3rd instalment: They’re after Liesje Loverman who takes no notice of the floor tiles rule.
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I no longer feel at ease holding a telephone conversation. I’m afraid of being bugged. Simply discussing the news by telephone or Skype feels uncomfortable. It hits me when I say words such as ‘Afghanistan’ or ‘Syria’. Then I think: Oh, this will trigger the NSA computer programs in Maryland.
2nd Instalment – A fluffy Axel hums in the morning sun between crispy clean sheets patterned with blue-capped gnomes.
Wonderful, this Netherlands–Russia year: 400 years of bilateral relations. It was supposed to be a celebration but it has deteriorated into quite a disaster. Like two drunken uncles having a punch-up at your wedding. Well, the Netherlands has apologised for arresting a Russian diplomat.
‘I was easily lured by the prospect of dancing in a dirndl and sampling every wurst imaginable.’ For a moment I imagined I was reading Helen Fielding’s new book. By now, Bridget Jones is 51, exactly my age. But no, it’s Pippa Middleton writing in her column for the Daily Telegraph.
In the UK parliament you aren’t allowed to call an MP a coward. In Canada, calling someone ‘a trained seal’ is frowned upon. In the Welsh Assembly it’s better not to refer to the Queen as ‘Mrs Windsor’. And in the Irish parliament using the word ‘buffoon’ seems to be considered an insult. But the Dutch parliament has no problem with MPs calling each other a ‘gormless person’.
A Dutch master captured in English
On September 6, the Syrian national football team played a friendly match in and against Lebanon. So, the Syrian national team still plays football, even though home games take place in Tehran, courtesy of its ally Iran.
Last week the Daily Mail reported that Scotsman Jim Dunbar suffers from ‘chronic lateness’. Jim Dunbar had tried everything – even wearing a watch, for example! Still he continued to be late. It’s thought that the condition is related to ADHD. This was diagnosed at the Ninewells Hospital in Dundee after he naturally arrived twenty minutes late for his appointment.
Karen Jennings appears in Rozet on 20 Sep with Pieter Thomassen, Hanneke de Jong and Arnold Jansen op de Haar
Last week the Dutch newspapers reported that Diederik Samsom, leader of the Dutch Labour Party, one of the governing parties, is getting a divorce. The fact that one of the quality papers broke the news caused an outcry. It was, after all, a private matter. In the Netherlands you can look right into people’s living rooms as you walk down the street but people don’t report private matters.
It’s a war for the silly season. Spain is angry with the British about their actions off the coast of Gibraltar and that’s why the Spanish are making things difficult at the border. The UK is threatening to take the case to the European Court of Justice.
You know, every football club should have two gays in its first team. Wouldn’t that be wonderful: a gay striker or a gay right winger? Well, or a gay goalkeeper at least.
Short shorts are in – well, for women. Men wear Bermuda shorts. Apart from on holiday, the last time I sported Bermuda shorts in public was on the day I celebrated my First Holy Communion. Actually, that coincided with hot pants being the in thing.
Our designer and webmaster, Andrew Cox from Reactive Graphics, rose to the challenge and has done marvellous work on the covers of our two new books out this autumn. On one side is this cover for Hold Still, a novel…
In a hierarchy every employee tends to rise to his level of incompetence, according to the Peter Principle. This would mean that everyone within an organisation, with the exception of the shop floor, is working above their grade. In other words: people get one promotion too many. This may immediately bring to mind your boss, but this week I came across the term in connection with the Tour de France.
When, in 2009, I told my then 84 year old mother that I was resigning from my well paid job as a director of an electronic publishing company to establish a new literary publisher, she said: “Wonderful news!”
Enjoy this report of the discussion in the Mitre on 30 June
‘Doug Engelbart has died.’
‘Who has died?’
‘Doug Engelbart, the inventor of the computer mouse. The man who is responsible for my mouse thumb.’
For fifty years you could phone the MOD to report UFO sightings, until 2009, when they closed the hotline. This week they released the UFO files. A Cardiff man had reported that a UFO took his dog, car and tent. A caller from Carlisle reported he had been living with an alien.
I easily break out in a sweat. Just last week I wanted to climb into a hot-air hand dryer.
Poems Re-imagined from Yiddish Folksongs by Norbert Hirschhorn
This Sunday 30 June – Find out why nothing is what it seems . . .
This week I read about psychological research which proved that three-quarters of our conversations consist of gossip. Other researchers concluded it was more likely to be fourteen per cent. Social psychology isn’t science, it’s a rather sophisticated form of astrology.
Closed – Deadline 31 Dec 2013 24.00 GMT – A poetry competition to celebrate your neighbourhood
Angela Merkel, wearing a low-cut dress, sings a song of praise to the euro. In Germany they’re starting to talk about ‘Brustwarzen Gate’ (Nipple Gate). Because of her tight dress, Angela’s dressing room is located near the stage. Before her performance Angela declares: ‘I look like a sausage.’
Cancelled – next event in this series will take place in Birmingham
If you live outside the Netherlands you probably haven’t heard of Dutch singer Patricia Paay, unless your name is David Bowie.
Beatrix opened up during the handover of the throne. Her face appeared to be far livelier than before. Willem-Alexander had not only become more dignified in his ermine cloak, but from this moment on his face represented the entire nation. He was ready for it, and Máxima was a magnificent Evita of the polders. The people played their role with gusto, as if instructed by someone: ‘You’re the crowd.’
Mao regularly swam in the Yangtze to prove that he was still perfectly fit. Putin rode a horse bare-chested and performed some judo throws, if necessary with the horse, and two weeks ago David Cameron rescued a sheep that had got stuck.
Next time I promise to write again about events in North Korea, and how this relates to a prime minister rescuing a sheep, or something along those lines, but those rings had to be removed on doctor’s orders.
For the election of a pope they prepare his white robes in sizes small, medium and large. For Francis I it turned out to be large. Francis is so huge that he barely fitted into size large. The other Francis could talk to animals, but this one seems to have eaten a few.
I’ve always been a ‘nose in a book’ girl. I don’t know what started it, but it may well be that from quite early on I preferred words over pictures.
As with so many readaholic children my parents’ book buying speed
couldn’t keep up with my reading habits, so they enrolled me into a
library
Last week I spent two nights away from home, and felt as parents must do when they have to leave their children behind at home. ‘But you don’t have any kids,’ I anticipate you saying.
This has been a week in which we have come to see a few things in a new light. According to Hilary Mantel, Kate is made of plastic. It also transpired that we’re eating quite a bit of horse, and in Amsterdam they have abolished the word ‘allochtoon’.
When a plane makes its descent over the Netherlands, the landscape is laid out like a painting by Mondrian, neatly divided up into rectangles. From up in the sky you can see that everything is well structured. Down on earth, too, everything feels highly organised; people like to be part of a group. It’s even more Dutch if your group is actually a trust.
For years Portobello Market was just my local market, providing a treasure trove of presents, and I always enjoyed its vibrant atmosphere.
Then one day I decided to found a publishing company (this is another story, I will blog about it at some point), and the market took on a new meaning. I figured it would provide me with a shop front, if only once a week. Well, on Saturday’s the market really comes into its own.
Last week even dyed-in-the-wool republicans joined the chorus of approval for Queen Beatrix and pledged their trust to Willem-Alexander (the Dutch Crown Prince). ‘And to Máxima (his wife),’ they added quickly.
Poetry & Translation series – February event
I still feel like a young person, but of course I’m really middle-aged, and this middle-aged man found himself in the lingerie department of a large store looking for socks with grip: anti-slip socks.
Sometimes I find myself longing to write a self-help book. The most wonderful challenge is to write a self-help book about something you don’t know a thing about, such as: How to Survive as a Princess.
Someone recently asked me what defines Dutch literature. For a moment I found myself in a tight spot: I had to come clean.
Poetry & Translation series – January programme – it would be lovely if you could join us
After a linesman in the Dutch amateur football league was kicked to death, and in London a nurse committed suicide because two Australian DJs played a bad joke on her, I was in desperate need of something frivolous. Luckily there was news from San Francisco.
The Maya calendar ends on 21 December 2012. Is the end of the world really near? It reminds me of the millennium bug. But the Mayas are really worrying certain people, or in other words, these are the people who are getting ready to travel to Bugarach, a village in the south of France.
Wednesday 19 December at 7.30pm in the Poetry Cafe. We hope you will join us!
Part of being a celebrity is keeping things neat and tidy. Before you know it, your old love letters turn up. Soon someone says, picking up a present from under Christmas tree: ‘Good heavens, what’s this?’ The reply is fumbled: ‘Darling, I’ve bought you Mick Jagger’s love letters.’
Recently the members of the new Dutch government were sworn in by the Queen. They had to redo it because one of the channels had missed the ceremony due to an ad break. The Queen spoke about ‘rehearsing a play’. It reminded me of an old army saying: ‘double-stitched lasts longer’.
I hardly ever pay visits. I love a lively discussion, but rather not in someone’s home. Visiting is a bit superficial, like a ‘novel without an extra layer of meaning’. In the way it invites thoughts like: would they use the living room suite for group sex on a bleak autumn day?
Poery & Translation November Programme
Can you name the person who was recently awarded the Nobel Prize for Physics? You probably can’t. I too would have to look it up. And who won the Nobel Prize for Peace? ‘The EU,’ both of us answer, and we fleetingly think of previous laureates such as Yasser Arafat and Barack Obama.
Recently I spent a day on Portobello Market in London. Two police officers walked past; one was a tall bobby, the other a minute woman police constable. The WPC especially caught the attention: she was a mere five foot but kitted out in the full uniform. I could almost have put her into a box and taken her home.
That year the Beatles released Love Me Do, Elvis Presley released Return To Sender and Bob Dylan produced his first album. One month earlier Nelson Mandela had been arrested and on the same day Marilyn Monroe had committed suicide. The next day Sonny Liston and Floyd Patterson fought for the boxing heavyweight world title. I was born – it was 24 September 1962 – and the weather was lovely.
I pity Kate’s lackey; of course Kate and William don’t go on holiday without servants.
Why would you do something you’re bad at? For some people it’s their hobby; other people take part in the Paralympics.
Recently, in the German city of Düsseldorf, a 74-year-old official was struck in the carotid artery by a javelin during an athletics competition. The news item also mentioned that: ‘Some of the spectators were in shock and needed psychological counselling.’
As a youngster I’d rather be a Red Indian than a cowboy. I believe they are called Native Americans nowadays but we couldn’t have known that. Actually, fifty per cent of American Indians prefer this term and thirty-seven per cent call themselves Native American.
On Sunday 5 August, Holland Park Press had a stall at Deventer Book Market in the Netherlands, ‘the largest book market in Europe’. The publisher had travelled from London and I was there too.
Everyone in London is an information point. While my publisher and I were walking towards Hyde Park, at the bottom of the street, we were asked three times for directions to Hyde Park.
The older I get, the more I’m plagued by nostalgia: for things and people. For example, I feel nostalgic about Tony Blair, who didn’t really become interesting until he invaded Iraq.