Life imitating art

"An allegory", he tells me nonchalantly.

George Orwell’s 1945 classic Animal Farm, which Grote Jongen is reading albeit under extreme duress, is apparently "an allegory for the Russian Revolution".

"Really?" I ask, desperately and unsuccessfully trying to remember my relevant high school English class. "Not a lesson in animal husbandry then?"

This leads to eye rolling, tongue clicking and deep sighing from Grote Jongen, and stifled giggles from Ned Nederlander, who for professional reasons is quite fond of an agricultural joke.

"What exactly is an allegory?" I inquire. (I'm pretty sure I know the answer, or could at least bluff my way through a sentence using the word, but I'd just like to check).

Apparently my budding literary genius is engrossed in his homework - a clear case of studiousness of convenience - and my question goes unanswered.

My own recent reading material encourages me to (at least attempt to) demonstrate genuine interest in subjects raised by adolecent boys. I am far more confident discussing English literature and world history with him than I am with our more usual topics of social networking, killing techniques used in Call of Duty, or the cruel inadequacy of his weekly allowance. So I persevere. "What exactly happened in the Russian Revolution?" I coax, ever hopeful that I might elicit more than a two grunt reply. Even as the question lands with a thud between us, I am aware that when I was twelve I probably had never even heard of Russia, much less her Revolution.

"It's a revolution that they had in Russia". Delivered deadpan, without a trace of irony or as much as a sly smirk. And so he unknowingly sows the first seeds of doubt about the value of the international education we are providing for him.

With the discussion obviously closed, I leave the room and surreptitiously thumb through my dictionary (just to double check, you understand). I find "allegory", nestled between "allege" and "alleluia", which seems apt somehow, since I had "asserted without proof" that I knew what it meant, and I had mouthed a "song of praise" on discovering that I had been close enough to knowing its meaning after all.

I then return to my computer and, checking that Grote Jongen can't see my screen, type  "Animal Farm allegory" into my preferred search engine.

Utilising research skills garnered during the course of two university degrees and a twenty year career advising clients on things I had little real knowledge of, I spent a good five minutes bringing myself up to speed on the underlying message of George Orwell's classic. At this point, I should really apologise to Mr Lloyd for not paying more attention in my English class circa 1978, because it seems that Animal Farm is actually quite a fascinating read, possibly wasted on surly adolescents.

In fact, my extensive research, combined with some frightening recent personal experience, has revealed that Animal Farm is in fact an allegory for the life of certain adolescent boys. Consider the following key themes of the book, and the alleged parallels with Grote Jongen's terribly unfortunate life on The Low Down Farm:

The use of rules and traditions to maintain order on the farm.

Grote Jongen's parents (a clear parallel with Orwell's pigs) impose a highly unreasonable set of rules and family traditions, including requiring him to be in bed by 9:00pm on a school night, eating occasional dinners together as a family and conversing pleasantly with fellow diners throughout those meals.

Tyranny as a management style, with associated manipulation through oppression

Apparently parental payment for a mere 100 texts a month is evidence of a cruel and oppressive regime. Compare this with a close friend of Grote Jongen, who goes by the name of "Everyone", and who never suffers the indignity of parental oppression. Everyone's parents happily pay for unlimited texts, phone calls and data downloads, and furthermore Everyone has a Blackberry or an iPhone. Everyone is also allowed to go to bed whenever he wants, and his parents give him money whenever he asks for it.

Leadership and corruption

Forcing adolescents to participate in family outings when they would obviously prefer to stay home on The Low Down Farm and interact with friends through social networking, or watch football matches on television, is clear evidence of cruel corruption among the leadership. Using the privileged position of parent as a basis for imposing boundaries and conditions is apparently an unacceptable abuse of power. Orwell had a similar message for his readers.

Foolishness and folly

The less said the better, although I must make passing mention of the idea that refusing to complete school assignments on the grounds that they are "stupid and boring", as someone on this farm has done recently, sounds suspiciously like something that Mollie the sheep might have come up with in Animal Farm.

The use of violence or the threat of violence as a tool for political oppression

This is used to great effect by Grote Jongen against Kleine Jongen.

Pride in banding together to overthrow an oppressive leader

Despite the example given above, De Jongens regularly demonstrate great camaraderie in the face of their oppressive leaders, employing a unified front of frightening efficiency and effectiveness that Orwell's sheep could only have dreamed of. For example, "No Dad, you definitely said we could stay up until 11:30pm tonight to watch the game on TV. We both heard you".

Lies and deceit

Orwell's pigs convince the other animals that their current situation is better than they think. The pigs give the other animals hope for the future by assuring them that all their dreams will come true. In an uncanny parallel, Grote Jongen's parents refuse to accept his claims of poverty and hardship, pointing out that he is very fortunate to live where he does, on the farm that he lives on. They secretly hope that repetition of this mantra will lead to eventual acceptance of it.

Gaining power by controlling the intellectually inferior

In Animal Farm, Orwell's sheep are portrayed as intellectually inferior to the other animals, and the pigs take advantage of that ignorance to manipulate them. On The Low Down farm however, there is an ongoing debate about which characters are the most intellectually inferior; Grote Jongen generally believes that honour goes to his parents who apparently "don't know anything, but think they know everything". Strangely, the more the leadership struggles against the rebellion, both in Animal Farm and on The Low Down Farm, the more their self-doubt grows and the closer they come to believing that they are indeed intellectually inferior to the masses they are trying to manage.

So, at least now I am pretty sure I have a firm grip on the meaning of "allegory". Pleasingly, from my perspective, and I'm sure from Mr Lloyd's as well, I also have a much firmer grip on the subtext of Animal Farm than I did in 1978.

I am less sure about the strength of my grip on the next few years of motherhood, but with the help of the classics I think I can get through it. For starters I just need to remember that on the Low Down Farm, "all animals are equal but some animals are more equal than others".

Signed
The oppressor
The oppressed
The Dutchess

The Dutch may make a monarchist of me yet . . .

The international image of the lowlands may well revolve around clogs, tulips, pancakes, bicycles and windmills, and they are most certainly all to be found here in abundance, but the most astonishing element of Dutch culture that I have come across in my four months here (with the possible exception of their tolerance for dog poo on footpaths) is Koningennedag. 

Koningennedag, or Queen's Day, is celebrated each year on 30th April, so yesterday was our first experience of this uniquely Dutch celebration.  Until yesterday, we had been cautiously intrigued by the Koningennedag hype; it had been talked up with great gusto by ex-pats and locals alike ever since we arrived in the lowlands.  At this point, I am moved to digress and point out that "talking up" Koningennedag is not the same as being able to pronounce it (note the two evil g's, requiring a level of gutteral gymnastics that I am yet to master, leading to the constant fear that I will unintentionally mis-pronounce it as "Rabbit Day", although I'm proud to say I think I have it covered now). 

Anyway, talk it up everyone did, although we naive newcomers remained quietly sceptical about the likelihood of something that was repeatedly billed as "the biggest flea market in the world, where everyone wears orange" to be actually worth getting out of bed early for.

Our scepticism was unfounded.  The day provided an unforgettable carry-it-with-you-for-life memory of the lowlands- the best weather of the year so far provided an unbeatable backdrop for the combination of convivial (if noisy) bonhomie that characterises Koningennedag, which we now know, is SO much more than a flea market.

Hopefully the following photos might help to reflect some of the day's festivities and frivolities.

Sadly, as with most parties, the aftermath was predictably ugly.  A trip to the centre this morning revealed a city with a bad hangover - a kind of a cross between Bangkok, La Paz and a large waste transfer station, aromatically speaking.  Hopefully someone from the palace will be along soon to clean it all up.

Long live the Queen.

Early in the day. . . not yet convinced

Boa- dicea?

Orange for all

A novel way to raise beer money - invite passers by to throw eggs at you for 50 cents! Kleine Jongen was up for that (see fresh yolk to the right of the fearless (drunk) fund-raiser!

 


You can buy anything if you know where to look

A Dutch oompa-loompa




Tracking down some action



Holler for a marshall

Kleine Jongen and Ned Nederlander



Canal craziness




A wee bit of efficiency

 


Vondel Park flea market




Ned bags his first bargain





All too much


 





Canal-side crowds





The end of the day







The long walk home



London crawling

You know that feeling, when you're about to see an old flame? Reluctance, challenged by curiosity.  Confident maturity, with an outburst of involuntary giggling. Feigned indifference countered by inexplicable nervousness. A smug satisfaction with the present, battling feebly against the romantic recollections of the past.

So it was as I boarded a plane for London recently.  I had loved that city so deeply a lifetime ago. We'd spent almost four formative years together, sharing the early years of marital bliss, a new and exciting career, homesickness, motherhood, an emerging inquisitiveness about how the world works. No doubt about it; we were great together, London and I.

So, what would I make of my old city-love after twelve years apart? Would it live up to the extravagent, perhaps exaggerated memories I had accumulated?

Well, yes . . . and no.

Dear London,

It was fantastic to catch up again recently, and I really enjoyed introducing you to De Jongens (they really liked you by the way, especially your Monopoly board).

You still have a beautiful body, and once again I eyed off your physical assets wistfully. Those curves, that opulent ornamentation! Breath-taking. Made me go weak at the knees. You look great; maybe even better than I remember, although that might be because I have an appreciation for aging that I didn't have when we were together . . . I admit I now have a rather personal interest in crumbling facades.

It certainly brought back happy memories to curl up in a dimly-lit pub on a rainy evening and share a gin and tonic with you, while Ned Nederlander gazed deep into the eyes of the pint of Fullers London Pride he'd been lusting after since we booked our flights. I remain annoyed however that you won't let De Jongens in to any area in your pubs after 5pm! What's with that?? Still, they were happy enough, barricaded inside the hotel room across the river, (watching Nanny 911, ironically enough), whilst we indulged ourselves.

Setting that hiccup aside, it was amazing to see The Lion King together in the West End - noone in the world does theatre quite like you. Just walking past all those grand foyers is exciting. You'll not be surprised to know that we're still all talking about the street performance you showed us in Covent Garden - you can still make me gasp in amazement and laugh out loud. I always so loved your capacity to surprise me.

 You certainly surprised me when you showed me your Cabinet War Rooms; why haven't I seen those before?  They were so unexpectedly mesmerising that I was quite disorientated to find myself emerging from the bunker into 2012. 

Your Natural History Museum still appeals to people of all ages and interests, although De Jongens made you work hard for that, I'll admit.  The trouble is, it has the dreaded "M" word in its title, and they feel compelled to resist that. Ned and I are learning to substitute "Theme Park" for "Museum", and are having some success with that approach. Unfortunately, on this occasion we were unable to entice them to the Victoria and Albert Theme Park, but we should be grateful for small steps towards cultural awareness, I suppose.

I was relieved to see that your sense of occasion is undiminished - I love that about you. There's no doubt about it - you've absolutely got brass bands covered, and noone else can touch you! 

And I'm so pleased that you still have those funny tin soldiers with the shiny buttons and impressive jackets and helmets, and unbelievably shiny shoes - I know I used to laugh at them, but I love them really



12th and 21st century architecture side by side

I'm glad we had the chance to wander around the Tower of London in the spring sunshine - your history and imposing majesty still fill me with awe, even if Kleine Jongen pronounced that famous landmark to be "an ugly pile of bricks from the Dinosaur age". He doesn't understand you yet, sorry. But I'm sure that eventually,he'll love you as I have.

But London, although I've enjoyed catching up, I'm worried about you. You seem to have lost your soul. What's with all the pushing and shoving? Why such aggression and anger?  Yes, I've read the stories in the papers and I know you've had a hard time recently - financial issues and all that - but really . . . you've changed. 



That wonderfully quirky reserve and restraint that's seen you through troubled times in the past - gone.  Your stiff upper lip seems to have turned into a stiff upper cut, discharged freely on footpaths, at Tube stations, in the supermarkets, in your famous queues.  And while we're one the subject of queues, what's become of yours?  The rigid, structured lines that let everyone know their place and always made me smile, have disappeared.  Now you just laze about, wandering without purpose, blocking footpaths, creating uncertainty, starting arguments. You've let yourself go (but hey, I understand that).

Now I don't want to seem overly-critical, but I couldn't help noticing also that the black cabs, once a symbol of your quiet dignity, are now emblazened with brash corporate colours and logos. Very modern, but not really you.

And those quirky red phone booths that were once your trademark?  Thankfully, they are still there, albeit as hollow photo opportunities, their functional innards long ago removed.  But I wish you'd warned me about that! Instead, you made a mockery of me, leaving me to face the ridicule of De Jongens, who were quite bemused as to why I had taken 50p into an empty red box. "What's a phone booth??" they asked. "What DO you do in there? Are we allowed to go in?"

Despite my criticisms, de Jongens and I enjoyed wandering through the countryside with you for a couple of days too.  Salisbury was beautiful, her Cathedral surprising us with an unexpected treasure - the Magna Carta.  That appealed to Grote Jongen, who had learned about it last year, and who seemed quite taken by the notion of coming face to face with the very foundation of our modern justice system, although I suspect it will be used against me during the next familial argument about fraternal equity and the natural rights of the first-born.

Spending the day with you at Longleat stately home and safari park was also fun, if not a lesson in incongruity.  It gave sudden relevance to the notion of the English lion (and tiger and camel and monkey).  I am quite taken with the idea of the eccentric 6th Marquess of Bath looking out his window in 1966, and saying "What we need in that front garden is a jolly big pond, full of hippos, and an island for some gorillas.  Oh, and let's put a Postman Pat theme park and merchandise shop over in that corner, beside an enormous adventure playground, with a miniature castle for the visiting children.  And, sorry old chap, could we have a family of meer cats in that space in between?  Aahh, I don't suppose you could also manage the world's biggest hedge maze while you're at it?  And I would SO love a couple of giraffe". 

It's the strangest idea, but I have to admit, it works. Definitely a highlight.

So, my dear London, that's all for now.  Thanks again, it was fun to catch up and I hope we can see each other again. But for now I've happily returned to my new city-love, with it's gentle rhythms, quaint canals, understated bridges, and yes, some beautiful crumbling facades.

Love (always)
The Dutchess xx

Immunity must be earned

Of all the adjustments that need to be made when a family moves to a new country - new school, new job, new friends, new language, new bottle shop - the real challenge it seems, the one that truly sorts the experienced ex-pats from the wannabe's like me, is dealing with new pathogens. The need to adjust immune systems must surely be one of the most overlooked requirements in the grand scheme of an international move.

Ned Nederlander started the ball rolling; he came down with a man-cold a week or two after we arrived. I showed my usual level of sympathy for such ailments; I handed him a box of tissues and went outside with my guide book to find a new museum and a nice cafe.

A few weeks later, Grote Jongen found a cough-inducing pathogen somewhere on a snow-covered mountain in Austria.  While that pathogen almost required me to give up a day's skiing, I managed to convince him that the best remedy for a high temperature and a constantly convulsing chest was "just a couple more runs".  The following day the skiing endorphin rush that had caused my indifference had subsided, replaced by the more familiar maternal guilt. In grave anticipation of burst eardrums on our return flight to the Lowlands,  I provided a constant supply of sweets for him to suck throughout the descent, reasoning that dental treatment would be easier to access and afford than a lifetime supply of hearing aids and Auslan lessons.

However, further immune system adjustments were required, with Kleine Jongen succumbing to the same pathogen a few days later. We braced ourselves for our first European asthma attack, but it didn't eventuate and we notched up another immune adjustment with few significant consequences.

Not one to be out-illed by his sons, Ned required further immunity adjustment a week or so later. Fortunately, this adjustment provided an unexpected financial windfall. Ned, by nature a cautious soul, and scarred as he is by bitter experiences backpacking in dodgy destinations during his youth, has a habit of putting valuables in "safe" places. Unfortunately, these "safe places" are often eminently forgettable, such that our family has been known to spend a couple of days searching for Ned's laptop after we return from holidays, only to find it at the bottom of the washing basket the following Sunday. Whole weeks can go by before his treasured watch emerges from inside the blue sock at the back of the top shelf of the pantry. And so it was that in September 2011, during our initial trip to the Lowlands, Ned decided that his Australian valuables needed to be given his special security treatment.  Sadly, he was unable to recall their precise location when we returned to Australia, and we reluctantly accepted their loss.  However, during his recent immunity-adjustment, while peering forlornly into an empty packet of cold and flu lozenges, Ned suddenly let out a shriek of delight before sheepishly extracting $AU180, along with a Sydney Travel Ten, a Rabobank Sydney security pass and an annual membership card for the salubrious Gladesville Sporties Bowling Club. What could I do but shake my head, pick up my guide book and head out in search of a new museum and a nice cafe?


Alas, even more immunity adjustment proved to be necessary; I discovered Kleine Jongen once again prostrate on the lounge a day or two later.  "Ah, what you need is an outing", I pronounced. "On your bike,  we're off to the zoo". Sadly, that treatment proved undeniably ineffective, as after several hours of bravely feigning interest in the bears, sloths and sea-lions of Amsterdam, he returned to the domestic lounge and slept for the best part of 18 hours.  Meanwhile I was forced to admit that mothers don't always know best. My punishment was to guide a sweating, shivering, growling, prowling, barking, vomiting child through a further immunity adjustment for the next six days.

On the seventh day I rested, only to be roused by the school, phoning to say that Grote Jongen had "almost" passed out in class with a temperature of 39 degrees. "Thanks for letting me know" I said, momentarily looking up from my guidebook. There was a pause before the school nurse delicately suggested I should come and collect him. "But didn't you say "almost" passed out?" I enquired. " He didn't actually collapse, did he???"

"39 degrees", she responded firmly. "We'll see you soon".  I put down the guidebook and dutifully collected him. I then sat at home with him for the next seven days, wistfully watching spring emerge outside my window, occasionally mopping his brow and cleaning up his faux-vomits (brotherly competiveness never being too far from the surface in this family), while idly planning post-immunity-adjustment outings.  During that time we made a trip to the doctor, the pathologist and the pharmacist, none of which are recommended in my preferred guidebook.

The longed-for day finally arrived when everyone in the family was sufficently immunity-adjusted to leave me to my tourist ambitions.  Unfortunately that coincided with the first of not one, but TWO scheduled pupil-free days for Kleine Jongen. "What shall we do?", I asked on the morning of day one, in an unconvincing display of selflessness. 

" I just want to watch a DVD", he said.

"On your bike", I said, picking up the guidebook, and we walked out the door.

What just happened?

Finally, an update from the lowlands.  Every day is packed with multiple frustrations, amazements, lessons and amusements for all of us, so the two months we have been here sometimes seems like an eternity.  At the same time, the gross inefficiency that comes from trying to operate in a new country can add to the sense that time is just zooming by. There is nothing like spending three hours trying to log on to internet banking to remind you of the value of time and to emphasise the speed with which it passes (yes, even when one of us works for the very bank that provides the internet account). Now I know that many of you are reading this thinking “Really? Why don’t you just (insert helpful advice)”.  I tried them all – it still took three hours! And don’t even ask about the many times I have embarked on what should have been a ten minute dash to the supermarket, only to emerge dazed, confused and empty-handed, an hour later! The central heating instruction manual alone has consumed at least 72 hours of my life, and we still alternatively freeze and boil – Google Translate does little to assist in that situation, with helpful interpretations like “turn the right dial until ash temperature overworks”.

Despite all our clocks having been set to run extra-fast, I still thought it was worth reporting on some of the happenings since our early January arrival. 

The Not-Quite Canal House

The scene in our street on the day we moved in

We have been lucky enough to find a house, which we moved into in early February. Unfortunately, it’s not the grand 17^th century canal house you might have been hoping to come and visit, but we’ll be not far down the road from quite a few of those.  It’s the story of our lives; in Gladesville we lived “not far down the road” from some beautiful old sandstone houses with harbour views . . . in London we lived “not far down the road” from some spectacular mansions and royal palaces.  We seem forever destined to be just down the road from residential glory.  Still, we are very happy with our humble Amsterdam abode, which importantly will comfortably accommodate guests.  It is a two minute bike ride from Amsterdam’s magnificent Vondelpark, a 12 minute ride from the Rijksmuseum and a 3 minute stroll from a Michelin-starred restaurant and many other dining options.  It is also 100 metres from a prison, which might prove to be a useful incentive for good behavior by De Jongens, and two blocks from a psychiatric clinic, which raises all sorts of possibilities for the whole family.

A week or so after we moved in, I was dozing in bed at about 6am, enjoying the sound of rain on the roof, when I realised we are four floors below the roof, and it was actually the sound of water pouring into the basement rooms – guest room, storeroom, bathroom and study. Ned Nederlander, bravely channelling the boy with his finger in the dyke, could do little to hold back the tide emanating from a burst pipe next door. The water level peaked at about 30cm, giving us some excellent exposure to the Amsterdam emergency plumbers network, the local constabulary, our inquisitive (but very helpful) neighbours and the Dutch insurance company we had taken out a policy with a day or two earlier….

School Daze

To my great relief, de Jongens have fitted in extremely well at the International School of Amsterdam.  So far, there would appear to be an inverse relationship between the extent of one’s initial resistance to a change and the level of enjoyment one actually gets from said change. 

Grote Jongen, originally the most strident resister to a move to the lowlands, has been as happy as
a duck on a canal from the moment he entered the school;  socially he seems to be off and running,
as any of you unfortunate enough to be friends with him on FaceBook will know; academically he is
(so far) quite engaged.  I say "quite engaged" because you will need to overook the fact that he has been kicked out of a science class for ridiculous behaviour, received "no result" in a Dutch test, and hurled a maths text book across the room during a particularly frustrating homework session, but nothwithstanding those . . . ahem . . . .minor issues, he really does seem to be interested in the
classes.  For example, proving that school is much more fun now than a generation ago, he seemed
to genuinely enjoy learning about the periodic table.  When you least expect it, he trots out one or
two weird facts about the elements; this to my great consternation, as I struggle to remember the symbol for oxygen!  He has completed an amazing unit on religious extremism, and in an annoying demonstration of his newfound critical thinking and innovative analysis skills, has suggested that his parents’ constant preaching about table manners would serve as a useful case study for his class. He
is learning both Dutch and Spanish, at the speed that everyone tells you children learn languages.

Kleine Jongen is less effusive, but also happy. He has a teacher who appears to model himself on the teacher played by Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society, so it’s hard to imagine school being anything other than fabulous.  His seventeen class-mates represent about twelve different nationalities. The last few months of middle school involve researching and presenting a major small group project on a chosen subject – he has chosen “Special effects and props in movies”, which will be surprising to those who know him, as it involves neither a ball nor goalposts.  The catch is that although students may choose their own topic, they must fit it within a prescribed theme; namely “How creative thinking in my chosen area affects my thinking and the thinking of those around me”. No mean feat for a bunch of ten year olds.   Finished products from previous years put my undergraduate thesis to shame, so we are looking forward to seeing the outcome of his musings. His group of five boys have independently organised a field trip to a local production studio, with a couple of we curious mums noting that the email inviting them to come and have a look included an invitation to "stay for a small drinks party". Dutch liberalism in action.



It’s astonishing to hear both boys at the end of the school day –excitedly brimming with stories, facts, queries, explanations, translations. On any given afternoon, I might hear details of the first 20 elements of the periodic table, what “vaak” means in Dutch (pronounced f…  … oh never mind), the macaroni cheese in the cafeteria, techniques for texting your mother without the teacher noticing, explicit details of the game-winning goal scored during lunch break in the snow, what the Austrian artist Hundertwasser thinks about the relationship between onions and life, the effects of  the 2011 tsunami on Japanese migration patterns and something or other about improper fractions. That’s when I switch off.

Out and about

Shortly after arriving, we jumped on a train and took de Jongens on a day trip to Brussels, selling it to them as an opportunity to test and purchase vast quantities of chocolate, which we all duly did.

We then showed those Europeans a thing or two about skiing during a recent short sojourn to Innsbruck, Austria.  Skiing conditions were pretty close to perfect, leading to what may yet become known as “the best family holiday ever”.  

As of last Friday, we now have a car, which will hopefully make weekend escapes a little more likely, although that will require us to improve our ability to understand the nice Dutch woman in the sat. nav. system.  Last weekend, our comical inability to understand her instructions led us to unintentionally complete an impressive full circumnavigation of Amsterdam via the A10 ring road, narrowly escaping divorce and infanticide in the process!

However, even if we never manage to steer beyond the A10, we are excited by rumblings in cyberspace of several planned assaults on Europe by Australian friends and family, and we're quite confident we can find enough to amuse you all in the area within the A10's seemingly impenetrable barriers!

Finally

Thank you to all of you who have sent emails, Skyped and phoned since we arrived; it makes being on the other side of the world much more bearable to be in constant contact with you all, and hear your news.

Since this post has been two months in the making, I will delay it no longer and publish it now, ready or not.  My plan is to use The Low Down blog as a way of giving you the occasional update on our life in the lowlands (updates and downloads being a useful analogy for our life over here...).  My understanding of blog technology and processes is sadly tenuous, so I'll apologise in advance for any teething problems, although I admit to being cautiously optimistic about the prospect of having lots of disciples (or followers...whatever they are called).

With love,
The Dutchess xx