Onshore-Swimming for Kika

This week it seems the whole of Lochem has got behind the cause to raise money for the Kika Foundation. Kika stands for kids with cancer (which is called kanker in Dutch), and all of the primary schools in town have agreed to have fund raising activities. In addition lots of sports clubs, social clubs, music venues etc have gotten in on the act as well.

Niels and Carl's school decided to raise money by getting the kids to find sponsors for swimming. As Niels is of an age where he has school swimming once a week anyway this was fairly easy to organise. He was very proud of the 50 euros he found in sponsorship, and his whole class managed to raise 780 euros! For Carl who is in group 2, and the littlies in group 1, the teachers came up with the brilliant idea of 'dry swimming'. The marched in a parade out into the decorated playground, dressed in an assortment of swimming gear over their clothes. Accompanied by rousing music they took their places and each class then took turns to 'swim' around the playground with great enthusiasm.

Carl donned his tinted goggles and had a great time practising his back stroke, breast stroke, and treading water with his classmates and teacher.

At the end of the day the three group 1 and 2 classes together raised an astounding 945 euros! I don't know what the total for the whole school is yet, but it's certain to be a substantial sum for a worthy cause. Each kid was presented with a Dry Swimming Certificate to hang proudly on their wall - you can see Carl holding his up triumphantly above.

I'm Glad He's Not MY Man!

Every now and again we will be sitting in the garden, enjoying the sound of bird song when another noise will gradually edge its way into our consciousness. A kind of breathy honking noise...what could that be? Sometimes it's so loud that we can hear it in the kitchen...a mysterious regular tooting. It always cracks us up because we know it's the melodius tone of Rocco snoring - yes, our bunny snores. Loudly. No doubt it's due to him being a lop, a breed which has a flat nose. The other day as he snuggled up to Punky Muffin and was snoring away louder than ever I suddenly had the foresight to grab my camera. So for those of you who don't share your lives with somebunny special, I present you with Rocco's lop-eared lullaby.
He's the brown and white bunny at the back. Punky is the fed-up looking black and white one in the foreground. Funnily enough she doesn't seem all that impressed...

The Hermitage, Amsterdam

This Easter I am enjoying the luxury of temporary Empty Nest Syndrome; hubby and the kids have gone to Sweden to visit his sister and her kids, leaving me to sleep in the the mornings, read in bed for hours before finally turning out the lights, and wallowing in luxious hot bubble baths for as long as I want. While I do like visiting the family in Sweden I'm not sad to avoid returning to snow and cold; it's at best 2 degrees there at the moment and after such a long, cold winter I don't feel the urge to revisit it.
Not that the weather is much better here. Making the most of a couple of free days meant it was the perfect time to visit the Hermitage Museum in Amsterdam, which is currently hosting the exhibition Matisse to Malevich; Pioneers of modern art from the Hermitage. The top painting is Matisse's 'The Red Room' and it is truly stunning to see it on the wall. The painting above is The Dancers, depicting five women who seem to be almost struggling to burst out of the frame of canvas. Yet however wonderful Matisse is, it's the Kadinsky paintings which I love the most. The one below is rather unimaginatviely called Composition 6, but it was just breath-taking. If that's no your cup of tea, you surely couldn't fail to be amazed by his use of colour in the next one, titled simply Winter Landscape.

The story of how Russia's world famous Hermitage came to have a branch in Amsterdam is quite interesting. In the early 1990s Mikhail Piotrovsky, director of the State Hermitage Museum in St Petersburg, was exploring the possibility of having satellite museums in the West. The relationship between the Nieuwe Kerk (a catherdral in Amsterdam which hosts exhibitions) and the Hermitage had developed through the co-organisation of major exhibitions. As a result the director of the Nieuwe Kerk, Ernst Veen, had the idea of opening a branch of the Russian museum in Amsterdam, inspired in part by the tercentenary of the historic links between the two cities.
Around the same time, the Amstelhof nursing home decided that its buildings no longer met the standards required for modern care. For 324 years the building was a home for the elderly. The Parish of the Reformed Congregation, which owned the building, declared that the Amstelhof should have an exclusively cultural function. Veen came up with the idea of locating the Hermitage branch in Amstelhof. Since June 2009 the site has been home to Hermitage Amsterdam.

It's an impressive building with vast spaces flooded with light, pale wood floors and inimate rooms adjoining the main gallery. The scale of the huge old stone structure, which is a hollow square with a central green lawn, gives the exhibition the space it needs to be truly appreciated. And it's location on the banks of the Amstel is so quintessentially Dutch.

If you're in Amsterdam I really recommend the exhibition, although with the collection of the Hermitage St Petersburg as it's disposal, every exhibition is going to be a great one.

By the way you might think that a day in Amsterdam would turn out to be a long one - but in truth it was really cold and pouring with rain. I went into the Bijenkorf department store, remembering my last visit years ago with a frisson of antcipation, but was sorely let down. The layout of the floors was a mess, cheap SALE!SALE!ACTION! posters in lime green making me want to put on my sunglasses as hordes of people poured over sloppily constructed displays. The only good thing was they had an Apple shop, so I could get new skin for my iPhone to replace the original which was torn. So Bijenkorf was - ever so slightly - redeemed; aplace that has an Apple shop can't be all bad, right?.

Useful inventions #1

Having given up hope of ever winning the lottery, I was pondering a few ideas this weekend that could turn into winners and produce the millions I’m sure, deep down, the universe wants to give me.

Here’s the first one: crotch protectors for women’s swimsuits! Awesome idea! I just know you’re all nodding your head in agreement!

In case there’s a woman reading this who doesn’t have a six year old child training for a swimming diploma who needs to practice swimming underwater for nine meters and then going through your legs, picture this. Standing spread-legged in the pool, your girly-bits protected by nothing but a thin piece of lycra, as a blond torpedo races towards you with wildly kicking feet. This invention would save me embarrassing myself (again) by looking like I’m clutching myself in the pool.
I can’t wait until he gets this damned diploma.

Niels 2nd piano recital

Last night Niels music teacher called up to inform me that Niels second piano recital would take place at a different location. What piano recital?? Apparently Number 1 hadn't thought to mention it to me.
However he's been keeping up with his practice, so it wasn't too much of a drama. Here he is banging away on the ivories. It went well and he was a unphased as ever. A cool customer.

Hitting Puberty Young

One of the coolest presents Carl got for his birthday - or at least the one that's so far been the most fun - was a kids shaving set. With a bottle of 'shaving foam'  and a blade-less razor, he and Niels have been practising their techniques every night before bath time. In perfect imitation of their father, they spread the foam, run a basin of hot water ("if it's not hot it won't be a smooth shave Mum"), and proceed to remove their imaginary whiskers.

Lets'  see if they find it just as much fun once they hit puberty.

Losing It

I have been contemplating the nature of loss these past few days. Sometimes we don’t realize we’ve lost something, sometimes it may have just been misplaced, and sometimes when we lose things, they stay lost forever.
Hubby and I recently had our 12.5 year wedding anniversary. Now that is going to sound weird to anyone who isn’t Dutch, so let me explain. The Dutch have the rather quaint habit of celebrating their six-and-a-quarter, twelve-and-a-half, and twenty five year wedding anniversaries. The relevance of these dates escaped me entirely until my husband demonstrated just how important he thought they were in the most perfect way; he presented me with a diamond ring. Suddely 12.5 years assumed a whole new significance!!
Not just any ring either; one from my favorite jewellry designer, Georg Jensen, with three diamonds set in a white gold band. I like to think of the diamonds representing hubby, Niels and Carl, and I absolutely loved the ring the moment I saw it.
So we were talking about loss. Specifically the loss of things. Some things we don’t mind losing too much; a book that was boring, sunglasses that were scratched, a bike key when you know you’ve got a spare. Sometimes losing things is very inconvenient, such as a wallet or a mobile phone. And of course some things are really distressing to lose; your passport when on holiday, the address of an overseas friend….the diamond ring your husband just gave you.

That’s right. I was drinking my first cup of coffee last Friday when I glanced down at my hand and realized my ring was GONE. Disappeared. Vanished. In absentia.
Loss definitely sharpens your focus. Whereas the day up until that moment had been full of life’s background noise, plans of what to do and jobs needing to be done, suddenly all that disappeared as the world turned black and my brain imploded. The sane thing would have been to quietly and discreetly start looking for it. So obviously I immediately yelled “OH MY GOD WHERE’S MY RING??!!!!”, thereby alerting hubby to the fact that (1) I was a wife so careless that I would immediately lose the most expensive piece of jewelry he’s ever given me, and (2) quiet and discreet are clearly not my best character traits.
I won’t bore you with the following scene but you can imagine it. Frantic searching, enforced tidying of any place I had been in the last 24 hours, all made worse by the certain knowledge that this had happened because I had taken the ring off and left it somewhere. It couldn’t have fallen off, the fit was perfect. This was all my fault. I ended up flitting between the three locations in the house I keep hand cream; kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, certain that I must have taken the ring off to moisturize and forgotten to put it on again.
In the afternoon I had to go to work to doa telephone interview with someone in the US and I suddenly remembered: I have hand cream at work! The ring will be at work! It will be sitting on my desk or computer waiting for me!
Pushing visions of cleaners pocketing my ring as they dusted my desk to the deepest recesses of my pooling grey matter I sped into work…to bitterly discover it wasn’t there. Panic was replaced by those other buddies of loss…grief, frustration, and a feeling of literally being sick. My head was pounding, my stomach churning, and it seemed entirely possible I might cry. Pulling myself together I grabbed by digital recorder and sat down for the interview, trying to focus on the nuclear energy market instead of my ring, symbol of love and commitment, gone forever. I would like to be able to tell you that I rose above it, that I was able to put the loss of a thing into perspective; nobody was hurt, worse things happen, it could be replaced…but I couldn’t. A wise colleague who listened while managing to look both sympathetic and appalled (not easy) sagely suggested I go through yesterdays events backwards until I found the ring.
Hubby called to see if I’d found it, and about then I realised that sooner or later your body runs out of adrenalin and a good cry seems like the best option.
I slouched home to find he’d searched the house without success, but he was still putting on a brave face. I probably looked as bad as I felt so he kindly decided not to say anything. Remembering my colleagues advice I went up to the bedroom, pulled the covers off the bed (again), and was about to resume the search somewhere else when I thought to lift up the mattress...and there it was. Having left it on my pillow or the duvet the night before, the ring had slipped down between the mattresses. Relief, joy, more tears....and happiness that I won't have to wait another 12.5 years to wear a diamond ring on my right hand. Few feelings in life are as sweet as having rediscovered something loved, lost...and then found again.

Happy 6th Birthday Carl

Yesterday Carl finally turned six. I say finally because for him the wait, the suspense, the seemingly infinite number of days before 20 February rolled around have been an agony. Every nght for the past month he's asked "how many days left now?" when I've put him to bed at night. How long a year seems when you're an almost-six-year-old. The excitement reached it's peak on Friday, the day when he could celebrate at school. I love the photo above - even though it's blurry and side-on you can see the smile that never left his face all day.

There's that smile again - this time he's standing on his chair while all the kids sing happy birthday, led by his beloved teacher Wilma. He went to school dressed as a pirate, because the treats he shared out were pirate cakes. They looked brilliant, and the idea is from a site called Party Kids. I ended up making 50 of these, 30 for school and 20 for Scouts!!

One compensation was that I didn't have to make the birthday cake this year; the local baker did the honours, producing a dinosaur-topped confection that fitted the bill. I'd had a brilliant idea at New Years when fireworks were being sold; why not save some sparklers for on top of the kids birthday cakes! So I dug out the box I'd hidden away and poked two into the top of the cake. They seemed rather large...we lit the candles and sparklers and started singing Happy Birthday. The sparklers fizzed, sputtered...and then ignitied into flares! Bright intense flames shot up into the air, producing clouds of smoke and a shower of fine ash which descended onto the cake. We quickly pulled the kids back and could only watch stunned as the pyrotechnic show continued. Hubby thought to open the door to try and get the smoke out and I was very glad I'd reminded him to disable the smoke detectors before hand. Once the flares finally fizzled out we removed the chunks of burnt wrapping, scraped off the worst of the ash and continued. The house was filled with smoke and our guests probably all thought I was a complete idiot. However the kids thought it was brilliant and will be asking for a repeat performance for Niels birthday. It had seemed like a good idea at the time...

Slip Sliding Away

Winter just won't let up over here. Temperatures are not extremely low but the ground is still below freezing and wet snow topped with rain a copule of nights ago has reduced many roads, foot paths and bike paths to dangerous skating rinks.

The warmer temperatures also pose a risks to animals and people who have grown accustomed to being able to safely walk on frozen lakes and canals. Click here to see photos and a video (you'll have to endure a 15 second ad first) of a pony being rescued by the fire brigade after falling through the ice - fortunatley the story ended well and the pony survived. The importance of frequently checking on livestock is higher than ever and thankfully this pony's owner discovered him quickly before he literally froze to death.

Even if you choose to stay on dry land the risks at the moment are pretty severe. Today I dared to take the boys to school on their bikes for the first time - big mistake. We discovered that the roads are covered with black ice; an almost invisible layer of thick ice which is lethally slippery. Even walking and pushing our bikes was tricky. The local council seems to have given up even pretending to do anything about it so we're taking a risk every time we step out the door. I still had half a bucket of raw salt in the garage so I've just been out throwing handfuls of it on the cycle path. I snapped one brave kid trying to cycle through - I've seen 3 fall off this morning already (see top photo).

This next photo shows the corner of our street - it looks like there's just a bit of slushy snow and water on the cobbles but this is solid ice up to 3cm thick in some places. I couldn't even walk over it when I went out to take the photo:

In this photo taken further up the street you can get a better idea of how much ice there is; what looks like white snow on the street is the uppermost surface of a thick layer of ice, roughened by traffic but no less slippery. Again, you can't walk or cycle over this at all (I've seen plenty of people pushing their bikes with long faces) and driving is risky.

I heard on the radio that between mid-December and mid-January, 17,000 people have been treated at hospital for injuries caused by falls. That's so many it's worth repeating: SEVENTEEN THOUSAND! The cost of all those accidents is around 6 BILLION euros, money which the insurance companies will recoup from all of us. So why aren't the councils salting the paths and cycle-ways? Because apparently they only worry about the roads, and by now, as you can see, plenty of them are not salted at all. There are several companies in Holland that produce salt, even one only about an hour away, but they simply can't keep up with demand despite operating at 100% capacity. Normally there are 20 days in the year when roads are salted; this year it has had to be done every day since mid- Decmeber.

It also doesn't help that so many people fail to clear the snow from the paths outside their houses, so it eventually becomes compacted into ice. Our rather uninspiring Prime Minister went on t.v. to declare that it was every citizens civic duty to keep the footpaths running alongside their properties free of snow and ice; and then showed hmself up for the dork he is by completely failing to doing so outside his own house!

Thousands Protest Against Global Warming...

...well, you've gotta laugh, right? No point keeping on grumbling about the endless snow...(mumble mumble groan)...

On Yer Bike

Every country has it's quirks and things that make you say "oh, that is so typical", and anyone who has been to Holland will know that bicycles are quintessentially Dutch. Not only is it almost competely flat here, but the locals are, as they say "born with a bike between their legs" and it's not uncommon for kids to start cycling as young as 3 or 4 years old. Bikes have right of way on the roads, there are dedicate bike lanes absolutely everywhere, and they even have their own mini traffic lights. There is no law requiring anyone to wear a helmet, but laws regarding having working lights and reflectors are quite strictly enforced by the police.

Singapore, for all its charms, is NOT a great place for cyclists. The traffic is too busy and there are no bike lanes, so our kids had a bit of a late start, with Carl only coming to grips with the whole idea once we'd moved back here.

Cycling is a great way to get around. Not only is it healthy - I credit it with the very noticeable lack of obesity and osteoporosis among the Dutch - it's also good for the environment compared to using your car and much more convenient in town. You don't need to worry about parking, you can stop right outside the shop you need to go to, and any purchases go straight into the saddle bags. And the bikes are so comfortable! None of your butt-spltting 10 speeds or neck twisting mountain bikes. I have a padded gel saddle soft enough to sleep on and the bikes are constructed so you sit upright in comfort. Accessories include child seats, trailers for kids, dogs or even bunnies (Liesbeth!), briefcase racks, double standards for stability, sprung 'arms' for attaching a dog leash, baskets...you name it, the Dutch will have it for their bikes. Bikes with wooden carts on the front, bikes with motors for old people, bikes with 3 wheels for those who are unsteady on the feet...
Good bikes however don't come cheap. Way back when I bought my bike (the first new bike I'd owned in my life) in 1997, I paid 1,000 guildens for it. It's a sign of how old I am that the currency doesn't even exist now, but it's about 500 euros. And I bought INSURANCE for it, another quirky Dutch thing. Also, it's common to get your bike serviced, just like a car! It makes sense when you use it so often but for me arriving from NZ that was a concept I had to get my head around. Today you can easily spend 1,000 euros on a bike. The red one below, from De Fietsfabriek in Amsterdam, will set you back 1,295 euros. That's about NZ$2,600, enough to buy a small car! Of course there is a roaring trade in second hand bikes, but even so, Carl's 2nd hand bike cost 150 euros. And we don't even live in the Western part of the country in a big city where things are expensive. Ouch.

I have seen Cloggies carrying the most amazing things on their bikes, happily cycling with one hand while in the other clutching umbrellas, large boxes, paintings, even a LADDER! If one of our bikes needs to go into the shop for repairs, hubby cycles along holding onto the other one with his right hand (I call it taking a bike for a walk) and heads off into town with two bikes! I tried it once and nearly broke my neck so that's definitley his job.

There are few things that will keep a Cloggie of his or her bike, but the recent cold weather was an exception. As my friend Jeanette said, "you know it's REALLY icy when you see a Dutchman pushing his bike". As the snow became compacted and turned to ice the conditions were treacherous, particularly on cobbled streets like those here in Lochem. They may be cute, and some spots no doubt date well back into the towns 1,000 year history, but icy cobbles will break your leg or twist your ankle in a moment.

Fortunately hubby had the brilliant foresight to fit winter tyres on the car this year, big fat beasties that miraculously soften as the temperature drops to grip the icy roads better, with a profile so deep you could lose a shoe in it. I keep hoping I'll get rid of the neighbours yappy dogs with them, that we'll be removing the winter tyres and say, "hey, what's that stuck in the profile? Oh, it's that pomeranian we used to hear barking all day. Ah well..."

Oh, Well That's Ok Then...

What a busy, busy week. Sometimes life seems to speed up to the point where you're just hanging on by your fingernails, then slows down so quickly you're left broken and bent in a pile of rubble trying to get back to normal.
Last week I had a business trip to Paris to interview the CEO of a company for my magazine, Focus on Nuclear Power Generation. And while business travel is usually far from glamourous, there is a lot to be said for popping off to Paris for a day or so. Even the journey there is an experience, ensconsed in the plush seats of the Thalys (ta-lease) hi-speed train. We whizzed from Rotterdam to Paris in about two and a half hours; in fact on the return trip we were scheduled to arrive at 18:01 and we arrived at......18:01! How's that for punctuality? The trip from Rotterdam to Zutphen actually took longer. Paris was lovely as always although I was there and back in 24 hours, having dined at two excellent restaurants on the Rue de St Honore; the Coup d'etat for dinner (lovely canard confit), and the apparently famous Le Petit Machon for lunch the next day where I dined with the marketing manager for the company I was visiting on brioche stuffed with a pork sausage studded with pistachio nuts. Heavenly!
Back in Holland on Wednesday, hubby was shipping out to Singapore on Thursday (lucky bugger) for which I helpfully provided a very long and detailed shopping list. The boys also had a list which necessitated him making a quick trip to Sentosa Island to visit the gift shop located inside Fort Siloso (they have very specific wishes - Niels even knew which SHELF Daddy had to look on for just the right plane!), then he was onto an FPSO and off to China. Saturday saw the beginning of Carl's overnight scout camp, the Kids & Science Spectacular.

It was a lot of fun, with the kids being kept busy with science experiments for two days. They were well fuelled on bizarrely coloured food like blue pancakes (see above) and bright green spaghetti sauce (which unfortunatley looked like cow shit), which no doubt contributed to the two hours of hyperactive pillow fights and matress-diving before they finally passed out. Ah, what a week of culinary contrasts this has been! The 12 or so parents also got to sleep on the floor in the Scout Hut, and while it was very roomy and well heated I'm such a light sleeper that this is a situtation in which there is zero chance of me ever falling asleep. So I got to watch the hours tick by until finally 6:30 rolled around, the kid started stirring and I figured I could go and have a shower to freshen up. Needless to say we were all pretty tired.
On Monday night Carl must have sneaked into my bed in the middle of the night and then passed out into a deep, deep sleep. I was woken by him stirring next to me and opened my eyes blurrily to see him looking at me.
With less than the optimal measure of grace I snarled: "What are you doing in my bed?"
He looked a bit shame-faced and replied: "I peed in the night"
Feeing a bit sorry for him - this hasn't happened in a very long time - I said: "Well I hope you put on a clean pyjama before you climbed in here."
At which point he brightened up considerably and announced: "Oh that's ok, it was your bed that I peed in!"

It's For The Birds

Snow is pretty but spare a thought for the animals out there who have to live in it. I always worry about how the wild rabbits, birds and other animals get on when the ground is frozen and there doesn't seem to be any food around. I guess it's natures way of weeding out the weak ones but it seems very harsh. Fortunately the birds, at least, get a helping hand. Most people here have bird feeders in their gardens, and we are no exception.

Yesterday I bought some special food for birds such as robins and wrens who normally eat insects and who don't seem to be able to eat the fat-balls and seeds which most shops sell. The result was almost instantaneous; black birds joined in the feeding frenzy and it was amazing how many different birds visited the garden in the half hour I was watching.

In addition to the wrens, blue tits, sparrows, robins and others I can't name, I was surprised to see a black and white woodpecker briefly sit in the magnolia tree. He was soon gone in a flash of scarlet from the bright feathers under his tail, but about 10 minutes later I spotted his larger green cousin in the neighbours garden. Green woodpeckers are not very common so it was a treat to be able to watch one for so long. It's hard to see him clearly in the photo - I've circle him in red -and I didn't dare get any closer in case I disturbed him, but he's there if you look closely.

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year blogosphere! I know it's a bit late, but I figure that since we're all just getting around to starting work again you probably haven't bothered checking this site for a while anyway. Now that the silly season is behind us it's time to sit back, ease that belt open by a further notch (you know you ate too much too!) and reflect.
This was an unusual Christmas for us. My mother-in-laws partner was knocked of his bicycle by another cyclist and ended up with a fairly serious head injury. Fortunately he's recovering well but it was a shock for everyone. We were buried in snow again...and again...and again...and in fact I've just finished shovelling the latest 15cm fall from the paths outside. We've never had so much of the white stuff!
Hubby was scheduled to come home on December 4th, but of course there was some cock up which meant he couldn't get off the vessel until the 27th by which time all the excitement had calmed down. And through it all I had a stinking cold and just couldn't seem to get enough sleep. At one stage I drove my mother in law to the retirement complex where her partner lives to collect his mail. It's a nice place, with about ten large apartments and the average age of the tenants must be close to 80. I was waiting for her downstairs when I started coughing and couldn't stop. In the end she got me a cup of water from a lovely old lady who lives there and they were all hovering around looking concerned - I was the youngest one there by about 40 years but they seemed to be in better shape than me! The next day I went to the Doctor and discovered I had pneumonia - which explained a lot. A dose of antibiotics seemed to clear it up but it was back a week later, so I'm still popping pills to make sure it's well and truly gone.

This is starting to turn into a bit of a whine so let's move on to the good stuff. The boys and I went and picked out a tree at a local farm, luckily before the first snow fall (little known Dutch tradition; dragging in 10 kg of snow on your tree then watching it melt all over the carpet for the rest of the day).
Christmas morning meant the boys could finally open their presents and at last I - oops I mean they - could play with their spectacularly cool new Star Wars toys. I'd seen the Millenium Falcon on a website months ago. When it arrived the box was HUGE so we had to hide it in the garage all this time. Carl's AT-TE (from the Clone Wars movie for all you fans out there) was only slightly smaller so it's a relief to have some wardrobe space again. Needless to say they boys love these toys- that look on Niels face translates to "hurry up and take your stupid photo so I can play with this NOW".
Despite the snow, family upsets and ongoing pneumonia Christmas was, as always, a lovely time spent focusing on family and friends. Once hubby got home we also did some cool stuff with the kids...but more about that next time.

Snow, Snow, Snow

At last, the snow is finally melting. I may sound like a party pooper but by the time you're down to the last few patches of snow on the ground, very little of it is still white and I've grown very weary of trying to brush grey sludge off the kids clothes before they come inside.

Ok, snow is lovely for the first few days, even a dedicated summerphile like myself will admit that. Once it started it seemed the snow would never stop, drifting down first in tiny pin-pricks of white then developing into big fat fluffy flakes. It was so light that it was possible to scoop up a whole snow-shovel full of the stuff at a time; I know because I had to dig the car out. Several times.

We were puzzled to hear the distinct roar of a tractor motoring around the house at one stage, and looked out the windows to see a snow plough clearing the roads outside, a very rare sight for us. It returned twice more during the day to try and keep the roads clear. It failed.

One bright side was the we had fitted winter tyres on the car just 48 hours before - a brilliant bit of foresight for which I would like to claim the credit. If only it had been my idea!

The bunny bungalow has been winterised with sheets of plastic, an extra thick layer of shredded hemp on the floor and the boudoir filled with a bale of fluffy straw to keep them warm. I also had the brilliant idea of buying a large covered cat litter box, filled with an inviting pile of tasty hay (in 2 different flavours) and a snug base of hemp to keep their bottoms warm. I removed the swinging door and it looked so inviting, just like a warm little cave, that if I was small enough I would have crawled in there myself. The bunnies took one look at it, voted to completely ignore it, and prefer to sit in the cold snow instead. Typical.

Our Piano Maestro

Some time ago hubby and I decided to enrol Niels for piano lessons. At 8 he's a good age to start, and we were both keen for him to take up a musical interest. We both had piano lessons as kids; hubby for a couple of years and I had lessons from 7 to 17 years of age, and I still love to play today. In fact a few years ago I shipped over the piano I learned on from New Zealand when my Mum shifted houses; she didn't want to keep it any more and it's a nice piano, and I'm quite attached to it. This summer I had the interior mechanism fully refurbished, a costly job but one which will last it for another 25 years or so. Built in 1939, it's a Wilma, originally made in London and now having travelled from the UK to New Zealand and back again by ship before being trucked over to Holland, it's a well travelled instrument!

I digress. While Niels had initially been reasonably open to piano lessons, the day that the teacher rang up to tell us what time to turn up he threw a huge hissy fit and we had our biggest argument EVER. And that's some record, let me tell you. He screamed, and ranted, he wailed, he jumped up and down on the spot, and every door in the house was slammed at least once. We were the worst parents in the world ever, possibly the universe, cruelly re-living our childhoods through torturing our first born son with the agony of a musical education. How Could We???

By the time lesson day rolled around Niels and I had reached an impasse. Waiting on the hard plastic chairs outside the lesson room, Niels stared stonily at the scuffed floorboards of the former church, refusing to speak to me, much less look at me. The minutes ticked by, interrupted only by the faint twanging of a kid getting guitar lessons in some back room. Suddenly the door burst open and the music teacher strode in. Niels face was a picture; having expected a grey haired old lady smelling of mothballs and cat piss, he was so stunned to see a young man with longish hair wearing a black t-shirt that his mouth literally dropped open. Mr Andro introduced himself with a big smile and swept Niels, who by this time had a goofy grin on his face, into the room. I sat through the first lesson amazed as Niels rattled off lists of questions; what do the pedals do? Why has this piano got 3 pedals instead of 2? Could he play rock music? Would he always be his teacher and was he interested in adopting an 8 year old boy?

As we walked back to the car, Niels bouncing like a squirrel that's just downed a can of Red Bull, I couldn't help but smile at the transformation and offer up a silent prayer of thanks to all the Gods that exist for Mr Andro. When Niels got home he raced up to Carl and yelled "It's so cool, my piano teacher is a DUDE!"

He's loved his lessons ever since, is more than keen to play for family and friends, and recently had his first 'recital' together with other students from the music school. Enjoy.

Like A Fish In Water...

Being such a water-logged place - two thirds of the country is below sea level after all - in the Netherlands kids are expected to learn to swim at an early age. There is a national system of swimming lessons in place whereby kids can gain three diplomas; A, B and C. In theory no child is allowed to swim in a public pool without some sort of floatation device unless they have achieved the minimum qualification, the A Diploma.

All well and good, after all there are canals everywhere, and in fact our neighbourhood is ringed by 3 canals, the closest of which is only about 20 metres away, so being able to swim is pretty important. Canals, you may have noticed, are not fenced, and nor are the thousands of other bodies of water in the country and you need to be able to get yourself out, or stay afloat long enough for someone to help you out. According to the statistics about 20 young children drown each year in this country, and it is in fact the leading cause of death in boys aged 2-5, although most drownings happing around the house in fish ponds. Still, swimming is an important activity to learn to be safe, have fun, and be confident around water for the rest of your life.

Having lived in Singapore's tropical climate, confidence around water is not a problem for our two little water rats, who swam literally every day unless there was a thunderstorm when we lived there. Niels had his A,B and C diploma at age six, which is pretty good. Lessons involved the Mums' gathering around a luxurious outdoor pool at the Maplewoods Condo, drinking melon juice or cappachino under the palm trees while a sun-tanned instructor taught the kids in groups of 4 or less. Not a bad way to fill an afternoon!

Carl had only just started lessons when we left, and once we arrived back in Holland we enrolled him here and carried on.

Ask any parent what they think of swimming lessons in the Netherlands and the response is invariably a rolling of the eyes and a long groan. With one 50 minute lesson per week, in groups of at least 12 kids, supplemented by however often you go and practice, it takes around a year - usually longer - for your child to get their A diploma. A year of getting them to the (indoor) pool in rain, hail or snow, waiting around in what feels like a chlorine gas filled green house, getting them showered, dressed and ready to go back outside with however many layers of clothing the season dictates. Finally, last month, the moment had finally arrived; Carl swam his test and was awarded his diploma. Of course he also expected a silver cup just like Niels got when he got his A diploma, a little extra thing we do because after trying so hard we feel the boys deserved it.

A bonus was the Carl had managed to sit his diploma the day before he got his tonsils out, perfectly timed because he then wasn't allowed to swim for two weeks. I enrolled him in the classes for his B diploma and expected another few months of lessons before he got that. However last week, after just 3 lessons since getting his A diploma, he was told he could alreaady have a shot at the next one; and last night he passed it! So two diplomas at 5 years old, not bad at all. Now just the 'C' to go...

Ryanair from Dusseldorf May Not Be What You Think

Below is an email from one of my Dutch colleagues, Mr Jan Dierperink, who suffered through something which was unfortunate for him, yet fortunate for us because the way he describes it is brilliant, and if you know Jan you can hear almost his voice as you read . Read, laugh, and if you're ever flying out of Germany, learn! Published with Jan's permission, of course.

"Dear colleagues
As u maybe know, we should've gone to Barcelona this weekend, but at the moment I am at home and typing this email, so u can feel sorry for me and pls dont laugh, ok?
Why? I will explain below.
I booked a cheap flight and cheap hotel for a weekend with my wife, without the kids and yes I really looked forward to it. So as usual we had to pack our stuff at the last minute, that means friday night and after some hours the alarm told me that it was time to wake up and get ready for the travel to Dusseldorf airport.
We were in a really good mood, me and my wife, she spoke a lot and me listening as usual haha, and in the car we checked several times, if we had passport and tickets and yes it seemed we didnt missed anything. I'd printed out the floorplan of the parking place at the airport so all looked really good, we were in time, one and half hours before boarding time and we took the monorail from parking place to airport, still in a good mood.
When we arrived in the departure hall we looked at the monitors , trying to find our flight. Bit strange that we couldnt find our flight, we should leave at 9.25 am to Barcelona but only flight on the f***king screens was Air Berlin to Munich, bit strange for us so we went to a nice old guy from the info desk and asked him very polite, dear sir can u tell us which we gate we have to go for the flight to Barcelona? He answered with : this is Dusseldorf airport, we answered, yes we also know dear sir, then he replied, you are at the wrong airport, you have to go to Dusseldorf Weeze, 100 km back, nearby Kleve.
At that moment I thought, jesus man you look very ugly, then he went on with his story and said your plane will leave in 1 hour and Ryanair is very strict so you're not gonna make it. Then we both thought, shit you become even more uglier than one minute ago. He went on talking but we ran away and took the stupid monorailback to the car and tried to find the way to Dusseldorf Weeze airport.
I drove at 180 km over highway, while Ineke sat on the seat next to me . She had a brillant idea to take some clothes out of suitcase, coz we didnt had time to check in the suitcase, people who travel with me know that I always have to open my suitcase when I am at customs.
So Ineke was sitting with her ass to the front screen and me driving like mad over the German highway, I only saw the dashboard for the speed, some German cars and the ass of my wife. After picking the clothes from our suitcase of 15 kg she had two little handluggage bags of less than one kg. For me only a shirt, beachshorts and one piece of underwear, she of course had more but ok, at the time I didnt know.
Must be a wierd view for the German drivers, a Dutch car at highspeed and a woman with her ass to the front screen but ok, I didnt care.
Almost within one hour we arrived at Dusseldorf Weeze airport. While I dropped my wife off so she could run to the check in desk I put away the car at the parking and took my little bag with all my stuff (pffff) and also ran to the departure desk.
When I arrived I saw my wife smiling; it meant she said we are just in time and then we run to the checkcontrol, imagine all passengers with suitcase only us with 2 small bags, still had to take off my belt and put all stuff in bag for the control, but all seemed good. We asked again which gate we had to go and it was gate 4. We saw still people standing there so I thought I can go to toilet quick and my wife went for quick cup of coffee. When I came back I saw , this is not gate 4 but 7 and gate 4 was all empty only two stupid Ryanair girls waiting. So I ran to my wife and shouted hurry we have to go! Of course the bankcard for paying wasnt working so took a while and then we ran to those two stupids girls and said and showed them our boarding cards.
All looked good, then one of them start to talk - I still hate her - we just took away the stairs of the plane, sir. We answered polite, well dear girl , then u put it there again, coz we want to go to Barcelona, not possible the b*tch said, I just gave the pilot the number of passengers and we took away the stair. At that moment I wanted to take away her smile of her face and to replace it with the f*king stair. But she didnt allowed us to go to the plane and all we could do was to go back.
At that moment I thought , wow why all German people in this airport look sooooo ugly. We were both in shock coz we missed the plane by just 3 minutes and Ryanair didnt help us or give us any service. All we could do was to book next flight for 100 euro per person and on the next day. We said, just put the tickest in ur a** and we drove home very sadly.
We arrived home at the same time as the flight arrived in Barcelona but the only thing it was without us.
Needless to say that our Saturday was not that good as we both expected. Of course soon we got calls from our "friends" who knew already about our stupid mistake but I couldnt laugh at that moment.
All the way back from airport to the Dutch border I thought, Germany is always raining and dark, and all people we saw were ugly too.
Anyway, now you know the reason why I am at my desk again, so if u still feel sorry but also want to laugh at me, well then you know how to find me but at least bring me a nice cup of coffee, then i will drink and you can laugh at me, deal?
I feel bit stupid when typing this but ok it was our own fault, needles to say that I still dont like the nice old guy from the Dusseldorf International airport and also will not recommend those stupid Ryanair girls to my sons.
Maybe also needless to say that , when we had coffee at that stupid airport and saw the plane leaving, I was happy that i didnt had a gun with me to blow it out of the air......
See you all in office again....................."



　

Sint-ilating Days Indeed

To be honest I had considered just not blogging about Sinterklaas this year – it comes around every year and frankly by the time it’s finally over the relief is so overwhelming I can barely bring myself to write about it. However, no account of life in the Low Countries would be complete without mentioning the month of hysteria, mayhem, sleepless nights, over-tired whining kids, highly sugared foods and bone-achingly powerful sense of anticipation we’ve survived through.

The celebration of Sint’s birthday starts with his arrival by steamboat from Spain, accompanied by hundreds of Black Pete’s (like Santas little helpers on speed with better costumes and a healthy dose of naughtiness thrown in). For a more detailed explanation see my previous blogs on the subject, here and here. Once he officially arrives in the country during a televised day of fun, Sint then spends the next week sailing into every city, town and village in Holland on a variety of steamboats, magically appearing in many different places on the same day. How odd.
He appears at every school; the Sinterklaas Journaal news program is broadcast every night on t.v.; every event from Scouting to Market Day is brightened with a liberal scattering of Petes and a Sint.

It’s also open season for the kids; they are allowed to put a shoe by the front door every few nights, accompanied by suitable bribes such as carrots and apples for Sints’ horse, a drawing, a hand written wish list, or even beer for the lucky errant Pete who may have fallen off the wagon. It is a stressful job, after all. In the morning sweets and/or a little present will have magically have appeared, a practice which really should be stopped because it just encourages the little blighters and can you imagine how many little gifts etc have to be found throughout the ensuing three weeks and by whom???....I digress.

Finally, on December 5th, the Big Day arrives. This year, early in the evening on December 4th the phone rang and a deep voice asked to speak to Carl. Taking the phone in a hand sticky with the remnants of the chocolate Sint he’d found in his shoe that morning, Carl’s eyes grew rounder and rounder, his mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ of amazement and he turned to me and announced in a voice husky with shock “It’s…..SINTERKLAAS!!!” Indeed, the good man himself had rung to make an appointment for the next day, and would it be convenience to pop by? Barely able to squeak out a “yes”, Carl handed the phone to Niels who by this stage was literally bouncing from foot to foot, face red with excitement. He breathlessly asked Sint, in his very best Most Polite Little Boy in the World Ever voice, if he would bring a Pete or two as well please??
You can imagine how much – or how little – sleep was had that night. The next day Sint and his official entourage arrived at 4pm sharp, bearing the big red book of secrets and two large gifts. The boys were amazed at the depth of Sint’s knowledge of Scout groups, school classes, hobbies they enjoy and swimming diplomas recently gained…was there no end to this man’s wisdom?? All too soon it was over, time to open the presents. More amazement; how could Sint possibly have known that Carl LOVES Transformers more than life itself and that Niels would practically passout from joy at the WW1 model airplane kit?
Now that it’s all over, we’re looking forward to two little boys sleeping through the night once more, sugar levels lowering from pre-diabetic to something akin to normal and the ceremonial burning of wish-lists. And if you're wondering what I've been doing every evening since hubby went back to sea...just take a close look at Niels present and, I beg you, have some pity for me. At least life is returning back to its normal routine.

But wait…isn’t there something else happening towards the end of the month??....

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!