see the first signs of spring starting to emerge. It was warm enough to risk a short recon-trip to the garden yesterday and I tried to tame some of the wilderness which has taken grip of the front garden. Clearing the long dead tufts of grass I discovered some crocus flowers poking up above the soil - signs that things are picking up after all. Hope blooms...

On Not Being The Only One

When we moved to Singapore it struck me that I immediately felt very relaxed about being there. I hadn't expected to feel like I fitted in there so quickly, but from the start I never felt like I didn't belong. Eventually it dawned on me that it came from being just one of a huge group of ex-pats who live in the country. There are something like half a million ex-pats on the island, plus the number of tourists passing through there each year much at least equal that, so no-one batted an eyelid at pale-skinned me prowling around the city, whether it was in a hindu temple, a Chinese fish market, or a Malay hawkers stall. This is a huge contrast to the little Dutch town which we call home, where ironically I look like all the natives, yet stick out like the proverbial dogs balls being one of the few foreigners here.
As long as I don't open my mouth it's ok, of course (how often does a woman admit that?). However as soon as I start speaking my own particular brand of Dutch I've grown accustomed to seeing that spark of curiosity in the other person's eyes, and inevitably the questions starts. I was braced for that when we returned again last month, that feeling of not belonging. So it was a huge surprise during the first week of school when I walked into school and lots of the other mum's whom I hadn't seen for 2.5 years gave me a smile and said "hi, we heard you were back. How was Singapore?"
Suddenly the place feels a lot more like home afterall.

Airline Horrors

I was browsing through the latest edition of The Economist magazine's e-letter, Gulliver's Best, a weekly round-up of business and travel news. I've quoted from them before when they showed a picture of a hotel which cleverly disguised the fact that it was right in front of a nuclear power station, and this is another of their famously quirky items which I just had to copy. It's a genuine letter of complaint which was sent to Sir Richard Branson, owner of the Virgin brand, and is being widely circulated as one of the funniest letters of complaint ever written. I'm sure we can all sympathise with this poor travellers complaints, which sadly aren't uncommon at all. Apparently Sir Richard actually phoned this passenger personally to apologise. Good on him. Hope he chucked in a couple of free upgrades as well.

Dear Mr Branson
REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December 2008
I love the Virgin brand, I really do which is why I continue to use it despite a series of unfortunate incidents over the last few years. This latest incident takes the biscuit.
Ironically, by the end of the flight I would have gladly paid over a thousand rupees for a single biscuit following the culinary journey of hell I was subjected to at thehands of your corporation.
Look at this Richard. Just look at it: [see image 1, below].

I imagine the same questions are racing through your brilliant mind as were racing through mine on that fateful day. What is this? Why have I been given it? What have I done to deserve this? And, which one is the starter, which one is the desert?
You don’t get to a position like yours Richard with anything less than a generous sprinkling of observational power so I KNOW you will have spotted the tomato next to the two yellow shafts of sponge on the left. Yes, it’s next to the sponge shaft without the green paste. That’s got to be the clue hasn’t it. No sane person would serve a desert with a tomato would they. Well answer me this Richard, what sort of animal would serve a desert with peas in: [see image 2, below].

I know it looks like a baaji but it’s in custard Richard, custard. It must be the pudding. Well you’ll be fascinated to hear that it wasn't custard. It was a sour gel with a clear oil on top. It’s only redeeming feature was that it managed to be so alien to my palette that it took away the taste of the curry emanating from our miscellaneous central cuboid of beige matter. Perhaps the meal on the left might be the desert after all.
Anyway, this is all irrelevant at the moment. I was raised strictly but neatly by my parents and if they knew I had started desert before the main course, a sponge shaft would be the least of my worries. So lets peel back the tin-foil on the main dish and see what’s on offer.
I’ll try and explain how this felt. Imagine being a twelve year old boy Richard. Now imagine it’s Christmas morning and you’re sat their with your final present to open. It’s a big one, and you know what it is. It’s that Goodmans stereo you picked out the catalogue and wrote to Santa about.
Only you open the present and it’s not in there. It’s your hamster Richard. It’s your hamster in the box and it’s not breathing. That’s how I felt when I peeled back the foil and saw this: [see image 3, below].

Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s more of that Baaji custard. I admit I thought the same too, but no. It’s mustard Richard. MUSTARD. More mustard than any man could consume in a month. On the left we have a piece of broccoli and some peppers in a brown glue-like oil and on the right the chef had prepared some mashed potato. The potato masher had obviously broken and so it was decided the next best thing would be to pass the potatoes through the digestive tract of a bird.
Once it was regurgitated it was clearly then blended and mixed with a bit of mustard. Everybody likes a bit of mustard Richard.
By now I was actually starting to feel a little hypoglycaemic. I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to it’s baffling presentation: [see image 4, below].
It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn’t want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above.
I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was relax but obviously I had to sit with that mess in front of me for half an hour. I swear the sponge shafts moved at one point.
Once cleared, I decided to relax with a bit of your world-famous onboard entertainment. I switched it on: [see image 5, below]I apologise for the quality of the photo, it’s just it was incredibly hard to capture Boris Johnson’s face through the flickering white lines running up and down the screen. Perhaps it would be better on another channel...Is that Ray Liotta? A question I found myself asking over and over again throughout the gruelling half-hour I attempted to watch the film like this. After that I switched off. I’d had enough. I was the hungriest I’d been in my adult life and I had a splitting headache from squinting at a crackling screen.
My only option was to simply stare at the seat in front and wait for either food, or sleep. Neither came for an incredibly long time. But when it did it surpassed my wildest expectations: [see image 6, below].
Yes! It’s another crime-scene cookie. Only this time you dunk it in the white stuff.
Richard…. What is that white stuff? It looked like it was going to be yoghurt. It finally dawned on me what it was after staring at it. It was a mixture between the Baaji custard and the Mustard sauce. It reminded me of my first week at university. I had overheard that you could make a drink by mixing vodka and refreshers. I lied to my new friends and told them I’d done it loads of times. When I attempted to make the drink in a big bowl it formed a cheese Richard, a cheese. That cheese looked a lot like your baaji-mustard.
So that was that Richard. I didn’t eat a bloody thing. My only question is: How can you live like this? I can’t imagine what dinner round your house is like, it must be like something out of a nature documentary.
As I said at the start I love your brand, I really do. It’s just a shame such a simple thing could bring it crashing to it’s knees and begging for sustenance.
Yours Sincererly
XXXX

(Paul Charles, Virgin’s Director of Corporate Communications, confirmed that Sir Richard Branson had telephoned the author of the letter and had thanked him for his “constructive if tongue-in-cheek” email. Mr Charles said that Virgin was sorry the passenger had not liked the in-flight meals which he said was “award-winning food which is very popular on our Indian routes.”)

Bring Out Your Dead...

The Netherlands is in the grip of an epidemic. According to official sources, influenza is wreaking havoc accross the nation, emptying schools, decimating workplaces, and confining thousands of people to their sniffling beds. Mind you, before we start painting white crosses on the front door of anyone with a dripping nose it pays to keep in mind that an epidemic is apprently in place when more than 100 or so people per 100,000 have an illness. Thus, it's hardly time to throw ourselves onto burning pyres yet. For a nation that considers it perfectly normal for a dozen people to die ice skating when the winter gets cold enough to freeze lakes and canals, influenza is a walk in the park.
Mind you, it is a right pain in the arse when a whole country seems to be sick. Carl of course is quite ill, born as he was with eustacean tubes the perfect shape for incubating infections and an immune-challenged upper respiratory system that is determined to crash as soon as the temperatures dips below, oh I don't know, about 24 degrees celcius. Considering that the difference in temperature between Singapore and Lochem was more than 40 degrees for a considerable period of time, it's hardly surprising he's sick now.
The coughing is what really troubles him, keeping him...and me...awake at least half the night. And when he finally falls asleep from exhaustion fever sets in and he's glowing like a freshly baked potato by the time he wakes up, usually around 3 am.
There is only so much cough medicine you can administer. Did you know that the most common cause for pediactric hospital admissions is overdose of cough medicine? That little statistic is often uppermost in my mind during winter. I can understand how it would happen, when the poor little buggers are coughing like their lungs are going to flop out of their chests and they are literally vomiting from the effort, you'll do almost anything. I've even resorted to giving him that classic Old Wives Tale remedy; sugar water. Normally I wouldn't even dream of pouring what is basically pure sugar down the throats of one of my super-active boys (picture a squirrel on speed, then throw a few fireworks at it to get an idea of the effect) but after 3 days of Carl hacking, coughing, puking, and almost turning purple trying to breathe I would have bought up all the blue Smarties in town then washed them down his throat with Coca Cola if I thought it would help. To be honest, I'm not sure it does, but I'm persisting anyway. Sleep deprivation is sending me insane and now that hubby has left to go on board again, there's only one captain on this little ship and she's ready to hit the bottle.
As I was preparing another cup early this morning a little voice provided a running commentary. "And this is how we make sugar water...take the kids cup out of the dishwasher...get a teaspoon out of the drawer...pick up the sugar...put 2 spoons in the cup............." at this point my frayed temper and fading grasp on reality had me gripping the spoon in a death grip. Turning slowly, I faced Carl who was perched on a stool just behind me, watching every move and practising his sport commentators voice. As our eyes met I could see his were filled with laughter, despite the dawning realisation that perhaps his Ventolin-fuelled euphoria may have caused him to push Mummy just a little too far at this ungodly hour of the morning, topped off by a gleefull self confidence that he was just too adorable to resist. For a moment there was a pause as we each considered how this was going to play out. Then without taking his eyes off mine he continued "then Mummy adds the hot water and stirs......" We both cracked up laughing, which of course made him cough again, but at least there was a cup of warm sugar water on hand and we could pretend that would help.

Dutch Flowers: Blooming Marvellous!

One of the really nice things about living in the Netherlands is the abundance of cheap, high quality cut flowers you can buy. Since we've returned from Singapore I've kept the house filled with fresh flowers, welcome splashes of natural colour to counteract the austere shades of winter outside.

Dutch flowers are amazing. The variety of blooms is staggering, and every supermarket sells a selection of mixed or single variety bunches for prices that seem absurdly low after living in the tropics. If you visit the weekly market it's possible to get your flowers even cheaper, and ditto if I buy them from the friendly greengrocer who parks his truck in our street every Friday morning to flog his fresh produce. Who could resist bunches of gorgeous pink and green roses for just three euros a dozen? They would cost five times as much in Singapore, if you could even find them.

Great heavy heads of hyacinth which exude enough heady perfume to scent the entire lounge are the same price, and even the fancy bouquets rarely top 5-6 euros. In Singapore we would have paid at least 30 euros for a dozen roses, and then they would only last a couple of days in the humidity.

Flowers I don't even recognise, cut the day before from the greenhouses which fill the west of the country and then whisked to the auctions that morning tempt me with their exotic looks, yet even then I'd be hard pressed to pay more than 5 euros a bunch. This is definitely one of the perks of living here.

By Special Request...

...a blog posting with no kids in it! The temperature has now risen above nil and the snow and ice has melted, leaving us to contend with a biting easterly wind which is blowing in straight from the frigid steppes of Russia, by the feel of it. Still it would be a shame not to share some more pics of the beautiful effects the Big Freeze created.

Rocco and Ashley were less than amused with the snow situation. While they will quite happily sit in the rain with only the occasional flick of their ears hinting that they do afterall realise they are getting wet, neither of them liked to hop through the show.

In sympathy I dragged out a large square of carpet for them to rest their fluffy butts on, reasoning that any sane creature would enjoy the luxury of sitting on dry woolly pile rather than cold, wet snow. Which simply goes to prove than one should never attempt to hazard a guess at what is going on inside a rabbits head. My offering was greeted initially with paranoid suspicion before being disdainfully sniffed, nibbled, and finally shat upon before the rabbits retruned to their grumpy vigil in the snow. With their ample butts pointed towards the house, the message was clear: We Are Not Amused.

There is simply no pleasing some bunnies.

It's Been A While...

...but yes we're still alive and fully functioning! Despite the cold. And the ice. And the snow.

OK, ok, you've all seen the weather forecast and know that the Big Freeze is over now, and we are - for the time being at least - living through milder weather. The temp drops below freezing at night but rises to about 3-4 Celsius during the day, which seems almost tropical in comparison to a week ago. Unless of course you have just moved from the tropics. And unless a FORTY DEGREE temperature difference doesn't bother you. Hmmm, who could I be referring to???

Anyway, I am so over complaining. check out these pics. Directly behind our house is a 'natuur ijs baan' (natural ice rink), which is basically a flat open area which is flooded with water when the temperature drops below freezing for long enough to make it worthwhile. There are two skating areas; one is for sleds, beginner skaters, and amateurs such as your truely. The ice is rough and lumpy and no-one is skating at any speed on it. The second rink, a large oval, is highly polished and reserved for SERIOUS SKATERS. There are a surprising number of these in the Netherlands, and God forbid you wander into their path. There is a kind of winter apartheid which exists, fully accepted in Dutch society, and it ensures that rank amateurs such as myself don't dare to venture onto real skating ice. Fair enough too, it's so bloody slippery that you'll fall over and break an arm within 30 seconds of venturing onto the rink.

Despite the intense cold which makes your feet ache so badly that stories of climbers lost on Mount Cook suddenly spring to mind and your toes feel like they've turned black within an hour, it is so much fun to play on the ice. The neighbours are swooshing down the canals to work, the kids are going to school on sleds pulled by parents and all are wrapped in dozens of layers of clothes...The sun shone for much of the time the weather was seriously cold and so it was absolutely beautiful. Global warming??? Show me the money honey.

The worst part of this weather (apart from the extreme dryness of the air which makes your skin, hair and nails simply dissolve and flake off) is that it take at least 10-15 minutes to get the kids and myself ready to leave the house. I mean, even inside you're wearing trousers, long sleeved shirts and socks, but you have to add over trousers, boots/shoes, scarves, hat, gloves, and jackets. Add up the individual bits then multiply them by the actual number of individual items, and you get some idea of how long it takes to get out the door. Of course one glove is always missing, one shoe is always AWOL, where is that damn hat anyway???

...And Yet Colder Still

Just when we thought it couldn't get any colder: tonight the temperature will drop to minus 17C!!! For years Holger has accused me of exaggerating how cold winter gets in the Netherlands, refuting my claims of the coldest day of my life being in Vorden, 1996, when the mercury plunged to -18C, with a wind chill factor of a further 10 degrees. Now today, finally, vengeance is mine. Fresh from his tropical cruise bringing the Aoka Mizu from Singapore to the Suez Canal, totally un-acclimatised and still sporting a tropical tan, Mr "it never gets that cold" is having to eat his words. With a hearty sprinkling of frost on top.

We threw open the curtains this morning to find that snow had fallen silently during the night, blanketing everything in a thick crisp layer of white. The kids of course were ecstatic, and because today was also the first day of school for them, they figured this was simply an extra special treat we'd arranged to make the occasion even more festive. Oh, the power we have when our kids are still young enough to believe their parents are all omnipotent and powerful, that we can do anything, even control the weather! It was still dark as we walked to school, throwing snowballs and scrunching through the pristine snow. By the time we got their all our faces were glowing pink from the chill but it was the most fun any of us have had going to school.

Then once school was finished, we headed into town to do some jobs, the kids perched on the sled. Holger was the designated workhorse, although he didn't seem to mind and the kids managed to resist the urge to whack the back of his neck with a snowball at every second step.

I'll let you know how we survive the Big Freeze.

Cold, Colder, Coldest!

Oh my God, could it get any colder??? It dropped to minus 12 degrees celsius the other day....can you even imagine what that feels like?

Meanwhile we are (slowly) adjusting. Shorter daylight hours, low temperatures, and no Daddy - until today! Hallelujah, Holger came home this morning. Full of stories about the Gulf of Aden (the pirate gulf) where they fortified themselves by emptying the ballast tanks to achieve an exceptionally high water line and stringing razor wire around the hull...

Anyway, just to let you know I will begin posting more regularly soon - I promise!