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.
Instalment 29: The sweaty smell stops Axel from breathing through his nose.
Recently there was a survey in the Netherlands about men’s urinating habits. It mainly covered behaviour at home. The results revealed that 56% peed standing up and 43% preferred to sit down. I was immediately curious about the missing 1%. Do they do it tied up, hanging upside down from the ceiling?
