Sunday, 27 May 2012
Different Drum
I think I'm acclimatising a little to the heat, but am still at the pink and itchy stage. This is a good combination with sun-induced highlights. Also I'm delighted to say that there is something which overwhelms the smell of dog poo in the parks. Parc du Cinquantenaire is drenched in jasmine. Last night as I walked through the park it was glorious.
A sound system was being rehearsed for today's Brussels 20K run and One Direction and Duck Sauce blared out. Tightrope walkers bounced at a height of three feet between massive chestnut trees. Crowds surrounded the boules pitch, and the park was crossed peacefully by Muslims and Hassidic Jews. Well, one Hassidic family anyway, that I've seen often, who look as if from another time with four little girls all in matching white dresses with long brown hair. The very tall trees afforded stippled shade throughout the park and I walked as far as Merode, deeply inhaling the jasmine.
At a zebra crossing just outside the park a lady tripped on a tram rail and fell, with a very loud "AIIIE!" sound. I've read a lot about how people don't really care in this city, about how you shouldn't expect any help if anything bad happens. Within seconds, there was a little swarm of people around the fallen lady, cars stopped to see if she was ok, and one car parked diagonally across that side of the road to put a safe barrier between her and the traffic. I did not see the end of this episode but I found it very heartening. People are the same everywhere, I think, and some will always care.
This morning I sat up a hill while the Boy slept (yes, working on a Sunday - his parents were running the 20K) and waited for the front-runners to pass on the Avenue de Tervueren. I nearly cried when the first runners passed, to cheers and applause, between two competing samba bands. Not sure why, it just seemed such a bloody big achievement on such a fucking hot day to pass the 17K marker only 55 minutes after they started.
Later we waited by the road for the Boy's parents to pass us and I was overwhelmed with respect for the thousands and thousands and thousands of people, wet and red and shiny, struggling uphill towards and past us. I was also a bit overwhelmed by the heat by this point so went and had a nice cup of tea.
One thing I decided, when I was up that hill sitting between two samba bands...I really want to play with them.
A sound system was being rehearsed for today's Brussels 20K run and One Direction and Duck Sauce blared out. Tightrope walkers bounced at a height of three feet between massive chestnut trees. Crowds surrounded the boules pitch, and the park was crossed peacefully by Muslims and Hassidic Jews. Well, one Hassidic family anyway, that I've seen often, who look as if from another time with four little girls all in matching white dresses with long brown hair. The very tall trees afforded stippled shade throughout the park and I walked as far as Merode, deeply inhaling the jasmine.
At a zebra crossing just outside the park a lady tripped on a tram rail and fell, with a very loud "AIIIE!" sound. I've read a lot about how people don't really care in this city, about how you shouldn't expect any help if anything bad happens. Within seconds, there was a little swarm of people around the fallen lady, cars stopped to see if she was ok, and one car parked diagonally across that side of the road to put a safe barrier between her and the traffic. I did not see the end of this episode but I found it very heartening. People are the same everywhere, I think, and some will always care.
This morning I sat up a hill while the Boy slept (yes, working on a Sunday - his parents were running the 20K) and waited for the front-runners to pass on the Avenue de Tervueren. I nearly cried when the first runners passed, to cheers and applause, between two competing samba bands. Not sure why, it just seemed such a bloody big achievement on such a fucking hot day to pass the 17K marker only 55 minutes after they started.
Later we waited by the road for the Boy's parents to pass us and I was overwhelmed with respect for the thousands and thousands and thousands of people, wet and red and shiny, struggling uphill towards and past us. I was also a bit overwhelmed by the heat by this point so went and had a nice cup of tea.
One thing I decided, when I was up that hill sitting between two samba bands...I really want to play with them.
Friday, 25 May 2012
Telling Myself Off
Right then. Now then. First of all, stop being a fucking whinger. (That's directed at me, not you, lovely reader.) Yes, we all know you have problems, you and loads of other people. So you have a funny head, so fucking what. It's all you have to work with, so work with it.
Today I got a call from an agency that specialises in recruiting staff that have English as a first language. They do rather like it if you have other languages but are aware that I'm not exactly firing on that cylinder yet. And so, I go in for a Big Test thing in about ten days. No guarantee it will lead to work but at least they were encouraging. (Which another agency was not, sending me a bafflingly-worded, discouraging standard message from a fucking trainee. A trainee? I eat trainees for elevenses.)
So, seeing as language seems to be the problem here (and there's me getting 100% in my first French exam in 1973; where did it all go wrong?) I need to take that particular bull by the balls.
1. Enrol on a language course. Invest good money in this, it is going to furnish your future.
2. Stop panicking. It's taking a while to make sense of what people are saying, but there is a little progress and you are pretty old, so be patient. The panicking doesn't help.
3. Go to activities where people actually speak French.
4. Study. Yes, I know. All I mean is, for thirty minutes each evening do something a bit French. Kissing doesn't count. Listen to French news, read the French dictionary (I've always loved reading the dictionary, which I know is slightly odd), do homework for the yet to be enrolled-on French course.
5. Er...not sure if there is a five. Just know that you will get there. It might take a year, but you'll get there. And then it's in your head forever.
6. Nothing to do with French but I just wanted to say there was a massive blue and yellow macaw in Square Ambiorix yesterday.
Today I got a call from an agency that specialises in recruiting staff that have English as a first language. They do rather like it if you have other languages but are aware that I'm not exactly firing on that cylinder yet. And so, I go in for a Big Test thing in about ten days. No guarantee it will lead to work but at least they were encouraging. (Which another agency was not, sending me a bafflingly-worded, discouraging standard message from a fucking trainee. A trainee? I eat trainees for elevenses.)
So, seeing as language seems to be the problem here (and there's me getting 100% in my first French exam in 1973; where did it all go wrong?) I need to take that particular bull by the balls.
1. Enrol on a language course. Invest good money in this, it is going to furnish your future.
2. Stop panicking. It's taking a while to make sense of what people are saying, but there is a little progress and you are pretty old, so be patient. The panicking doesn't help.
3. Go to activities where people actually speak French.
4. Study. Yes, I know. All I mean is, for thirty minutes each evening do something a bit French. Kissing doesn't count. Listen to French news, read the French dictionary (I've always loved reading the dictionary, which I know is slightly odd), do homework for the yet to be enrolled-on French course.
5. Er...not sure if there is a five. Just know that you will get there. It might take a year, but you'll get there. And then it's in your head forever.
6. Nothing to do with French but I just wanted to say there was a massive blue and yellow macaw in Square Ambiorix yesterday.
Wednesday, 23 May 2012
Hot and Bothered
I won't go on about how hot it is. Those of you who have witnessed my heat-induced malaise at first hand do not need to be reminded, and the rest of you do not need to be bored. Suffice to say, pushing a heavy poussette with about 25 kilos on board in temperatures edging 30 degrees is enough to make one expire.
I think I'm having a bit of a meltdown, which may or may not be heat-related. I think it's more likely shit-related. The Big Girl refuses to use a toilet and I've had some extremely loose stools to clean off her. It makes me feel actually sick, and desperate, and scared that I will have to do this forever. When she asks for a nappy I feel like I'm locked in.
So many people in Brussels have a firework display of languages to their name, and have degrees and degrees and possibly degrees. All I've done is work hard and learn a lot. In the UK this seemed to be enough - I worked for directors in a couple of jobs. Here, I'm not so sure. All I can hope is that the people with the sparkly languages and degrees in being fabulous will not be applying for the same jobs as me.
I don't want something sparkly. I just want a desk, a mug, some fairly interesting stuff to do and people to talk to, and to make myself quietly indispensable. I would like a proper lunch break rather than ten minutes in Square Ambiorix shovelling something from Carrefour down my face. I'd like never to look up someone's bumhole ever again.
I know, I chose this. Still there are no regrets, and I don't want to go back. I only want to go forward. I just need somewhere to go.
I think I'm having a bit of a meltdown, which may or may not be heat-related. I think it's more likely shit-related. The Big Girl refuses to use a toilet and I've had some extremely loose stools to clean off her. It makes me feel actually sick, and desperate, and scared that I will have to do this forever. When she asks for a nappy I feel like I'm locked in.
So many people in Brussels have a firework display of languages to their name, and have degrees and degrees and possibly degrees. All I've done is work hard and learn a lot. In the UK this seemed to be enough - I worked for directors in a couple of jobs. Here, I'm not so sure. All I can hope is that the people with the sparkly languages and degrees in being fabulous will not be applying for the same jobs as me.
I don't want something sparkly. I just want a desk, a mug, some fairly interesting stuff to do and people to talk to, and to make myself quietly indispensable. I would like a proper lunch break rather than ten minutes in Square Ambiorix shovelling something from Carrefour down my face. I'd like never to look up someone's bumhole ever again.
I know, I chose this. Still there are no regrets, and I don't want to go back. I only want to go forward. I just need somewhere to go.
Tuesday, 22 May 2012
Dogging
Summer comes to Brussels, after a fashion.
As I emerged from Schuman metro (a confection of 1970s brown mosaic tiles, concrete, and smears of unidentifiable greasy black stuff) it was properly hot and disgusting yet with a seaside-like wet, cool breeze. Ambiorix Square was in the middle of a haircut, and had sprouted some lurid beds of flowers overnight. Overwhelmingly, the park smelled of dog shit. Wherever there is green space, you will not be able to inhale very deeply. Sun-warmed dogshit. An enterprising person would set up a tannery. Or sell canine nappies. Did you know that in the days when people collected dog shit to tan leather, the working name for the shit was pure.
Around Rondpoint Schuman the razor-wire barriers are casually stacked again, which leads me to think something is happening this week. It's quite a trick to manoeuvre an unwieldy pushchair past the razor-wire into the road, especially as large round lumps have recently been cemented to the edges of the pavement. Good thinking there, chaps.
This evening my bus arrived as due, but then there was inexplicably constipated traffic. Seatless, I was in danger of dying in the bus, like those dogs left locked in cars outside supermarkets. I escaped at Blyckaerts and walked, overtaking the number 60 bus in front of the one I was on. Despite stopping in Cocks Fresh for some wine (only working a half day tomorrow) and walking a good couple of miles, I arrived home at the same time as usual.
Perhaps in future I'll just walk home. If my hips can take it. The hips go first on big old dogs, you know.
As I emerged from Schuman metro (a confection of 1970s brown mosaic tiles, concrete, and smears of unidentifiable greasy black stuff) it was properly hot and disgusting yet with a seaside-like wet, cool breeze. Ambiorix Square was in the middle of a haircut, and had sprouted some lurid beds of flowers overnight. Overwhelmingly, the park smelled of dog shit. Wherever there is green space, you will not be able to inhale very deeply. Sun-warmed dogshit. An enterprising person would set up a tannery. Or sell canine nappies. Did you know that in the days when people collected dog shit to tan leather, the working name for the shit was pure.
Around Rondpoint Schuman the razor-wire barriers are casually stacked again, which leads me to think something is happening this week. It's quite a trick to manoeuvre an unwieldy pushchair past the razor-wire into the road, especially as large round lumps have recently been cemented to the edges of the pavement. Good thinking there, chaps.
This evening my bus arrived as due, but then there was inexplicably constipated traffic. Seatless, I was in danger of dying in the bus, like those dogs left locked in cars outside supermarkets. I escaped at Blyckaerts and walked, overtaking the number 60 bus in front of the one I was on. Despite stopping in Cocks Fresh for some wine (only working a half day tomorrow) and walking a good couple of miles, I arrived home at the same time as usual.
Perhaps in future I'll just walk home. If my hips can take it. The hips go first on big old dogs, you know.
Monday, 21 May 2012
World Party
I continue to be amazed at how far and how wide my readers are flung. Sorry, that makes it sound like you've been subject to some internet centrifugal force. In the last three days (not counting the stumble-upons who happen to have googled "caca boudin" or "Titanic's lifeboats") I have been visited by readers from:
and...University of the Arts London, where I used to work. (Nice to know I'm not forgotten yet!)
A massive and somewhat astonished wave to all of you.
- Saudi Arabia
- British Columbia, Canada
- Mississippi, USA
- Ontario, Canada
- London
- Sakarya, Turkey
- Brabant, Belgium
- Brussels
- Massachusetts, USA
- Edinburgh
- Bourgogne, France
- Paris
- Reading
- Nottingham
- Hull
- Andalucia, Spain
- Rhone-Alpes, France
- Liverpool
- Bristol
- Languedoc-Roussillon, France
- Falkirk
- Dunfermline
- Guernsey
- Rochford, Essex
- York
- San Gabriel, California
- Limburg, Belgium
- Virginia, USA
- Arizona, USA
- Bolton
- Kingston upon Thames
- Washington, USA
- Haslemere, Surrey
- Fleet, Hampshire
- Camberley, Surrey
- San Jose, Costa Rica
- Germany
- Worcester
- Wicklow, Ireland
and...University of the Arts London, where I used to work. (Nice to know I'm not forgotten yet!)
A massive and somewhat astonished wave to all of you.
Sunday, 20 May 2012
Big Game
When I force myself to go out, I really can have quite a splendid time. I should remember that. Home may be where the heart is but the rest of me rather likes being out. Today, having never knowingly before met anyone from Tel Aviv, I met two people from there, completely separately.
Something occurred to me, over a late Thai dinner tonight. (So late that the word "rapide" was mentioned before we had sat down. We duly ate rapidement.) Life is like a computer game. Or perhaps the reverse. My limited understanding of computer games is that you go through picking up "energy" to help you at the next level.
And so it is in life; people achieve qualifications, learn languages, do internships, etc, to pop them up a level. Which makes me wonder what the fuck I've been doing all my life. This weekend my apparently lost O level certificates have turned up in Paris, as these things do. Nobody has ever asked to see them but you never know. I was actually on the brink of getting duplicates.
And they - plus my RSA Typewriting Stage One in 1979 - are pretty much the last "energy" things I got. If life were a computer game I'd be a bit fucked. Fortunately it's not.
Incidentally, being a bit of a computer game ignoramus, I thought I should google to make sure the premise of this post was correct. And I came across this:
Can you get pregnant on Sims social and if you can how many times do you have to 'wahoo'?
Like me, I think some people need to get out more.
Something occurred to me, over a late Thai dinner tonight. (So late that the word "rapide" was mentioned before we had sat down. We duly ate rapidement.) Life is like a computer game. Or perhaps the reverse. My limited understanding of computer games is that you go through picking up "energy" to help you at the next level.
And so it is in life; people achieve qualifications, learn languages, do internships, etc, to pop them up a level. Which makes me wonder what the fuck I've been doing all my life. This weekend my apparently lost O level certificates have turned up in Paris, as these things do. Nobody has ever asked to see them but you never know. I was actually on the brink of getting duplicates.
And they - plus my RSA Typewriting Stage One in 1979 - are pretty much the last "energy" things I got. If life were a computer game I'd be a bit fucked. Fortunately it's not.
Incidentally, being a bit of a computer game ignoramus, I thought I should google to make sure the premise of this post was correct. And I came across this:
Can you get pregnant on Sims social and if you can how many times do you have to 'wahoo'?
Like me, I think some people need to get out more.
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