I am one of the three million citizens from the European continent who live and work in your country. I’m not allowed to cast my vote in the referendum, but your country is the one I prefer to live in.

Instalment 52: The thick smoke from Reverend Uncle’s Hofnar cigar has finally reached the booth space of the rented VW Beetle. Axel has been sitting there for hours wedged between the fishing rods and live fishing bait.

I have to admit that, to kill time, I regularly watch Come Dine with Me (the way others go fishing). And I also watch its spin-off Couples Come Dine with Me. The programme consists of ‘ordinary’ people going for dinner in each other’s homes and, in addition, rating it. The winner receives £1000.

‘Doctor, I’m an Anglophile, do you think that’s dangerous?’ Every time I visit my GP I’m tempted to ask this question. But, at this practice, you keep seeing a different doctor. The last one I saw was called Georgios, and I don’t think Georgios would get my question.

Instalment 51: Clouds like orange candy floss float over the Sacred Heart Statue on Temps Square. A giant copper-green Saviour watches over Axel…

Instalment 50: The last night freight train changes track, grating mercilessly, on the
railway near the 2nd Daalsedyke and it wakes up Axel from a sweaty
half-sleep on his grubby green IKEA futon.

As you may know, every Saturday I’m on Portobello market with the Holland Park Press bookstall, and I don’t want to keep from you what happened there last week.

In the past few days my knee has been giving me trouble, which means that, at the moment, I’m leading the life of a partial cripple. Yesterday, I caught myself muttering: ‘I’m a bit like the EU.’

Instalment 49: During the Introit, the crippled sacristan, rubbing his hands, separates the sea of children who are making their First Communion, in the midst of it, the top of Axel’s head is bobbing up and down.

We were on our way from London to Rochester by train. ‘It’s something different, this UKIP safari,’ I said to my travel companion. And after this, as Rochester station loomed large, I added in a David-Attenborough-like whisper: ‘I believe I’ve spotted two of the species. They’re males.’

Instalment 48: On their way, Reverend Uncle Peer had to leave his mitre with a waitress in the Crowned Cock, but…

Proverbs and expressions are tricky to translate. This is a great commercial opportunity: a Dutch–English dictionary of proverbs and expressions.

This competition closed on 31 August 2016

I’m 53, and my first relationship, which lasted about as long as WW2, has just broken up. It sounds like the opening line of a novel.

Instalment 47: While the dental nurse, dressed in a harsh pink trouser suit with a wide white belt and platform shoes, takes him to the dentist chair, Axel left fist tightly grips Virgil Tracey, the Thunderbird 2 pilot.

People from the Netherlands regularly ask me if I think the UK will leave the EU. The date for the referendum still has to be set, but already they sound concerned when they ask me the question. Others sound a bit sarcastic when they pose this question, as if to say: ‘Well, in that case we’ll be better off without them.’

A last poem by David Ayres which was read at his cremation service on 29 January 2016

Instalment 46: The sign board of Balkan grill Boro shows two hot-headed chefs who are out to kill each other with shashlik skewers.

Pantomime is one of the best kept secrets in Britain. Dutch readers may well think it’s like the mime (in Dutch: ‘pantomime’!) which was a recurring interval act during the big TV variety shows of the 1960s and 1970s, in which a mime artist wordlessly performed actions such as placing hands against an invisible window. In our house this was the signal for a toilet break.

Instalment 45: In the bridge room of Tabor Home, Reverend Uncle Peer emphasizes the Feast of the Transfiguration with a Holy Mass in front of twelve wheelchair-bound people.

Instalment 44: In the stuffy arrivals hall, Axel is accosted by the woman who is the first to emerge from customs.

‘So you think bombing is very bad for the environment?’
‘Yes, setting fire to oilfields is rather damaging to the environment.’
‘So we shouldn’t have fought that Second World War, either?’
‘That’s not what I’m saying.’

The people I told looked at me as if I was going to travel into a war zone. Actually, after the Paris attacks, I travelled from London to Arnhem and, six days later, back again. Yes, that’s right, through Brussels.

Instalment 43: Every night, Axel steals a hardcover from the feminist bookshop.

Last Thursday, together with my publisher, I decided to research the local Bonfire Night customs in more detail, like an anthropologist investigating the last tribe that still wears penis sheaths.

Instalment 42: Even during his last year before retiring, once provoked, deputy head Kreuze easily explodes into anger.

Runner up in the I is Another competition

Can a book make you change your mind? That’s what occupied my thoughts after reading the new Ted Hughes biography by Jonathan Bate. The publication of this English biography almost coincided with that of Jij zegt het (It’s you who says it), a Dutch novel about Ted Hughes by Connie Palmen.

Instalment 41: Because mummy’s gallbladder is being removed on Good Friday, granny Reuser, from across the road, has taken charge of her daughter’s home.

Recently, someone asked me what it is like to be a poor poet living in a very wealthy London neighbourhood. ‘I see the funny side of it,’ I replied, ‘and it’s rather nice.’

Instalment 40: The next morning, he sits, nerves on edge, at the kitchen table waiting for the phone to ring.

During World War II, there were ‘Engelandvaarders’, people fleeing to England, and who used small boats to cross the Channel. Alternatively, they travelled through Belgium, France and Spain to Portugal or Gibraltar, and then on to England. They were made very welcome.

I’ve lived in London for over a year now. ‘Dutch expats are critical of the Netherlands,’ I recently explained to some English friends. ‘And a lot of Dutch people live abroad, actually 1 in 17.’

Instalment 39: Every fourteen minutes the High lighthouse’s rotating beam hits the neatly trimmed conifer hedge which surrounds camping the Corner.

‘The number of confused Dutch people abroad is increasing’, ran the headline in one of the Dutch newspapers. Embassies are coming across it far more frequently. In Madrid, a Dutchman was spotted directing the traffic stark naked.

Here at home, the boiler is being replaced, and all of a sudden I find myself in an uncomfortable situation. This awkward state of affairs begins as soon as the workmen arrive. I’m never quite sure if I ought to offer workmen something to drink. Nonetheless, I’ve set out tea and coffee, but I don’t have any milk. ‘No problem,’ say the workmen.

Instalment 38: On Carnival’s Monday, after the children’s parade, Axel is collected by Robbie Hol to go jigging in Smeets Hall.

‘It’s all Greek to me,’ wrote William Shakespeare, as long ago as 1599, in Julius Caesar. When, on Sunday, Europe developed a breach of trust over Greece, it made me think of an expression from Virgil that has been incorporated into the English language: ‘Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.’ (A reference to the Trojan Horse.)

Instalment 37: Because it’s spring, Axel has mustered all his year-7 courage to turn
around to face Vera Lebesque, the girl in the tight levi’s 501

Dutch MP Helma Neppérus (VVD – People’s Party for Freedom and Democracy) argued for the reinstatement of tonic water and bitter lemon in the lower chamber’s restaurant. The fizzy drinks had fallen by the wayside because produce has to be organic. How much of a nanny state can a person endure?

Instalment 36: Looking up, she snaps at her grandson: ‘If you fall down, you’ll have to collect your front teeth yourself.’

Every Saturday we’re on Portobello market with the Holland Park Press market stall. We’re in the square, in front of the hairdressing salon on the corner of Tavistock Road. Many of the male hairdressers from the salon wear a beard, or to be precise a trendy beard and a moustache, aka a ‘beardstache’. The longer hipster beard (one up from ZZ Top) is dead, long live the beardstache! Well, that’s what they’re saying – I’m not really an expert.

Instalment 35: Axel has stuffed that many pieces of clothing in a brown corduroy pair of trousers and a blue, flannel shirt that he slowly begins to believe that there’s a real girl laying down on his bed.

Since living in England, I’ve been kept busy. This year, I’ve missed the Boat Race (since 1829) and the Chelsea Flower Show (since 1913), but I can still attend Ascot (since 1711), Wimbledon (since 1877), Trooping the Colour (birthday parade for the Head of State’s official birthday, first held in 1748), Glyndebourne (since 1934), the Henley Regatta (since 1839), the Last Night of the Proms (since 1895) or Cowes Week (since 1826).

Instalment 34: Axel hangs upside down, his feet tied to the lowest branch of the poplar standing nearest to the campfire of squinting Joep and Carlo de Clever.

Recently, I followed the coverage of King’s Day in Dordrecht on my
laptop. It featured the visit to the city of King Willem-Alexander and
Queen Maxima with their children and some minor royals, but for a moment
I thought I was watching the arrival of St Nicholas. (For English
readers, this is a Dutch children’s event on 5 December.) Partly, maybe,
because the first picture they showed was that of a steamboat.

Instalment 33: Willy Roos pushes his big belly covered in his blue dustcoat against
Axel’s right thigh, while his pair of scissors is, like a slug, grazing
the boy’s crown.

Recently, I visited Karl Marx’s grave at Highgate Cemetery in North London. It’s only an hour’s journey by bus. There was an entrance fee of four pounds per person. ‘Four pounds,’ my travel companion said to the lady behind the counter, ‘to visit a graveyard?’

Instalment 32: On the steep verge along the deserted motorway, Axel lies on the lush grass at the feet of next-door girl Manon.

I used to be the king of single-pot cooking. I had no need of a cookbook. My one-pot meals were quite simple. But since I’ve emigrated to England I have a fully fitted kitchen at my disposal and there is a new woman in my life.

Last week a couple visited us. Apparently, according to newspaper articles, they belong to a special tribe: a tribe from the West Midlands. I don’t think they knew they belonged to a tribe, but it’s in the papers, so there must be some truth in it.

Instalment 31: Today, he skips dinner. After the school bell, Axel has stayed on in the schoolyard and has played land grab with a Swiss penknife, the expensive Christmas present from his father.

I live in a strange country. From a Dutch point of view it’s across the sea. Nearby and yet quite distant. Over here, news reporting is often an odd affair.