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.’
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.
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.
Winner of the English What’s your History? award
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.
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.
