Ups And Downs

Sometimes it’s hard to tell if you’re doing a good job as a parent. Given enough food, care and exercise kids grow as naturally as house plants I guess, but it’s hard to tell what’s going on in their little heads sometimes and whether what you’re doing is the right thing. How often have I wished our boys came with a manual! Even just the Top 100 Tips would be a bonus, and don’t think I haven’t tried reading all the parenting textbooks out there.
Still, sometimes we get glimmers of hope. Niels had a friend over to play this afternoon and I picked them up from school in the car on the way home from work. They were both quite excited and buzzing about getting home to play when I heard Niels say “I’ve got a cool Mum, huh?”
I could have reached back and planted a big kiss on his shiny little forehead, except that would have blown all of my street-cred right out the window.
I felt particularly relieved because last week we had a rather fraught day which culminated in me sending Niels up to his room, while I narrowly resisted the temptation to rip off his sarcastic little head and drop kick it into the garden. He stomped up the stairs before spinning around dramatically half-way up and snarling at me “And I thought I had a NICE Mummy!”
Touché.

Potato & Tomato Bake; Super Yum 2!

Potato & Tomato Bake

750 g even-sized potatoes

750g tomatoes - go for yummy on-the-vine ones for best flavour
4-5 tbsp olive oil

1. Heat oven to 190C/ fan 170. Thinly slice potatoes. Put in a pan with water cover, bring to the boil, simmer 3 minutes then drain well. Slice the tomatoes.

2. Brush oil over the base and sides of a 1.5 litre ovenproof dish. Layer up half the potatoes, sezsoning well and drizzling with oil as you go, then cover with half the sliced tomatoes. Repeat, finishing with tomatoes.

3. Bake for 45-55 minutes, until top is lightly browned. Serve warm or at room temperature. You can easily cook this the day before.

Tip: For a vegetarian main course or a more substantial accompaniment, add 150g grated emmental or feta, crumbling half under each layer of tomatoes.

Vegetable & Goat's Cheese Terrine; Super Yum!

I know, I promised to upload some recipes ages ago but it's not my fault, honestly...my laptop is about to die a horrible death and desperately needs to be re-formatted and frankly I can't face doing it at the moment. So I've already done this post, and lost it, and tried again...and this is my third and final attempt. Fingers crossed.

This is a seriously delicious, totally impressive and incredible EASY dish to serve guests. I served it as a side for a large dinner party; it could easily be the main dish for a vegetarian meal, especially paired with some crusty rolls and a chilled white wine. All credit goes to Chef Alex Mackay, and I got the recipe from the fabulous BBC Good Food magazine, date May 2003. Yes, 2003. Enjoy!

Provencal roasted vegetable and goat's cheese terrine
Takes 1.5 - 2 hours (plus pressing). Serves 8. Vegetarian and really healthy.

INGREDIENTS
2 red peppers
2 yellow peppers
100 ml virgin olive oil
1 large head of garlic, in cloves, unpeeled
a few sprigs of thyme
2 bay leaves
1 really large or 2 medium aubergines
juice of 1 lemon
2 x 150 g soft goat's cheese (round logs are most convenient; ash coated varieties such as St Maure are recommended, not compulsory).
Sunblush or sundried tomatoes, to serve (ie optional).
FOR THE VINAIGRETTE
100 ml virgin olive oil
1 small bunch of basil
zest of 1 orange (simply peel, this will be discarded later), and the juice
pinch of caster sugar.

1. Preheat oven to fan 170C / conventional 190C. Quarter peppers lengthways. Remove seeds and stems. Arrange pepper quarters skin side up on an oven tray and drizzle with a couple of tablespoonfuls of the olive oil. Sprinkle with salt and throw in 3 garlic cloves, some of the thyme and a bay leaf. Cover the tray tightly with foil, then roast in the oven 45-55 minutes until the peppers soften and start to turn brown in patches.
2. Meanwhile, cut the end off each aubergine and cut a slice off lengthways so they sit flat, then cut into thin, neat slices. Arrange on lightly oiled baking trays, in a single layer so they cook evenly. Drizzle with the remaining oil, turn the slices in the oil, then squeeze lemon juice on top. Season well and add the remaining garlic, thyme and bay leaf. Roast uncovered with the peppers for 20-25 minutes until softened and lighty browned. Remove.
3. While everything is roasting, rub the inside of a 1.4 litre bowl with a little oil, then line it with two layers of cling film so it flops generously over the edge. Press the film against the inside of the bowl with a clean tea towel - this will give a neater finish.
4. Remove the roasted peppers from the oven but DON'T UNCOVER (this lifts the skins off). Leave for 10 minutes ( or more) to cool, then peel the skin off the peppers with a paring knife. Don't worry if you can't get all the skin off, it doesn't matter. Set peppers aside with the aubergines and roasted garlic.
5. Line the bowl with the long slices of roasted aubergine, placing them upright and overlapping each slice, leaving a little peeping over the top of the bowl.
6.Arrange a couple of pieces of red and yellow pepper in the bottom of the bowl and slightly up the sides. Press down with your fingers.
7. Slice one of the goat's cheeses and lay half the slices over the peppers in the bowl. Place half the remaining yellow peppers in a layer over the cheese, followed by half the remianing red peppers. Repeat with layers of the remaining cheese slices and peppers, so they are all used up.
8. Fold the ends of the aubergine slices over the red peppers to form a flat top. Use any broken bits to fill in gaps. Press and pack everything down with your fingers. Bring the excess cling film over and prick with a sharp knife so that any excess oil can escape. Cut out a circle of cardboard slightly smaller than the diameter of the bowl and wrap it in two layers of cling film. Put this on top of the aubergines and then add weights, eg cans. Leave to press in the fridge for at least 12 hours (I make it the day before).
9. To make the vinaigrette, gently heat the oil until just lukewarm. Roughly chop half the basil (reseve the rest for garnish), then peel and slice or halve 3 of the roasted garlic cloves. Add to the oil along with the orange zest and juice and castar sugar. Pour into a bowl and leave to mingle flavours (overnight if necessary). When ready to serve, strain and season with salt and pepper.
10. To serve, remove the weights and card, unfold the cling film and turn the terrine out by placing a plate over the bowl and inverting. Drain off any excess oil and peel off cling film. Slice with a sharp kife, supporting with your hand as you do so. Finish with a dribble vinaigrette.
You can garnish with the left over basil and the sundried tomatoes if you liked; I simply topped the terrine with the 'bits' I strained out of the vinaigrette for decoration before serving which looked fab.
Enjoy!

Monkey Boy

Carl is definitely the monkey in the family and is very proud of it. He chatters constantly, his favouite toy is a monkey, and as he proudly tells anyone who will listen, he was born in the Chinese Zodiac year of the monkey too. No surprise then that his favourite pair of pyjamas are covered in capering monkeys, bought from the incomparable Shophouse Fair in Singapore.
They've been packed away since we left in December and he was overjoyed when I unpacked his summer clothes in the weekend and there they were. He immediatley stripped off and pulled them on, looked in the mirror and yelled "Ahhhhhh! Someones cut bits off my pyjamas!!!!"

We never realised how much he has grown in the past five months!

Happy 8th Birthday Niels

Actually he's 8 until May 16, but as hubby is heading back to sea on Friday we held the 'grown ups' party a week early. Luckily the weather was beuatifully spring-like and we were able to sit outside for the duration. It was a chance for us all to catch up with our good friends Maria and Sandrino whom we hadn't seen since before moving to Singapore, as well as their cute little daughter Laura, who is about six months younger than Carl. He was fascinated by the thought of a little girl coming to play who was not only the same age as him, but also bi-lingual as well. Imagine! Another kids just like him! Amazing!

Just before she arrived I heard him brushing off his dusty Mandarin phrases in a non-too-subtle attempt to sweep her off her feet as a fellow linguist who could shakily lay claim to three languges. What a flirt. Fortuantely they both speak Dutch, not that it matters much with Carl because he will do all of the talking, anyway. Within half an hour she had recovered from her shyness at being surrounded by strange people and her and Carl were inseparable for the rest of the afternoon.

In the Netherlands it's traditional to fly the flag when your kid has a birthday, so in true patriotic style you can see both the Dutch and New Zealand flags flying, which Niels in particular thought was cool. The neighbours probably just wondered why we were flying a British flag. Or perhaps it's Australian...?

Niels was of course the hero of the hour and was only too keen to hold court witha captive audience, slipping into the role of Master of Ceremonies as naturally as if he'd been rehearsing all week. He seriously announced when the food was ready, when the cake was coming, and when we should all sing. Talking of cakes, I had spent a good portion of the morning preparing his Spitfire cake - yes it had to be a Spitfire in the end - which was challenging to say the least. It was during the most stressful moment when the licorice propellor blades kept falling out of the damned chocolate egg propellor hub that I glanced up and spotted an old guy walking his dog past the house. I say walking but actually I know him and his wife well - they delight in stopping on the footpath where they think they are concealed behind the playhouse and allowing their mutt to roam up our driveway to the gate where it goes crazy trying to get at our rabbits, which of course run loose on our lawn. I've tried politley asking the wife not to do it because it freaks out the bunnies, is extremely mean and just plain antisocial - the dog is wandering on OUR property afterall - and yet they do it every bloody day, every time they walk their dog. Well he had seriously picked the wrong moment to stop. With camoflage green icing still dripping from my fingers I marched out and gave him a BLAST in my best polite-but-oh-so-vicious Dutch, accusing him of being the antisocial butthead that he obviously is. He strode off, yanking the mutt behind him and I returned in feeling vindicated and righteous until I saw hubby cracking up inside the house. Well, at least I felt better and the adrenline rush propelled me through the rest of the day.

The rest of the day went without a hitch, and it was a chance to try out loads of new dishes which were a big success. On request I'm going to post some of the recipies here in the comin days, so get ready to skip those if you're not interested.

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.