tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80729873313596171862024-03-14T00:11:27.385+01:00The Low DownThe Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-21338560807268011132023-03-22T21:23:00.014+01:002023-03-24T16:14:52.688+01:00Oh my giddy aunt<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">English</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">language</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">does not</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">often</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">let</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">me</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">down,</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">but</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">its</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">lack
of</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">a</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">feminine</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">equivalent</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">of </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">avuncular </i><span style="font-family: verdana;">is disappointing. How
am I to succinctly describe a woman who was kind, caring, and convivial to my
younger self, offering wry observations and wise guidance when I desperately
needed those qualities? Some pretentious lexicographers propose the Latin word,
</span><i style="font-family: verdana;">materteral, </i><span style="font-family: verdana;">but if that hasn’t caught on since Agrippina strutted sagely
around ancient Rome, it’s not catching on now. We need another option.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">I have been blessed with strong, competent,
no-nonsense aunts, none more so than my beloved Aunt Sue. But after almost nine
decades of strength, competence, and </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">nonsense
resistance, her body is moving down through the gears. Days or weeks from now,</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">the</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">wheels</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">that</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">have</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">propelled</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">her</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">through</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">life</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">will</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">stop</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">turning.</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">It’s</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">almost</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">certain that</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">will not</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">get</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">to</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">say goodbye in</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">person</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">and</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">to</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">thank
her for the inordinate value she added to my life.</span><p></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsddvHTBk0wKuRpfwIiM26fdnk5JQuJsBmtZA1ooHw1yB7T_7MPfIwJJlCdUOvjqC1HIetfBfkbhVbBqF4N6wGGl4UKpglEish2MQ3LsHOqvzGQN6E-B1QO8YzT3500Tiep-HOftBkesJ7M2SKiR8kj0oLa7Kb4-emQSLKyvISNRRrq2Sa8n7VYENyZw/s1024/IMG-20230322-WA0005.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsddvHTBk0wKuRpfwIiM26fdnk5JQuJsBmtZA1ooHw1yB7T_7MPfIwJJlCdUOvjqC1HIetfBfkbhVbBqF4N6wGGl4UKpglEish2MQ3LsHOqvzGQN6E-B1QO8YzT3500Tiep-HOftBkesJ7M2SKiR8kj0oLa7Kb4-emQSLKyvISNRRrq2Sa8n7VYENyZw/s320/IMG-20230322-WA0005.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: xx-small;">Source of an alternative feminine creed</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: verdana;">Time spent with Aunt Sue was comfortable and
reassuring. She was unintrusive but quietly observant, unemotional but
undoubtedly loving. She offered a life perspective that deviated from and
sometimes contradicted my mother’s. But a trusted aunt is surely</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">one</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">of</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">the</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">few</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">women</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">who
have</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">an</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">implicit</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">right</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">to</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">contradict</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">received</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">maternal wisdom and offer an alternative feminine creed.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">One of my earliest memories is the day in the
late 1960s when Aunt Sue returned to Australia with her family, after ten years living in Canada. Canada: another country! How</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">exotic. How</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">unlike</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">anything</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I’d</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">experienced</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">in</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">my</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">life</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">until</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">then.</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">How</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">inspirational. And now
that I stop to consider it, how curious — and possibly linked to that time —
that I eventually made temporary homes myself in foreign countries.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The SS Arcadia bore them home. Some 55 years
later I can conjure a memory of burgundy</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">lounges,</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">wood</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">panelling,
and</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">brass</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">wall</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">lamps</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">in</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">an</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">onboard</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">saloon.</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">It</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">occurs to me now that it is likely a
false memory; would we have been allowed on the ship? </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">And yet it remains an image that I can summon
at will. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I also</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">distinctly remember
— and this I believe to be reality — falling instantly in love with the
pig-tailed, smiling girl who disembarked from the ship and who was introduced
as my cousin. I was ecstatic that something as precious as a female cousin
could appear in my then brother-filled life, dispatched</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">from</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">the</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">belly</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">of</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">an</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">enormous</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">white ship.</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Kim</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">was</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">just 18</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">days</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">younger</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">than me, and with a four-year-old’s logic
I assumed that made us instant best friends. That is what we became, at least
from my perspective, well into adulthood. She is one of the greatest</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">gifts</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Aunt</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sue ever</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">gave</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">me. I</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">loved</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">my</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">cousin</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Kim wholeheartedly.</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">So</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">did</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Aunt
</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;">Sue. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The homes that Aunt Sue created, and which
featured heavily in my childhood, were stylish and impressive. They were a
tasteful, carefully curated demonstration of unfamiliar affluence. They
provided my first lesson in anthropology, socioeconomics, demographics,</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">and their</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">fickle variation</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">between</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">siblings.</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">To</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">me,</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">her</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">home</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">was</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">a</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">North American</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">TV sitcom set,</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">complete</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">with</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">amusing
accents,</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">a</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">microwave</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">oven,</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">fancy floor rugs, and peanut butter and
jelly sandwiches; legacies of a Canadian life.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMrkwk4NAoc8jhu2ja4st0Al52OubOLO8QoGXxkmOzjzCrnPo91Q_Nim4B7B0A5MfRBSPHHNjqppH0AW6LituOdvTqHo-HuMYeGCLBo-X-TeqL4O-CuJfYT5pOqiI_8cMlY1dxhzcRj9Dt3HjgDZy6FjJ9alqYAr3p9NVXpuvtCucOw5DauIOIDQeSBg/s411/IMG-20230322-WA0006.jpg" style="clear: right; font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.266667px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="357" data-original-width="411" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMrkwk4NAoc8jhu2ja4st0Al52OubOLO8QoGXxkmOzjzCrnPo91Q_Nim4B7B0A5MfRBSPHHNjqppH0AW6LituOdvTqHo-HuMYeGCLBo-X-TeqL4O-CuJfYT5pOqiI_8cMlY1dxhzcRj9Dt3HjgDZy6FjJ9alqYAr3p9NVXpuvtCucOw5DauIOIDQeSBg/s320/IMG-20230322-WA0006.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: xx-small;">My cousin Rebecca (a chip off the old block), Sue and me</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">In</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">time,</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">one</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">home</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">gained</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">an</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">inground</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">pool,</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">adding</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">to</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">its</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">appeal. That</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">pebblecrete-lined marvel</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">was</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">bliss</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">for</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">me,</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">a</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">girl</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">accustomed</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">to</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">running through</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">garden</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">sprinklers</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">to</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">meet my summer cooling needs. Visits to
Aunt Sue meant hours of swimming and sunning with siblings and cousins in
amphibious joy.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I was neither </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">joyous nor</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">swimming one </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">sweltering
day in my fifteenth year. Of course Aunt Sue noticed</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">.</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Ignoring my</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">feeble</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">explanation</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">that I</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">just</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">didn’t</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">feel</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">like</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">it</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">and</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">wasn’t</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">all</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">that hot anyway, she guided me to her
hitherto out-of-bounds-to-children bathroom — the </span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>ensuite</i><span style="letter-spacing: -0.6px;">.</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.5pt;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">“It’s</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">a</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.4pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">French</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">word</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">”,</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.45pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">she</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.4pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">explained.</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">A</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.4pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">French</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">bathroom,</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.4pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;">just </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">for</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.45pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">parents;</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.35pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">whatever</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.45pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">would</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.45pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">they</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">think</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">of</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.4pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">next?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">My beautiful
sensitive aunt then presented me with the first tampon I’d ever seen and
promised to stand guard outside the door. I emerged sheepishly to confess that
my attempt had been a painful failure. I would continue petulantly pretending I
had no interest in swimming. Sue was having none of that. She took a second
tampon and strode</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">to</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">the</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">kitchen.</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Wielding</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">a</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">breadknife</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">with</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">feminine</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">avuncular</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">confidence,</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">she</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">cut the tampon in half. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Try again,” she
commanded, handing me the demi-tampon</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: 2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">(another
French term, albeit one I just coined myself), which was now of questionable
hygienic quality.</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">At</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">the time, I</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">thought</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">would</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">die of embarrassment.</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Now I</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">realise that it</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">was</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">a</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">typical</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">strong,</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">competent,</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">no-nonsense act</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">of</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">love.</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">A</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">quintessential
</span><i style="font-family: verdana;">auntular</i><span style="font-family: verdana;">,</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">as opposed to a more jovial and back-slapping </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">avuncular</i><span style="font-family: verdana;">, act.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sue was not
always sweet and protective; her sharp wit and tongue sometimes combined
stingingly. Like the time my siblings, cousins, and I were sharing a raucous
meal with our parents. Aunt Sue, my protector, suddenly and unexpectedly became
my provocateur. She declared I’d over-plucked my eyebrows. Silence descended and all eyes
homed in on my forehead. Her comment was uncalled for and indiscreet. Yet a
cursory look at my high school photos shows that she had a point. It was the
1970s and I was a girl with a dangerous collection of </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">Dolly </i><span style="font-family: verdana;">magazines, a
pair of tweezers, a magnifying mirror, and a desire to</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">fit</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">in. I had
gradually reduced what I thought</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">was
an unwieldly caterpillar brow to two crooked black threads. Sue’s comment was
one of her less appreciated </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">auntular </i><span style="font-family: verdana;">interventions,</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">but</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">like
most</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">of</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">her</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">interventions,</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">it</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">had</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">a</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">positive</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">outcome:</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">never</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">again gave a pluck.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCQ4r8dpx1zI3tvbIXzUZq43tLClGQbiwuRXYscMEef5M2yz4lC3-bJlui8cdYU3p0H3HKNmvHwfdD9qHhGNLfQb1-X_8WK_XL-jLLhCyR0NZtiIZamMo4iVYBkWnJ2WxXKE7YqWkIKolq3DSUbp-NKb0wv_APg8p-wDxupUMu3YlgiPwfy1Vkvese1A/s795/Aunt%20Sue.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="795" data-original-width="595" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCQ4r8dpx1zI3tvbIXzUZq43tLClGQbiwuRXYscMEef5M2yz4lC3-bJlui8cdYU3p0H3HKNmvHwfdD9qHhGNLfQb1-X_8WK_XL-jLLhCyR0NZtiIZamMo4iVYBkWnJ2WxXKE7YqWkIKolq3DSUbp-NKb0wv_APg8p-wDxupUMu3YlgiPwfy1Vkvese1A/w238-h320/Aunt%20Sue.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">The auntular smile, undiminished</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: verdana;">The last time I saw Sue, her dementia was advanced. We talked for an
hour or so. Suddenly she stopped and asked how we knew each other. I told her
and we both smiled. I think she’d smile again now if she knew she had given the
neologism </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">auntular </i><span style="font-family: verdana;">to</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">a</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">world</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">that</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">is</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">without</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">a</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">doubt</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">desperately in</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">need</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">of</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">feminine</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">care</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">and</span><span style="font-family: verdana; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">compassion.</span><p></p>The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-81379561787870123112022-09-28T08:11:00.029+02:002023-09-19T13:40:34.320+02:00Paris is always a good idea<p><span style="font-family: arial;">When life
gives us lemons, many smug and annoying optimists tell me, we should make lemonade.
That’s all well and good, as long as we also have sugar to hand.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">My dear
friend Lady Howmany
recently had a crate of lemons hurled directly at her head from
a great height when she was least expecting it. She had to fly urgently from
Sydney to Paris as a result. The chances of her making lemonade when she
arrived were slim. At face value, the situation involved a lot of sour surplus
citrus and very little sugar. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">Even before
she’d left for Sydney Airport, I’d booked a train to Paris and one of the few
remaining hotel rooms available in a city embarking on Fashion Week. I had no
idea what use I would be to her, but at
the very least, I hoped I might be able to provide a sugar cube or two. What a welcome change
to feel useful and present when a friend needs a scaffold. So much better than my </span>default ex-pat response of sending well-meaning text messages across the 16,000 kilometres that usually
separates me from my nearest and dearest when life gives them lemons.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">Unfortunately,
I had to deal with some lemons of my own en route, thanks to Dutch Railways, who
deftly turned a scheduled four-and-a-half-hour journey into an eleven-hour
debacle. Lady Howmany got from Dubai to
Paris in considerably less time. Hamstrung by the foibles of online travel
bookings, I stomped around Antwerp for four hours waiting for a train that
would accept me. I was in no mood for making lemonade from my relatively meagre
(and frankly, embarrassingly trite) influx of personal lemons.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">Then
finally, Paris. Gritty, fraught, chic, refined. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">Beautiful, complicated Paris.
She wouldn’t dream of making lemonade, a drink she would surely deem bourgeois.
No, she is a tarte au citron, lemon madeleines kind of city. For the most part,
she’s zesty and pithy and vibrant. And dammit, Lady Howmany and I decided, so
are we. We would make the most of our time together, despite the circumstances.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">We started in
familiar territory. Gin and tonics (“sans citron, s'il vous plai</span><span style="font-family: arial;">t</span><span style="font-family: arial;">”) in a cute
bar. Over the following days, Lady H, her supremely gracious mother, and I
progressed through traditional crisis management territory: cups of tea, trips
to the boulangerie, washing up, wiping down, making small talk to fill the
silences, making slightly bigger talk when the opportunity arose. In such
situations, it’s hard to make an impact beside the formidable pragmatism of
Lady Howmany. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">She’s a frighteningly efficient full-time working executive mother of four young
women, carer of two energetic dogs, and fairy godmother to anyone who needs one. She's the first to arrive on a friend's doorstep when trouble looms. Plus, she finds time to do fun and frivolous things with her adoring and adored
husband. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">By the time I arrived, 24 hours or so after her, she’d already swathed the Paris
house and its residents in love, compassion, sensible ideas, gentle suggestions, and unspecified other magic. Here, among her kin, she was in peak form. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">While I sat
mutely wondering what I could do to help, I marvelled at the generosity of her kin, who knew me only by association but who welcomed my daytime visits
to their home, who invited me to lunch with them, who shared their stories with
me, who courageously and generously let me peek into their lemonade factory while it underwent a major reconstruction.
For a lot of the time, I wondered what I was doing there at all. My
contribution mainly consisted of making the dog bark hysterically and vociferously
whenever I arrived or left, which I hope everyone found to be a helpful distraction. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">I
also reorganised the plastics drawer in the kitchen, the importance of which can
hardly be understated for people whose lives have recently been torn apart. When
I triumphantly held up a half packet of couscous that I discovered in the back
corner of that same plastics drawer, the family smiled encouragingly and
assured me they’d all been wondering where that had got to. So, so, very
helpful.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">Lady H and
I revelled in the unexpected opportunity to spend time together, even though
her focus was firmly on her extended family. We talked of blessings in disguise
and clouds with silver linings, and before we knew it, we were making lemonade,
tarte au citron, AND lemon madeleines.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">We managed
a trip to the centre of Paris for half a day. It was cathartic and fabulous.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">We had two
breakfasts an hour apart. So hard to choose one Parisian café over another.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">We stood on
bridges and laughed out loud at the mere fact that we'd come from Sydney and Amsterdam to be in Paris together with three days notice.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">We
inadvertently wandered into the middle of a Fashion Week photo shoot and
experienced some rather fruity French instructions on how quickly we should
move along. Apparently, two middle-aged women, each </span>adorned with a single layer of mascara and a smear of lip gloss and wearing sensible shoes and waterproof
jackets, didn’t
quite fit the image the director was aspiring to. We left them to it, once we'd stopped shreiking with laughter and could stand up straight again and walk.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">We were
overjoyed and overawed by the spectacular stained glass of Saint-Chappelle.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjychuDMxJQuLwiPN8Oa7oBejjwZt-tTOzvKk_OvRanBZ6zA7kno5JqePevOtwjaHuh8mHGvdil3LSIgrE5c0A4AmFHzGh63KAZAX1m5jlnVhwR-55IBUQJbbrorA7XSr5ilQgozOXeSzUBHZBeRpKO-pTLpLXUU2D53eMYCYMe6yD2k6rHnmCnKcxjTw/s1682/20220927_112927.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1636" data-original-width="1682" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjychuDMxJQuLwiPN8Oa7oBejjwZt-tTOzvKk_OvRanBZ6zA7kno5JqePevOtwjaHuh8mHGvdil3LSIgrE5c0A4AmFHzGh63KAZAX1m5jlnVhwR-55IBUQJbbrorA7XSr5ilQgozOXeSzUBHZBeRpKO-pTLpLXUU2D53eMYCYMe6yD2k6rHnmCnKcxjTw/w320-h311/20220927_112927.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Gasp-inducing light and colour in Saint-Chapelle</i></span><br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">We ridiculed
each other’s appalling French. We ridiculed the stupid social-media tourists on
every corner who pouted and swivelled and posed in a manner that, frankly,
deserved our grumpy-old-women disdain. Oh, how we tutted. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">We were moved by the sight of Notre Dame Cathedral, burnt and bowed after the 2019 fire and now embraced by supportive scaffolding. But we were also heartened by the idea that burnt and bowed does not have to mean permanently destroyed. And so she rises again.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKoGlrTFIyB_Hceupu3Lq8PwrCJnJn1N_9IFU4ZGtt4DA-sH5tL4sg1k1FePq4QjTZFm5sWaCUxF0zNEnEFEqTKaeU1kvFD-Gg5mZgwY-AdW-JOWs7Kosuo60RSkAj5NpUBCPW3MlUKMqzJ8DIbCgP-E7xeSc8rXJUCaDMKTpweRrR06WsLKv-EvKxsw/s2593/20220926_115331%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1946" data-original-width="2593" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKoGlrTFIyB_Hceupu3Lq8PwrCJnJn1N_9IFU4ZGtt4DA-sH5tL4sg1k1FePq4QjTZFm5sWaCUxF0zNEnEFEqTKaeU1kvFD-Gg5mZgwY-AdW-JOWs7Kosuo60RSkAj5NpUBCPW3MlUKMqzJ8DIbCgP-E7xeSc8rXJUCaDMKTpweRrR06WsLKv-EvKxsw/s320/20220926_115331%20(2).jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><i>It's hard to keep a strong dame down</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">We missed
metro stops and caught connections in the wrong direction. We blamed each other
for these amateur oversights. Then, giddy with childish excitement, we collapsed
in uncontrollable giggles.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">We visited the
Shakespeare and Company bookstore, now on my personal list of Favourite Places on
Earth. Walking into this labyrinth of paisley sofas, velvet cushions, antique
typewriters, and worn timbers, all shrouded in silent stories, felt like the
literary equivalent of a fresh croissant dipped in a bowl of café au lait. I
thought I saw Hemingway out of the corner of my eye, but then I realised it was merely his ghost.
I heard Virginia Woolf whisper. Oscar Wilde tapped me on the shoulder, but when
I turned around, he’d vanished. Overcome by bookish emotion, I spontaneously decreed that
Lady H and I must peruse the shelves independently and select and purchase a suitably
meaningful book for each other.<br /> <o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGx1X-tKMLdbu_7pvPtsG_BKPssU2btlfEGOpq4FkA-mfH4zqV0MAVhDC1ichAZlb-_8RKXNKxD-KgkvXx8HQJ5hEqnQBpeCPhQ1V-ms2jmSPQHrDj_pzjVuaGnr4EQ9kM4vpBag5V2XkpN4StjQGYmm7AuQcgGH8z3OBinGKiIaCfjtMgRdMYJQyu6w/s4032/20220926_115035.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGx1X-tKMLdbu_7pvPtsG_BKPssU2btlfEGOpq4FkA-mfH4zqV0MAVhDC1ichAZlb-_8RKXNKxD-KgkvXx8HQJ5hEqnQBpeCPhQ1V-ms2jmSPQHrDj_pzjVuaGnr4EQ9kM4vpBag5V2XkpN4StjQGYmm7AuQcgGH8z3OBinGKiIaCfjtMgRdMYJQyu6w/w240-h320/20220926_115035.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><i>The front cover of Shakespeare and Co.</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4s8uvTROImJi1GpVqa1wvbvV9com4KGn0UtCKtFaqn0W8pji9aefoctir9pZpy6-cyb8fNGrKB593d28F4oTtibnH0-gJlIoWQUZuKcGd0PzqlaFuQvFWyyJtACbyvSxkzNNd9NW7-DajGqWlc8Ne5E8zSt_f7clkTRSIvFHMFm4--Gl9yeInO1E_Eg/s4032/20220926_150239.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4s8uvTROImJi1GpVqa1wvbvV9com4KGn0UtCKtFaqn0W8pji9aefoctir9pZpy6-cyb8fNGrKB593d28F4oTtibnH0-gJlIoWQUZuKcGd0PzqlaFuQvFWyyJtACbyvSxkzNNd9NW7-DajGqWlc8Ne5E8zSt_f7clkTRSIvFHMFm4--Gl9yeInO1E_Eg/w240-h320/20220926_150239.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><i>You had me at "I fell..."</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">For her I chose <i>The
Lady and the Little Fox Fur</i> by Violette Leduc (1965). Besides featuring the
Eiffel Tower and the name of a French feminist author on the cover, either of
which would have been sufficient reason to buy it, the story allegedly
provides "A stunning portrait of Paris, of the invisibility we all feel in a
big city, and ultimately of the hope and triumph of a woman who reclaims her
place in the world".</span> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope it
will always remind Lady H of a glorious few hours wandering the streets of
Paris, when we felt </span><span style="font-family: arial;">both </span><span style="font-family: arial;">hopeful and triumphant.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">She gave me
<i>Excellent Women</i> by Barbara Pym (1956). It’s about a “smart, supportive
woman … who gets embroiled in the lives of her neighbours.” Setting aside the
chance that there is a subliminal message there about the appropriateness or otherwise of my arrival in the midst
of her familial tumult this week, I love the premise. I also love the cover and
would quite like some cushion covers made in a similar fabric. (I will report back here when she provides those because, dear reader, I assure you that she eventually will. I told you, formidable efficiency).<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4f1-HInPTDa38y7MDMN56zpKgeM2c744acsNghZ0GZSCaRdqeSYK8Cxxt8sTAln54pjUTB7jvNT2NoYYoEIDnLuwuUkUD8manWJgYzQuBXHnXn5anKGcyNB8ZOC2SKFbcgNH75TUQR1Jf8bNx9vlHr4RNt2to7xQuW_-PvGgCCM9ea70i8TBNmO7BgA/s552/IMG-20220927-WA0024(2).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="552" data-original-width="414" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4f1-HInPTDa38y7MDMN56zpKgeM2c744acsNghZ0GZSCaRdqeSYK8Cxxt8sTAln54pjUTB7jvNT2NoYYoEIDnLuwuUkUD8manWJgYzQuBXHnXn5anKGcyNB8ZOC2SKFbcgNH75TUQR1Jf8bNx9vlHr4RNt2to7xQuW_-PvGgCCM9ea70i8TBNmO7BgA/w240-h320/IMG-20220927-WA0024(2).jpg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><i>On excellent interfering women</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">And so a tradition was born. Whenever the stars align to place a
friend with me in a bookstore outside of our respective home cities, we shall
gift each other a specially selected book.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Such an
exchange need not always be in response to a life-giving-you-lemons situation.
However, it shall henceforth be called a “literary lemonade exchange”, out of deference to
its sweet, sour, Parisian origins. And for the same reason, it most certainly
should always be concluded with a tarte au citron or a lemon madeleine. Or both. And if you must, lemonade.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Authors note: For further information about Lady Howmany, refer to <a href="https://ausdutchess.blogspot.com/2014/09/a-framily-adventure.html" target="_blank">A "framily" affair</a></i></span></span></p>The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-2073290854141182092020-04-12T11:37:00.001+02:002020-04-12T13:38:00.193+02:00How do you like my buns?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Around this time every
year I am confronted by the absence of hot cross buns in The Netherlands. Why would
any population deny itself the life-enhancing combination of yeast, cinnamon,
sultanas, obscene lashings of sugar glaze, it’s sweetness perfectly offset when
slathered with salted butter? When questioned,
the Dutch claim that their krentenbollen or currant buns are an appropriate substitute.
Obviously, this is laughably misguided. </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQB7xnB3NP1KRLC5Cuae5NBL3cLM8BWSrdSxchW8vem7H2FKMgK_2tH4I6w6XJB6C2I1fasWo-DDMvsu9Rnd7N_SQtd8wBBqzflL9gjiydt7j1DumCC3Rt7MKT46h-rxUELUFsdB_ZOdMx/s1600/two+krentenbollen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="177" data-original-width="284" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQB7xnB3NP1KRLC5Cuae5NBL3cLM8BWSrdSxchW8vem7H2FKMgK_2tH4I6w6XJB6C2I1fasWo-DDMvsu9Rnd7N_SQtd8wBBqzflL9gjiydt7j1DumCC3Rt7MKT46h-rxUELUFsdB_ZOdMx/s320/two+krentenbollen.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Krentenbollen are not acceptable as a hot cross bun substitute</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">They are insipid, unspiced, unglazed, and
ubiquitous. The buns that is, not the Dutch. Being available all year round, krentenbollen
deny consumers the anticipatory excitement of a seasonal product, to say
nothing of the pious culinary virtuosity that comes with consuming a product
infused with religious symbolism.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I am far more inclined
towards the Dutch Easter bread, which at least recognises the life-enhancing combination of yeast, sultanas and obscene
lashings of sugar glaze. It has no cinnamon or other spices, but it more than
makes up for that with the addition of a core of sweet almond paste and a
generous scattering of toasted almonds on top. </span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSpGuaBYBgEeSfmEHFkIkepTkki8ras8iGdoicGTRNUZyBtur_LFvnT-CsyIKTT0YpBGAobXQcCBtaVPSfGlrM0_Eqle_vJaHFB6BerUPRVBnrE7XHgFyqdecucfILx-yRlNvZaK9IlRpt/s1600/paasstollen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="184" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSpGuaBYBgEeSfmEHFkIkepTkki8ras8iGdoicGTRNUZyBtur_LFvnT-CsyIKTT0YpBGAobXQcCBtaVPSfGlrM0_Eqle_vJaHFB6BerUPRVBnrE7XHgFyqdecucfILx-yRlNvZaK9IlRpt/s1600/paasstollen.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Paasstollen</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It comes in a box decorated with
rabbits and eggs. I consume dozens of these Paasstollen every Easter in an
attempt to overcome my sadness at not having ready access to hot cross buns. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">However the
Paasstollen loses all credibility as a hot cross bun substitute because as far
as I can see it is exactly the same as the Dutch Christmas bread, which is a delicious
combinations of yeast, sultanas and obscene lashings of sugar glaze. It has no
cinnamon or other spices, but it more than makes up for that with the addition
of a core of sweet almond paste and a generous scattering of toasted almonds on
top. It comes in a box decorated with fir trees and snowflakes. The box seems
to be the only thing distinguishing a kerststollen from a paasstollen. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I admit that having a
backup plan for unsold Kerststollen reflects a certain economic aptitude that is
regarded highly by the thrifty Dutch. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
also shows an awareness of supply chain management that can only come from having
been a mercantile powerhorse for centuries.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But be that as it may,
I would still like a hot cross bun on Good Friday. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQIP4L2OkQhvsLAxQ1uSjN3nCk4nO0yZF4o79BylLw0Z-EKozKgj9mAEQvMjHNnTtrptmX9HHYQUWuB9OomIWKXKvF9xq7RDND_Qa8qqipKdKV1X9RrotAay74NzO_tYjchPQARhAULM02/s1600/IMG-20200410-WA0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="746" data-original-width="750" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQIP4L2OkQhvsLAxQ1uSjN3nCk4nO0yZF4o79BylLw0Z-EKozKgj9mAEQvMjHNnTtrptmX9HHYQUWuB9OomIWKXKvF9xq7RDND_Qa8qqipKdKV1X9RrotAay74NzO_tYjchPQARhAULM02/s320/IMG-20200410-WA0003.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">4 January in a Sydney supermarket</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This year, I have been
anticipating the joyous consumption of a hot cross bun since January 4. On that day, I walked
into a Sydney supermarket. I had escaped from a surreal world where devastating bushfires raged
and we
were all trapped in an open-air sauna that surely heralded the end of the world. Under
such circumstances, it’s fair to say I was very hot and very cross. So imagine
my surprise when my eyes settled on a shelf which only seconds before had
supported several dozen unsold Christmas puddings. But in place of puddings, I
saw bags of plump and spicy hot cross buns. These particularly premature
buns were laden with chemical preservatives and sealed in plastic bags. They
would have stored perfectly well for three months had I brought some back to The
Netherlands with me. But they would also have inevitably brought culinary disappointment so instead I resolved to make my own when the time came.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And so it came. Good
Friday 2020 in The Netherlands. Outside the coronavirus pandemic rages and we are all trapped in an open-air infectious diseases ward that heralds the end of the world as we knew it. One of few
things that could have got me through Good Friday was a hot cross bun slathered with
salted butter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Inspired by the many (secretly
really annoying) #isobaking posts on my social media feed, I decided to surprise
my housebound family and make a batch of HCBs. Spoiler alert: a comedy of
errors ensured it didn’t happen.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">First, having resisted
the trend to panic buy, and with three supermarkets within a five minute walk
of my house, I maintain a relatively sparce pantry. On Good Friday I could scrape
together a little over a cup of plain flour; the recipe insisted I find three
and a half more. Unfortunately, flour is now a rare commodity. I blame the smug
#isobakers. But I set out on a mission that I was confident fell into the “essential
travel” category.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As I suspected, the
first of my three immediate supermarket options was a flour-free zone. I walked
to the second and much larger supermarket. A man loitering at the door asked me
for 50 cents. I apologised for having no cash. He yelled at me and told me to
go to the cashpoint. I considered the chance of withdrawing a 50 cent coin from
the cashpoint, and instead decided to apply some Corona kindness and purchase
some groceries for him. I was about to ask him what he’d like me to buy
but he strode past me and made for the alcohol aisle. He grabbed a can of beer
and with a distinct absence of Easter spirit, stomped angrily back outside. He
was clearly untroubled by his cash flow situation and felt disinclined to stop
at a checkout. It was 9.30am. I briefly considered picking up a nice bottle of
breakfast wine and an extra-large paasbrood.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Foolishly I proceeded
to the flour aisle instead. Nothing. Someone started yelling. Through my
flourless fog I realised it was a middle-aged fellow customer, and that I was
the object of her yelling. “Where’s your basket???” she screamed. “WHERE’S.
YOUR. BASKET????”. Louder. Frighteningly wide eyes. Getting wider. “YOU NEED A
BASKET!!!!” Exclamation marks were visible above her furious head. I suddenly
realised that I’d been so frazzled by my encounter with Breakfast Beer Man at
the entrance, I’d neglected to collect a coronavirus-fighting shopping basket before
I entered the store. I’m highly sceptical that a plastic shopping basket will shield
us against coronavirus, but Breakfast Beer Man had thrown me off my normally
impeccable coronavirus game. In the face of The Basket Wench’s fury, I scurried
away, flourless. And quite rattled. And thinking that two bottles of breakfast
wine might be a good investment. I decided to persist with the original plan.
It paid off, or so I thought.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At the third supermarket
I was faced with the giddy choice of spelt flour, quinoa flour and …is that…lentil
flour??? Is that even a thing? It’s now beyond obvious that I should have opted
for breakfast wine at that point. But I bought the spelt flour and hurried home
with my last ditch, confidence-sapping, gluten-free gamble. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A failure to froth was
the next sign of impending doom. Yeast plus sugar plus warm milk should
generate a magical foaming and frothing as the yeast activates. It hints at the
pregnant potential for dense dough to become a light and fluffy delight. I
ignored the clearly unreactive yeast. I did not have the emotional fortitude to
return to a supermarket to purchase more and begin the process anew. Big
mistake. Big, big mistake. I melted, whisked, sifted, mixed and then spent a cathartic
ten minutes kneading. I produced a satisfying ball of dough and left it to rise.
The only thing that expanded at all was my own self doubt.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Stubbornly, I formed
twelve balls of dough and put them in the oven, completely forgetting to decorate
them with crosses. Earlier, I’d had the rather brilliant idea of piping angry
faces onto each bun. I was looking forward to posting my own #isobaking photos
with the caption “Prolonged isolation has produced seriously cross buns this year”.
Oh how we would have all chortled. If I’d remembered.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjicgXSss69i3g_cj2mlxFNlhxrcfVxEnZcdD_OQkxYbBPsBcxyY9PFDZ7SF5osv5C1RbcEQaT-mZVeZAr0igpFT0-ExDWIy2MMmpRtbwHIeTH6dEBbiuXIAHKT3vWl5hQqXWeFmL2DsD_D/s1600/20200410_144318.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjicgXSss69i3g_cj2mlxFNlhxrcfVxEnZcdD_OQkxYbBPsBcxyY9PFDZ7SF5osv5C1RbcEQaT-mZVeZAr0igpFT0-ExDWIy2MMmpRtbwHIeTH6dEBbiuXIAHKT3vWl5hQqXWeFmL2DsD_D/s320/20200410_144318.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">My #isobakingfail</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Instead, I produced
twelve hot uncrossed rocks. Twelve hot uncrossed inedible rocks. No paasbrood.
No breakfast wine. It was a very Bad Friday</span></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It’s now Easter Sunday
and I have absolutely no culinary aspirations whatsoever, other than to eat my
way through the three large bags of chocolate eggs that I purchased yesterday. And
perhaps to figure out what to do with 400 grams of spelt flour. Any ideas, smug #isobakers?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-10974584627342085012020-03-28T00:03:00.000+01:002020-04-02T11:36:47.166+02:00My covert COVID thoughts. Day 8.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We were just starting
to enjoy being empty nesters. But in hindsight, the strategic decision that Ned
Nederlander and I made this time last year to downsize our nest is looking very
unwise. </span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A mere five months after Kleine Jongen flew off to a distant university,
he and his brother, with much dramatic squawking and flapping, returned to the new
nest to face the coronavirus in the bosom of their family. Admittedly, having encouraged their return, any remorse and regret on our
part will need to be carefully managed – nay, deeply hidden.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPCl5mXfeYaem2k7bhr5GvKEH3GXvFBP3o972IeMgyQhL_p6VJdN8XwlAguIFRtG_0NHuTulq6XADz62q0QnP3no7GCUFKD5tjh89KXdEfQgSASJWjcZCmrDGZgKvXzzfZV-jCD3FGZR1J/s1600/IMG-20200324-WA0007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1010" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPCl5mXfeYaem2k7bhr5GvKEH3GXvFBP3o972IeMgyQhL_p6VJdN8XwlAguIFRtG_0NHuTulq6XADz62q0QnP3no7GCUFKD5tjh89KXdEfQgSASJWjcZCmrDGZgKvXzzfZV-jCD3FGZR1J/s320/IMG-20200324-WA0007.jpg" width="315" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We’re in no doubt that
ruffled feathers are inevitable. Sadly but predictably, it seems that I am the
first in our overfull nest to have my feathers ruffled. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggALnFazzkWJsQt86cKfLdEZl8p1MXAJKrnq_tPd_Wsatt6HiZ3qM0rkK2VKFD7tItjqA8j95wJSlCKDBp-ShMwBQ56RrY36sPEnDNrT2rYiPVVn2HijIaZ8VPtz8g7wLvx3-b43uSe7vy/s1600/Capture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></a><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In my defence, the
changes wrought by coronavirus have been particularly cruel for me. Until two
weeks ago, I was a woman spoiled by the quiet rhythms and pliant freedoms of
working from home. My gentle cat sat softly on my keyboard from time to
time to announce that I deserved a break and that she deserved to have her head
fondled. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Life was grand. Although
I always missed the energy and camaraderie of a physical office, I’m proud to say
I could work an online video meeting like a boss, years before the rest of the
world’s office workers realised that zoom wasn’t just something you did to a
photo.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I had a choice of excellent
cafes within easy walking distance of my home office. My laptop and I could wile
away a few hours in any of them. I had several inspirational girlfriends willing
to share what I describe to the tax office as working lunches. Or perhaps they
were shirking lunches; I can’t remember anymore. It was another lifetime. Whatever
they were called, when I returned to my empty home office I had a choice of unoccupied
beds on which to indulge in post-lunch deep thinking. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Things have changed dramatically.
I am suddenly forced to share my work space with three other adults, with quite
some associated loss of control. The monitor that gave me such an air of quiet
professionalism has been seized as a Call of Duty command centre. Every morning
I find empty beer bottles and supermarket pizza crusts on my desk. When
interrogated, no one knows how they got there. Meanwhile, Ned Nederlander has
staked a claim on more than half of the family dining table. My shirking working
lunches are lurking in a distant life. All this change makes the cat understandably
traumatised and more needy than ever. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfN5yx1c8vKjaiLz24n4DYw4Vde6G2TX6ZINjpCi2rwARtsXGdBbhcz6C9mLdN2TLp9pFuegk9yGXbA3LpU4tXtICdc_ncddC-b3QFygqct3qs5cmQhG4_2SJzrNCR8nzpKyngRFl8rTRQ/s1600/20200327_175152.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfN5yx1c8vKjaiLz24n4DYw4Vde6G2TX6ZINjpCi2rwARtsXGdBbhcz6C9mLdN2TLp9pFuegk9yGXbA3LpU4tXtICdc_ncddC-b3QFygqct3qs5cmQhG4_2SJzrNCR8nzpKyngRFl8rTRQ/s400/20200327_175152.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Ned has phone calls
about bizarre topics for an average of 7.94 hours every day. My board room is
now an indoor football arena. I put a notice in the kitchen that says “Your
mother does not work here. Put your own cups in the dishwasher” and some lark
crossed out the first sentence. I noticed with horror that unidentified forward-facing
users of our unisex toilet were obviously prone to dripping. I provided a
helpful sign on the wall imploring them to “Shake well after use”. My pleas continue to
be ignored. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Also, everyone in my
quarantine orbit believes they will die if they don’t eat three or more meals a
day. They turn the kitchen upside down every lunchtime, perhaps searching for
the workplace cafeteria, the uni bar or at least the Salad of the Day. They have no idea
that three digestive biscuits, a stick of celery and a spoonful of peanut
butter taken straight from the jar will keep them going until dinnertime. Added bonus: the kitchen won't look like a nuclear blast zone. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My treasured corner
office with the view is now shared with two sweet work experience kids who keep
interrupting me to show me funny memes of Donald Trump and Boris Johnson. They
play inappropriate but amusing YouTube videos at unnecessarily high volumes. They
have flirtatious phone calls with mysterious callers. I grit my teeth at the unrelenting
tappety tappety tap tappety tap tap tappety on their phones and accompanying
chuckles as they continue to indulge in their digital lives. I am living in a
virtual episode of The Office, without the wit of Ricky Gervais, but with an
unscripted soundtrack of offensive rap music. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Occasionally I see unexpected
value in my new situation. My family are the in-the-flesh colleagues that I missed
when life was “normal”. Ned offers cups of tea before dashing off to another loud
phone call. Other Q-colleagues share their secret stash of wine gums. Incredibly,
one of the work experience kids can fix IT problems without leaving the sofa
and without looking up from his own screen. It’s nothing short of a miracle and
well worth the eyeroll and sigh that accompanies such
assistance. Occasionally my Q-colleagues show interest in what I’m working
on. Initially this threw me into a guilty tizz. But I soon learned to have
multiple tabs open on my laptop so I can flick to a productive-looking one when
someone approaches my desk. My favourite decoy is a highly complex spreadsheet
that I once used for holiday planning. It’s worked so far.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When I rhetorically cry
“Where are my headphones?” three seconds before a scheduled group call, someone
nearby actually answers. Admittedly they just say “I don’t know”, but I’m overjoyed
at such unfamiliar human interaction in my work life so I thank them for caring
and tell them I appreciate their efforts. </span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggALnFazzkWJsQt86cKfLdEZl8p1MXAJKrnq_tPd_Wsatt6HiZ3qM0rkK2VKFD7tItjqA8j95wJSlCKDBp-ShMwBQ56RrY36sPEnDNrT2rYiPVVn2HijIaZ8VPtz8g7wLvx3-b43uSe7vy/s1600/Capture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="857" data-original-width="1531" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggALnFazzkWJsQt86cKfLdEZl8p1MXAJKrnq_tPd_Wsatt6HiZ3qM0rkK2VKFD7tItjqA8j95wJSlCKDBp-ShMwBQ56RrY36sPEnDNrT2rYiPVVn2HijIaZ8VPtz8g7wLvx3-b43uSe7vy/s320/Capture.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Before coronial quarantine, such queries
merely led to my inadvertently waking the cat. She would jump excitedly onto
my keyboard right at the moment I joined the meeting, often with her bum directly
in line with the camera. She seriously undermined my professional credibility. The
cat is a key reason I never turn my camera on during video meetings; I claim
pathetically that my camera does not work and mumble something about a previous
incident involving a rolling pin, a slingshot and a small child. </span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But the real reason
for my camera shyness is that remote meetings offer an excellent opportunity to
do a quick yoga session. A downward-facing dog, a prolonged
tree pose and a sun salutation are a huge boon to creative thinking. Those of
you still inexplicably excited by the novelty of home video conferencing will
adopt similar tactics within days, I promise. You will soon be relieved that
you no longer have to remind yourself to stay seated throughout the call, lest
a pair of pyjama pants be inadvertently revealed below your carefully chosen upper
body business attire. Plus you’ll realise that the bookshelves behind your colleagues
are mere props for making you think they are more intellectual than they really
are. No way have they read that. Or that. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A “broken camera” also negates the need to
control one’s eye-rolling and forehead-palming tendencies. Even in normal operating
conditions I find that exceedingly helpful. As we plunge more deeply into this coronial
crisis, I predict that we will all need all the help we can get.</span></span></div>
The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-33703115147721242112019-04-25T00:01:00.000+02:002019-04-25T00:01:40.793+02:00Let's do the (parental) time warp again<br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Each time I phone my mother, she observes wistfully that her 11 grandchildren are growing up “too fast”. To overcome my guilt at raising two of them on the opposite side of the world from her, I usually point out that her grandmaternal options are expanding with time, not contracting. Because the offspring of her offspring currently range in age from four to 26, she can decide whether she wants to read one of them a bedtime story or ask another one to fix her computer. She can decide whether to play with a toy train or be taken on a real helicopter ride. She can request a seat at a kindergarten Christmas recital, or a backstage pass at the biggest musical in town.<br /><br />But daughterly defensiveness notwithstanding, I do have some idea of what she means. As Kleine Jongen sets out this morning for his last day of high school, I am unable to stop myself musing about the rapid passage of time. Parenting — and I assume grandparenting — is indeed an odd kind of time warp.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk9AQPZnTIsSx91rV8tD6IHkyRUstDA8VLOEivo0Jo3_PBqT2nyKV2T4QJ6w2R78OhjjWZzehTxRjHU5w8GLcE2u4pZ8VNESyv5jh4CA1RxqeTvfKbv9okpWuWg8YbdwEnKxjdV1FMBA1G/s1600/How_to_dance_the__Time_Warp__from__The_Rocky_Horror_Pictures_Show_.gif"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk9AQPZnTIsSx91rV8tD6IHkyRUstDA8VLOEivo0Jo3_PBqT2nyKV2T4QJ6w2R78OhjjWZzehTxRjHU5w8GLcE2u4pZ8VNESyv5jh4CA1RxqeTvfKbv9okpWuWg8YbdwEnKxjdV1FMBA1G/s320/How_to_dance_the__Time_Warp__from__The_Rocky_Horror_Pictures_Show_.gif" /></a></div>
<br /><br />For example, most of us spend a couple of parental time warp milliseconds on our child-rearing journey/battle/flounder, call it what you will, deranged and hysterical from a lack of sleep. We beg time to pass as we force ourselves at 3am — yet again — to address the latest nocturnal snot, pooh, wee, vomit, or scary monster combination, while considering whether that weird bronchial wheezing is likely to right itself by dawn. Against all odds, those parental time warp milliseconds pass.<br /><br />Before I could say “successfully toilet trained”, I was depositing Kleine Jongen at daycare. He was stoic although I could tell he was also reluctant and uncertain. But he didn't cry. It was an early indication of his unwavering resolve and independence. My little steel-coated marshmallow.<br /><br />I bumbled through some unconvincing maternal reassurances. “You’re going to have a lovely day here with all these other lovely children including that lovely girl over there staging an unruly sandpit coup — make friends with her, she's very cool — and this lovely boy who appears to have an entire infectious diseases ward coming out of his nose,” I cooed. “These lovely underpaid women are going to look after you while mummy gathers herself and engages in the world for a few fleeting seconds. I might even have lunch with a couple of equally-exhausted girlfriends, wearing something other than tracksuit pants, the contents of your breakfast bowl, and one of daddy’s t-shirts.”<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div>
I smiled and waved cheerily, feigning confidence as I walked to the gate, hoping he hadn't seen the flash of maternal uncertainty cross my face. Metres outside the gate, I had to resist the temptation to go back and prevent my precious steel-coated marshmallow from being slowly toasted in the flames of maternal abandonment. When I returned to collect him a few parental time warp milliseconds later he could tie his own shoelaces, write his own name and create remarkable works of art. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrg4ETi9xFpvN7-zQ1YW-rAZ4vuD096ZjqOHMjUsDkQXeo1WadkALlNLjHRussP9tPbUXLBOSIPCS3OE2ABiDlXcMGwfdHNI8RTfuLCBWjSwtM4IeNAX4n2bwIdrkDBBICVgi_wDP7iWtI/s1600/Mitchell+art+2004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1165" data-original-width="1600" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrg4ETi9xFpvN7-zQ1YW-rAZ4vuD096ZjqOHMjUsDkQXeo1WadkALlNLjHRussP9tPbUXLBOSIPCS3OE2ABiDlXcMGwfdHNI8RTfuLCBWjSwtM4IeNAX4n2bwIdrkDBBICVgi_wDP7iWtI/s200/Mitchell+art+2004.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
He called me a poo-poo-bum-bumhead and gave me his now familiar aloof and incredulous stare when I announced it was time to leave. I anticipate receiving the same treatment when he realises I've posted this blog. #iamapoopoobumbumhead<br /><br />Back then, I was not too bothered by the aloof incredulous stare, because by this point in the parental time warp I was revelling in the blissful luxury of at least five hours of uninterrupted sleep most nights. I functioned relatively normally. Mostly. In general. Broadly speaking. Although not always.<br /><br />There was that one day when I deposited Grote Jongen at school and stayed to chat idly to some other mums. Three-year-old Kleine Jongen played with another child nearby. After ten minutes I bade the other women a good day, walked out of the school grounds, got into my car and drove 50 very quiet metres before realising, with an involuntary scream and an F1-esque u-turn, that I had left Kleine Jongen alone in the school playground. Parking regulations were blatantly flaunted and world sprint records fell as I returned to the Scene of Unintentional Abandonment. I expected to find police tape and a judgemental international media. Instead, I found two supposedly supportive girlfriends, doubled over in hysterics, wallowing in smug comparative maternal excellence. Beside them, safe in their dubious care, sat Kleine Jongen, pretty much as I had left him; digging happily in the sand and oblivious to my negligence. In hindsight, I should probably not have bothered to go back and get him because three parental time warp milliseconds later, he was enrolled at that school himself.<br /><br />The time warp intensified shortly after Kleine Jongen (officially) started attending primary school. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYulTxHyeFMGrZUu8kY1kiwRPsuL7YveWsxkd5jyQoPRJZRkkhcZhKpeW7cR6t4oCBSy1oUxc9l37omqCHqoRHYKANSW3U6ANsn2NW4d7a4F0tN0tNB9XvsR5hIh3tiEiNCamUlfVorKEm/s1600/IMG_2326.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1356" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYulTxHyeFMGrZUu8kY1kiwRPsuL7YveWsxkd5jyQoPRJZRkkhcZhKpeW7cR6t4oCBSy1oUxc9l37omqCHqoRHYKANSW3U6ANsn2NW4d7a4F0tN0tNB9XvsR5hIh3tiEiNCamUlfVorKEm/s320/IMG_2326.JPG" width="271" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Pure evil: Kleine Jongen (centre), </span></span></div>
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He was named as a member of an unruly gang of 5-year olds who committed the heinous crime of hurling wads of water-soaked toilet paper onto the ceiling of the boys’ toilets. And ok maybe the ceiling of the girls’ toilets too. This creative physics experiment (“bog-gate” to those of us who watched, bemused, as the disciplinary proceedings unfolded), was a crucial part of Kleine Jongen’s headlong descent into adulthood. He vehemently and convincingly protested his innocence to a formidable principal. This early success applying paediatric philosophical reasoning skills encouraged an intense study of human rights (his own) and provided an excellent grounding in playground diplomacy. It was a short step from there to the field of football diplomacy. Years of expert commentary on corruption and injustice in the Beautiful Game ensued. <div>
<br />He developed an intimidating encyclopedic knowledge of international football statistics, and a (reasonably) healthy obsession with seeing Liverpool FC win the Premier League. </div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Kleine Jongen in a Liverpool shirt: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">his 6th birthday party</span></div>
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Such deep knowledge requires a lot of internet access. Ned Nederlander and I soon recognised Kleine Jongen’s superior technological firepower and we made a strategic withdrawal from the Virtuous Battle Against Excessive Screen Time. Ignoring reems of expert advice, we allowed ourselves to be driven meekly into technological submission. My retrospective justification for this is that the more time kids spend on devices, the greater the chance that you’ll produce a personal IT consultant. Go ahead; throw another device into the parental time warp. What could possibly go wrong?<br /><br />Well, let’s see. One day, you will be extracting last night’s broccoli from the video player (“It wasn’t me!” they will protest) so they can watch no more than 20 minutes of amusing but educational content (grateful cheerio to The Wiggles). Approximately eight tortured parental timewarp milliseconds later the school will call to let you know that your gorgeous little sweetheart is on detention for sharing inappropriate content on their finsta account. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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You will need to look up “finsta” before you have any hope of sensibly responding to the Assistant Head of School and interpreting your child’s claims that he is a victim of gender-based bias and blatant double standards. Your child will emerge with a reputation as a responsive and accountable adolescent, who it turns out can correctly identify gender-based bias and blatant double standards. You, on the other hand, will have gained a reputation as a naive, disengaged and irresponsible parent. And you still won’t really get the point of a finsta account. True story; that happened to someone I know really, really well.<br /><br />Moments after I shared Kleine Jongen’s glee at being able to walk across the room by himself, he was walking out the door to go to the airport. He called over his shoulder that he’d see me in a week. Something to do with a summer course, future university choices, self-catered accommodation, and a television recording studio. How did we get to this point?<br /><br />He’s training me, just like his big brother did. Getting me ready for the time he goes away for two weeks, not one. Helping me cope with the idea that soon he might disappear for months at a time. He's preparing me for the currently unthinkable concept of him only making quarterly visits home. It’s my turn to be the steel-coated marshmallow. Except I think I’m actually a marshmallow-coated marshmallow. Damn this parental time warp. And double-damn that I have to endure it twice.<br /><br />But wait, no. I think it might actually be okay. Kleine Jongen’s transformation from clinging toddler to confident and competent young adult gives me many reasons to enthuse about the parental time warp. His motivation, focus, determination, and resilience inspire me. I envy his level-headedness under pressure, his understated and often unnoticed courage, his witty pragmatism and his balanced, objective view on life. His ability to retain and recall information highlights my own declining mental abilities, as does the canny perceptiveness that allows him to evaluate situations and people with speed and accuracy. I would like to have half of his ability to make and keep friends, quietly gaining people’s confidence, calmly moving between worlds. The parental time warp has turned him into an amazing human.<br /><br />As he steps into his last day as a school boy, I see his readiness to move on to the next time and space dimension. And I know that in a few short parental time warp milliseconds, this too will seem like a distant memory. Let's do this time warp again.</div>
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The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-25706895642106792652017-11-17T17:06:00.001+01:002017-11-18T14:38:21.396+01:00Wit, wisdom and wiliness - a surprising combination<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I just want to let it pass quietly”, Ned Nederlander sighed wistfully when I asked him a few months ago how he would like to celebrate turning fifty.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">One of Ned’s great advantages in life, or at least in the last twenty five years of it, has come from his decision to swing hands with an older woman. As any toy boy knows, an association with a spouse with additional life experience provides superior access to three alliterative pillars of happiness: wisdom, wit, and wiliness. A fourth pillar, wrinkles, is not relevant to this story.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Ned recently benefited from my wise assumption that he was just being coy when he asked for a quiet birthday. He gave himself the day off work. I allowed it to pass relatively quietly. Well, admittedly I organised for Kleine Jongen to wake him with a blast of <i>Happy birthday, reggae style</i>” from a wireless speaker hidden under our bed. It just seemed easier (and wiser, wittier and wilier) than wrapping the speaker, which was a birthday gift.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In an effort to continue to provide the quiet birthday that Ned had requested, I convinced him to join me on an outing to a Swedish torture chamber/furniture store after lunch. Usually I will seek any flat-packed excuse to avoid going there (although I am a sucker for the World’s Greatest Dish Brushes; 59 cents in blue, red or green). But, we faced a domestic bedding emergency, and I needed a strong young man who could lift multiple heavy boxes, help me bring them home and carry them up five flights of stairs. I swear I thought it would take us 30 minutes. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It took three hours. Three hours of the poor man’s 50<sup>th</sup> birthday that he will never ever get back. Three hours of our previously happy marriage that we may never recover from. Three teeth-clenching, tongue-biting hours in which I felt unable to defend myself against Ned’s thinly-veiled suggestions that I had ruined his birthday <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I bore my guilt stoically for another 24 hours. The next evening, in an attempt to thaw the marital freeze, I slid an envelope across the table to my aging child groom. It contained an invitation to his surprise dinner the following evening. A surprise 50<sup>th</sup> birthday dinner that had been planned for weeks, even before he got Swedishly grumpy. </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A day’s notice was a mature and gracious compromise between defending myself against petulant spousal inferences, and allowing said spouse to retain some dignity when faced with a couple of dozen smug and secretive dinner guests.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I waited for him to beam appreciatively, throw his arms around me, thank me for my thoughtfulness, and apologise for his churlish behaviour the previous day. Instead, he raised an eyebrow, cocked his head suspiciously and coolly asked, “Will I know anyone there?”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Kleine Jongen, who had counselled me against any form of surprise celebration muttered, “Told you he’d hate it.” I retreated, leaving them to their mutual eye-rolling and shared sympathies.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The following afternoon, Grote Jongen arrived and I confessed that I had given Ned the tiniest heads-up. Grote Jongen looked crestfallen and declared “It’s not going to be much of a surprise then. That’s no fun for Dad”. I looked from one son to the other, and in the face of such contradictory views, found that all of my wit, wisdom and wiliness had drained away.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The four of us - and our varied expectations and fears - cycled off into the October night to the birthday non-surprise. The guest list at least remained a secret, so it was with some uncertainty that Ned ventured into the restaurant.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">One of the highlights of the night was a rare audience with the Count and Countess of Oirschot, who had traveled half the length of the kingdom to be there. Years earlier, the Count had encouraged and enabled our move to the Lowlands, thus bearing most of the responsibility for the greatest adventure of our lives. He engaged his entire family in his efforts. On a sunny September day in 2011, </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">after a </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">gezellig</i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> lunch at their Oirschot home, the Count's</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> ten-year old daughter took me into the garden. She chatted amicably to me in Dutch and was incredulous that I was unable to understand or utter a single word in her mother tongue. This delightful young member of the Counter family became the first of many Dutch people to try to guide me through their mysterious linguistic maze, </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">by teaching me to count to ten</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">. She remains my favourite Dutch teacher. Ever. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">One, two, THREE! The Count of Oirschot and Ned practice blending in </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Later that day, the Count and the eldest of the four Counter children hosted us at a passionate Eredivisie match. It was there that Ned and de Jongens learned to count to three. They watched underdog VVV Venlo slam goal after goal after goal into the net of the Counter family's home team - PSV Eindhoven. It was possibly the biggest upset ever seen in Dutch football (if you don’t count the national team missing out on the 2018 World Cup, and since we’re on the subject, it seems an opportune time to casually mention that Australia qualified again this week, for the fifth time in a row. But who’s counting?).<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A quick personal aside: <i>Count, Countess en de vier geweldig Counter kinderen, we zullen altijd dankbaar zijn voor jullie steun. We zijn ook zo blij dat jullie waren naar het feestje gekomen. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">T</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-align: justify;">here, that should amuse all my Dutch readers for a few moments.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I suppose Ned was expecting the Shagger’s Back crew to be there at his surprise dinner, and most of them were. These are the fearless men he has risen at 5:45am each Tuesday to run with for the past several years, summer and winter. Despite having endured numerous marathons, half marathons, and beer-fuelled recovery sessions together, these middle-aged pavement soldiers are occasionally prone to debilitating spinal discomfort. This, combined with a delusional sense of the state of their own love lives, has led them to adopt their quaint team name. They were, as expected, the last to leave the party, at 3am, and so deserve a special mention here.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">unmoved by </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">my </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">wily </span></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">use of airline teaspoon props</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Ned correctly predicted that the Blog Tart of Muiden would be there too. It is widely suspected that BTM plans his life around opportunities to earn cyberspatial notoriety, and sadly he can think of no greater honour than being given his own blog moniker. Frankly, after so many years, I think he’s earned it. So welcome to your very own place in history, sweet Blog Tart.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Of course, every one of the surprise dinner guests deserves their own paragraph, but sadly none have paid me as much as BTM, so their names will not appear here.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A small but regrettably absent group do however warrant acknowledgement, because no celebration of Ned is really complete without them. In many ways, Ned would not be Ned Nederlander without them. In particular, he owes his own blog moniker to this group, so I hereby give long overdue acknowledgement of their contribution to Ned’s now infamous identity. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: justify;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnHi87cjAgQSpdUeuV2YDvrcaQQXByMU9rUizq5L7KxlnESaCtKEH1ZDpFTY853ER2JwEZntDuhKHDTgfVbqchZD6E_1D9WKIezVeCr9s2LDit46vKa9SGVAgqZzGo0q4xcxLkw0rA__Pd/s1600/DSC_0043_358.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1072" data-original-width="1600" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnHi87cjAgQSpdUeuV2YDvrcaQQXByMU9rUizq5L7KxlnESaCtKEH1ZDpFTY853ER2JwEZntDuhKHDTgfVbqchZD6E_1D9WKIezVeCr9s2LDit46vKa9SGVAgqZzGo0q4xcxLkw0rA__Pd/s320/DSC_0043_358.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">A few of those who woulda, coulda, shoulda been there</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The lifelong friendships in this group were forged under the intense pressure of undergraduate lectures, field-trips and having too much time on their hands over several summers. Since then those friendships have survived the annual strain of the so-called World’s Toughest Fishing Competition (anonymous sources have suggested that it’s only tough on the livers of the competitors; seldom on the local fish population). Their bond has survived countless overly-competitive bocce games, in which balls were almost lost. Together they have turned the simple act of online footy tipping into an intellectually exhausting science that has at times teetered on the brink of war. Over decades they have welcomed “outsider” partners like me, and our children into their midst, while retaining their impenetrable original bond. Had any of the group made the long trek from Australia, the birthday party would have lasted well beyond 3am (with the exception of the Maid of Maroubra, who would have fallen asleep at 9pm). Extensive Dutch tutting – a national specialty - would still be being heard from the Amsterdam locals, and Ned would still be smiling. You all know who you are. You were all missed.</span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now that the event is behind us, I’m relieved to say that it turns out that Ned was thrilled with my <i>witty</i> interpretation of “quietly” as “quite (loud)ly”. And he was left with no choice but to show appreciation for my <i>wily</i> arrangement of a surprise dinner to celebrate his half century. </span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">What a </span><i style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">wise </i><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">man.</span>The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-49283468094466676522017-04-11T08:24:00.003+02:002017-04-11T08:49:15.555+02:00School daze<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRMvEWA4iiI4AWps528DIK91oK99CqaKgwFdvmJZyqxxz6m8eJEQ5qucrKonYqcfuY3B_lHZKCIGBkUK7t0Yv3SoYhcbVgZ1gxfPdjROJPJ6R_Gpt02m-wqi-gycPgaO0epFkUzJTvFtqy/s1600/First+day+of+school+2005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRMvEWA4iiI4AWps528DIK91oK99CqaKgwFdvmJZyqxxz6m8eJEQ5qucrKonYqcfuY3B_lHZKCIGBkUK7t0Yv3SoYhcbVgZ1gxfPdjROJPJ6R_Gpt02m-wqi-gycPgaO0epFkUzJTvFtqy/s1600/First+day+of+school+2005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRMvEWA4iiI4AWps528DIK91oK99CqaKgwFdvmJZyqxxz6m8eJEQ5qucrKonYqcfuY3B_lHZKCIGBkUK7t0Yv3SoYhcbVgZ1gxfPdjROJPJ6R_Gpt02m-wqi-gycPgaO0epFkUzJTvFtqy/s320/First+day+of+school+2005.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">Grote Jongen, at age five and a half, was confident and excited
about starting school. Waiting in the playground on our first day of
being school parents, Ned Nederlander and I were ridiculously proud of
ourselves and of our high-achieving (our assessment) first-born. We
didn’t want to brag, but we secretly suspected we had produced a social,
sporting and intellectual genius. He could write his name, throw a ball and
count to twenty with exceptional skill. As far as we were naively concerned,
our job as parents was pretty much done. The hard work was surely behind us.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">The bell marking the beginning of his school day rang, and
Grote Jongen rushed enthusiastically to his classroom. Ned and I followed,
expecting him to eventually turn and wait for us, overcome by nervousness and
separation anxiety. But he simply strode ahead of us and walked into the
classroom alone. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">“Hello, what’s your name?” we heard his surprised teacher
ask, as we hurried towards the door.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">“I’m Grote Jongen, and I’m in this class,” he announced. Ned
and I skulked in behind him, trying to look responsible and relevant.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">Hours later, the bell marking the end of that first school
day rang, and it was me who rushed enthusiastically to Grote Jongen’s classroom,
eager to hear his stories. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">On the way, I passed the Principal. She was a no-nonsense
woman with natural authority. I thought I glimpsed a flicker of admiration in
her eyes; an acknowledgement of my substantial achievement in raising a child
to school age. I felt unbelievably competent and I smiled proudly at her in
greeting, awaiting her praise of my mothering milestone. She’d seen my type
before though. Without breaking step, she smiled stiffly and said, “Well then,
that’s one day down, only a few thousand to go.” </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">And with that, my grown-up school-parent bubble was burst, and my legs were knocked from under me. I
realised that our parenting job was nowhere near done, and that the hard
work was not behind us at all.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px; text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">“One day down, only a few thousand to go.” Those words have
rung in my ears many times over the intervening thirteen years. Somewhat
unbelievably, today marks the last of those few thousand days of classes. A
two week study break followed by twelve exams in as many days are now all that stand
between Grote Jongen and alumni status.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px; text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMsueRDfJoS30i9fcXd_7HLozTOUHxnASPzCxTq_AQDkcf2AK2JYcsWzhjVQyP3ir5iE0Cg4Ol4LtbQwRJzIKQtuAmZC5tM4r4dsNMFP65a8nRPhyphenhyphen5X-bzXo_9R5YqJiWizaS4ppqaoUtR/s1600/Exam-Whatsapp-Profile-pic.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMsueRDfJoS30i9fcXd_7HLozTOUHxnASPzCxTq_AQDkcf2AK2JYcsWzhjVQyP3ir5iE0Cg4Ol4LtbQwRJzIKQtuAmZC5tM4r4dsNMFP65a8nRPhyphenhyphen5X-bzXo_9R5YqJiWizaS4ppqaoUtR/s200/Exam-Whatsapp-Profile-pic.png" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">As I reflect on Grote Jongen’s school days on this, his final day
of Grade 12, I feel the same sense of pride that I felt on his very
first day of kindergarten. Even before he takes a seat in the exam hall or opens
the website that will indicate his final grade, I am still ridiculously proud of him.
Regardless of his final result – which will be cynically presented as a
single number – I never want him to define his success by that number. I already have sufficient evidence, gathered over several
thousand days, to declare him a raging success and to justify my maternal pride. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">I’m proud, for example, of his emotional agility and resilience. At the tender
age of twelve he was uprooted from all that was familiar to him before being deposited
on the other side of the planet. He was given no choice but to start again. Because
he stepped in to an environment where most students have been similarly uprooted, it has
been easy to lose sight of how special it is to be able to balance and pivot
competently when one’s life lurches sideways. More than f</span><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">ive years ago, Grote Jongen stepped
into an unfamiliar schooling system in an unfamiliar country, and balanced and
pivoted like a pro. That’s a skill for life, or at least for surfing.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">He has vacuumed the language of that once unfamiliar country
into his head and his heart, and I am in awe of his ability to converse in
Dutch so competently. Recently I sat mutely by
his hospital bed while he discussed titanium plates, wound management and suture removal
timelines with his orthopaedic surgeon, in Dutch. My maternal pride skyrocketed, even though for all I know they were comparing notes on problematic mothers. Yet despite these achievements, Grote Jongen’s
inability to respond to simple requests issued in English
remains a mystery. “Please hang up that wet towel” or “Put that
plate in the dishwasher,” should not tax a boy of his linguistic ability as
much as it appears to.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">I am proud of how
he has played his heart out in hundreds of football matches, since before he even started kindergarten. I’ve loved
watching him be part of different teams, variously pursuing wins or
accepting losses. He has captained and been captained with grace, a skill that
will surely serve him well throughout life. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">When he broke a high jump record that had stood for longer
than he had been alive, I wondered if my heart might explode. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5focBaITFzrBp1ebhlDJhoB5ouupZTIDOFR9VC4TGWYLYE-Kq55ynaJk2MRHwNGhE7N0R8fR-tdjIqcHCqJMvSVr4D_PnllZCgn6ihK4Dv2C_AdOxvOczJjSCvZqSrncLmR2Hsqd5snRo/s1600/DSC_0244.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5focBaITFzrBp1ebhlDJhoB5ouupZTIDOFR9VC4TGWYLYE-Kq55ynaJk2MRHwNGhE7N0R8fR-tdjIqcHCqJMvSVr4D_PnllZCgn6ihK4Dv2C_AdOxvOczJjSCvZqSrncLmR2Hsqd5snRo/s320/DSC_0244.JPG" width="222" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">The memory of him
gathering himself, running purposefully towards the thin metal bar 181 centimetres from
the ground and clearing it in one athletic jump will stay with me forever. I
know it will not be the last time he runs at a seemingly insurmountable
obstacle and lands exhilarated on the other side of it.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">He has formed sustainable relationships with people from all
over the world. He has ridden the turbulent tides of introductions and
farewells, holding firm as his peer group ebbed and flowed with the movements
of transient international families. That's a rare strength.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwPZykNK6_nDBqgOej4yoMnRRAw6b0sHPhNYI-g428DrqLiSufaf4aB2HHdzxySjKiz6zkj2k8knTKw1SYuN1XUjQ6gx3nGKZfkuo7yX1nSHbKdslL_nbNvo9JZdpC43tEi2lFmcbI8Sbj/s1600/strong+willed+children.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">He has developed an enviable depth of
character. He shows charisma, intelligence, humour and compassion. Let the
record show that he is also argumentative and stubborn, with questionable time management competencies. But he knows his mind and stands his ground,
confident in his own assessments and <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwPZykNK6_nDBqgOej4yoMnRRAw6b0sHPhNYI-g428DrqLiSufaf4aB2HHdzxySjKiz6zkj2k8knTKw1SYuN1XUjQ6gx3nGKZfkuo7yX1nSHbKdslL_nbNvo9JZdpC43tEi2lFmcbI8Sbj/s1600/strong+willed+children.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwPZykNK6_nDBqgOej4yoMnRRAw6b0sHPhNYI-g428DrqLiSufaf4aB2HHdzxySjKiz6zkj2k8knTKw1SYuN1XUjQ6gx3nGKZfkuo7yX1nSHbKdslL_nbNvo9JZdpC43tEi2lFmcbI8Sbj/s320/strong+willed+children.png" width="320" /></a>decisions. He is unafraid to rattle a cage
or push a boundary. Certainly, this has not always been an endearing
quality, but I increasingly trust him to put those skills to constructive use.
As the person who has weathered most of his cage-rattling, boundary-pushing experiments,
I feel well-qualified to predict that those characteristics will contribute
greatly to his future success.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwPZykNK6_nDBqgOej4yoMnRRAw6b0sHPhNYI-g428DrqLiSufaf4aB2HHdzxySjKiz6zkj2k8knTKw1SYuN1XUjQ6gx3nGKZfkuo7yX1nSHbKdslL_nbNvo9JZdpC43tEi2lFmcbI8Sbj/s1600/strong+willed+children.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">One day done ... several thousand more also done. NOW is the
hard parenting work behind us? </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">On the last of his several thousand days at school, just as
he has done since his first day, I'm certain that Grote Jongen will continue to walk his own path, in
his own time, and to announce himself with quiet confidence when he deems it
necessary. Ned and I remain ridiculously proud of him.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div>
The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-33589223236402549712017-01-31T03:34:00.000+01:002017-01-31T11:51:31.184+01:00A monumental reminder of the need for resistance<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWJ6JjLpH3mPGO5HVtYn1Ry_VTUvXm4nxUv8py4At1WMOchDeaE8osZ1wPr4jXJrE2c0ZHQEtx6dGttPAz7fw0aKpdJLMKlUkFa4GOxXcm-656d6_IaUtbEkdXoMhIaunw9MviouYJO1tI/s1600/Amsterdam_-_Vrouwen_van_Ravensbr%25C3%25BCck_-_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWJ6JjLpH3mPGO5HVtYn1Ry_VTUvXm4nxUv8py4At1WMOchDeaE8osZ1wPr4jXJrE2c0ZHQEtx6dGttPAz7fw0aKpdJLMKlUkFa4GOxXcm-656d6_IaUtbEkdXoMhIaunw9MviouYJO1tI/s320/Amsterdam_-_Vrouwen_van_Ravensbr%25C3%25BCck_-_2.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">On the edge of Museumplein in Amsterdam, about one hundred metres
from the American Consulate, is a striking monument. It is a stark metallic structure,
comprising eleven stainless steel panels and a tall cylinder,
all arranged in a semi-circle. The monument is stunning in its
simplicity. It is elegant and graceful, strong, refined, beautiful. Yet at the
same time, it is crisp and industrial, suggesting a no-nonsense, sturdy,
reliability. It is steadfast and reassuring, and always thought-provoking. I want to be like that monument. So far I have "crisp" down pat. Working on the others.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">The cylinder emits light and sounds that are
reflected by the metallic panels. The pattern is unpredictable. The effect is
powerful.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">The monument is my favourite beautiful thing in a city full of
beautiful things. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">On 21 January 2017, I stood beside it, as I often do.
Through the shimmering stainless steel panels I watched in awe as three
thousand concerned men, women, children and dogs stood respectfully in front of
the Consulate, raising a calm, united voice against an unprincipled, vulgar, discriminatory
tyrant who raged an ocean away. For more than an hour we had marched together, standing against the
threat we felt he posed to the civilised world. We insisted that decency,
fairness and kindness prevail in the world. We announced that we would brook no
discrimination or division. We gave unequivocal notice that we would not stand
for asinine cruelty or ignorant generalisations. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSckVC8PTzxoDpw0kLt6g7LGM8JU81I0qWF1cFJv6bBBzf-PTVgwBJWNAOsA2M0BPktqCG94N8-bepZ-hlcvQRUEKF189sK3F3_OZ1S4WTLZT9NOksPV4diT3daXW9OZFCJquWEdPDX7K6/s1600/rijks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSckVC8PTzxoDpw0kLt6g7LGM8JU81I0qWF1cFJv6bBBzf-PTVgwBJWNAOsA2M0BPktqCG94N8-bepZ-hlcvQRUEKF189sK3F3_OZ1S4WTLZT9NOksPV4diT3daXW9OZFCJquWEdPDX7K6/s320/rijks.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">We made the same points we had been making to our children
since they were toddlers. Share. Be kind. Show empathy and compassion. Don’t
hit your sister. Listen authentically. Consider others people's perspectives. Don’t
tell lies. You won’t always get what you want. Admit your mistakes. Don’t hit
your brother. Don’t try to solve a disagreement by yelling. Don’t grab other people’s
genitals. Get a haircut. </span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfjC63eV2LwVfD4w6YHGoG62kv_xMv37YtlvLv24PPRMvKYKX-x3P2t1NcKa_pCebiP4_snb-xfghMRFvkYuARE4ZXAGiEgTd0HFhMkPCqcaRAB5djqCFh1XNBhZFf1a2LOoie-u3PiC2_/s1600/Matt+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfjC63eV2LwVfD4w6YHGoG62kv_xMv37YtlvLv24PPRMvKYKX-x3P2t1NcKa_pCebiP4_snb-xfghMRFvkYuARE4ZXAGiEgTd0HFhMkPCqcaRAB5djqCFh1XNBhZFf1a2LOoie-u3PiC2_/s320/Matt+%25282%2529.jpg" width="165" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Even the dog gets it. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">His sign says "Even I know that </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">grabbing </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">pussy is not ok.</span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">The difference, on that sunny January day, was that most of
our children had understood the gist of society’s message well before they
finished high school. Most of them were responsive and responsible, even if some
of them could still do with more frequent haircuts and were still occasionally surly
and mean to their parents. Few of us among the three thousand could comprehend
why we now had to repeat the same messages to a seventy year old narcissistic buffoon.
Could the world really be going to hell in a hand basket simply because one
little boy missed the kindergarten memo about playground ethics that was handed
out in the middle of last century?</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">Yet here we were, gathering by the thousands, not just in Amsterdam, but in hundreds of cities across every continent on earth. Millions of good men and women, mindful of the dangers of arrogance, of blind, reactive protectionism, of singling out one group of humans for barbaric and unjust treatment.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJddaI9NnPFw-fCQRBAlD2TohOqDIsdX8HaBAx71QdIuM2PQxo3KJ8HXEzHDM5cTM4QdDfsNyaBbKMCwRrgzVgcso6D-1IEPmeag-jopSw-YlLnlJ9L6XrHdCg3GMjLOlqLG8hLhI-2fV6/s1600/Hate+has+no+home+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJddaI9NnPFw-fCQRBAlD2TohOqDIsdX8HaBAx71QdIuM2PQxo3KJ8HXEzHDM5cTM4QdDfsNyaBbKMCwRrgzVgcso6D-1IEPmeag-jopSw-YlLnlJ9L6XrHdCg3GMjLOlqLG8hLhI-2fV6/s320/Hate+has+no+home+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">
</span>
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<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">The Dutch have seen this sort of caper before. They are familiar with the swaggering bully character, strutting around the playground like a puffed-up little rooster, and they know the devastating havoc he can wreak. </span><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">They are very
aware of the fruitlessness of constantly punching the quiet, sad kid in the
corner. They
know that nationalistic propaganda can generate fear and uncertainty for
decades. Indeed, they have built monuments to remind themselves and the world to
remain vigilant against those attitudes.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">One such monument is the one standing sentinel on the edge of Museumplein in
Amsterdam; the </span><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;"><i>Women of Ravensbruck (1940-45)</i></span><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">
monument. My favourite beautiful thing in a city of beautiful things. As I
stood beside it on the day of the Women's
March, I looked at the inscription on one of the stainless steel panels. What a missed opportunity to have gathered so close to this monument without anyone acknowledging its significance or paying tribute to the women it recalled. But how uplifting to realise that, like the monument, most of humanity remains refined, beautiful, sturdy, reliable. And sometimes a little crisp. The inscription, reflecting all the hope inherent in a sunny January afternoon, is more relevant than ever. It reads:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQSmpswZ-27yAeB19H9o1HN75LXfflhsdtHclWlgY0Dk_mmCZMQJ1VLx5UlF8BmbST_H_BlpXTNdNGwBvJ9IVV-qshdXXVhYkMwRBrCBulTuM36S9KjlM1IEIi3zqI5uRWgRn3chxxEL8U/s1600/Inscription.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQSmpswZ-27yAeB19H9o1HN75LXfflhsdtHclWlgY0Dk_mmCZMQJ1VLx5UlF8BmbST_H_BlpXTNdNGwBvJ9IVV-qshdXXVhYkMwRBrCBulTuM36S9KjlM1IEIi3zqI5uRWgRn3chxxEL8U/s400/Inscription.jpg" width="225" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">“For she who until the last moment kept saying no to fascism”.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">We will keep saying no. And when our last moment comes, others will step in to keep saying no.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">And like the light and sound emanating from the monument, our pattern will be unpredictable and our effect will be powerful.<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-62010946007684771862016-10-09T19:24:00.002+02:002016-12-16T18:24:36.108+01:00Force and fortune<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">On a sweltering Sydney day in December 1993 I stood in front of an overflowing
congregation to deliver my father’s eulogy. It had been a harrowing few days,
and I was in no fit state for public speaking. I have no record of what I said,
but I recall that walking to the microphone was like walking through wet sand. As I waited
for my words to find their way up from the pit of my stomach, everything seemed blurry and indistinct . A
coffin that I didn’t want to see was the only thing in clear focus. Struggling to make sense of the scene before me, I knew that the chances of anything other than a deep sob
coming out of my mouth were slim. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">So I well remember the wave of empowerment I felt when my
eyes finally settled on the faces of two of my most treasured friends. These two had
come into my life via different roads, from different directions, at different
times and for different purposes. Both of them were -and remain - essential to my life story. And my ongoing amusement. And my gin intake. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_1RywID1QpTMg5Tjk-iuao6zwGJJ6YWI0vG2M2gDRG4T1QL03EACS96A4SIJQMqwIF9hh_Zbby7VT_0KclISQ3wpZ-wQuTd0Gl96HjFCAPN7HBpZehWY7mNubQPeij-NapTfJkTZY2ZsQ/s1600/Sky_puzzle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_1RywID1QpTMg5Tjk-iuao6zwGJJ6YWI0vG2M2gDRG4T1QL03EACS96A4SIJQMqwIF9hh_Zbby7VT_0KclISQ3wpZ-wQuTd0Gl96HjFCAPN7HBpZehWY7mNubQPeij-NapTfJkTZY2ZsQ/s320/Sky_puzzle.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">Seeing these two side by side at my father’s funeral somehow
amplified the support that either might have given me individually. It was a
bit like finding two corner pieces of a jigsaw puzzle at the same time – suddenly,
a task that seemed overwhelming became just that little bit more achievable.
</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">After seeing them - my corner jigsaw pieces - emerge from the haze, I opened my mouth to speak. The threatening sob stayed put, and my words found their way into the air. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">Later, as my brothers and I shouldered our father's coffin and made our way slowly down the aisle, both of those friends stood tall, strong and reassuring. They held my eye and
touched my free arm as I passed their pew. The strength of their stance and the
power of their friendship got me outside into the sunshine.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">A couple of years ago I stood beside one of those friends at his mother's grave. I watched him drop a flower onto her coffin and momentarily lose himself in private thoughts and memories. Being there was an honour and a privilege for me. Afterwards, he and I walked together from the shady cemetery into the
sunshine, then drove to his childhood home to indulge in a suitably celebratory
wake.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqWLvnQeXv5n9oasdECBtNYe7JUbdD8365esBr4kkURuJG5-UGhHDGquRwC9DOaPEtIZVXvgcVD-gTsMdJDqUQGAVrnQ7dEiDzPzpNEFdAcqYhr_Z8LmHTa8FcxBP0pkLe6qKzvyItIn-8/s1600/DSC_0176.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqWLvnQeXv5n9oasdECBtNYe7JUbdD8365esBr4kkURuJG5-UGhHDGquRwC9DOaPEtIZVXvgcVD-gTsMdJDqUQGAVrnQ7dEiDzPzpNEFdAcqYhr_Z8LmHTa8FcxBP0pkLe6qKzvyItIn-8/s320/DSC_0176.JPG" width="260" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rest easy Gal. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqWLvnQeXv5n9oasdECBtNYe7JUbdD8365esBr4kkURuJG5-UGhHDGquRwC9DOaPEtIZVXvgcVD-gTsMdJDqUQGAVrnQ7dEiDzPzpNEFdAcqYhr_Z8LmHTa8FcxBP0pkLe6qKzvyItIn-8/s1600/DSC_0176.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">Tomorrow, the other of those two friends will farewell her father.
I desperately want to be there so I can hold her eye and touch her arm; to stand
solidly in her hazy blur. But that’s not going to happen. Instead, on the far side of the globe, feeling
helpless and a long way away, I will think about a dry-witted, open-hearted, multi-talented man who helped raise a remarkable daughter. I will try to stand tall, strong and reassuring for her, as she once did for me, and hope that she somehow senses it. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">And I will make time to celebrate the force and
fortune of friendships that carry us through shadows and back into sunshine.</span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-35463367869603298822016-06-16T19:29:00.001+02:002016-06-18T18:24:03.714+02:00Blood on my hands: a Shakespearean marital drama.<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Ned and I have never made a big deal about our wedding anniversaries. Actually, the fact that we had a wedding at all had quite a lot to do with UK visa requirements, and not so much to do with romantic expression of enduring love and passion. A faceless civil servant, with the terribly English name of Derek Bottomley, signed my visa and triggered a three-year adventure in London and points beyond. For a time I loved Mr Bottomley almost as much as I loved my new husband, such was the impact his signature had on my life.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-5ERZQg3XIuUCW8t0xpi0b7X79AoZOOWPTadFuLY7dSMA-lQPeAVkcAagKfl1hph8_wVA23jM_TF3G7WcOeMx2rn_kV5RRr5ZjZP8uhSnMFTsYLrHt2ZryXEmZHnA7lmD5dqX26QEKuov/s1600/1996-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-5ERZQg3XIuUCW8t0xpi0b7X79AoZOOWPTadFuLY7dSMA-lQPeAVkcAagKfl1hph8_wVA23jM_TF3G7WcOeMx2rn_kV5RRr5ZjZP8uhSnMFTsYLrHt2ZryXEmZHnA7lmD5dqX26QEKuov/s320/1996-2.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="213" /></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNfaf7MezrDbD1so0P0mQSLnvyiwjHorGX7USCr9iyTYaTaU6D2596dWqSt5z0-1Z9oh57ChS7GV_tpN4LhqvebyLiEbK0gbomGN1Yrf1rdkLtsIREaAxQD5vJNIZ02knD53b-tc9-LIGA/s1600/PhotoScan+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNfaf7MezrDbD1so0P0mQSLnvyiwjHorGX7USCr9iyTYaTaU6D2596dWqSt5z0-1Z9oh57ChS7GV_tpN4LhqvebyLiEbK0gbomGN1Yrf1rdkLtsIREaAxQD5vJNIZ02knD53b-tc9-LIGA/s320/PhotoScan+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">An ancient visa securement ceremony and the precious visa</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">To the surprise of many, Ned and my romantic expression of love and passion has proved more enduring than my UK visa. In fact, last week marked the twentieth anniversary of our visa securement ceremony. Ned and I remain staunchly committed to our marriage, even though we have both moved on to second visas (courtesy of a Dutch civil servant who I believe is named Derk van Botomlij).</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
</span></div>
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</div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">We agreed that our twentieth anniversary was worthy of a little more fuss than the other nineteen. That was an easy decision for Ned to reach, because we follow a system whereby he organises the odd year celebrations and I organise the even year celebrations. For “celebration” read “last minute restaurant booking” at best. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">This being an even year, Ned was free of last minute restaurant booking responsibilities and so swanned off to work in the US for the week leading up to our anniversary. He arrived back in the Lowlands around midday on our actual anniversary, eager to participate in whatever constituted a “little more fuss”.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">We cycled through parts of Amsterdam we didn’t know existed to the restaurant I had booked (admittedly, only thirty minutes earlier). Ned and I relish our travels through unknown territory, and we have certainly arrived together at some dodgy-looking places over the years. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhzL2ACA2l6TTXRXQwjl1B_f8jI1CmjWp1TCzWTU8ePLr8w-9qK1yIuGtB8YcAXkymIQ-SgpYS4XPkTO9pOu_N3aEox8M5ED_02YnxwDiV2Ghxvu411yqDse6Nt2FRfu-4fylM94tENl_d/s1600/1996-7+south+of+Uyuni+Bolivia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhzL2ACA2l6TTXRXQwjl1B_f8jI1CmjWp1TCzWTU8ePLr8w-9qK1yIuGtB8YcAXkymIQ-SgpYS4XPkTO9pOu_N3aEox8M5ED_02YnxwDiV2Ghxvu411yqDse6Nt2FRfu-4fylM94tENl_d/s320/1996-7+south+of+Uyuni+Bolivia.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Another pretty dodgy, but ultimately</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">fabulous, </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">destination. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Bolivia, 1996</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">However, on this occasion I was surprised to find us in front of a dingy warehouse slouched against a dusty parking lot, pretty much on the corner of nowhere. There, on the wall of the dingy warehouse on the corner of nowhere, was the name of the restaurant I had booked. It seemed that this year’s organising committee might have made a big mistake.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Turns out that the warehouse enclosed a bustling restaurant, marked promisingly by blazing sunshine, waterfront tables, champagne buckets and a lot of hip young things with big lips and even bigger sunglasses. A well-appointed cruiser, possibly featured in a recent James Bond movie, docked in front of the restaurant as we arrived. A camera crew alighted. Several passengers tossed their coiffed heads haughtily as they were filmed striding onto the wharf. There they took turns to shake hands and exchange a few words with a man with a big smile and an even bigger microphone. They all looked very pleased with themselves.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">As we locked our bikes, I admitted that this lunch could turn out to be either a comedy or a tragedy. Ned picked up a stick that was lying on the ground. He pointed it at me and shook it from side to side.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“I shake spear,” Ned announced, pausing to allow his wit to settle on me. “This, like our marriage, is both comedy AND tragedy. Or at least drama. Which means that it is a true romance.”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Shakespeare and I sat poetically at a table in the sun, where we revelled in our true romance for a couple of hours, reciting sonnets to one another. Okay, we didn’t recite sonnets. But before leaving we went inside the “dingy warehouse” – turns out it is not so dingy after all – and took a photo that encapsulates the secret of our marital success. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">We then passed the remainder of the afternoon rolling through bucolic scenes on a romantic-dramatic-comedic-historic bike ride, worthy of our own personal Shakespearean masterpiece. In total we rode 55 kilometres, no mean feat after oysters, sushi, duck pancakes, prosecco and pinot grigio in the sun. This gave us plenty of time to ponder the remarkable linkages between a Dutch bike path, Shakespeare and our own marriage. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">There were a few long, flat, boring sections on our route. This, I recall, is also a feature of many of Shakespeare’s plays. I’ll be honest and say the same can be said of parts of our marriage. Oh come on, you feel the same about your own marriage; you’ve just never written it down quite so bluntly.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5O7FITO9jUrpJBZ2V4sqd1WgeWt5IuQ6ZKMfwkgaV_yfRU7Y_7DA22HOjQ7yEglpFtSXPlhpB5YifPICV8A4g9cknO_tnD2aMspk7KI8FL8ptOxzZIzZH3EmaWtoc8-VBTBNuILhyyAWm/s1600/20160610_174513.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5O7FITO9jUrpJBZ2V4sqd1WgeWt5IuQ6ZKMfwkgaV_yfRU7Y_7DA22HOjQ7yEglpFtSXPlhpB5YifPICV8A4g9cknO_tnD2aMspk7KI8FL8ptOxzZIzZH3EmaWtoc8-VBTBNuILhyyAWm/s320/20160610_174513.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Ned Nederlander, his bike and a dyke</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">There were some disconcerting parts where we teetered along a narrow dike, battling a headwind, with cold, murky water lapping at either side. This is clearly a parenting analogy. Of course there are loads of Shakespearean references to water, wind, waves and possibly dykes, although neither Ned nor I could recall a reliable passage linking these themes to children. We subsequently found a cracker in Act IV of </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">A Winter’s Tale</span></i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">, where Camillo speaks of “</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">a wild dedication of yourselves to unpathed waters, undreamed shores</span></i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">”. For us, this is a clear reference to the uncharted parenting journey, specifically for those of us raising our offspring in the vicinity of the shores of the IJselmeer. Of course more esteemed scholars of the Bard may dispute that connection. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">While on the subject of Shakespeare and parenting, it is worth commenting on Ned’s tendency to use </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">King Lear</span></i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> as a model for his paternal wisdom. For the past 17 years and to the extreme annoyance of De Jongens, every time one of them answered a question with “nothing” (which happens on average 100 billion times a year), Ned simply says “</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Nothing can come from nothing</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">. </span><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Speak again</span></i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">” The eye rolls in response are legendary and worth the price of admission.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhny1COgDOx4HvN-7wKIzMKgP07RYUswm666LhrdpZgKSzdSVX-rim9WFGN-Ok0u2jU1ASeXejGO4-W4uzct1VT4GbkIRxZxr0FBWVv5tgigaWWQ4ZXMb9U_rgJBAsj3J69KpzgCldhLdB1/s1600/shakespeare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">But back to our anniversary tour.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">There were some exhilarating parts of the route, where we rolled along side by side, enjoying the feeling of sunshine on our shoulders. It seemed effortless and laughter came easily, even when we hit occasional potholes. On and on through green pastures, over quaint bridges and around wide curves. Terrific. Love those bits, in Shakespeare, in cycling and in marriage.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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"What need the bridge much broader than the flood?"</div>
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<i>Much Ado About Nothing (aka the story of our lives)</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Our journey last week was also marked by the first cycling accident I have had since we have lived in the Lowlands. We stood in the beautiful village of Uitdam, holding our bikes, looking at a map of the surrounding area. We were – imagine this - in perfect agreement on the path we would follow. I took a single step backward as I turned my handlebars to face the required direction. My heel caught a small unseen bollard, I overbalanced and landed on my back on the side of the road with my bike on top of me. A bicycle accident … while not cycling. How marvellously dramatic.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Uitdam, the small Dutch hamlet that some believe inspired Shakespeare</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Shakespeare sprang to mind as I bit my lip and tried not to cry. “</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Go wisely and slowly. </span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Those who rush stumble and fall</span></i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">” (</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Romeo and Juliet </span></i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">… how fitting on our romantic sojourn). Friar Lawrence was advising Romeo not to rush headlong into marriage (for a visa, say), but he could equally have been referring to the need to use caution when mounting a bicycle.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Grazed elbows, bruised pride, swollen humiliation, blood on my hands. Pure tragedy. </span><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">The damned spot, </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">after </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">a few days of healing</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">In the midst of the (melo)drama, I looked at my wounded palm. I looked at my lovely husband of twenty years, my co-conspirator in nuptial visas. Then, with quite some dramatic inspiration I stood in the <i>hamlet </i>(yes!) of Uitdam and in my best Lady Macbeth voice, I exclaimed:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</span> <span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Uitdam spot!”</span></span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">With that single comment I managed to prove Ned's earlier point that drama, when combined with comedy, </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">creates true romance. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Back in Amsterdam later that evening, we stopped at the Vondelpark Open Air Theatre. Free performances run all through summer. The scheduled act, on the day of our twentieth anniversary, was a dance called </span><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Woke up Blind </span></i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">by the Nederlands Dance Theater. It featured two Jeff Buckley songs, "You and I" and "The Way Young Lovers Do". Jeff Buckley happens to be one of Ned's favourite singer-songwriters. The dance explored the changing nature of love over time. We know this because the program told us. Otherwise we would not have had a clue. But seriously, how could we not watch and participate in such powerful anniversarial symbolism? </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Symbolic movement by the NDC</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXe1wMRTIj1HeLnys2SFiUsjkwoGyHmT9zvxv4xczRI8QMBClH92aaf6M0FrDSOeBxx7FV4x6cnao0iFNj9bGXbCWwL4ZUiy6XpLKzHjQADQajOBgxNB9cMkMUml9ZeFCK1HiC6Uee9G7E/s1600/Dance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It turns out that dance is an art form not yet within Ned's or my orbit of cultural appreciation. For now we will stick to drama. And comedy. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Which, as we all now know, are the very essence of our true romance.</span><br />
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-50599400239090877952016-03-08T21:17:00.000+01:002016-03-10T17:18:05.675+01:00It's all downhill from here<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It started with a tiny snow white lie in the early 1990s.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Sure I can ski”, I assured my vaguely Nordic-looking
emerging love interest when he asked about my abilities and my willingness to
accompany him on an overnight cross-country skiing expedition. What I meant to say was, “Well, I’ve done it once before, for an afternoon”. But I
didn’t.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Truth is, I was so besotted with this enchanting adventurer
that I would have said anything in order to spend a long weekend with him. He,
bless his trusting soul, took me at my word and asked no further questions; he
simply set about organising our expedition with his usual thoroughness and
reassuring competence. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I remained the personification of Naïve Confidence flirting with
Youthful Arrogance. Embarrassment was their inevitable lovechild. If I
thought - as I did – that I should be able to ski, then I was certain that I
could damn well ski. So that's what I told him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It was therefore a complete mystery to find myself some
weeks later, face down in the snow; an undignified flailing snow-turtle trapped beneath
a bulging back-pack. I’d managed to ski barely twenty metres from our car,
before spectacularly revealing that I may have exaggerated my skiing ability to
some extent.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">That was my first encounter with the Snow Monster, an
unpredictable and cruel mountain adversary.
The Snow Monster usually lies hidden from view, but from time to time he shrugs or reaches
out to grab the ankle of a passing skier and flip them unceremoniously onto
their back. Or front. Or side. Or head. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">A look of exasperation, intrigue and amusement momentarily
flashed across the face of the Nordic-looking love interest as he levered me
out of my humiliating position and set me upright again. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It is to that man’s eternal credit that he did not even
consider giving up on me or our planned adventure. Instead, with his trademark
patience and good humour he coached me up the mountain, across the magnificent tops
for three days, and back down to the carpark. Each night we slept in a tent
pitched directly on the snow, beneath spectacular twisted snow gums and a
star-strewn sky.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDBn5PGJf5FbeurSHTUywZwLons_RQNvqqglCnhXxUxtJQdZDKifhZcrIRzJidUHuRgIsQATWyCXxDCkqd1mbWQE22l3ZT1eKIx28tfw7Ow9UzMBO6SHpC-ur2llWJNZ6oGQuM-6QvgSwg/s1600/Skiing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDBn5PGJf5FbeurSHTUywZwLons_RQNvqqglCnhXxUxtJQdZDKifhZcrIRzJidUHuRgIsQATWyCXxDCkqd1mbWQE22l3ZT1eKIx28tfw7Ow9UzMBO6SHpC-ur2llWJNZ6oGQuM-6QvgSwg/s320/Skiing.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The flailing snow-turtle, seen in 1992</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">He seemed perfect, and so, dear reader, I married him. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">That same man has, on many occasions since, levered me out
of an uncomfortable position, set me upright again and coached me up and over mountains,
both literal and metaphoric. He still takes me at my word, and he still organises great
adventures, a</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">lthough interestingly, we have never been cross-country skiing
since.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I have however developed a belated passion for downhill
skiing. It started in New Zealand in 2011, by which time Ned Nederlander and I
had been married for so long that attempts by him to teach me to ski could
have been potentially life-threatening for him. Instead, a young Italian ski
instructor called Marco led me around the slopes, and I am still secretly
chuffed at the memory of him telling me that I had a beautiful body position.
Coincidentally, Ned had made a similar comment in the tent under the snow gums
many years earlier so I figured it must be true …</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I have spent several days in each of the last six years trying
to defeat the Snow Monster, and realising in the process how broad is his reach
and how ruthless are his tactics. I have encountered him in resorts in
Austria, Switzerland and Italy, but never have his attacks been as unrelenting
and merciless as they were last week in Nendaz, Switzerland.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">In hindsight, I made myself unnecessarily vulnerable to the
Snow Monster by agreeing to spend the week in Nendaz with our Dutch friends, the de
Swoosh family. It is a fundamental rule in life, or at least it should be, that
one does not ski with people who have an additional forty years’
experience when it comes to strapping narrow planks to feet and pointing them
down an icy slope. I ignored that rule.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl0keH62UBsuL9_bgzATr0m0Fpekzfez3le3TZ6egEzWfO89EJD44Qkcdj-2hJ_HJZaI2EtBwcGTw7l-9O1U3sK7F9h4-xvdegv5msKSZ2JMsOXV3dP-1O9mIZCOH89IiY2JC1FsuQNL2B/s1600/20160226_144741.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl0keH62UBsuL9_bgzATr0m0Fpekzfez3le3TZ6egEzWfO89EJD44Qkcdj-2hJ_HJZaI2EtBwcGTw7l-9O1U3sK7F9h4-xvdegv5msKSZ2JMsOXV3dP-1O9mIZCOH89IiY2JC1FsuQNL2B/s400/20160226_144741.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Beware the innocuous-looking Snow Monster of Nendaz</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Having earlier experienced the risks associated with
overstating one’s abilities, I tried to manage the de Swoosh’s expectations by
confessing my relatively limited skiing prowess early. I suggested that they
might like to leave me and my dignity to the blue runs while
they explored further afield. They dismissed my offer and in a gesture of horrifying
kindness and patience, insisted that I join them every day.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I hastily arranged a one hour lesson with an instructor. Tom, a big English bear who looked like he should be in a rugby
ruck rather than swivelling his ample hips down a mountainside, was not as
impressed with my body position as Marco and Ned had been.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Mmmm, there’re a few funky things going on there,” he
observed wryly after I gingerly proceeded down what was
literally my first run in a year. I confessed that my awkwardness was due to the knowledge that I faced certain ignominy and possible injury
- if not death - as I brought up the distant rear behind seven competent skiers
for the next week. I felt sure that black runs would be involved. I was fairly
certain that teenage ridicule was also a risk.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Tom and I paused mid-slope to discuss a strategy for
countering my dilemma. As if on cue, Grote Jongen appeared before us, inquiring
about the progress of the lesson. His beautiful face was somewhat bloodied, giving
the impression that he might have recently been in a rugby ruck himself. Apparently
it was the result of poorly adjusted bindings coming unstuck on an icy slope. To my
eternal shame, my own beloved first born generated the tiniest feeling of
schadenfreude, by reminding me that others could become victims of the Snow
Monster too.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">My evil thoughts were interrupted by the realisation that
Grote Jongen was not alone. Kleine Jongen, Ned Nederlander, Mr and Mrs de
Swoosh and their two teenage boys were all watching from a nearby vantage point. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Don’t move until they’ve gone!” I instructed Tom petulantly,
while cheerily waving at them and politely gesturing for them to keep
moving down the slope in front of us. Tom and I watched as Mr de Swoosh
performed an effortless triple back flip and Mrs de Swoosh redefined “elegance”
before our eyes. All four teenagers demonstrated their belief in the power of
speed over style, and were out of sight in seconds. Ned had the good grace to
shoot me an encouraging glance before he too was gone with a flick of his
Nordic-looking love interest hips.</span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Hearing me sigh despondently, Tom turned to me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“I have time to stay for a second hour if you would like,”
offered this most sensitive of nimble rugby skiers. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Reasoning that the required mountain of Swiss francs could be justified by the maintenance of my dignity, I accepted.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIcbpj4eCyCb8KT-iwnC3gNOdVpFQHWI_99wVMc2ATGY8oVlYFsxpp-ah3c6gfStShkxkJmTg0RtGuAAZ6wj99vtU4SlSqWHcjBgPQPi7J_GeF2C-MJk0cp_4nOfp_tiHoqF3SbuMsscKu/s1600/20160227_120958.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIcbpj4eCyCb8KT-iwnC3gNOdVpFQHWI_99wVMc2ATGY8oVlYFsxpp-ah3c6gfStShkxkJmTg0RtGuAAZ6wj99vtU4SlSqWHcjBgPQPi7J_GeF2C-MJk0cp_4nOfp_tiHoqF3SbuMsscKu/s320/20160227_120958.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A rather ragtag Snake of Shame</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Together we made some marked improvements not only to my
body position, but also to my confidence. Before long I had stopped snarling at
the Snakes of Shame, those infuriating lines of lithe, high-achieving bloody toddlers
in ski schools. Earlier I had fought a strange urge to poke them all with my
ski poles and feed them to the Snow Monster, but suddenly they began to look
rather cute as my sense of comparative inadequacy subsided.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The rest of the week brought some spectacular encounters between
the Snow Monster and me. He stretched and shifted his dormant body unexpectedly on
several occasions, causing me to sprawl in a most ungainly manner. He wrapped
his invisible tentacles around my legs and tugged maliciously. He upended me
and dragged me down Humiliation Hill on my backside, before taunting me with
the realisation that one of my skis needed to be retrieved from thirty metres
back up the slope. In one particularly nasty interaction, he tackled me while I
was barely moving across the flattest piece of piste in the resort. However, he
also reminded me of the benefit of being last in one's group; which is that there
were seldom any witnesses to my inelegant misadventures. By the time the others
realised that I might have fallen, I had generally managed to extract my head
from the snow, brush off the Snow Monster’s fluffy excrement and regain an
upright position. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">But as well as battling the callous Snow Monster, I also
experienced some rather exhilarating encounters way beyond the extremes of my comfort
zone. The effects of altitude are quite possibly to blame for my decision to
join the others in descending an ungroomed mogul-covered black run on our third
day, just as the clouds swooped in, the lights went out and visibility decreased to about two metres.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Ten seconds into the run, so eleven seconds after I forfeited
any chance of pursuing an alternative descent, a hot flush of hysteria and
primal panic took hold of my legs. At least that’s what I assumed it was; it’s
equally likely that it was the unfortunate result of my very weak pelvic floor
muscles. There seemed little value in evaluating the real cause of my
discomfort, so instead I dug my skis into the Snow Monster’s ornery back,
plunged my ski poles into his shrugging shoulders and laughed at him. I have no
doubt it was not at all pretty, and I will be forever grateful that Kleine
Jongen and his confounded helmet-mounted video camera did not capture that
particular battle. That camera is a thief of self-esteem. It repeatedly shatters my belief that I could be mistaken for Mrs de Swoosh when descending a slope and instead shows that I resemble a Telly Tubby on sticks. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And that is on the easy slopes.</span><br />
</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Some centuries later I arrived at the base of the ungroomed black run, my
heart thumping, my pride soaring, my breathing rapid, my mask fogged by the tears
of terror and frustration I had involuntarily shed half way down the slope. No,
let’s not call it a slope; let’s call it a cliff, because I’m pretty sure that’s
what it was.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVPKHGe97dJvGeBQhksv_XKDdXt_TU6Ca5w32U2kBY_2E-I7CN2LyWXs4ZLvskW8E6RJvIfwLirVtwKC60ykwIYiI5oFpgG43p0SwSVjoZqCBU2iMJdATMKs76zREKkeMdrY5FJBdAuNTE/s1600/IMG_20160225_104953+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVPKHGe97dJvGeBQhksv_XKDdXt_TU6Ca5w32U2kBY_2E-I7CN2LyWXs4ZLvskW8E6RJvIfwLirVtwKC60ykwIYiI5oFpgG43p0SwSVjoZqCBU2iMJdATMKs76zREKkeMdrY5FJBdAuNTE/s320/IMG_20160225_104953+%25281%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A Telly Tubby on sticks?</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I had fought the Snow Monster and won a significant battle, even if not the entire war. We sparred on and off over the following days, and finished pretty evenly poised, although I suspect my bruises will take longer to subside than his. Of course, such battles are not fought without strong support, and I am grateful to have wonderful friends like the de Swoosh family, whose company, generosity, good humour and encouragement underwrote my snowy skirmishes. I should definitely show more appreciation for my trusting, competent, Nordic-looking love interest, who shoots me encouraging glances when I most need them, murmurs beautiful lies about my on-slope ability and compliments my body position with a straight face. And of course I am both grateful and relieved that the teenage ridicule did not eventuate. In fact, the undoubted highlight of my week occurred on our last day of skiing. Grote Jongen, skiing just in front of me on our favourite run, stopped to wait for me. I braced for "You took your time", but instead he said simply, and without apparent irony, "Very elegant". There was nobody else in sight, so I choose to believe he was talking about me. I floated the rest of the way down.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">So even though it might still not be entirely accurate, the next time Ned inquires about my skiing ability, I
will say, with slightly more justification than I had when we first took to the
snow together, “Ski? Sure I can ski.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFuQ3VcmyVyBDoh2nF0l0qLgnsdXUhCSaFyQuYS2oRphqKeAUiOEH6E7_libDe73egFCr_t2Sxe4UUslXR2jyeipOvEbBK9rjXEK4KGStjVxDVvCDPG3T1PKpfbX_1pc22Xj-OsLQnZR0b/s1600/IMG_20160225_104953+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody>
</table>
The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-12393968463431742592016-01-08T01:56:00.000+01:002016-01-08T02:07:52.566+01:00Cross-stressing<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Today is A-Day.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That’s how our family refers to January 8. It’s the
anniversary of our 2012 arrival in Amsterdam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Amsterdam Day. Arrival Day. Aankomst dag. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On our first A-Day anniversary I baked an apple tart and
decorated it with some <em>Eucalyptus</em> leaves I bought from our local florist. I
thought it was a terribly sophisticated melding of cultures. Ned Nederlander,
ever the agricultural scene-stealer, pointed out that my thoughtful garnish had
probably not come from our Antipodean homeland, but in all likelihood had been imported from a plantation in Africa. De Jongens commented,
as they do at almost every meal, that “this would be better without the green
stuff". Maybe this year I can take creative cross-cultural symbolism to even
greater heights; perhaps a Gouda pavlova or some wattle-seed bitterballen.
Chuck another herring on the barbie.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Whatever our family does to celebrate A-Day 2016, the cross-cultural highlight
of my time in Amsterdam is (and will likely forever be) my weekly meetings with
a small group of parents from De Jongens’ school. For the past few years I have
had the enormous privilege of leading an English conversation group for an hour
a week as part of a wonderful parent-run program called Let’s Talk. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Participants have come and gone over the years, as is the
beautiful, horrible reality of an international community. Each of them has
inspired me with their humility, determination, humour and openness. They have
graciously shared a piece of France, Japan, South Korea, Israel, Iran, Hungary,
India, Germany, the Czech Republic, Catalonia and many other places with me, and
made my world so much richer. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVzviTr4XAoyNpQGkxJwkv6jXQ_Z34nQH_7cm2Uv3eBTvW1lybu10oaJyrzaNTEqALGQxgUImb4q7yUlaLztCDCuFp65HroLBSNAooouu3jkywM7IOWBtrkQ1eYUqyEzeC7iYsYx0qvjPO/s1600/IMG-20151211-WA0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">
</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1JHRAfAleaxvCXzL2A6y-SNv7OXgnyEQMR6R1PqWYVqJ2cO_he1qXKwDjzm2UG-DIWyKYSOy6n8MtJf3MZinwyhKADcdf9Ua5leFC3gpM1BXNBuzDuhfavV9gMpHVFKBbHL3IMYHks4ii/s1600/FB_IMG_1446708231735.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1JHRAfAleaxvCXzL2A6y-SNv7OXgnyEQMR6R1PqWYVqJ2cO_he1qXKwDjzm2UG-DIWyKYSOy6n8MtJf3MZinwyhKADcdf9Ua5leFC3gpM1BXNBuzDuhfavV9gMpHVFKBbHL3IMYHks4ii/s200/FB_IMG_1446708231735.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">They teach me far more than I could ever dream of
teaching them. I teach them about
irregular verbs; they teach me about the world. It hardly seems a fair
exchange. We don’t use a workbook or a lesson plan. We simply talk. And laugh.
And eat. We’re proof that if more people in the world sat down and ate
together, there would be fewer conflicts. Recently I took them to <a href="http://www.drovers-dog.com/?locale=nl" target="_blank">The Drover’sDog</a>, the best Australian café this side of Boronia Park’s <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Unwritten-Bookshop-Cafe/163800333745053" target="_blank">Unwritten</a>, and as a
result some in our Let's Talk group are convinced that lamingtons have the potential to achieve world
peace. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Together, we navigate vast and frequently-amusing inter-cultural chasms; I come
away from every session with my spirit soaring, my sides splitting and my head
spinning. Inevitably, I also come away with my own understanding of this
ridiculous language greatly undermined. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Try explaining the pronunciation and
spelling of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ought</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">taught</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">taut, </i>and<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> sort</i> and you’ll
start to agree. Then clearly and rationally explain why an alarm <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">goes off</i> but a light <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">goes on</i>. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6fJOtEDMX9DfW4D3EH9-1_Pp-HjXCrr75_8D7HpsG_avmJDfntxCpjYDHFU1_X6V8MoKQ0v5NGakYdvCId4fx_mFNwIGwmkAJr6zlbHo1sXOk2deXYTfwjG4ZqhJpA6SyBn5CYN_6Jpaz/s1600/FB_IMG_1442041421420.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6fJOtEDMX9DfW4D3EH9-1_Pp-HjXCrr75_8D7HpsG_avmJDfntxCpjYDHFU1_X6V8MoKQ0v5NGakYdvCId4fx_mFNwIGwmkAJr6zlbHo1sXOk2deXYTfwjG4ZqhJpA6SyBn5CYN_6Jpaz/s200/FB_IMG_1442041421420.jpg" width="161" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">
Keep a straight face while you
insist that your nose runs and your feet smell, even while your nose is
smelling and your feet are running. It’s a ridiculous language, which is partly
why I love it.<br />
</span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Our Let’s Talk group talks about everything and nothing: weddings,
grammar, national politics, feminism, food, international politics, restaurants,
idioms, child birth, food, dogs, moving countries, staying put, going home, vocabulary,
food, raising teenagers, past participles, raising pre-teenagers, social blunders,
linguistic blunders, food, careers, eating, verb phrases. And food. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, and on one memorable occasion, penises.
But that’s a story for another time.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This experience -these people - have changed me. The most
tangible change that they inspired is that I have recently become a formally qualified
teacher of English to adults. In the process I also became a stark-raving
lunatic, obsessing over concept-checking questions, student-centeredness, receptive
skills, lexical sets and the phonemic chart. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How hard can it be, I arrogantly thought when
I enrolled, to teach a language that you’ve already got covered? As it turns
out it’s extremely hard, and very stressful. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On more than one occasion during one of my frequently
disastrous practice lessons I wanted to run from the classroom screaming, far
from the furrowed brow of my tutor, the sympathetic grimace of my
fellow-teachers and the bewildered expressions of the students. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> During the course </span>I had to resubmit not one but two assignments,
with all the associated loss of dignity that brings. No mother should have to
suffer the humiliation of having her own son glance at her desk and say, with a
cruel smirk “Resubmit, eh? Who'd have thought?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But I passed, and in doing so I was forced to acknowledge
that being a “real” teacher involves more than sitting around and talking, laughing
and eating (even though I’d had considerable success with that approach for the
past few years ...). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I haven’t yet
decided if I want to be a “real” teacher or a “talking, laughing, eating”
teacher, or indeed whether I can be both. Or perhaps there’s another option
that I’m yet to discover. Mid-life career changes raise so many questions ...</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But answers must wait because first I have to celebrate my
fourth A-Day. I’m going to start it in the best way I can think of; by going to
my weekly Let’s Talk meeting first thing this morning. This wonderful, eclectic group has raised
cross-cultural symbolism and inter-linguistic hilarity to heights that I could
never have imagined when I first lay a <em>Eucalyptus</em> sprig across an apple tart. Of course they must share my A-Day.</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVzviTr4XAoyNpQGkxJwkv6jXQ_Z34nQH_7cm2Uv3eBTvW1lybu10oaJyrzaNTEqALGQxgUImb4q7yUlaLztCDCuFp65HroLBSNAooouu3jkywM7IOWBtrkQ1eYUqyEzeC7iYsYx0qvjPO/s1600/IMG-20151211-WA0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVzviTr4XAoyNpQGkxJwkv6jXQ_Z34nQH_7cm2Uv3eBTvW1lybu10oaJyrzaNTEqALGQxgUImb4q7yUlaLztCDCuFp65HroLBSNAooouu3jkywM7IOWBtrkQ1eYUqyEzeC7iYsYx0qvjPO/s320/IMG-20151211-WA0001.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Surrounded by inspiring women</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Let's Talk. And Laugh. And Eat.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<br />The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-26572334442008908072015-10-03T00:31:00.000+02:002016-10-10T19:15:22.855+02:00NOT just another Friday night in Amsterdam<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">It’s Friday night. I’m home alone. I have a nice bottle
of red wine and a big box of chocolates. I have internet access, and I have plenty of
time to think. Few combinations could be more dangerous.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">Ned Nederlander is playing old man’s football and will be
home late, no doubt after enjoying several convivial post-game beers with his Howling Hamstrings team mates. He’ll be a bit sore tomorrow and will do his usual weekend thing of
bemoaning his aging body. A couple of hours prostrate on the sofa after his
morning coffee and a lazy breakfast tomorrow will help him forget his problems.
Dinner at a lovely restaurant tomorrow evening and whatever marital benefits
might follow that will certainly help him forget his aching muscles.</span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Right now Kleine Jongen, after a day innocently kicking a
ball and eating junk food with friends is sleeping comfortably in a beautiful
house in the canal district, cared for by adults we know, love and trust – in the very heart of one of the most beautiful
cities in the world. Poor boy broke his arm two days ago. But within an hour of
arriving at a clean and modern health facility, he was treated by competent,
compassionate, hijab-wearing health professionals and sent on his way. His biggest problem
right now is that his injury might hinder his chances of selection in the Junior
Varsity football team, and that he has to play Xbox left handed for the next few
weeks. His cast also gives him a few toileting challenges. Oh well.</span></span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">Grote Jongen popped
home earlier tonight to recharge his phone and to down a quick bowl of pasta. As
he refuelled, he mused over how easy it is to accept quirks and eye-rolling
frustrations in friends that add more to our lives than they demand in return. I
inquired about the chances of a similar attitude to parents. He smiled. I
silently thanked whatever god was listening for allowing me to become the
mother of a fascinating and engaging human with thought-provoking perspectives
on life. Said child has since cycled off into the autumnal Amsterdam night to
do whatever it is that 16 year olds do in Amsterdam on a Friday night. Because
Ned and I are utterly opposed to using technology to track our children’s whereabouts,
I have only the vaguest idea of where he is. However, I am reasonably confident
that he will be home in a few hours. He will fall into his warm bed, with few
concerns other than his overdue biology assignment.</span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And then there’s Petra. </span></span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">Petra turned up on my doorstep late this afternoon. She lives in the
same street as me, but in almost four years here I’ve never met her before. She
introduced herself before confirming that 450 male asylum seekers are being temporarily
housed nearby. She asked if I could donate some clothing for them.</span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">These men; real live men, with real live children, and real live
mothers bereft with worry about them, are ONE HUNDRED METRES from my house. The
house where I‘m drinking my red wine and eating the pasta cooked by my happy, assignment-avoiding
16 year old. The house where I hugged my other boy and his plaster cast after we
caught the reliable public transport home from hospital together. The house
with the internet connection that allows me to post whatever I damn well want
on social media. The house where I will sleep soundly tonight.</span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTEC7ccnwNpf46kpQueZqLCMquTIHjn4agcUiyc-CXQvYuL81m_" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></a><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">One hundred metres away from where I sit <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">right now</i>, four hundred and fifty men
sit and wonder about their future, and no doubt about their past. If I lean a
little to my left, disconnecting myself slightly from my bottle of red wine, and
peer out of my double-glazed window, past a charming window box of fresh herbs,
I can see the fence that contains those men. If I walked down 34 carpeted steps,
onto the footpath, past the Thai take-away, over two tram tracks, across a bike
path and through a small gate, I could be amongst them. It would take less than
two minutes. When I got there, if I spoke Arabic, I could understand their
stories and find out what had driven them to take the unfathomable risks that
have landed them there. </span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">I could hear stories of men who have fled their own homes
leaving behind their own teenagers. I could find out what drove them to risk
their lives and all that is familiar and comfortable and comforting and dear. What
unthinkable force caused them to leave the lovers with whom they had shared
beds and dreams? What drove them to tread unknown roads and leave sons with
broken arms and broken hearts?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What strength
was needed to leave an unfinished conversation with their son about friendship
and loyalty and tolerance and trust? I cannot imagine.</span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">These men need many things at the moment. At the very least
they need a change of clothes, they need shaving cream, they need paracetamol to
ease their sore arm, and miracle cures for sore hearts. They need a new
toothbrush. They
need a conversation about friendship.</span></span><br />
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTCZq3h9bqyRPRTo20b4yF6Rie9IWq1_n0Gjm1uKaam9QhNcb-IhQ" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTCZq3h9bqyRPRTo20b4yF6Rie9IWq1_n0Gjm1uKaam9QhNcb-IhQ" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Image result for spare clothes" border="0" class="rg_i" data-src="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTCZq3h9bqyRPRTo20b4yF6Rie9IWq1_n0Gjm1uKaam9QhNcb-IhQ" data-sz="f" jsaction="load:str.tbn" name="W3_pI173mNB1eM:" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTCZq3h9bqyRPRTo20b4yF6Rie9IWq1_n0Gjm1uKaam9QhNcb-IhQ" style="height: 172px; margin-top: 0px; width: 270px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">Petra is collecting clothing, toiletries and time passers like
chess games and decks of cards for those men. She knows someone who can somehow
magically bypass the bureaucracy that seems to insist on regulated giving via well-meaning but cumbersome non-profits. She
knows someone who will ensure that our donations are given directly to those
men at the end of my street. Come Monday she might also need to explain to Ned
why his wardrobe is almost empty, his wife having emptied most of it into a
large green garbage bag and handed it over to a woman she just met.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"> Amsterdam readers - if you have a jacket, a pair of
jeans, a t-shirt, a scarf, a pair of socks or indeed any small token of
friendship and masculine compassion, then please get in touch with me this weekend.
I’ll do what I can to ensure that the angelic Petra is able to take it across
those tram tracks and through those gates on Monday.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
</div>
The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-18554446931595502522015-05-13T23:41:00.001+02:002016-01-09T17:16:02.469+01:00Pedicures, white asparagus and trips to heaven<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I love May.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj62criZuKD2SqrKi6GVLx6Kk8QpED568U5NuAFAzDaJr5KlB35GMbR7IGpzVpo0vQPeu-_jtCB6Dqchx_cvZvuGxhXPfbz8EACOwKH0mt4XmgysXbWnAYjblIgUdQs9YlcQHdZ9R1vZGa1/s1600/DSC_0153.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj62criZuKD2SqrKi6GVLx6Kk8QpED568U5NuAFAzDaJr5KlB35GMbR7IGpzVpo0vQPeu-_jtCB6Dqchx_cvZvuGxhXPfbz8EACOwKH0mt4XmgysXbWnAYjblIgUdQs9YlcQHdZ9R1vZGa1/s320/DSC_0153.JPG" width="212" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">That reminds me, I must book a pedicure</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">After months of low
grey skies, vicious cold winds and depressing drizzle in the northern hemisphere, May pops up, cheerful
and promising. May is like the arrival of a favourite aunt at a dull
gathering of your extended family. While no-one openly acknowledges it, everyone is anxiously and
hopefully awaiting her arrival. When she finally bursts through the door, all cuddly
and bubbly, sassy and bossy, everyone relaxes. She deposits armsful of fresh produce
and homemade delights on the table, then with a sly wink and an irreverent hoot
pops the cork from the champagne bottle. Within minutes, everyone is dancing
and laughing and telling inappropriate jokes in front of the children, having forgotten how boring things were before May came along.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The arrival of Aunty
May here in the lowlands not only brings promises of champagne, dancing and
laughing, but also sunshine, greenery, tulips and (crucially for me) white asparagus. All are
essential to the post-winter regeneration of the soul. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoJ7SCJ1w2iG0pkLTs_gHXm8MjTQdXjrRAYOSr1AKxpC7PXn16RK9HHnjOphkJhFh_Y77mw-EmZTfFOIzqPEGOznvqMnpbzQHI2Y3qIND83Ll8JrQoD4Ox5lr1XL2zFcdys1kXRqMBMQPh/s1600/20150429_194814.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoJ7SCJ1w2iG0pkLTs_gHXm8MjTQdXjrRAYOSr1AKxpC7PXn16RK9HHnjOphkJhFh_Y77mw-EmZTfFOIzqPEGOznvqMnpbzQHI2Y3qIND83Ll8JrQoD4Ox5lr1XL2zFcdys1kXRqMBMQPh/s320/20150429_194814.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">White asparagus - a special treat from Aunty May</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Aunty May’s arrival brings
unspoken secondary benefits too, including (but not limited to) the urgent
undertaking of overdue pedicures, waxing and exfoliation , which
to my mind are also essential for the wellbeing of the soul.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">But one of the best
things about Aunty May coming to the lowlands is that you know it’s holiday
time. There are so many holy days at this time of year that I feel compelled to
provide an (outsider’s) explanation.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>King’s Day, </strong><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>27 April</strong></span></span><strong> – the warm-up<o:p></o:p></strong></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjRwTo7HJBXQGUUU1_aegqgIPMN1pbGF0SEsredatQcFdx9I46XIQbtsI9QkIlgRV5y-oqo6WnnoFPRXDxRh8zFUmC2lJZGMDcd1yt-ttt5uLUk3ZxEBU_v1yl9PR6NN9IQIgIlszZS5Sl/s1600/DSC_0246.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjRwTo7HJBXQGUUU1_aegqgIPMN1pbGF0SEsredatQcFdx9I46XIQbtsI9QkIlgRV5y-oqo6WnnoFPRXDxRh8zFUmC2lJZGMDcd1yt-ttt5uLUk3ZxEBU_v1yl9PR6NN9IQIgIlszZS5Sl/s320/DSC_0246.JPG" width="209" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Fools in orange sequins and feathers</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">The string of Dutch
public holy days starts a few days before Aunty May arrives in town with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Koningsdag</i>, a remarkable preparatory
event that sees the entire country shrug off its dusty winter coat and replace
it with a festive cloak of orange sequins and feathers. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Dutch celebrate the
monarch’s birthday in a bewildering display of intensely overt nationalism
which somehow – possibly because most people look like circus escapees
– manages to be as hilarious as it is inoffensive. It is a holy day in the
truest sense of those words – it celebrates something that is sacrosanct,
faithfully adhered to and widely revered. And by day’s end you see a
lot of people bowing down, speaking in strange tongues and occasionally lying prostrate.
It can be a very religious experience.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong> Remembrance Day, </strong><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>4 May </strong></span></span><strong>– a complicated reminder<o:p></o:p></strong></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">The reverie subsides quickly
and sobriety returns in time to mark Remembrance Day on May 4. In other countries it
is known as Star Wars Day (“May the Fourth be with you”) or as Audrey Hepburn’s birthday (a woman well worth remembering in her
own right). <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But here in the lowlands,
it is a day to acknowledge all those who have fallen, not only in battle but
also in resistance and in persecution. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxgVO770C0eY0zrPQB9usYIHqxADmEQmKh4XkMGdaOhXr1eY8jjQfdlucgOB2aeMuKZfDvypuqK-hCbEGks6ooBN2F2e3PqP46Z8pUR_It5Meo_H4VtGHwFozYtzmXrOyhRxnBMOJUUvsF/s1600/20150504_174036_resized.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxgVO770C0eY0zrPQB9usYIHqxADmEQmKh4XkMGdaOhXr1eY8jjQfdlucgOB2aeMuKZfDvypuqK-hCbEGks6ooBN2F2e3PqP46Z8pUR_It5Meo_H4VtGHwFozYtzmXrOyhRxnBMOJUUvsF/s320/20150504_174036_resized.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">One of my favourite Amsterdam monuments, in memory of the women of Ravensbruck 1940-1945. </span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">For she who went to extremes to speak out against fascism</span></em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">While not a public holiday, it is a day
that resonates strongly with the Dutch, who come out in force to contemplate
their complex history. As an outsider, I am fascinated by what I see as a
strange mix of survivor’s pride, enabler’s guilt, beneficiary’s gratitude and modernist’s
resolve. In an attempt to understand it I (and a thousand or so of my closest
Dutch friends) walked in the Mayor’s Silent March in the late afternoon light
on Remembrance Day this year. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiElqfUSZ1dJYz0ibkGe_X0Ojukdv1e1gf0sYHHfam3spRxnXUDfnz_MehN3AEre2Q2JiCzIu5OBZ8HNMXTKI3cpo81eUcOOGHgvGu9KXAjJOFXvAaWHKVgEtdiNWjVw6jcB72JYju21qt_/s1600/20150504_185610.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiElqfUSZ1dJYz0ibkGe_X0Ojukdv1e1gf0sYHHfam3spRxnXUDfnz_MehN3AEre2Q2JiCzIu5OBZ8HNMXTKI3cpo81eUcOOGHgvGu9KXAjJOFXvAaWHKVgEtdiNWjVw6jcB72JYju21qt_/s320/20150504_185610.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">A slow and silent march, giving plenty of time to </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">contemplate my Dutch vocabulary</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span></span> </span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">The march, which is a hauntingly silent holy
pilgrimage, follows a three kilometre route from Museumplein to the national
monument at Dam Square, passing several beautiful memorials along the way. The
walk, led by the Mayor of Amsterdam and a couple of hypnotising military
drummers, provides ample opportunity to remember the millions of lives lost and
the incomprehensible resilience that has been shown in re-building this country over the past
seventy years.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">At 8pm, the country
observes a two minute silence, so whether you are driving a tram, walking the
dog, cycling from work, or as Ned Nederlander and I were, tucking into a meal
in a restaurant with friends, you are compelled to stop and remember. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span> </div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I harnessed appropriate thoughts for a large
proportion of the two minute period, but b<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">ecause I am a woman with a short concentration span, </span></span>I confess that my mind wandered during
the last thirty seconds. At that point I became distracted, as I often do, by a
word. It suddenly occurred to me that the Dutch word for Remembrance Day is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dodenherdenking</i> which for someone with
as loose a grip on the language as I have, can be crudely translated as “rethinking
about the dead”. I was reminded, as if I needed it, of how much I love
linguistics and how grateful I am for the sacrifice that the contemporary Dutch
population makes in allowing me to butcher their language and participate in
their culture.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 168.75pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Liberation Day, 5 May – freedom from
seriousness<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></b></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The following day, May
5, is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bevrijdingsdag</i>, the anniversary
of the end of the occupation of the Netherlands during World War II. It
generates a significant change in pace and mood; it is celebratory and upbeat, and
a great excuse for a party or at least a couple of wild and debaucherous music
festivals. However, for reasons that only Dutch bureaucrats understand, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bevrijdingsdag</i> has been declared a five
yearly public holiday, including as luck would have it, 2015. So this year we
were granted another holy day and another reason to love Aunty May.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Ascension Day , 14 May – a missed opportunity?</span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">We have barely caught
our breaths before we are hit with another holy day and another wonderfully
evocative example of Dutch linguistic creativity. Ascension Day, a blessed
public holiday in the lowlands, occurs forty days after Easter, therefore always a Thursday, marking the day
when Jesus ascended to heaven. The Dutch refer to it as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hemelvaartsdag</i>, which, at least to my simple mind, translates as Trip
to Heaven Day. Pondering this recently, Ned Nederlander remarked that if Jesus had delayed his trip for just one
more day, he would have gone to heaven on a Friday, and we would all have a
long weekend each year. However, since He did choose Thursday, and giving due
consideration to the potential for jet lag, perhaps in future Heemelvaarts Friday
should be declared a recovery day and therefore a public holiday? Then again, the Australian government doesn’t
even recognise Trip to Heaven Day as being worthy of a public holiday, so I
should simply be grateful for a lazy Thursday, especially one with such a cute
vocabularial twist.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pentecost days, 24 and 25 May – pent up double-dipping<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">The Dutch do however
grab a sneaky extra day’s break during the final fabulous holy days of May. The
Dutch refer to this time, the fiftieth day after Easter when the Holy Spirit
came upon the disciples, as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pinksterdagen</i>.
It is known as Pentecost in many other countries (as in pentathlon, pentatonic,
pentagon ...get it? Multiples of five; huh, that’s clever). It is typically
marked with appropriate Sunday church services, although it seems to seldom be
celebrated with a public holiday. Additionally, the Dutch (with no biblical authority
as far as I can tell) have declared the day after Pentecost Sunday to be worthy
of a break from work and school, referring to it simply as “Second Pentecost Day”.
It’s generally seen as a day to worship at the retail altar. In an even more
far-fetched interpretation of Pentecost, the administrators at De Jongens’
school have declared the following Tuesday to be an in-service day. Not such
good news for teachers, but an excellent win for parents and students wanting
to get away over a four day long weekend with sunny Aunty May.</span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Opa's Octacost, May 18 - a
lesser known holy day</strong></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Opa Max, Ned Nederlander's widely-adored father, turns 80 tomorrow. Most of his children and grandchildren gathered around him and Oma Hilary at a Sydney
waterfront restaurant this weekend to celebrate. Sadly, neither Ned, De Jongens nor I were there
to share the celebrations in person - regrettable proof of the tyranny of
distance. But that will not stop us from celebrating the wonderful contribution
he has made to all of our lives.</span> </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhzZBXvHPZZAuXok3LIBZcwMaxeynqFePCbYscHUzTREQ866zl8wSJ6Rn8I_XJZ2J-KVz8fSq7tWY83tUyFIJq1GelVBsd-nxpBVCUSLv0RauoJpSeDeNDGBgd0MBhKwXilTP8uV0des0g/s1600/DSC_0168.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhzZBXvHPZZAuXok3LIBZcwMaxeynqFePCbYscHUzTREQ866zl8wSJ6Rn8I_XJZ2J-KVz8fSq7tWY83tUyFIJq1GelVBsd-nxpBVCUSLv0RauoJpSeDeNDGBgd0MBhKwXilTP8uV0des0g/s320/DSC_0168.JPG" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Opa Max casts his golden spell over the Netherlands </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">during a recent visit</span></div>
</td></tr>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">He loves, supports, steadies, amuses, impresses, nurtures and gently guides us all. We are all better people for having Opa Max in our lives. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">It is my firm belief that a public holiday should be declared in his honour.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-size: large;">Happy birthday Opa Max.</span></span></span><br />
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The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-24601699206466928822015-03-19T00:55:00.001+01:002015-03-19T01:22:08.112+01:00The politics of goose poo<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Such is my status in
Dutch society that I have, only hours ago, cast my vote in my first Dutch
election. I love a good voting opportunity, whether it is to choose a national
government, a school board member or to settle a family dispute about which take-away to order on Friday. Family members and long-term-friends
have endured decades of my political rants, and they know how dearly
I hold my civic duty and democratic right to vote. Despite their often flimsy
foundations, these rants have been enthusiastically delivered through a variety of means including
drunken dinner party debates, feisty letters to editors and nerdy “statement t-shirts”. On one memorable occasion, at a generously liquid reception at the US embassy in La Paz, which Ned Nederlander and I somehow accessed, I even debated some now-forgotten political
point (in Spanish) with a British embassy staffer. I recall him looking at me with some bemusement, perhaps because I don’t actually speak Spanish. Apparently that night I thought I did. Ole. </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">My opinions have been freely
provided (and come to think of it, almost invariably unsolicited) across many
platforms. But until now they have not been formally sought in a global setting, notwithstanding those excruciating five minutes in La Paz.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So it was with
considerable enthusiasm that I received my Dutch<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> stempas</i> or voting pass through the post a few weeks ago. Even
though you didn’t ask, can I just take a second to tell you that I have
realised that the Dutch word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stem</i> means
both “to vote” and “voice” – another one of those smile-inducing linguistic moments.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj98f63MU7dh4vOPXQm2rjQo0AI-K0dK1rOXQbAYOTXCSB9vobdAbXOrGWKIjxCdYmlKrDpdLdO50xjFjqtUxEKjd00G6pZAEhQpCPxbLkc6GnnCCcPD-Xf3TzKfbvRWjpGxYOOFXU6NMz0/s1600/logo+verkiezingen+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj98f63MU7dh4vOPXQm2rjQo0AI-K0dK1rOXQbAYOTXCSB9vobdAbXOrGWKIjxCdYmlKrDpdLdO50xjFjqtUxEKjd00G6pZAEhQpCPxbLkc6GnnCCcPD-Xf3TzKfbvRWjpGxYOOFXU6NMz0/s1600/logo+verkiezingen+2015.jpg" height="137" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stempas</i> was evidence that the Dutch
provincial elections were imminent. The fact that I was the recipient of my own
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stempas</i> was evidence that my entry to global politics was also imminent. Admittedly, my inability to name a single candidate
gave me a slight cause for concern, but since a lack of knowledge has never
before dissuaded me from providing a strident opinion, I convinced myself that
I’d be up to speed in no time and ready to vote come March 18.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sadly, early in my
electoral research I came to the shattering realisation that I was in
fact <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> eligible to vote in the
provincial election. This was due to my not yet having
lived in the Lowlands for five consecutive years. Three years ... five years ...
personally I don’t see much difference.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"></span></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"></span></span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">However a
dubious consolation vote was on offer. It seems that two concurrent elections
were scheduled for March 18 and I was eligible to vote in the second
– the Dutch Water Board or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Waterschappen </i>elections.
These represent a fourth layer of government after the national, provincial and
municipal administrations. Based on my Australian experience, three layers of
government is way too cumbersome. How then can this nation of 17 million people
support four layers? </span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Initially I scoffed at the
triviality of my electoral opportunity, uncertain whether even I could
muster the enthusiasm to vote in such a contest.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">But before you also scoff,
consider how crucial water management is in this country. More than a quarter
of the Lowlands lies below sea level, a feat only made possible by the one thousand
kilometres of dykes holding back the “water wolf”. </span></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIi7A0XwfoWeMRrO_BdK2DgvplrFZxWXUGeJ-Ni8dM5kO0B4kD-ByQ3Xr2VfEyWtLk1QR12XYxKvPHt73uaG404-CTJRJfdBJ1umCnfqRbe2GDrINmEh7_UWJ5XCkgF4pc04Jv2K4PrEhS/s1600/026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIi7A0XwfoWeMRrO_BdK2DgvplrFZxWXUGeJ-Ni8dM5kO0B4kD-ByQ3Xr2VfEyWtLk1QR12XYxKvPHt73uaG404-CTJRJfdBJ1umCnfqRbe2GDrINmEh7_UWJ5XCkgF4pc04Jv2K4PrEhS/s1600/026.JPG" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h4>
The (Water) Wolf at the door</h4>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">This country, measuring only
600 by 450 kilometres, contains six thousand
kilometres of natural and artificial water courses within its boundaries. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So if you’re going to
vote for a Water Board member in any country in the world, it’s going to be here,
right? Elect a group of incompetent fools and it can put a dampener on your
whole day. The country will be flooded with complaints. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I set out to
educate myself before I headed to the polling booth. I discovered that there
are 22 water boards, spread across the twelve Dutch provinces. In my (unsolicited)
opinion, that smacks a little of over governance. Undeterred, I went on to
identify my own local Water Board. It goes by the decidedly dry name of Amstel,
Gooie en Vecht. To my dismay I then discovered that no fewer than thirteen
parties have nominated candidates in Amstel, Gooie en Vecht, suggesting quite a
bit of fluidity in policy variation, with considerable potential for overlap. My
dedication to my civic duty began to waver.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fortunately, an entire
website has been created to help me make my choice
between the thirteen parties. It’s called the Choice Compass, and I suspect
that several of my friends are secretly hoping for a hyperlink. </span><a href="https://amstelgooienvecht.kieskompas.nl/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Here</span></a><span style="font-size: large;"> it is.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Choice Compass<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>comprises a series of thirty questions on
different water policy issues, each with a brief background explanation. Respondents
indicate their position on a scale from Completely Agree through to Completely
Disagree. The thirteen parties indicate their position on each question,
so respondents can see which party they are most aligned with. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">I entered my responses,
with the characteristic gusto of a woman comfortable giving her own opinion
regardless of her knowledge of the topic. The only question that really
stopped me in my tracks was a request for my opinion on goose culling. This was
not something I had previously given a lot of thought to, although as a cyclist I do find goose poo to be a nuisance when it is deposited in disturbingly large blobs by reckless birds on rural canal-side cycle paths. Whether that makes the geese themselves a nuisance worthy of culling, I am not so certain about. On a related note, I have
imposed family sanctions on fois gras purchases for as long as I can remember. For the record I find the force-feeding of birds barbaric. But that's just my opinion.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPGsFQAgkUx49HcbZlEXis9kQWFBPKNaVy2dKDAQHBokSdXiKxq5XQ2twatVMxPhMYt1nPV6DyYIHSwxrkIkEA_rpvvpFkbHLTGwhp-D2T9RnkzYx8ExXyEaNrkdmIWkTNPxbk1vMrWmCQ/s1600/geese.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPGsFQAgkUx49HcbZlEXis9kQWFBPKNaVy2dKDAQHBokSdXiKxq5XQ2twatVMxPhMYt1nPV6DyYIHSwxrkIkEA_rpvvpFkbHLTGwhp-D2T9RnkzYx8ExXyEaNrkdmIWkTNPxbk1vMrWmCQ/s1600/geese.jpg" height="393" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h4>
"To reduce nuisances, the Water Authority ... may kill geese"</h4>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was also a little
perplexed by a question about whether development aid should continue. I think
this has something to do with sharing Dutch water management expertise, which
in a world challenged by drastic climate change, I’m in favour of. However, not
entirely certain what actually lay behind this question, I decided to interpret
it in an Australian context, solely to suit my own political purposes. </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></span></div>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-rnFu25mX8ot5os8-y4twKqaimMbRHWZoNnFC3seCnGOIrfiWoSHZuqZEk3ThXBIuPojcd-X0QZkATSKtySd58-KEefgBABAPXABtvIuVcJMvWLhvFN0-rlScYdsMRTurft50lHqJN2zj/s1600/government+aid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-rnFu25mX8ot5os8-y4twKqaimMbRHWZoNnFC3seCnGOIrfiWoSHZuqZEk3ThXBIuPojcd-X0QZkATSKtySd58-KEefgBABAPXABtvIuVcJMvWLhvFN0-rlScYdsMRTurft50lHqJN2zj/s1600/government+aid.jpg" height="361" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h4>
"The Water Authority ... should stop with development aid"</h4>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Still
fuming that Tony Abbott’s conservative Australian government recently slashed
its development aid budget by 20%, I thought it might be a good opportunity to make the point that I Completely
Disagree that any government should stop development aid. And so another unsolicited
political opinion is expressed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">After completing the
questions, the website helpfully elucidated my position on
Dutch water management. Two minutes earlier, I hadn’t known that I even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> a position on Dutch water management,
although of course if pushed I probably could have given you one.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">The red circle on my
Results page shows my position relative to the standing parties. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0UfumsiUnbR5fnRrWePSGa_ve1-NcrYSD8iU0INOUOkNPO0s487UCewaZoX0B5aSwROsfF4X-PTVR2VgXU5cNDQMO3hO4scMQBTfiOTXUIg3jD9umNtT_qXCvDZOYFpB5-uE_fTQBmiBN/s1600/results.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0UfumsiUnbR5fnRrWePSGa_ve1-NcrYSD8iU0INOUOkNPO0s487UCewaZoX0B5aSwROsfF4X-PTVR2VgXU5cNDQMO3hO4scMQBTfiOTXUIg3jD9umNtT_qXCvDZOYFpB5-uE_fTQBmiBN/s1600/results.jpg" height="433" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h4>
Slightly left of centre ... who would have guessed?</h4>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was somewhat
disappointed to be so far removed from the enticingly named 50 Plus Party, but I
was happy to find myself relatively aligned with the Water Natuurlijk Party,
whose logo I was quite taken by.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Duly informed, I took myself off to
the nearest polling booth, having practised the Dutch word for “goose poo”,
on the off chance that an exit pollster might seek my views on the big issues of the day. I stood in the booth for at least ten
minutes, partly because I was revelling in my newfound role of Global Voter,
but more because I was more than a little taken aback by the table-cloth sized
voting paper. Thirteen parties sure, but the fact that several of them had around
twenty candidates was something that Choice Compass had not prepared me for!
Are there really that many Dutch people that keen to be involved in dyke maintenance,
groundwater allocation and goose culling? And how should I prioritise those individuals?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But there is no longer time
to ponder such questions, for now I must turn my attention to the New South
Wales election to be held on 26 March. Readers can only imagine my glee at
recently receiving a letter inviting me to submit an online absentee vote in an
election that I actually know a little about. I can even log on and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">practise</i> voting if I want to!</span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Then, to top off my week , Grote Jongen enrolled in Global Politics as one of his IB Diploma subject choices. Yes, I've read all the parenting books about not living vicariously through your children, but surely you'll give me this one? I'm already excited about reading his text book.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">So then, two elections in two hemispheres within
two weeks, followed by two years of living with a Global Politics student. In my opinion, that’s too exciting.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
</div>
The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-38320059392045528982015-01-08T00:14:00.000+01:002016-01-09T17:22:45.392+01:00Leaving. Again<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s turning out to be
a rougher flight than I expected. According to the map on the back of the seat
in front of me we are just crossing the northern Australian coastline. Darwin
is apparently to the north west of us, although the thick clouds outside the
window suggest that it is equally likely that we are at the North Pole. Our
entry to the airspace above the Arafura Sea has been met with quite some
meteorological resistance, so the captain has switched on the seatbelt sign,
which always makes me nervous mid-flight. Actually, I am nervous for the
duration of any flight, but this one is proving to be particularly challenging.
For this time, as well as being physically jostled and tossed in my seat I also feel anxious,
excited, guilty, concerned, grateful, and a little confused about exactly which
country my head is in. Turns out it’s split between two.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Almost three weeks
ago, Ned Nederlander, De Jongens and I flew into Sydney for a Christmas visit. Until
recently, that flight would have marked the end of a three year ex-pat adventure in
the Lowlands; we were due to come “home” to the harbour city to stay. We had
expected to close the book on our three year adventure and fall comfortably
back into step with the kith and kin who had so graciously encouraged our
odyssey in the first place. Instead, a couple of months ago we made the
exhausting, excruciating, exhilarating decision to stay in the Lowlands for a
few more years. Arriving at that decision was torturous, as the
long-suffering friends who propped us up during the process will attest. Weighing
up the relative benefits of life in Sydney and Amsterdam felt like making a
choice between the mango pannacotta and the chocolate tasting plate at the end
of a sumptuous feast. A little bit of both would be perfect, but sadly not a menu
option. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigjmbkA9HssHPJfLd0hgx6muQTMNh-W8iyyeCXBPbT9Nq2nkipKawRlsTGLd6gaEnwVhYPhPzSz2cSoyR4vspjxZONSLRdh5ZYpAj1d5r-TIMrURt_DBzoLmjHtiwHzDce8u0Ka3w8XzRK/s1600/DSC_0046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigjmbkA9HssHPJfLd0hgx6muQTMNh-W8iyyeCXBPbT9Nq2nkipKawRlsTGLd6gaEnwVhYPhPzSz2cSoyR4vspjxZONSLRdh5ZYpAj1d5r-TIMrURt_DBzoLmjHtiwHzDce8u0Ka3w8XzRK/s1600/DSC_0046.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF5FUnyw8nyGvjck4G0NN_MNpdP-GEP6iZYcN4tyh0lOSejaL1bKSJmAtssjGn4MP9Z_35CShZGEtSSLCUw2Fl7NJw7q7mFG_8JhSlRK6heMM2UPyL_iEwprHucoDkCBLdQwuiPeXJgukc/s1600/DSC_0037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF5FUnyw8nyGvjck4G0NN_MNpdP-GEP6iZYcN4tyh0lOSejaL1bKSJmAtssjGn4MP9Z_35CShZGEtSSLCUw2Fl7NJw7q7mFG_8JhSlRK6heMM2UPyL_iEwprHucoDkCBLdQwuiPeXJgukc/s1600/DSC_0037.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Our final decision to
remain a while longer in the Lowlands meant that the planned permanent
homecoming morphed into a temporary visit. Suddenly that visit is over and as I type, we are en route back to an extended Lowlands
experience. Somewhat unexpectedly, I’m finding that a bit confronting.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Our drive to the
airport this morning was subdued and pensive. At the check-in counter, I was
surprised by a sudden desire to call the whole thing off and go straight to the beach for one more
pine-lime Splice. Minutes later the universe seemed to be colluding with me, as
my old and battered passport refused to allow itself to be scanned. While official
brows were furrowed and calls to supervisors were made, I decided to avoid
asking the obvious question of why my passport number could not simply be typed
manually into the computer like in the old days. Truth is, I was secretly
thrilled at the thought that I might be granted a few more days of harbour-side
seafood lunches with girlfriends while a replacement passport was produced. My
fantasy was short-lived however as moments later I was waved through the
barrier with a cheery and oh-so-Australian “you’re good to go, love”. I strolled
over to my waiting family, still puzzled as to why I was not more enthusiastic about returning
to the Lowlands.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now, some hours into
the flight, I remain confused and conflicted. The in-flight map on the screen
in front of me shows the familiar outline of Australia disappearing behind me. A
figurative aeroplane glides over the map, indicating our
current location. I concentrate hard and will the little plane to turn around, but
I am childishly distressed to realise that it is after all moving forward,
millimetre by millimetre. A solid yellow stripe emanates from the tail
of the graphic aeroplane and stretches all the way back to Sydney, reminding me
of where I’ve come from. A dashed yellow line stretches out across the ocean in
front of us, indicating where we are going next. It disappears off the
side of the map, reminding me that I really have no idea where I am headed, other than to
the edge. I am worried that this yellow line is
a pixellated cartographic allegory for my life, but then I am unexpectedly
cheered by the realisation that even in my mental confusion, I can still generate
phrases like “pixellated cartographic allegory”. How good is this third glass
of wine??<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">
The flight information screen is a veritable smorgasbord of data
but frankly it adds to my confusion. For example, I so wish that I didn’t know
that it’s 6:58pm where I’ve just come from, 3:58pm where I am heading for a
brief stopover, and 8:58am at my final destination. How on earth (or in the
air) am I supposed to process that in my current emotional state? It is equally
unhelpful for me to learn that it is 30<sup>o</sup>C at my departure airport, minus
55<sup>o</sup>C outside the window where I am currently sitting, 16<sup>o</sup>C
at my imminent stopover destination and probably 1<sup>o</sup>C or less at my
final destination. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, here I am, being
propelled through the sky in a metal tube, more than eleven kilometres above the
coastline of my homeland. Apparently, in 5 hours and 18 minutes the tube will come
to a stop and I will be squeezed out of it. I will wait a few hours before entering
another metal tube and continuing to travel backwards in time and space for a
further twelve and a half hours on my mind-bending, emotion-contorting journey.
By then I will be fundamentally altered, hemispherically, temporally,
seasonally and thermally. I will need to then gather myself for a
potentially uncomfortable conversation with a Dutch immigration officer, who
will no doubt expect a good explanation for the fact that my residency permit
expired yesterday, and who is likely to take some convincing that I expect an
extension to be forthcoming any day now. At that, I wonder if the pilot would consider
turning around and delivering me back to Sydney, but emotional exhaustion gets
the better of me and I fall asleep before I can ask him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">On waking I watch a movie, titled
somewhat prophetically “This is Where I Leave You” (spooky, huh?). Four adult
siblings spend a week with their loving but eccentric mother (oooh, that’s a
bit close to the bone). </span></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWnyj2X8gSlIoTrZdkRq3Jde1bskhhJ3rBkWLmNhxS2tfhonH-im-pNpP7GHPoZPISer459hhhXuqTVtbwJlzUJw81uKsmf9YdotmG9RJgZTRXHTSRZsfUdfm9KrviTm4xtH7KYL27yTBp/s1600/movie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWnyj2X8gSlIoTrZdkRq3Jde1bskhhJ3rBkWLmNhxS2tfhonH-im-pNpP7GHPoZPISer459hhhXuqTVtbwJlzUJw81uKsmf9YdotmG9RJgZTRXHTSRZsfUdfm9KrviTm4xtH7KYL27yTBp/s1600/movie.jpg" width="215" /></span></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">They laugh, reminisce, confess, squabble, expose, reveal, infuriate,
divide and unite (is it just me or is it hot in here?). In the final dramatic scene,
one of the siblings is inspired to leave the family gathering somewhat impetuously, jump into a
conveniently parked convertible and drive, wind in hair, uplifting
music pounding, to a distant destination that he has long dreamed about visiting (okay, that's enough). Actually, the plot is much more
sophisticated than I make it sound, but it’s hard for me to channel
sophistication while I am snivelling like a baby at the thought of leaving my
own family and friends some hours earlier.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Somewhere around the
time we crossed the equator (I guess it was near the very point where water
starts to go down the drain in the opposite direction), my spinning head finally
calmed. In Hong Kong airport, we were reunited with friends from Amsterdam who
were transferring onto the same flight as us. Sitting with them at the
departure gate, chatting about mutual friends, speculating about emerging
controversies at our local football club and observing the easy friendship
between their boys and De Jongens was grounding and reassuring. I became aware
of a number of people around us speaking Dutch; the much-loved soundtrack of
our lowlands life, and I happily let it wash over me (while pondering how good
it would be if I understood more than one word in fifty). Meanwhile, Grote
Jongen nodded at a stunning girl standing nearby and when I raised a curious maternal
eyebrow he was quick to explain that she was in his grade at school. Kleine
Jongen stopped talking about the Australian cricket team and instead returned
to musing aloud about the English Premier League. Ned Nederlander mentioned work for
the first time in a fortnight and casually remarked that he’d be making a day
trip to Germany in a couple of days. So began the slow re-entry to my other
world, and with it the gradual settling of my turbulent emotions.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Taxiing from the terminal
in Hong Kong for the last leg of my latest journey, I pondered the incredibly good
fortune of being able to leave one place I call “home” in order to go to
another place I also call “home”, and to be equally enamoured with them both. I
considered the great gift of being equally “at home” in two cities on opposite sides
of the globe, and the even greater gift of being free to choose between them. It
seems the price of such a privilege is that I am destined to live with my heart
split between two countries, my head swivelling Janus-like between them, my
feet itching relentlessly to skip to the other place and then wanting to come back again. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">For now I'll happily pay that price, and endure the occasional turbulence that goes with it. So this is where I leave you ... at least until I come back.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-33830513182246195772014-09-19T01:38:00.001+02:002014-09-19T14:20:57.447+02:00A "framily" adventure<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">This gem appeared on
my Bookface feed this morning.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span> </div>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI9ObiXM_BOo4JE2pX1nRvyIfQASQP_s0W7CwLAcPCO7UcLTj7-Lc5E1Q-un2BN5ZblvuhflkGq3Fd6mBFEvAT18C4IwkTVa2CxwstAanGRf97CDnYoRlwwFKDmsd0VE5ocY3_usYTjr-8/s1600/adventure+befall+-+Jane+Austin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI9ObiXM_BOo4JE2pX1nRvyIfQASQP_s0W7CwLAcPCO7UcLTj7-Lc5E1Q-un2BN5ZblvuhflkGq3Fd6mBFEvAT18C4IwkTVa2CxwstAanGRf97CDnYoRlwwFKDmsd0VE5ocY3_usYTjr-8/s1600/adventure+befall+-+Jane+Austin.jpg" height="320" width="289" /></a></span></span></span></div>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="font-size: large;">It’s a
quote from Jane Austin’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Northanger Abbey</i>.
It was posted by my dear friend Lady Howmany, an inspiring mother of four very
fine young women.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She shared it hours
after she deposited her two 15 year old daughters on a plane bound for my village on The Other Side
Of The World.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The twins, or RaLa, will
spend the next two weeks at the little known (because it didn’t exist before
today) Low Down Dutch Finishing School in Amsterdam, of which I am, apparently,
the Principal.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lady Howmany and I know a
bit about villages and their value.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We lived
around the corner from each other in the “village” of Sydney.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During that time, she taught me the truth of
the oft-quoted adage that “it takes a village to raise a child”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She certainly helped raise mine.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I met her in the
school playground a decade or so ago. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
was gloriously competent, confident and self-assured.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sight of Her Ladyship effortlessly wrangling
four feisty girls and a couple of extra playmates, all under six years of age, into
a small bus was a sight to behold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
realisation that she could do that while simultaneously conducting a phone call
with her boss, triumphantly extracting a long-lost library book from a school
bag, expertly applying a bandaid to a scraped knee and calmly completing the
overdue netball registration form convinced me that she was unlikely to ever
want to be friends with someone like me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Until I saw her in action I truly thought that my emerging ability to
get a four and a six year old boy into a car and have their seat belts done up
in less than fifteen minutes was admirable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">However, we did become
friends, for which I must say I take full credit. I make that claim because I believe that we bonded over
my somewhat pretentious use of one of the few words in the English language
that m'lady didn’t know the definition of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If I recall correctly, she was telling several of us how busy she had
been that day, and I casually remarked that she was suffering from “the curse
of the </span><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/fecund"><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="color: blue;">fecund</span></span></a></span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
irony of a mother of four asking what “fecund” meant still makes me chuckle.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Before the day was
done the friendship was cemented not only by a shared love of words and an
equally irreverent sense of humour, but also by a mutually recognised
opportunity to redress the gender imbalance in our respective families.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We set out on an ambitious and blatantly
contrived social engineering scheme to constructively expose our offspring to
the opposite sex.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When “boys’ germs” and
“girls’ germs” were rife in the school playground that our six children shared,
our respective houses appeared to give them all immunity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At school they barely acknowledged each other.
But in each other’s houses they jumped on trampolines together and built cubby
houses together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When it got too dark to do that anymore they lolled
on sofas together, alternating between movies about princesses and movies about
action heroes (hopefully realising that the storyline in both was
identical). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They squabbled together, they
ganged up against each other, and then before we knew it they had
regrouped and were giggling together during one of countless shared meals. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were so comfortable in their inter-familial
gang, flipping effortlessly between their inter-familial houses and travelling
in their inter-familial cars that Lady Howmany and I decided they were “framily”;
more than friends but not quite family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A decade later, her four girls are still referred to in our house as
“the fristers”; more than friends but not quite sisters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In a few hours, two of the
fristers will once again be sitting in our living room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> From there we'll set out together to discover my Amsterdam village and places further afield. Before too long I expect they'll be squabbling with their frothers and then giggling with them once again around our shared table. </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">And so, I hope, The Low Down Dutch Finishing School will take us all right back to that beautifully happy place where our framily started a decade ago. Now <em>that's</em> what I call an adventure.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span> </div>
The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-41711446412106831112014-08-07T23:09:00.002+02:002015-02-20T19:31:52.222+01:00Trevails of two travelling teens<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Twenty minutes from adventure. Twenty light years from appreciating it.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">De Jongens have spent
the last two and a half years living a twenty minute bus ride from one of the
busiest airports in Europe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Affordable flights
to countless exotic destinations are theirs for the taking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Furthermore, they have been blessed –yes,
blessed - with parents who love to travel. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You would think this heady combination would
provide untold opportunities for family adventure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEistEPQvEFiGOAOytg6Wwhs13wR-tKg9TJJeLse_LhuOXf_0APIF1AUVdXDusKuTjabl6Ci9QkGUrvJZFBITUszxNoMqONGEdhxPmHs-eqKcIwhLBWRhhszrA0mERfVYVxwncQ9N7iIjcum/s1600/DSC_0034-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEistEPQvEFiGOAOytg6Wwhs13wR-tKg9TJJeLse_LhuOXf_0APIF1AUVdXDusKuTjabl6Ci9QkGUrvJZFBITUszxNoMqONGEdhxPmHs-eqKcIwhLBWRhhszrA0mERfVYVxwncQ9N7iIjcum/s1600/DSC_0034-001.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"I simply can't look at another real life castle"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yet instead it
provides untold opportunities for juvenile complaining and associated parental
incredulity.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Do we have to go away
AGAIN?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">“How long for?”</span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"></span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">“WHY do we have to go
away EVERY break? Can’t we just stay home for once?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We ALWAYS go away. None of my friends go away.
EVER.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFl1c8qtn0rWIQNelsTQSeUDtpB4G6N8ccvSBN4Vj8xUx5wSVyUIUODuqjG-J17ZhJMhw2HUTJkMakir3jURrh4ASExvbVatxsjEcvf-fMSkrCF1UJLehe_9us_zfU9kERvM3SZFHsivqB/s1600/DSC_0249.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFl1c8qtn0rWIQNelsTQSeUDtpB4G6N8ccvSBN4Vj8xUx5wSVyUIUODuqjG-J17ZhJMhw2HUTJkMakir3jURrh4ASExvbVatxsjEcvf-fMSkrCF1UJLehe_9us_zfU9kERvM3SZFHsivqB/s1600/DSC_0249.JPG" height="320" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Tolerating another pile of ancient bricks. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">This time in Rome</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">“This family sucks.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I’m not going.”</span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"></span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ned Nederlander and I cling
desperately to our parental self-control. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Through gritted teeth we proffer calm
reassurances and gentle counter-points.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes,
aren’t you lucky?” and “At least you won’t have to look at that silly old X-Box
for a while; won’t that be a relief?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">And our favourite “It
will be great.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll see things you’ve
never seen before, and which some people will never see in their lifetime. “<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPvCnPE_FjSEZV0L2PR8n7ORZUW3YiRs7PaHJ94s9vfNh9FeIbxUj7kWRTOA6sup-RlKiV6XRnBIwppeFIPw6Nm1JfLRERQ9NmWnlBskGNiOBy30UqslcDs9czT4K5SSxSQ_3OnzwIzzz-/s1600/2014-02-24+12.32.20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPvCnPE_FjSEZV0L2PR8n7ORZUW3YiRs7PaHJ94s9vfNh9FeIbxUj7kWRTOA6sup-RlKiV6XRnBIwppeFIPw6Nm1JfLRERQ9NmWnlBskGNiOBy30UqslcDs9czT4K5SSxSQ_3OnzwIzzz-/s1600/2014-02-24+12.32.20.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Hey, the graphics here are quite good really</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Great”, they huff. “How
about you go and find those people and take them with you because maybe they’ll
appreciate it more than we will.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">This exchange, I’ve
come to realise, is the modern equivalent of my mother’s “Eat your dinner and
be thankful you have food on your plate because there are children starving in
Africa you know”. To which my siblings and I, and I suspect many of my esteemed
readers with similarly compassionate parents, frequently retorted “Fine, put it
in a box and send it to them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I
doubt even they will eat THIS”.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsjtncloikwPvKWcTXcNVO76NJXDC_Wk1qTtziOjhDnKoPxYpSDrTY7SwXgo2je81zcXO_PIML1ExXgpSF1IQ1ZfxsMAbEiXKLoVElbvtnuNRZDyGlLqeWDgBeH1u352PrgOKsXaZ-m3kt/s1600/DSC_1092.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsjtncloikwPvKWcTXcNVO76NJXDC_Wk1qTtziOjhDnKoPxYpSDrTY7SwXgo2je81zcXO_PIML1ExXgpSF1IQ1ZfxsMAbEiXKLoVElbvtnuNRZDyGlLqeWDgBeH1u352PrgOKsXaZ-m3kt/s1600/DSC_1092.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">That's nothing - we've seen moods all over Europe</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Interestingly, the
same children who so vehemently rail against the cruel travel regime we impose
on them, spend many of their waking hours taking themselves off into various
fantasy worlds, courtesy of a game controller, a mobile phone or a laptop, and
frequently all three simultaneously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Exasperated, I demand
to know why it is that they can spend hours each day cruising through digital
worlds of other people’s making, yet not want to cruise through a perfectly fabulous
real world right outside their own front door?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Their reply is loaded
with teenage logic and no small amount of calculated provocation.</span></span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwKcuVXRoFHltj3maqr68cKkajXGGJUl7CFbF0B0hdLTZNtX7oi-bSNXQUiXdzn5fMJbbIgxJGB_q0Won6gBJzttoly2hQVRiOUdexm1nBpsgMmjl3cXpv2FZqC-yvB_JvnijIcQtTrWC5/s1600/DSC_0620.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwKcuVXRoFHltj3maqr68cKkajXGGJUl7CFbF0B0hdLTZNtX7oi-bSNXQUiXdzn5fMJbbIgxJGB_q0Won6gBJzttoly2hQVRiOUdexm1nBpsgMmjl3cXpv2FZqC-yvB_JvnijIcQtTrWC5/s1600/DSC_0620.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The Sahara, as seen by a person who was actually there</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Listen, we’ve already
seen the place you want to take us – we looked it up online and we saw loads of
pictures so we don’t need to go now”.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Cue: stomping, slumping,
sighing, sarcasm, screeching and slamming of doors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">By me; the supposedly mature,
wise, adult.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Finally, happy with
the response they have incited, one of them will ask, in a resigned tone of
voice, “Does the place we’re staying at have wifi?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">That’s when we know we’ve
got them, and realise they have been playing us all along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon after that point we find ourselves skipping
to Schiphol yet again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the way one or
other of De Jongens is highly likely to say “Look, thanks for these amazing
opportunities you are giving us. I know we sometimes appear like completely
ungrateful little toads, but actually we realise how privileged we are and we
are certain these trips are helping us put the world in context. You two are
the best parents. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thanks for all the opportunities you are so
selflessly giving us.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Really. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They do.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ok, no they don’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ever.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Once at the airport, having
overcome any issues arising from De Jongens’ plaintive claims to the Border
Control officer that Ned and I are complete strangers intent on kidnapping them
and stealing their kidneys, we start to relax.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sometimes however we are subsequently called on to assist the security personnel
remove the silver spoons that De Jongens have shoved down their socks (having
taken them out of their privileged mouths) in an attempt to set off the metal detectors
and have themselves evicted from the airport. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once these and a variety of other unexpected
traumas have been dealt with, Ned and I generally agree that we have earned a
holiday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s at that point that we can
see clearly enough to remind each other that gratitude can’t be forced on
people. Particularly your own offspring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We then move on to acknowledge, with incredible maturity and wisdom, that appreciation
for opportunities sometimes only comes with time and
hindsight. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With luck, the value of
the heady combination of a twenty minute bus ride to Schiphol and
two wanderlust-stricken parents will one day dawn on De Jongens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">For my part, I
now realise that my own mother's heady combination of tuna bake with curried cabbage wasn’t
as bad as I thought at the time, and I apologise for my lack of gratitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, had I eaten it
while it was hot, instead of complaining and resisting for the duration of the
meal, I probably would have grown to love it and experienced a considerable
increase in nutritional benefit in the process. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">And by the way Mum, if you
have some of it left over now, I’m happy to personally deliver a care package to Africa. I can be at Schiphol in twenty minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span>The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-19096221741141116982014-01-26T21:59:00.004+01:002014-01-27T21:16:43.600+01:00My city. Mice city.<span style="font-size: large;">Rodents love Amsterdam. In fact it's remarkable that your average thinking mouse would choose to live anywhere else. Centuries-old houses offer excellent prospects for an opportunistic small mammal. An extensive network of canals and bridges, a medieval garbage collection system and a focus on cheese completes the idyllic picture. Yet with outside temperatures sometimes hovering around <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">-6<sup>o</sup>C</span>, you can understand why a resourceful rodent might at times seek out a cosy Dutch kitchen within which to retire between outdoor exploits. I often do the same.</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijNLPlvzbMBdEIsAtblG11fRbF5odNKPwBiBSPkpw8qgNx7NyEYE4H25DJeXNPACHeYpV6WBrct-L-8pHrBo1GrzHjrJStVycFd-QxJA8-KbvqswvjUZJZp91SEhXS3WS94SmlSbxs-oC9/s1600/DSC_0059.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijNLPlvzbMBdEIsAtblG11fRbF5odNKPwBiBSPkpw8qgNx7NyEYE4H25DJeXNPACHeYpV6WBrct-L-8pHrBo1GrzHjrJStVycFd-QxJA8-KbvqswvjUZJZp91SEhXS3WS94SmlSbxs-oC9/s1600/DSC_0059.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A cheese shop on every corner</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Some months ago I became aware that a couple of mice had sought out the comfort of our kitchen. The most compelling evidence was an empty foil packet that had contained two hundred grams of pistachio nuts in their shell. When I found it, it contained nothing - not a nut, not a shell. Nothing. My first thought was that De Jongens had devoured the nuts and left the empty packet (do all children do that, or only mine?). But the crudely-gnawed corner of the foil, in combination with a disconcerting amount of scatological evidence might just as well have been a giant flashing sign proclaiming "RODENT WAS HERE". My only consolation was the reassuringly tiny poohs that had been left behind; I was pretty sure I wasn't dealing with a rat or a wayward weasel. Just a brazen, rapacious, pistachio-shell eating mouse. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">That's a relief then.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Because I like to stick my head in the sand, particularly when it comes to the possibility of needing to kill animals, I employed a two-pronged response. First, I deliberately didn't say anything to Ned Nederlander about the pistachio theft, because I knew he would establish a chemical armoury that would leave the culprits vomiting their insides up under our fridge. Second, I convinced myself that a mere one or two mice had taken up residence and that really, all things considered, no action was necessary. I resolved to always walk into the kitchen stomping my feet, clapping my hands and singing loudly. For reasons I can no longer recall, I was reluctant to call on the services of one of the many euphemistically-named exterminators who seem to make their fortunes in this city.</span> <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwcJBRI269ObciRwI1jNwAYSm5zGwkWz79PGZH6FxLt9LpMzoYV2xTiuMRojrNfjBMwrhlIff-wnN91yUG5wXw9QSqEesZuf8CGvLll1YkdlcHytbXN1Hnc4Zuzvau5RHrUJ553n3M4a70/s1600/2012-11-12+15.49.45.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwcJBRI269ObciRwI1jNwAYSm5zGwkWz79PGZH6FxLt9LpMzoYV2xTiuMRojrNfjBMwrhlIff-wnN91yUG5wXw9QSqEesZuf8CGvLll1YkdlcHytbXN1Hnc4Zuzvau5RHrUJ553n3M4a70/s1600/2012-11-12+15.49.45.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I spotted the Mouse Doctor parked in our street shortly after we moved in.<br />
I soon realised he wasn't there to care for a neighbour's sick pet. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Friends suggested that a couple of mouse traps would do the trick. Alas the sound of a tripped spring snapping shut on a small mammalian neck during the night was not something that would give me any satisfaction. On the contrary, it would force me to confront some long-buried childhood memories.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">When I was seven, my family moved to a remote area in rural Australia. Our arrival coincided with a mouse plague of biblical proportions. Most of the annual wheat harvest was eaten by mice well before the harvesters could get to it. My family didn't actually grow wheat, but we provided comfortable accommodation for the fat, happy, fecund rodents who feasted on it that year. I have a memory of my seven year old self opening a cupboard, the bottom of which was a seething square metre of brown fur. I have another memory of shutting that cupboard again quickly and running outside. My mother remembers my brothers, aged five and three, playing with toy cars in a pile of dirt and gravel that we grandly called "the sand pit". As mice scurried around them, one occasionally ran up a youthful shirt sleeve. De Broers, who must have simply figured that mice were a part of life, allegedly shook them out and continued with their game. Even today, my mother looks invincibly triumphant when recounting the time the washing machine hose dispatched several dozen drowned mice into the laundry tub. It seems they had taken shelter in the hose overnight, unaware that the morning would bring a frenzy of washing activity. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Mouse traps were thus an unpleasant fixture in my life for those couple of years. The principal legacy of that time is an unshakeable image of my parents disposing of still-twitching rodents each morning. That, and an enduring phobia of having my fingers cruelly crippled. So how likely do you think it was that I would use mouse traps in my Lowlands Pestilence Response Strategy? </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Not very.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Somewhat hopefully, I turned to the internet to better understand my options. Not surprisingly, my choice of search terms - "humane mouse management" - yielded few results. Removing the word "humane" introduced me to the gruesome concept of glue traps. I can accept the use of a sticky trap as a blow-fly management tool in rural Australia, but I am not happy about them being used for anything with fur. The prospect of needing to deal with a sticky board containing an immobilised live mouse so desperate to escape that it has attempted to gnaw off its own limbs is a deal breaker for me. <em>Tom and Jerry</em> meets <em>The Godfather</em>. It holds absolutely no appeal for a woman who cried in <em>Stuart Little</em>. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I am embarrassed to admit that I soon gave names to "my" mice. Because they obviously lived in a complex maze of tunnels behind the cupboards, because they stored up treasures for the afterlife (principally pistachios), but mostly because they really, really annoyed the mummies, I called them Toot and Carmen.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Such thoughts of ancient Egyptians, and a recollection that they deified cats gave me another idea. I am not a fan of cats at all, but I like them more than mice so I stopped shoo-ing the neighbourhood cats out of our garden. I even tolerated the big fluffy ginger one sitting brazenly on my kitchen windowsill, hopeful that he might persuade Toot and Carmen to seek other lodgings. Kind of like Snowbell, the big old mean cat in <em>Stuart Little.</em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Meanwhile, I learned that mice are almost blind, as suggested by that well-known nursery rhyme. To compensate for this disability, they urinate every twenty centimetres or so to mark where they have been. Without this "odour map" of their surroundings, they become disorientated and forget where the lucrative cupboards are. Good to know. Furthermore, I reasoned that if they can't smell any food (because the floors are spotless and the pistachio supply is now kept in a locked safe), they might just decamp to my unsuspecting neighbours' house. My Lowlands Pestilence Response Strategy was coming into sharper focus. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">For weeks afterwards, kitchen cupboards, drawers and shelves were scrupulously disinfected on a daily basis. The floor was mopped more frequently than ever before. Mouse urine be gone. A bread bin was purchased (although a family mutiny forced me to remove the padlock and barbed wire I cannily added). Crumbs were banished hourly from all surfaces and I became more tyrannical than usual about dishes needing to be put straight into the dishwasher. I crawled for hours, inspecting skirting boards and the backs of cupboards, stuffing wads of steel wool into anything that looked like a potential mouse access point.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Shortly afterwards, either Toot or Carmen died under
our fridge. I like to think she died of cleanliness. I mentioned the
related odour to Ned Nederlander and left some rubber gloves and a plastic
bag under his pillow. He dealt with the situation magnificently. Such a brave man.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">A month or so later, I came downstairs one morning and Kleine
Jongen excitedly announced "Mum, someone left the lid of the kitchen bin open last night and there's a live mouse in there". </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"So have you dealt with that, darling?" I asked hopefully.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Yep. I closed the lid".</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Displaying
remarkable familial team work we courageously extracted the bin liner and deposited it in the
middle of the garden. A few minutes later Ned Nederlander appeared and, on
hearing the story, approached the bag with a large brick raised menacingly above
his head.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"NOOOOOO!!!!!!" Kleine Jongen and I cried in unison. Ned rolled
his eyes, trying to disguise his relief at our pathetic intervention. He placed the
brick on the ground theatrically before skipping breezily off to the office. A couple of hours later I glanced out of our kitchen window and
saw a cute, slightly ruffled mouse emerge from the bin liner and scurry
confidently towards our external wall and into a tiny hole of which I had previously been
unaware.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">On another occasion, friends from mouse-free (but cockroach infested)
Sydney were staying with us. A suspicious rustle in the kitchen caught
everyone's attention one lunch time.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"I think you should know there's a mouse on your stove", the visiting dad calmly noted. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Really?" I asked, feigning surprise. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Yes", he assured me, feigning ambivalence.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I desperately wanted to point out that I was providing him and his family with free accommodation in one of the world's great cities, and that a single teeny mouse skipping across the stove top was hardly worth mentioning. But I was embarrassed, and didn't say anything more.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">My friend probably desperately wanted to point out that although he and his family were enjoying free accommodation in one of the world's great cities, the least he expected was a basic standard of hygiene. But he was embarrassed, and didn't say anything more.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">For some reason since that low point in rodent relations, (not to mention guest relations ...) there have been very few mouse sightings in our kitchen, and my faith in our Lowlands Pestilence Response Strategy is gradually growing. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">My strategy has been to counter the mice strategy with a combination of cleanliness, craftiness and compassion. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">My sense is that mice sense my determination.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And for now they seem to have gone elsewhere; they've found another cosy kitchen, another cupboard with an unsecured pistachio supply, another crumb-covered benchtop, another enticing kitchen bin.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But I will remain vigilant, because I know that even though this is my city, it's mice city too.</span>The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-32686665249824452252014-01-15T17:23:00.001+01:002014-01-15T23:02:27.587+01:00Norse code<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Australians typically find the prospect of a white Christmas
very appealing. So Ned Nederlander and I agreed and decreed respectively that Norway
would be a fitting destination for the 2013 festive season. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">My certainty that Queenstown, New Zealand was
the undoubted winner of Most Spectacular Aircraft Landing in the
World title was shaken by our mid-winter afternoon approach
to Tromsø, at the opposite end of the planet. Land at both at least once in your life if you can.</span></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bzSEam7h-64/Us3FTKigZbI/AAAAAAAADFM/xEty6ZZ2mT0/s1600/DSC_0750.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bzSEam7h-64/Us3FTKigZbI/AAAAAAAADFM/xEty6ZZ2mT0/s1600/DSC_0750.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">On our first night inside the Arctic Circle, we drove teams of huskies through a dreamy
snowscape, lit beautifully by a hazy bloated moon. As the cold air pinched my
face, I kept pinching myself to make sure I was really there. I wondered if I could
ever again appreciate the sweltering heat of an Aussie beach Christmas . </span><br />
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aY3lQ7OUVUA/Us3E1VBWktI/AAAAAAAAC-4/gDHFtxolWQg/s1600/DSC_0476.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aY3lQ7OUVUA/Us3E1VBWktI/AAAAAAAAC-4/gDHFtxolWQg/s1600/DSC_0476.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dashing through the snow ...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></o:p><span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">When I needed to slow or
stop, the lead dog would look at me over his shoulder with utter disdain. The
rest of the team bounced impatiently on invisible pogo sticks, straining
incessantly against the harness, yelping to be allowed to run some more. These
dogs were not going to give up until they were airborne. Second star to the
right and straight on till morning. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DB7PR7nBj_I/Us3FBKjikPI/AAAAAAAADBc/AnxO9bAjeKk/s1600/DSC_0588.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DB7PR7nBj_I/Us3FBKjikPI/AAAAAAAADBc/AnxO9bAjeKk/s1600/DSC_0588.jpg" height="320" width="214" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MC0xU1XheDs/Us3E60CsQ0I/AAAAAAAADAA/JXeOhq3ZeQ0/s1600/DSC_0544.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MC0xU1XheDs/Us3E60CsQ0I/AAAAAAAADAA/JXeOhq3ZeQ0/s1600/DSC_0544.jpg" height="320" width="214" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Later that night we retired to a communal tent, modelled on
those used by the indigenous Sami people. We tried not to think about Rudolph,
that famous Christmas helper, as we lay on the deliciously warm skins of his
cousins, spread over a thick bed of cut branches that had been piled into a
wooden box bed. Fur on fir. A pot belly stove in the centre of the tent made us forget that
we were actually arctic warriors at all. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9Ew6hS1N6UA/UtagTVsXFPI/AAAAAAAADUQ/qSqs5bhlXDQ/s1600/DSC_0535.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9Ew6hS1N6UA/UtagTVsXFPI/AAAAAAAADUQ/qSqs5bhlXDQ/s1600/DSC_0535.jpg" height="320" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Please can we keep him?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">After breakfast we visited the dogs, who were clearly
grateful for the remarkable leadership we had demonstrated to them on the
previous night. De Jongens both reminded me that over two years earlier, when
they had so stridently resisted our planned move to the Lowlands, I had glibly
promised them a Dutch dog, if only they would let go of the nice Passport
Control Officer’s leg and calmly get on the plane. No dog had been forthcoming. Suddenly they were demanding a five-dog team of huskies, which apparently equates to my abandoned
promise, with interest.</span><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xEAgqYy2C8E/Us3FICJFMTI/AAAAAAAADC0/zoqxl96S0q4/s1600/DSC_0621.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xEAgqYy2C8E/Us3FICJFMTI/AAAAAAAADC0/zoqxl96S0q4/s1600/DSC_0621.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">I soon distracted them with a cunning display of my
previously under-valued snow-mobiling skills. I raced oh so competently through a
scene reminiscent of a James Bond movie, blissfully unaware that Kleine Jongen
was developing hypothermia on the seat behind me. I was mesmerised by the sight
of the sun standing on her solar tip-toes while trying, and failing, to peak
over the horizon at 11:30am. Instead she left a taunting golden stain low in the sky, and
cast an eerie blue light over an endless tub of vanilla icecream. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zz8axKQzBqA/Us3FJb4wgtI/AAAAAAAADDM/N6ByHISjaxQ/s1600/DSC_0630.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zz8axKQzBqA/Us3FJb4wgtI/AAAAAAAADDM/N6ByHISjaxQ/s1600/DSC_0630.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nGbyA3NizZk/Us3FKYuagMI/AAAAAAAADDc/i6At0pSHc6g/s1600/DSC_0644.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nGbyA3NizZk/Us3FKYuagMI/AAAAAAAADDc/i6At0pSHc6g/s1600/DSC_0644.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">On another night we ventured a hundred kilometres or so
further north of Tromsø, and were treated to a spectacular northern lights display that
justified my fifty year wait to see it. Just remarkable.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y_chpML5gj0/Us3FfwniGgI/AAAAAAAADIE/3TDnm0eIjkU/s1600/DSC_0881.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y_chpML5gj0/Us3FfwniGgI/AAAAAAAADIE/3TDnm0eIjkU/s1600/DSC_0881.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m6kctfFnBKo/Us3FiOsbyLI/AAAAAAAADIk/izDfHdBsruU/s1600/DSC_0887.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m6kctfFnBKo/Us3FiOsbyLI/AAAAAAAADIk/izDfHdBsruU/s1600/DSC_0887.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BB5uJk46E04/Us3Fk1ucwEI/AAAAAAAADJM/5eZgGzxdNGM/s1600/DSC_0896.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BB5uJk46E04/Us3Fk1ucwEI/AAAAAAAADJM/5eZgGzxdNGM/s1600/DSC_0896.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tsPrrjJKqTg/Us3FlGA0YRI/AAAAAAAADJU/aGOh2vFrCLM/s1600/DSC_0901.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tsPrrjJKqTg/Us3FlGA0YRI/AAAAAAAADJU/aGOh2vFrCLM/s1600/DSC_0901.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sbmvZeIeDlU/Us3FpMpQc6I/AAAAAAAADKU/33xjZBxzTSQ/s1600/DSC_0923.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sbmvZeIeDlU/Us3FpMpQc6I/AAAAAAAADKU/33xjZBxzTSQ/s1600/DSC_0923.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Undoubtedly, we peaked too early on this holiday, so the next few days in Oslo were always likely to be underwhelming. We wiled away a half
day at the Polar Fram Museum, and learned much about the people who had made the Arctic
and Antarctic areas accessible, including the Inuit people, who gave me the quote of the trip. "The one who listens to his parents will live longer ... and have a better life". Lovely script too.</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-plJkK1uxJMc/Us3FxTsAKiI/AAAAAAAADMM/-dOXaBVskmk/s1600/DSC_0991.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-plJkK1uxJMc/Us3FxTsAKiI/AAAAAAAADMM/-dOXaBVskmk/s1600/DSC_0991.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inuit wisdom</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Yet somehow learning about all those wild and crazy
exploits just made me want to go and have a lie down in a hot bath with a good
book, a cup of tea and a slice of cake.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Ned and I also made a lightning visit to the Nobel Peace
Centre in the hour before it closed one evening. Should you ever need it, I
recommend a visit as a good way to humble oneself. Being confronted with the
stories of every Nobel Peace Prize winner and their actions and noble
motivations puts one’s own antics in a sad perspective. It left me
wondering what my personal contribution to world peace should be...</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Then, we took a train to Bergen on the west coast. For a
large part of the seven hour journey I was a character in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Polar Express</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grote
Jongen confirmed my fantasy when he leaned over and said “I keep expecting the
train to be stopped by a herd of reindeer, and for someone to pull the
engineer’s beard”. Sadly, the trip was tarnished somewhat by an unfortunate incident
involving a laptop, a down jacket, a sudden lurch (perhaps someone pulled the
engineer’s beard after all?) and a full cup of hot chocolate. Dear reader, I can reveal that it
was NOTHING like the hot chocolate scene in <em>The</em> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Polar
Express</i>. However, my calm (numb?) response
to our incident and my handling of the hysterical protagonists, albeit through
clenched teeth, in a carriage packed to the rafters with people who politely
pretended they hadn’t seen a thing, may very well be my contribution to world
peace. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d4ivWziCHeA/Us3FJGJxMCI/AAAAAAAADDE/fAP4FoQP5-Q/s1600/DSC_0626.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d4ivWziCHeA/Us3FJGJxMCI/AAAAAAAADDE/fAP4FoQP5-Q/s1600/DSC_0626.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Bergen was the final stop in our tinselled triumvirate of
Norwegian towns. Clearly it has the potential to be a quaint and charming town,
but its main claim to fame appears to be that it has the highest rainfall of
any town this side of the Amazon. I believe that a good proportion of its
annual rainfall fell during our visit. The fjord cruise operators (who had
lured us to Bergen in the first place) had given in to the weather, cancelled
all trips and gone home two days earlier than their websites suggested. </span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-j_Q98afuzvA/Us3F8xxuc8I/AAAAAAAADO0/uGW_wCUYM2Q/s1600/DSC_1069.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-j_Q98afuzvA/Us3F8xxuc8I/AAAAAAAADO0/uGW_wCUYM2Q/s1600/DSC_1069.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bergen; quaint, yet somehow not ...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">In the end it probably didn’t matter, since Kleine Jongen
surprised us all on our first night in Bergen with a spectacular middle-of-the-night
vomiting performance with multiple encores. The spectacle was increased as a
consequence of the combined affects of a dark hallway, an open suitcase, some
bed-swapping earlier in the night, and an unfortunate case of mistaken parental
identity. We concluded that it must have been caused by something he'd eaten on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Polar Express</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">The following morning Kleine Jongen awoke, exhausted and lacking Christmas cheer, although with
a much improved constitution, so we ventured out to see what Bergen had to
offer. Not much, it turns out.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Not a single restaurant in the entire town was open on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day.</span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">The few shops in town that were open were staffed by people
who didn’t really want to be there. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">“What a stupid time to come on holidays” growled one woman when
she learned of our intention to spend Christmas in her town. The fact
that she was pocketing a good proportion of the Norwegian gross domestic
product after selling us the ingredients for our Christmas Eve hotel room
picnic did not seem to give her any cause to smile. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">The hotel that we were staying in, which claimed enough
stars to know better, didn’t even offer us a Christmas drink. Ever
self-sufficient (especially when it comes to Christmas alcohol), I approached the
decidedly un-festive hotel receptionist on Christmas Eve and asked if I
could borrow a corkscrew. I’m quite certain she considered stabbing me with it.
“A corkscrew???” Deep sigh. “I’ll see. Wait here”. Ho ho ho. Good tidings to you and all of your kin.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Minutes into our family festivities, we realised that we had
been wrong after all to blame the train food for Kleine Jongen’s demise. Ned,
Grote Jongen and I found ourselves BERRRRGEN <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in Bergen for the next twelve hours. Being
sick far from home is never fun, but I must say that there is a certain joy
that comes from being able to drop a pile of “soiled” towels and sheets outside
a hotel room door and have them magically disappear by morning! When I staggered
to the foyer at 2am and requested some clean sheets and towels, my receptionist
friend gave me a look that left me in no doubt that she thought overuse of the
borrowed corkscrew was the root of my problems. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-size: large;">I collapsed into my bed again, and passed Christmas Day alternately snoozing and staring at the rain hammering against the window. And
just like that, the prospect of a sweltering Aussie beach Christmas suddenly seemed very appealing after all.<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFFwhBX1kRjANv8ljN9zKU5EBS9JBS-6A3Cm-z9akyOwhMQOZDLm-yrpY-UNTWM3erJ1mrrG7c6t6Uq3IGg7JZaHpAX2fzV4Y1S2gi3SQgkNhbJxU1fjkw4eGzwMWrOaqAYXD0ldA-aLGU/s1600/From+Thomas+Hoods+034.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFFwhBX1kRjANv8ljN9zKU5EBS9JBS-6A3Cm-z9akyOwhMQOZDLm-yrpY-UNTWM3erJ1mrrG7c6t6Uq3IGg7JZaHpAX2fzV4Y1S2gi3SQgkNhbJxU1fjkw4eGzwMWrOaqAYXD0ldA-aLGU/s1600/From+Thomas+Hoods+034.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another time, another place</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-10305043942058362212014-01-10T00:51:00.003+01:002014-01-10T18:18:31.959+01:00Can I have a word please?<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">January always seems to be a very busy month for
lexicographers. It is the month in which many of them make learned
pronouncements on the Word of the Year (which seems to be frequently
abbreviated to WOTY – an acronym surely destined for WOTY status itself; you
heard it here first). </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLS_kMsReQp24FU8RJ3VajVqAfck4zxcfCVZgf5yACPGTks5ncsPuVY6ubDaHv130ItgYZtoniSRekPzMRVODFJOXdMWh4G4VIZkBYJM3nLbPZraWLpQ-n2hoM9g2ekQivPCGtffZlGWKs/s1600/words.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLS_kMsReQp24FU8RJ3VajVqAfck4zxcfCVZgf5yACPGTks5ncsPuVY6ubDaHv130ItgYZtoniSRekPzMRVODFJOXdMWh4G4VIZkBYJM3nLbPZraWLpQ-n2hoM9g2ekQivPCGtffZlGWKs/s1600/words.jpg" height="166" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
The American Dialect Society has voted “because” as the 2013
WOTY.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I confess to a strong desire
to be a member of something as grandly named as the American Dialect Society,
and I have spent hours today pondering what they discuss at their meetings
other than the annual WOTY, I am quite sure it must be a society that is closed
to parents of adolescents. Can you imagine any parent of an adolescent choosing
“because” as a word to be celebrated? Personally, I think it is a word to be
banned.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Why did you not hand in that assignment?” Because.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Why are you home so late?” Because.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Why did you hit your brother?” Because.</span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Why is your vocabulary limited to single word answers?”
Because.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Taking a somewhat different approach, the Oxford Dictionary’s editorial board
has declared “selfie” to be the word of 2013. I am still wondering how such an
invariably unflattering act (what’s to love about a triple chin, an elongated
shiny forehead and an enormous forearm?) came to be so popular in the first
place, so I am a long way from understanding the popularity of the word itself.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
Australia’s lexicographic authority, the Macquarie
Dictionary, announces its WOTY in February each year, after a month of furious
voting in January, so I am unable to share its decision with you this early in
2014. However, I can tell you that last year the Macquarie editorial board came
up with “Phantom Vibration Syndrome” or PVS as its nominated word. The use of
three distinct words as a single WOTY says a lot for Australians’ counting
ability, or more likely their disregard for international WOTY rules. Be that
as it may, I have been intrigued to learn that PVS is a clinically recognised phenomenon whereby you
think your phone is vibrating but it's not. This concept is so incomprehensible
to me, a woman regularly criticised and abused by her nearest and dearest for
consistently failing to respond to an <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">actual</i></b> vibration and/or ring tone,
that I cannot begin to comprehend the notion of a phantom vibration. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">In addition to WOTY’s, I have also noticed a trend among
etymologically-inclined journalists to fill the many slow news days in January with
insightful opinions on the worst words and phrases from the previous year; a
sort of Anti-WOTY-Votie.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Thankfully, YOLO (as in “you only live once”) seems to have
topped many A-WOTY-V lists for 2013, a feat that I hope will ensure its demise.
It brings out the grumpy old woman in me to hear people use it as a justification
for any indefensible action or inaction:</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
“ ... so we stole his school bag and hid it in the library.
It was SOOO funny. YOLO”.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"I didn't do that thing you asked me to do because I was a bit busy, sorry. YOLO".</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">You're low.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Twerking” is also high up in the unpopularity stakes, as
measured by the A-WOTY-V brigade, which I’m happy about. I firmly believe that people
who use that word (the sound of which is almost as bad as the concept) should
be forced to watch back-to-back Miley C video clips whilst chanting “I will not
say ‘twerk’ again” and being force-fed Brussels sprouts mixed with pickled herring. I
would however like to popularise the word “twerk” as a term of abuse. For
example, “You are a stupid twerk”. I believe it could very well become a WOTY 2014 contender,
should it catch on.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
I would like to submit a personal A-WOTY-V;
the outdated but infuriatingly persistent “LOL”. I understand it is widely used
in social networking circles to express (inaudible) audible amusement, but it
tends to have the opposite effect on me, making me want to Scream Out Loud (there’s
a thought; could I be single-handedly responsible for the establishment of SOL
in our language, I wonder?). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I am not sure if it counts as an A-WOTY-V, but I am also
keen to stop the emerging trend of using full stops as a form of emphasis. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
As in “Stop. It. Now. "</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"It’s. So. Grammatically. Irritating."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Full stop. No more. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
But back to words. January words.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">About ten years ago, my sister-in-law told me about a
tradition that she and some friends had of nominating a “word for the year” (as
opposed to a Word <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">OF</i></b> the Year) every New Year’s Eve. A WFTY if you will. This is
an addictive initiative whereby New Year’s resolutions are shunned in favour of
nominating a single word that reflects your hopes and intentions for the coming
year. Sort of like a personal mantra. An annual theme. A vocabularial
self-definition.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
Ned Nederlander and I immediately stole the concept and have imposed it
on each other and every person we have spent a New Year’s Eve with ever since. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Selecting a single word to set the tone for the coming year
is harder than it sounds. It requires an honest assessment of your multiple and
varied goals and challenges, and a focussed definition of the common element of
all of those. The best words are discreetly ambiguous and discursively applicable.
Having just discovered that word, I think I will store “discursive” as a potential
future WFTY. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
In 2013 my word was STEADY. I chose it at the end of a
tumultuous and wildly exciting year. A year previously we had moved across the world, leaving
everything and everyone we cared about, and had plunged into a new culture, new
language, new lifestyle, new group of friends, new opportunity, new challenge, new hairdresser.
I rode every emotion imaginable day after day, sometimes minute after minute. Overall
I loved it, in the way that sailors love to negotiate a storm, but it was a
chaotic and crazily unpredictable year. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But the chaos and unpredictability of my first year here was
nothing compared to Ned’s. He had struggled to get traction in his new professional
role and so he walked through the door most evenings looking not only soaked
and frozen, but also totally bewildered and utterly demoralised. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
To cap it off, I suddenly had two surly adolescents stomping
through my house as well. Overloaded with the adjustments they had made, the
new experiences that had been hurled at them and the hormones that their bodies
were involuntarily producing, they saw our new home as a place to offload their
frustrations, confusion and excitement. Terrific.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">We gave them some rope. They took it. And stretched it to
breaking point.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
Clearly, a year in to the adventure, someone needed to step up and be the grown-up in
that scenario. That unfortunate person needed to take a firm hold of the tiller
and see the family through the turbulent waters of life in a foreign land, far
from home and without the support of trusted allies. Who would that be? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I was the last woman standing. Me, the flighty, spontaneous,
ungrounded one in the family. The one who until then had made “emotional roller
coaster” a daily mantra. The one who thought Con Sequences was just another boy
to be ignored.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
So I chose “steady” as my word for the year last year. And
it worked. It stuck in my head and I relied heavily on it to steer us through what
looks like being the middle year of our Dutch foray . Whenever panic rose in my
gut throughout 2013, I chanted that word. When De Jongens tested me, I chanted
it. When Ned slumped through the door after banging his head against yet
another corporate brick wall, I chanted it. When I died of embarrassment yet
again, because of my inadequate Dutch, and was tempted to give up on my
linguistic folly, I chanted it. When I realised that life back in Australia was
progressing perfectly well without us, generating a major crisis of personal relevance,
I willed myself to stay steady.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And somehow we hit December 31, 2013 a little calmer and a
little more balanced than we had been a year earlier. We were steadier somehow.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
But then 2014 loomed large. Being steady suddenly seemed SOOO last
year. I relished the opportunity to get back to my roots and be flighty and frenzied
again. I needed a new WFTY by midnight on December 31. In the preceding weeks I
had toyed with various options. At a dinner party on New Years Eve,
embellished with the most incredibly spectacular and dangerously unsteady display
of street fireworks I have ever seen, I announced that my word was “RENEW”. I
retained however a nagging feeling that it was not in fact my true WFTY. Too
little energy; too much arrogance.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Others around our table announced worthy WFTYs; challenge,
persevere, embrace, consolidate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
inbox pinged with commitments from friends in Australia. Health, surrender, gratitude.
A friend confessed sheepishly that she had assigned “READ” to her ten year old,
non-bookish son. He probably wanted "pizza".</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
One doesn’t decide on a WFTY; a WFTY has to decide on you.
It has to embed itself in your sub-conscious, to niggle away until it can’t be
ignored. But it seemed that my true WFTY was being a little tardy this year. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">On the evening of January 1, it announced itself. My WFTY was “LIFT”. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
When I announced my WFTY modification, Ned Nederlander’s
eyes lit up. He glanced at my sagging breasts, my flabby backside and my drooping
jowls and he smiled with satisfaction. “Great word”, he nodded.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I hurried to clarify my intention. In a 2000 metre rowing
race, of which I have completed many, the first 500 metres tends to be fast and
furious, the middle 1000 metres tends to be strong and STEADY (huh!) while the
last 500 metres, as you bear down on the finish line, calls for a lift in both
stroke rate and will power. You have to delve into new parts of yourself and give
everything you can possibly give, collapsing on the finish line if necessary,
confident that you could have contributed nothing more to the effort.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
I explained that I am determined to make our last year in
this country really count. I want to lift my effort and my commitment to
squeezing the last drops out of the great privilege we have been offered in coming
here. I feel compelled to lift the family energy levels, to lift my own expectations
of what we might achieve together and importantly to lift my sights beyond our
current horizon to a future life beyond this most amazing of cities.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">It’s not too late to come up with your own WFTY, or come to
think of it your own A-WOTY-V. I'd love to know what you decide - can I have a word please?</span></span>The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-23755569648071232912013-12-06T11:30:00.001+01:002013-12-06T13:12:04.719+01:00A shirt for all generations<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">I’d forgotten about the shirt.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Where did you find that shirt?” I asked, feeling like I might lose my balance. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“That’s my Dad’s shirt”.</span></span><br />
<br />
“Yeah, I found it in the dress up box” he replied. <br />
<br />
Why my fourteen year old son, with his strong sense of “cool”, should be fossicking in his childhood dress up box was unclear. But there he was, wearing my father’s old checked flannelette shirt.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">. . . . . .</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My father died twenty years ago today. His big, generous,
under-functioning heart finally burst, sending him slumping onto the kitchen
floor. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother and my sister were
there when he fell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My sister, the only
one of my parents’ four children to still live at home, called the ambulance. She
was fifteen. Meanwhile Mum crouched beside the man she’d shared her life with
for over thirty years and urged him to hold on. The ambulance officers took Dad
futilely to the local Accident and Emergency Department, muttering unconvincing,
non-committal words of vain hope to my mother and sister. Shortly afterwards, my
brothers and I received head-spinning phone calls and we independently began
our journeys home.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Life without our father began. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I miss him, although it’s no longer the acute, furious,
wretched sense of loss that it once was. It’s become more of a fond recollection of times shared.
And a dull regret for opportunities missed.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRj9ZR5FcY2xkyCJN92fNp89Ma5c4slpBYnSvgYJwxI5qvk4KUC5M1IXsmjY3cgukVoFfk4M_M1z6O4qVNq1MDLGIw6F9umFBAUAooH3PY0gGk-UuwAhVvZqLZUx-y7dN9xahsMr__uTAf/s1600/Graeme+and+Colin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRj9ZR5FcY2xkyCJN92fNp89Ma5c4slpBYnSvgYJwxI5qvk4KUC5M1IXsmjY3cgukVoFfk4M_M1z6O4qVNq1MDLGIw6F9umFBAUAooH3PY0gGk-UuwAhVvZqLZUx-y7dN9xahsMr__uTAf/s320/Graeme+and+Colin.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Two other brothers. My dad (left) and his brother, circa 1940</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Mostly, I regret that I haven’t been able to share my sons
with my father. I despair that I never got to hand them to him when they were
newborns. I didn’t get to see him rock them awkwardly for the first time or
hear him say quietly “Huh. Hello mate”.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can almost conjure a picture of him wrestling playfully
with two young boys before swinging them onto his towering shoulders as they
shriek in delighted fear, just as he did with my brothers decades earlier. But it
wasn’t to be. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ1632HYd5jOPsuZzMyd2CzlR7T2ywum0kDoEYN__KQl40d7CzKszJf7OeIlsKXLXjbUkWyKvTi3dqp39z8BwE8BpHDuvWnEELZD6BmaKL6cQGpogHaADhG3A9EzUVneR9q43LTf_rCf77/s1600/2013-12-06+10.02.48.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ1632HYd5jOPsuZzMyd2CzlR7T2ywum0kDoEYN__KQl40d7CzKszJf7OeIlsKXLXjbUkWyKvTi3dqp39z8BwE8BpHDuvWnEELZD6BmaKL6cQGpogHaADhG3A9EzUVneR9q43LTf_rCf77/s320/2013-12-06+10.02.48.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">The blazer. First grade premiers 1958</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">I hate that he never stood on a football sideline and
cheered his grandsons on to Under 6 glory. I’m sad that he’ll never know that
one of those grandsons recently captained a Junior Varsity team in an
international competition on the other side of the world, where we now live.
Dad played first grade football sometime last century, well before I was born. His
club blazer hangs in the “Heritage Items” department of my wardrobe, right
beside the wedding dress he didn’t see me wear. He should have seen me wear it.
He should have seen his grandsons play football. He should have at least kicked
a football around the backyard with them.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">How proud he would have been of their passion for football; how
he would have delighted in their interest, their determination, their
dedication, their sportsmanship, their resilience. When Kleine Jongen returned
from a trip to the UK earlier this year, having watched his beloved Liverpool
FC win a Premier League game, I desperately wanted him to be able to phone my
Dad, also an ardent Liverpool FC fan, and talk him through play by play (only
partially because it would have saved me from needing to hear a play-by-play
description of the entire ninety minutes myself). </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">“Did you see the Liverpool result from yesterday?” he’d ask.
“ I was there! Did you see that second goal? Nah, it wasn’t offside. No. Yes. I know. But he did the same in the second round game last year. Mmm, should
have been a red card. Maybe. But I think they should have played him up front.
Oh well, at least they’re second on the table now”. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And so it would have gone on. And on. And on. Our phone bill
would have been astronomical. I wish.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I wish my boys had had the chance to go to the Sydney
Cricket Ground with Dad during long hot Australian summers. I wish he’d seen
them swaggering to the crease and wielding the willow themselves in their own
neighbourhood on countless Saturday mornings. Whenever I hear the excited trill
of a cricket commentary, I picture them all sharing a companionable silence in
front of the television, slinging occasional sledges at the Poms and chuckling
at the combined familial wit and wisdom that they shared. Ned Nederlander would
have been there too. He only met my dad a few times, but his comments and
stories now make a brilliant contribution to keeping Dad’s memory alive. When
we talk about him with the boys, we call him by his first name. He’s Graeme. My
mother gets annoyed by that, wants them to call him Poppy, like the other
grandchildren do. She thinks it is disrespectful to call their grandfather by
his first name. On the contrary, I think it conveys huge respect. Our boys know
that their maternal grandfather is a man called Graeme who died too soon. He’s
not an unknown old dead bloke with a generic title. He’s a real bloke whose
legacy includes a couple of boys who know they would have been adored by him. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Sometimes I find myself wishing that my boys had had to
endure their grandfather’s unpredictable musings on politics and current
affairs. I would have loved to have seen them gradually realise over the years that his infuriating
switching of arguments mid-tirade was a cunning ploy to show them how to
understand different viewpoints. It’s a life lesson valued highly by my
siblings and me, albeit only now that we are adults. But my boys won’t ever
learn that from him. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nor will they ever learn how it feels to be held as
unwilling prisoners in the back of a car on a long road trip with my father
behind the steering wheel. They will never know the agony of being forced to
listen to him reciting stanza after stanza after stanza of Australian poetry,
as we drove for hours along Australian country roads. Or worse, listen to him singing. Oh, Lord the
singing. How many times in my youth did I desperately want to hurl myself from
a moving vehicle in order to escape my father’s singing? And how broad would my
smile be if I knew he was torturing his
grandsons with his automotive baritone renditions today?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Each time I hear Grote Jongen’s articulate diatribes about
some obscure topic, I marvel at how debating skills can be handed down from
dead grandfather to living grandson with never a moment shared between them. Each
time I see Kleine Jongen pick himself up after a disappointment and calmly and
resolutely dust himself off, I marvel at how emotional strength can be handed
down from dead grandfather to living grandson with never a moment shared
between them. Not a single moment.<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-AU; mso-no-proof: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But earlier this week I was reminded that they share a lot. They share
a heritage. Grote Jongen came home from football training, showered, dressed
and came downstairs for dinner. He walked casually past me and sat down. I
gasped.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">“What’s wrong?” he asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Where did you find that shirt? That’s my dad’s shirt”, I
smiled nervously.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">“Yeah.
Found it in the dress-up box”, he replied casually.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Thankfully, even though he knew its pedigree he didn’t wear
it with a spirit of reverence or solemnity. He wore it with a silly grin on his
face and not the slightest bit of sentimentality. </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpNRyYP9MV0bonCSJW5h9osxgOo67xDQqo6zB7p8uCLlCrrbS2iHCuTt0jBFQMd0O7ygemQ29TS4PMq9dlxsoaF1Rf3CnLYN8Q3wEWsVcGlv8VPompUCVHUBdYGazRAUC8_SZY1GAd5lRO/s1600/2013-11-28+21.13.47.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpNRyYP9MV0bonCSJW5h9osxgOo67xDQqo6zB7p8uCLlCrrbS2iHCuTt0jBFQMd0O7ygemQ29TS4PMq9dlxsoaF1Rf3CnLYN8Q3wEWsVcGlv8VPompUCVHUBdYGazRAUC8_SZY1GAd5lRO/s320/2013-11-28+21.13.47.jpg" width="180" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">I was torn between giggling and snivelling. Then, with a
flash of emotional perception that defied his years, my boy-man strode towards
me and enfolded me in a wordless, spontaneous embrace. For a brief frozen
moment, an old checked flannelette shirt with a tattered collar and a rip in one
sleeve entwined three generations.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Then he was gone, back to the digital world of a fourteen
year old boy, leaving me standing in the kitchen inhaling a heady concoction of childhood memories, maternal pride and gratitude. I realised that my son – Graeme's grandson - is suddenly mature enough, tall enough and broad enough of
shoulder to wear an old man’s shirt without looking like he’s playing dress-ups.
And it occurred to me that it is indeed a shirt for all generations.</span></div>
The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-19047702736858619272013-08-17T01:16:00.002+02:002014-10-07T23:31:10.818+02:00Have a safe flight<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: large;"></span></em><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTIiBlX9RBZeN_zkXW9iP9U_tYiHVQ_mvghs6wHnlBdt-5pDX2V" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></a><br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">I am what is known in the business as a nervous flier. Apparently, I have an over-active Newtonian Gravitational Theory gland. My condition means that I simply cannot accept that big things will stay up in the sky for up to half a day. Especially really big things weighing several tonnes. Especially really big things weighing several tonnes that are carrying my family. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3EorB7ci03GRSYgUUOqc5OIkIaU-SPMwgw369pqrIlUmCi2IXYsUvCsgyWL9g3bf9c_uia6YYgRivWIPtocw0PgRhu_aFQoA0KpHChRI3u2fuRczHFgnYF7UUiUbViMtnkEe2e86B0PjZ/s1600/imagesCA3ZLM24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3EorB7ci03GRSYgUUOqc5OIkIaU-SPMwgw369pqrIlUmCi2IXYsUvCsgyWL9g3bf9c_uia6YYgRivWIPtocw0PgRhu_aFQoA0KpHChRI3u2fuRczHFgnYF7UUiUbViMtnkEe2e86B0PjZ/s320/imagesCA3ZLM24.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">One of the symptoms of my condition is an obsession with safety instructions. I hang on every word of them. I count the rows to my nearest exit, often before I sit down "bearing in mind that it may be behind me". I study the safety card which is handily located in the seat pocket in front of me. In fact I am quite confident that should an emergency ever arise, I will have those plane doors open and slides activated before anyone can say "So, old Isaac was right". </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Admittedly, my confidence in my emergency response skills was a little shaken on a recent flight. Whilst casually perusing the safety card, Kleine Jongen noted that in the event of a crash landing, I might be challenged. "Huh, look at this Mum", he smirked. "It says here that you should only open the plane door if you have a clear view of your external surroundings after a crash." He paused for dramatic effect. "Apparently, you should NOT open the door if you can see water, smoke, or fire outside the aircraft, or if trees or other objects are impeding your exit," he warned. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">At the time, I had been surreptitiously feeling under my seat to ensure the promised life jacket was in place, but his announcement stopped me in my tracks. "What do you think our chances are of good visibility immediately following a crash?" I squeaked. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">He smiled and shrugged. Children can be so cruel.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">On another occasion, I glanced over at Grote Jongen, who was sitting across the aisle from me on a plane preparing for take-off. The safety briefing was being delivered. As usual, and because apples don't fall far from trees (just ask Mr Newton ...) Grote Jongen was riveted to every word of the safety briefing. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Only joking; he was riveted to the very electronic devices that the cabin crew were suggesting should be turned off. I immediately pressed the call button. "Excuse me!" I yelled to the cabin attendant. "That boy hasn't switched off his mobile phone even though you clearly asked everyone to!!!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">At least I wanted to do that. For my own comfort and safety during the remainder of my life, I decided to instead shoot Grote Jongen one of my aeronautical maternal death stares. This is similar to a terrestrial maternal death stare, only more desperate, with impossibly high eyebrows, panicked hand gestures and silently mouthed cross-aisle threats. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Temporarily defeated, I slumped in my seat and waited for the clatter and jolt as we careered off the end of the runway, certain that our take-off was about to be rendered completely ineffective due to "interference with the aircraft's navigation system". Interference potentially caused by my defiant son. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">When it became fairly clear that on this occasion we seemed to be taking off without incident, I switched to waiting - somewhat desperately - for the clatter and jolt of the drinks trolley instead. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNn5APdoKRR5W1mi5gmYV4otsFgaFjaZTrsPDP2-JDcN3avvXGI1XXZIdD67a07KN_P4iENyXeTojMEz5W1-QpVUCXR56ax-g4DIxCWHXSnzAVMgPml2EF9S4PHx0lwSDyz62xzTMUg902/s1600/pilot_preflight_briefing.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNn5APdoKRR5W1mi5gmYV4otsFgaFjaZTrsPDP2-JDcN3avvXGI1XXZIdD67a07KN_P4iENyXeTojMEz5W1-QpVUCXR56ax-g4DIxCWHXSnzAVMgPml2EF9S4PHx0lwSDyz62xzTMUg902/s320/pilot_preflight_briefing.gif" height="121" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-size: large;">While I waited, it occurred to me that De Jongens are cruising down the runway of life. They, and we, know that very soon they are going to be soaring on their own. Right now, they are magnificently and naively confident in their own flying abilities, in a way that I envy. As young adolescents, De Jongens pretty much believe they are just about ready to fly solo. To make this point they have a tendency to push buttons - generally mine - like pilots carrying out a pre-flight check. Between them, they manage to test the responsiveness and effectiveness of every control in the parental cockpit. Multiple times.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It struck me (where IS that drinks trolley??) that an adolescent, impatiently preparing for take-off, could take many useful life lessons from an aircraft safety briefing, particularly one lovingly prepared by a nervous flyer with a vested interest in the safety of her passengers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So I offer the following advice to my gorgeously, frustratingly, impressively invincible boys, as they gather speed on the runway of adolescence, ready to embark on the tricky flight to adulthood.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>"Good morning and welcome on board flight 1214 to adulthood. Ned Nederlander and I are the head stewards on your flight. We are here to ensure your safety and to assist you to get the most out of life while making a constructive contribution to society. In that regard, please be aware that we are entitled, under the</em> Parental Aviation Act<em>, to use reasonable force to stop you engaging in behaviour that is deemed at any time by us to be "stupid". It will be a more pleasant and comfortable flight for all of us if you simply accept that. However, since we know that you won't accept it, please keep listening. That includes the boy in seat 11A still playing on his phone, and the boy in Seat 11B who is laughing at his quivering mother.</em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em> </em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>While we are happy (at times convenient to us) to dispense drinks, snacks and in-flight entertainment, you will increasingly be expected to adopt a self-service mentality. Therefore, we ask you both to be aware that misuse of the "Call" button on this flight will not be tolerated. </em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em> </em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>Your seat belt should be fastened low and tight. That is, your attachment to your family should not necessarily be on display for everyone to see (we understand that that gets embarrassing when you are at cruising altitude), but it is best to maintain a comfortable connection at all times. Even though you might doubt the need for it at the moment, the familial seatbelt is one of the most effective security devices, particularly in times of unexpected turbulence. </em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em> </em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>Please store all your adolescent baggage in the overhead lockers during take off and landing, to prevent others from tripping over it. By all means take it down during the flight and do whatever it is you need to do to deal with it. Of course, Ned and I will be happy to help you deal with it, but we suspect that we are probably the source of much of it, so you might not find our assistance particularly helpful. In any case, please take great care when opening the overhead lockers, as your baggage might have shifted during transit, and metamorphosed into something quite unrecognisable. There is a high probability that it could injure other people if it falls out unexpectedly. The cabin crew will be happy to dispose of any unwanted baggage at the end of the flight.</em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em> </em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>Electronic devices should be switched off whenever we ask you to, as they can interfere with personal navigation systems. Instead of texting and playing mindless games, may we suggest that you work on developing the art of a spontaneous face to face conversation; one that can't be edited or deleted at your convenience. Or stop and ponder something of a non-digital nature. Or do absolutely nothing for a while. Better still, do your homework. </em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em> </em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>Fit your own mask before helping others. If you do not look after yourself, you can not expect to be of much use to others. Be kind to yourself. Figure out what's great about you - see Ned or me if you'd like a starter list; we are your greatest fans and after observing you both for many years in the departure lounge, we have gathered very long lists of your attributes.</em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em> </em></span><span style="font-size: large;"><em> </em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>Should there be a need to change direction suddenly, or undertake an emergency landing, which is common on flights to adulthood, you will hear the command "Brace, brace". If this happens during the flight, plant your feet firmly on the floor, hold your head in your hands, stow that damned electronic device under the seat in front of you and await instructions from the cabin crew. We are trained in emergency responses and will usually be able to get things back on track relatively quickly. </em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em> </em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>Now please, settle back, relax and enjoy your flight. Ned and I will try to do the same, which should help all of us on board this flight.</em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em> </em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>Finally, thank you for all the times you make this steward's heart soar. Thanks for the times when you lift me above my own fears and you help me to fly at my best. It's a pleasure to have you on board."</em></span><br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;"></span></em><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Flight 1214 ready for take-off. Cabin crew, arm the doors and cross-check.</span><br />
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<a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQ8FAIsWhiELKwRl8PD_jw3gdpuQJprS_rpcw5U8JQ_4mPbpUEgJw" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" class="rg_i" data-src="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQ8FAIsWhiELKwRl8PD_jw3gdpuQJprS_rpcw5U8JQ_4mPbpUEgJw" data-sz="f" name="kMPpN1R8cVhd0M:" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQ8FAIsWhiELKwRl8PD_jw3gdpuQJprS_rpcw5U8JQ_4mPbpUEgJw" style="height: 183px; margin-top: 0px; width: 275px;" /></span></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-size: large;"></span><br />The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-36411293712278861652013-04-28T23:07:00.001+02:002013-12-06T13:12:22.033+01:00The king of all marketing campaigns<span style="font-size: large;">I have learned this week that an impending royal inauguration can turn the mundane act of grocery shopping into a thing of joy and wonder.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm not particularly fond of grocery shopping. I cope with it by sending myself into a Trolley Trance - a little known meditative state that sees me absent-mindedly strolling the aisles, half napping, half eyeing off the chocolate bars, looking at all the pretty colours, until I end up at the check-out with a full enough trolley. It is generally only after I return home that I realise I purchased everything except the very item I went in to buy. As a consequence, and to avoid returning to the supermarket too often, I have developed an enviable level of domestic culinary agility, including the production of low down family favourites such as fish stew with sausages (but no fish), lasagne-less lasagne and herb-crusted lamb with missing herbs.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Having said that, grocery shopping in the lowlands has been extra challenging for me. Although there is no shortage of supermarkets, they are typically quite small, with aisles that are really too short and too few in number to induce a sustained Trolley Trance. Most Dutch supermarkets also stock a limited range of products, which can at times necessitate visiting three different stores in order to source all of the ingredients required for a simple meal. This often invokes a growling Trolley Troll, rather than a peaceful Trolley Trance.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Adding to the complexity, the Dutch approach to product placement is something I have not yet been able to fully understand. It takes quite a bit of skill to work out that the pineapple rings will be beside the corned beef and bottled frankfurts . . . on the off chance that you might be in the market for bottled frankfurts.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2TDbuBd2_0VHdhX2JSnVKUST6lN5Ge18cn4kSl30hyphenhyphendAKcSrRlwptCCwDNo3v9U2IbUA9PqoXNOqw46nJ-tBei5knymhINlHnkrtFMt-FggLruOcpYb-i_bd17ugHyzm7_n_o6I6gakv2/s1600/2012-11-27+14.22.15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2TDbuBd2_0VHdhX2JSnVKUST6lN5Ge18cn4kSl30hyphenhyphendAKcSrRlwptCCwDNo3v9U2IbUA9PqoXNOqw46nJ-tBei5knymhINlHnkrtFMt-FggLruOcpYb-i_bd17ugHyzm7_n_o6I6gakv2/s320/2012-11-27+14.22.15.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's also handy to know that the spring rolls can be found next to the icy poles in the freezer section.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnujVNPV0xzCAJcsHcz-kZpllokJXF0uKgtMJ9hVSfMW_IlRVCJYfBJnfKF74Qx9EJSKrs-O9d8tV630P7v-9BznQbypJpgZnvBRNvpT11opKDFaHYvUOmybNk4m_Ty5mzMCBTZH_TYOdd/s1600/2013-01-14+15.08.36.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnujVNPV0xzCAJcsHcz-kZpllokJXF0uKgtMJ9hVSfMW_IlRVCJYfBJnfKF74Qx9EJSKrs-O9d8tV630P7v-9BznQbypJpgZnvBRNvpT11opKDFaHYvUOmybNk4m_Ty5mzMCBTZH_TYOdd/s320/2013-01-14+15.08.36.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And that the laundry detergent is beside the pet food, which is conveniently located next to the potatoes.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZwOCoqKyA7n0akFEeLM-zrdDutBUc4ODkKfzNgJaVIQkx31RAXxyn88rbhaOw20JKsuWIIzCMos6lBGuE45-QIs2enYZDmRoDhBq68v6JWD56TadYYhOBI58OT2EY-rLdoLOqeWgVgCqo/s1600/2012-11-27+14.23.43.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZwOCoqKyA7n0akFEeLM-zrdDutBUc4ODkKfzNgJaVIQkx31RAXxyn88rbhaOw20JKsuWIIzCMos6lBGuE45-QIs2enYZDmRoDhBq68v6JWD56TadYYhOBI58OT2EY-rLdoLOqeWgVgCqo/s320/2012-11-27+14.23.43.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF2My_qB4ZHbWKuBt9KHlGYoe4ZZiX1cvUzeO0vskdebipgVmskUl45-FV9hpiK3HGeOveBLuGvaadLipvod3ZiZB2vjsAn8M6I-xKsT5MxyviXslr2y2Oo_JcRFKaeRNM1n5XRxBgw5XZ/s1600/2012-11-27+14.23.28.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF2My_qB4ZHbWKuBt9KHlGYoe4ZZiX1cvUzeO0vskdebipgVmskUl45-FV9hpiK3HGeOveBLuGvaadLipvod3ZiZB2vjsAn8M6I-xKsT5MxyviXslr2y2Oo_JcRFKaeRNM1n5XRxBgw5XZ/s320/2012-11-27+14.23.28.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But all of my petty frustrations with Dutch supermarkets evaporated this week. </span><span style="font-size: large;">It seems there's nothing like a big Dutch occasion for bringing out the very best in the big Dutch marketing departments.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">To give you an example, and to get you in the mood, let me backtrack a few months. I feel it's not too insensitive, now that the national devastation has eased a little, to highlight one of my favourite examples of Dutch marketing brilliance. One particular personal hygiene manufacturer added to the anticipatory frenzy and performance pressure on the Dutch national football team during last year's European Cup by producing toilet paper printed with cute orange football-kicking dogs and the encouraging words "hup Holland hup". Ned Nederlander took a roll back to Australia for a friend who gave it to her 12 year old son, with instructions that it was to be put on his special "treasures" shelf, never to be used. It <em>was</em> cute; we all felt a little guilty using it for its intended purpose. The fact that Holland got well and truly poohed on in the opening round made it even more special.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1aPf7EkRakL7D-f_bqEA-X1NBdiirG9mqKpiiHnAwZNeTxlmjC492J7mSHJ3dmVYKL7RW6Ms4DaeAhg4NT4POHl2BvuVyvj5YsOIxyo3-6ltEni8pAO4GJfEVDb1fsJQwgbq2pzeEdl8H/s1600/DSC_0004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1aPf7EkRakL7D-f_bqEA-X1NBdiirG9mqKpiiHnAwZNeTxlmjC492J7mSHJ3dmVYKL7RW6Ms4DaeAhg4NT4POHl2BvuVyvj5YsOIxyo3-6ltEni8pAO4GJfEVDb1fsJQwgbq2pzeEdl8H/s320/DSC_0004.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But it's Queens Day that really gets the creative juices going in marketing departments. Especially a Queen's Day with a baton change between a mother and her son. Inauguration-inspired grocery marketing has made supermarket shopping fun again.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I nearly fell into my trolley when I spotted this gem yesterday.</span> <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAJ0L0trwvVtlhvmvCv0w0K-tvnwFcQjrLMLGDFzJWDbQVEApNjMdPUw_7KxkwAinYp2PDGZtQgyOchPCHIOLYPf4TuHoiQ3UDH9joPbjUKV63Hf3VtQqR04zsKNOncoLK5oMxIYM5U6s3/s1600/2013-04-27+14.26.40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAJ0L0trwvVtlhvmvCv0w0K-tvnwFcQjrLMLGDFzJWDbQVEApNjMdPUw_7KxkwAinYp2PDGZtQgyOchPCHIOLYPf4TuHoiQ3UDH9joPbjUKV63Hf3VtQqR04zsKNOncoLK5oMxIYM5U6s3/s400/2013-04-27+14.26.40.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Talk about taking advantage of the extended cold weather - just rug up and make a nice big pot of King's Soup. Five hundred grams of carrots, an orange capsicum, a brown (let's call it gold) onion, a couple of gold-wrapped stock cubes, an orange, and a sprig of rosemary, all together in a right royal orange packet. Had I been asked, I would have suggested they add a sweet potato.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The next aisle brought more jewels. The 30 April (Queens Day) edition of cream of tomato soup. Note the little crown on the left of the label, because let's face it, tinned soup makes anyone feel like royalty, right? On the right of the photo you can also make out a lovely biscuit tin bearing Queen Beatrix's face. So many collector's items, my trolley runneth over.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnFG0Ic7joZ-QN7fPWWn44fL-ctcz0CFOVGGwZd_HT5C9mtKR5PXL1rEh7OHUMyF0tREss9hF6xEaiXJX8XHuNMrLPU6XNpTE12z_RYYBWkKeB7VkSIbCf9V176HUumSEsyoQ8mLtHRjC0/s1600/2013-04-27+14.40.01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnFG0Ic7joZ-QN7fPWWn44fL-ctcz0CFOVGGwZd_HT5C9mtKR5PXL1rEh7OHUMyF0tREss9hF6xEaiXJX8XHuNMrLPU6XNpTE12z_RYYBWkKeB7VkSIbCf9V176HUumSEsyoQ8mLtHRjC0/s400/2013-04-27+14.40.01.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhKLfG-3YxCjNE-W71vLT3JK2_-uMJ9pm0H1OOxnwfqYeC4xWkfLaNef9b9NFrMDUKgBAY8qelE1zQex6fcVhgQRo9PrHfT9pCRAzS6KJbnfHlPjihQUsgZ4IuFQQ2EeMC5V9MthU_3wd7/s1600/2013-04-27+16.25.30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhKLfG-3YxCjNE-W71vLT3JK2_-uMJ9pm0H1OOxnwfqYeC4xWkfLaNef9b9NFrMDUKgBAY8qelE1zQex6fcVhgQRo9PrHfT9pCRAzS6KJbnfHlPjihQUsgZ4IuFQQ2EeMC5V9MthU_3wd7/s400/2013-04-27+16.25.30.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">The biscuit manufacturers are clearly pursuing a strategy of packaging diversity. Not only have they produced a lovely tin with Queen Beatrix's smiling face (above), but they have also produced one with Wil-Al and Maxima (right), which is certain to appeal to younger generations. Personally, I couldn't choose between them so I had to get five of each.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I was truly delighted to also find that the local coffee makers weren't going to be left behind in the marketing stakes, offering a free unique spoon, and some special orange packaging for Tuesday's coronation.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWxQMlsuJq_mnJrAJ22lX4SfyUrAwjrdPCtXOkx9LUxFQww46tjbYZNtk32CVN92KkxDxJhPaTpf2V9elHEf-6js0jaPYR3BMWLbXyj8LbR5ZBmYDQsNb0YfaNc3N4PC6arOR_aNuBBMep/s1600/2013-04-27+14.40.36.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWxQMlsuJq_mnJrAJ22lX4SfyUrAwjrdPCtXOkx9LUxFQww46tjbYZNtk32CVN92KkxDxJhPaTpf2V9elHEf-6js0jaPYR3BMWLbXyj8LbR5ZBmYDQsNb0YfaNc3N4PC6arOR_aNuBBMep/s320/2013-04-27+14.40.36.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And should you like a small treat to accompany your coffee, may I recommend King's Waffles? Same recipe as last week, but a different - orange of course - packaging.</span> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii2uKS3EVEv0m5LemqMzYP5s9nkQGPq9p7jmrvfbpi2RlKlT0QbWYHHVv2GhHMChdMbFeUucxyzvbgA1mHqV5wfLcmMjWdCHzzXqFlueujLfU1eKfx1G9BKd1HKkw1sjJ8Jhd4EI8Pma3A/s1600/2013-04-27+16.22.48.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii2uKS3EVEv0m5LemqMzYP5s9nkQGPq9p7jmrvfbpi2RlKlT0QbWYHHVv2GhHMChdMbFeUucxyzvbgA1mHqV5wfLcmMjWdCHzzXqFlueujLfU1eKfx1G9BKd1HKkw1sjJ8Jhd4EI8Pma3A/s400/2013-04-27+16.22.48.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It's almost too obvious, given that we are celebrating the Oranje-Nassau family's rule, so I shouldn't have been surprised to discover that orange juice was not immune from the Queens Day treatment either. Like so many things in life, it benefits from the addition of a little French flair because after all, "sinaasappelsap" is a word somewhat lacking in regal grandure. So, if we call it jus d'oranje for a week, and add a crown to our logo, who knows what might happen?</span><br />
<div align="center" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjadkvLDosvPqoIPkgtGJdVo0Qe9uHJPP_dgJdkZqanNSjYafEnS6s6GAuSynTDsJpfDguSzK3mgKlEvMtWk3rera8fNSFjX1b9CdaY2cJN3F9v1spOmhSRJsbphbv62ZbjmO9Empbt0DcO/s320/2013-04-27+14.35.24.jpg" width="180" /></span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfpiIgNYIupxGWbpS3aoY-8ssmg7YzvJ29U9THGYPpOzC9525_T91isss5B3B_IywP1VfPuU7d4OqEZtND2C6XOF-0MIe1rMO_9RqiiTsMYEN8lYVy_jWVAHjQUddTuCDOkR0NVhtqD47y/s1600/2013-04-27+16.28.26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfpiIgNYIupxGWbpS3aoY-8ssmg7YzvJ29U9THGYPpOzC9525_T91isss5B3B_IywP1VfPuU7d4OqEZtND2C6XOF-0MIe1rMO_9RqiiTsMYEN8lYVy_jWVAHjQUddTuCDOkR0NVhtqD47y/s320/2013-04-27+16.28.26.jpg" width="179" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">For comparative purposes, the non-coronation packaging is also shown (right). The subtle addition of a crown is obviously perceived to be the key to a good logo upgrade.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The canny manufacturers of this bottle of <span style="font-family: Calibri;">€</span>4.99 merlot seem to be targeting those with a taste for understated elegance and an inability to recognise that floral undertones are not usually associated with merlot. All power to them.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRR8YEe7bIotjOEBR3K-yEoyqYJp3gM_rfKJQNkGfaUYUpQe_zR51Y4qmsmpVzfiHBxVVIgFD0h_jf5Z2H557IxlKvLrF-98ptx-4n0HZ5DAk9hMDMbaoLwYEJeJ08Zl2bWZfAlJOLb_gK/s1600/2013-04-27+14.40.52.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRR8YEe7bIotjOEBR3K-yEoyqYJp3gM_rfKJQNkGfaUYUpQe_zR51Y4qmsmpVzfiHBxVVIgFD0h_jf5Z2H557IxlKvLrF-98ptx-4n0HZ5DAk9hMDMbaoLwYEJeJ08Zl2bWZfAlJOLb_gK/s320/2013-04-27+14.40.52.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Of course, as any Marketing 101 student will tell you, the real test of a successful campaign is being able to sell something that consumers didn't even know they needed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So, I've saved the jewel in the Koningennedag marketing crown for last. Orange revellers, I give you Royal W's.</span> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWtyKE1oGRHJ7s0k7OfHyQv0lJttgM9v397zLj6bnc_dTxV2N8poa320EfqbEkrbx-4QLqq0MojkBff5RGyKf9NKlKcHSdoJRfjjkTIsRcgdPThkNqynjEgFZoS_bSg25BFJ3gOaqraEbV/s1600/2013-04-27+16.23.30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWtyKE1oGRHJ7s0k7OfHyQv0lJttgM9v397zLj6bnc_dTxV2N8poa320EfqbEkrbx-4QLqq0MojkBff5RGyKf9NKlKcHSdoJRfjjkTIsRcgdPThkNqynjEgFZoS_bSg25BFJ3gOaqraEbV/s400/2013-04-27+16.23.30.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Who knew that we all needed something as unbelievably brilliant but undeniably essential as Royal W's? Of course we do. I certainly hope we do, given the number of packets that I squeezed into my shopping trolley! What an honour it must be for a king to have a "savoury corn snack with a cheese taste" produced in the shape of his initial.</span></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Inspired by all of these irreverent Dutch marketing types, I find myself desperately hoping that the Duchess of Cambridge gives birth to a son. I trust that her people will approve my application to use a photo of Prince William and his son on the label of my gourmet bottled frankfurts range, to be sold under the "Little Willy" label.</span></div>
The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072987331359617186.post-48043588282123827582013-04-11T18:02:00.002+02:002014-08-07T23:45:35.892+02:00Wachten, wachten<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Waiting . . . waiting. </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Only two more sleeps. </span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgECvFp6McqA3eV-P96puDJfYbc1H1OtO5Pjy_lIEYkuCPABG0KIc2MoIGBS1Bxsx-QNt5Cd1vXn0bGA93FAdtmpvXc1YbtX2_usqGkHrIUbqNxS7VxvLeHw_iIVJOBVNCBaFEitLDl3cFW/s1600/DSC_0156.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgECvFp6McqA3eV-P96puDJfYbc1H1OtO5Pjy_lIEYkuCPABG0KIc2MoIGBS1Bxsx-QNt5Cd1vXn0bGA93FAdtmpvXc1YbtX2_usqGkHrIUbqNxS7VxvLeHw_iIVJOBVNCBaFEitLDl3cFW/s320/DSC_0156.JPG" height="212" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">The excitement in Amsterdam has been palpable in the past
few months, as we all count down to the re-opening of the Rijksmuseum, the
iconic national museum that invited the painters and decorators in ten years
ago. Ten years. Really? That’s one year more than it took to build the thing. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">There’s a part of me that can’t help wondering just how good I might look after a ten year restoration program. And a €375 million expense account. I consider myself incredibly lucky to have had a one hour
massage and a half hour facial on two consecutive days over Easter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought about following up with a pedicure
on day three, but with temperatures still below 10<sup>o</sup>C here, and a
strong likelihood that I’ll be in boots for a while longer, I thought it a
little self-indulgent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN-GEieeeXwk7aSd9FvZWEj8Y4RGnvTltQZF4cXmcjHMRptI5qpaMViaZsg8106zOpBeJ_2lY4J_mahlZJJng_ZY8DuP-zSVK7Fboh-Q8jnLj_Fo2Op0T8iFnp8PMjB1oUYkElSxXZ6_5r/s1600/DSC_0154.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN-GEieeeXwk7aSd9FvZWEj8Y4RGnvTltQZF4cXmcjHMRptI5qpaMViaZsg8106zOpBeJ_2lY4J_mahlZJJng_ZY8DuP-zSVK7Fboh-Q8jnLj_Fo2Op0T8iFnp8PMjB1oUYkElSxXZ6_5r/s320/DSC_0154.JPG" height="320" width="214" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Anyway, for months now, the outside of the neo-Gothic Rijksmuseum has sported a huge, neo-digital clock, counting down to the neo-opening day and generating a level of anticipation that this country probably hasn’t seen since
the ultimately devastating (from a Dutch perspective at least) World Cup Final
of 2010. That ended in a 1-0 defeat of the Netherlands during extra time by their historical arch enemy,
Spain (who appeared keen to avenge their loss of the lowlands in 1648
following the eighty years war. Eighty years. Talk about extra time!) To add insult to injury, the
Dutch football team was subjected to accusations of foul play, bad
sportsmanship and unseemly conduct. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Same
thing happened in 1648. It makes it even funnier to me that a firm of Spanish
architects won the tender for the restoration of the Rijksmuseum. Neo-attitude.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The clock pronounces “Nachten Wachten”, or nights waiting, a
witty reference to the museum’s priceless centrepiece – Nachtwacht (The Night
Watch) by Rembrandt. I remember staring at that clock for several
minutes one day, grappling with a possible translation at a time when my
repertoire of Dutch verbs would have numbered no more than twenty (it's now rocketed to about twenty three).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly I experienced a memorable linguistic
lightbulb moment, realising that “wacht” could translate as either watch or
wait. Nights waiting . . . Nightwatch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
laughed out loud as I realised, quite smugly, that I had understood the irony, and I looked with pity at the passing tourists whose heads it must
surely be going over.</span></span><br />
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</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMLWLhEUmnjhv3zdUec5IHUWW-hWmQILB8HpixoWU3kY4fJtU73ai-DIrJHt5Kss5U9LXCQKISmj8VVwuMMW6cno20AcNBUsPD2uuLFvoK0AHwTT7qUSOcmQDdT7-QNwm-m__OXe09hN2B/s1600/rembrandt_night_watch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMLWLhEUmnjhv3zdUec5IHUWW-hWmQILB8HpixoWU3kY4fJtU73ai-DIrJHt5Kss5U9LXCQKISmj8VVwuMMW6cno20AcNBUsPD2uuLFvoK0AHwTT7qUSOcmQDdT7-QNwm-m__OXe09hN2B/s320/rembrandt_night_watch.jpg" height="266" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Hence I retain a strange affection for the gaudy, neon
hoarding. Of course, it signifies my coming of age as an unstoppable linguist,
Antipodean expert in 17th century Dutch art and all-round aficionado of cultural wit. Setting
that aside though, the clock provides a taunting reminder of the
inefficiencies of modern construction – the renovation commenced in 2003 and
was expected to take three years, not ten. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had the clock
been counting upwards, marking the days since the museum closed in 2003, it would today announce
something like “Jullie hebben gewacht: 3,400 nachten”. You have waited 3,400
nights. Thanks for your patience.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzTmTEhVXHRAH5CCt40fR7oFW0whevWci5XRxoUadfK7PtEhLXd6w13TlyuYq_gk9CLiac4KGst3twTm00-xcaTYKWYqqrvXLtFyVqryqdnNuaEs4kMmNh31pxBBkXDwnBmZN83CN1sAEz/s1600/DSC_0147.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzTmTEhVXHRAH5CCt40fR7oFW0whevWci5XRxoUadfK7PtEhLXd6w13TlyuYq_gk9CLiac4KGst3twTm00-xcaTYKWYqqrvXLtFyVqryqdnNuaEs4kMmNh31pxBBkXDwnBmZN83CN1sAEz/s400/DSC_0147.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">The renovation has been stymied throughout by the usual tendering
controversies, some major asbestos problems, the resignation of the museum
director, a misplaced hammer and the day to day challenges posed by tinkering with any building that has its
foundations below sea level. It is rumoured that there was also a major disagreement on tile colours and floor coverings, in common with domestic renovations all over the world. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">On top of all that, the project managers seem to
have forgotten to account for the Dutch tendency to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">overleg. </i>This broadly translates as “to consult”, but in the case
of the renovated Rijksmuseum, translated instead to a seven year <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">overrun</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Dutch, bless them and their egalitarianism
and tolerance of alternative views, have a tendency to widespread consultation
on most matters, particularly administrative and professional. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This can be a fabulous thing, whereby a
culturally ingrained openness to different opinions leads to a genuine meeting
of multiple minds, a robust tussle of ideas and the generation of some amazingly innovative
solutions. On the other hand, poor Ned Nederlander, my innately inclusive
but efficiency-driven man, is regularly frustrated in his Dutch workplace by the need to grin
and bear yet another round of suggestions and comments from a large number of colleagues
and unsuspecting passers-by on something that really should have been done and dusted and at the printers
last week. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the case of the Rijksmuseum renovation, some eighty
licences needed to be sought, all requiring considerable <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">overleg</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t ask me why
those licences didn’t need to be sought, consulted on, modified, agreed and granted <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">before</i> construction began. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">There was another stereotypically Dutch sticking point in
the whole Rijksmuseum project; bicycles. You see a cycle path has cut through the middle of the museum, via an elegant archway, ever since it was opened in 1885. The
path was temporarily closed off during the renovations. I can’t imagine the
outcry such a closure must have generated. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nor can I imagine the clamour (nor the
over-overleg) that ensued when it was announced a couple of years ago that,
come to think of it, the cycleway would need to be permanently closed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even as a relative newcomer to this country,
I know that some issues just aren’t worth “overlegging” about, because you’re
simply never going to win. The preposterous suggestion that cyclists should be
forced to ride a few hundred extra metres around the museum, instead of
pedalling straight through it, is one such issue. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">As the museum's Collections Director noted after the
cycling lobby emerged victorious from the discussions, "The bicycle is
folkloric in the Netherlands. Touch the bicycle, and you touch freedom."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_f2zsGYyJ1ThYIKFcDFSAaUm9O-eqpJXDs4EN2zu3ZiJiAlx8LAhcvrPJV3Ti4cOtCC7RIp_BqO3F6J47-gS0boFG3WL3ebepJThfogdz_aZqZwPANLQch7tjLcBVeLPZZ94LzR2D_KiC/s1600/DSC_0413.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_f2zsGYyJ1ThYIKFcDFSAaUm9O-eqpJXDs4EN2zu3ZiJiAlx8LAhcvrPJV3Ti4cOtCC7RIp_BqO3F6J47-gS0boFG3WL3ebepJThfogdz_aZqZwPANLQch7tjLcBVeLPZZ94LzR2D_KiC/s320/DSC_0413.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">What I believe he really wanted to say, but didn't (probably because he lacked my insight into cultural wit) was "Amsterdam cyclists are the hub of this city, and they have generated a chain reaction that has forced us to find a bespoke solution to this controversy, meaning we have had to back-pedal on our plans to saddle people with an extended route around the rim of the museum". </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So bicycles, that most beloved and undisputed Dutch icon will once more wheel along the path
that bisects the Rijksmuseum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I am so pleased. </span>The
cyclists, and the collisions with pedestrians that the museum’s director is convinced
will occur, will be on exhibition for museum visitors to observe through renovated glass
walls, in what I personally think will be a magnificent piece of constantly
moving art, which could well become the Rijksmuseum’s greatest contemporary
masterpiece. </span></span><br />
<h2>
</h2>
The Dutchesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08073103566170977153noreply@blogger.com1