Sugar High

The end is nigh. We're back at work - all be it in the obligatory Training Day uniform of ill-fitting jeans and bad trainers, but it's work nevertheless - and teaching starts next Tuesday. SOB. Where did those glorious weeks go? And, more to the point, where did this belly come from? I left school at 19 weeks preggo and I'm now 27 and WOOOAH there.is.a.difference.

So, pre-empting the Nightmares Of Doom (and I still had one!) on Wednesday night before the official return today, I got up on Monday, got the tram in at normal time (ugh, hello 7am daylight, haven't seen YOU for a while) and did a day 'to get ahead' (hahahahaha oh sweet, naive Laura). I was mightily smug. The next morning, however, I was knackered. That's the thing with this work business - it's every day, five days on the trot. Who came up with this? Not Scandinavians, that's for sure.

Oo, and we've been to see some creches too. I know. HOW. WHAT. My mind is still struggling to compute that this child is NOT YET BORN and yet we're thinking about its childcare in over a year's time. This is the norm, apparently - in fact, we're late - you're supposed to inform creches 15 weeks into pregnancy to get on some kidney transplant-style waiting list, at least if you want a hallowed place at a Francophone commune creche where the fees are cheap (500ish euros full-time, or so goes the rumour) and doctors' notes result in deductions of fees for days legitimately missed due to sickness. I KNOW! My sister was speechless with admiration/envy.  

This was not a commune creche. It was a private creche. It was lovely (although the Romanian-orphanage-style room full of cots was a little bit, well, odd). It was also expensive. It's in the right area for us (I don't mean that in terms of our baby wouldn't be seen dead anywhere else, but rather that the transport links for work are good). Apparently we can claim some of the eye-watering outlay back in tax. In fact, I had the most boring text message exchange of our entire relationship with Adam about this very important fiscal issue. I've never felt more attractive as when typing the words 'we'd qualify for 11 euros tax back for each day of FT childcare' into BBM messenger.

I also went for a scan and the gestational diabetes test at the hospital. AGAIN with the mental private healthcare process: display no symptoms of anything ever but for the LOVE of your unborn CHILD make sure you have every expensive diagnostic test under the sun - and thank your gold-plated-Daddy-Warbucks-health-insurance-stars for it. And actually, while I'm on, in a bizarre twist of coincidence do you know how many times I've come across the term 'socialised healthcare' in newspaper articles - all right, all right, episodes of The West Wing - as if it's something dirty or cheap or dangerous recently? I'll tell ya: LOADS. And to me, and maybe to Brits on the continent generally, that's just mad. My hospital is lovely, don't get me wrong, and my doctor is lovely and I am appreciative that I won't be forced to conjugate unfamiliar French verbs mid-delivery AND I can buy a bloody leather bag in the giftshop should the fancy take me, really I am, but it's just all a bit - excessive. There's a post-modernist sculpture in the hallway. The fella at the sandwich bar today asked me if I wanted balsamic vinegar.

And I think of the NHS vision and their wonderful staff, doing things efficiently and largely in the most cost-effective way possible, and I like that. It's responsible. It's no-nonsense.

ANYHOO. Check me and my first world problems out: my hospital is too nice. My luxury leather handbag bought in the giftshop (not really) is chafing my shoulder. The midwife makes crap tea (not really). Second time around (!) I'll be a lot more informed and a lot braver about sacking some of this guff off, I feel.

So today I had blood taken and then I drank this. It was rank.

Mmm, sweet all-natural naranja. 

Then I sat about for an hour and had more blood taken. My veins started putting up a fight at this point - "Ce n'est pas vrai, ce n'est pas vrai" muttered the nurse, which disturbed me a little - and she had to take it from my wrist.

Then I sat around for another hour and had more blood taken. By this point my veins all seemed to have pretty much collapsed. I thought she was going to have to start hunting in between my toes and I would leave l'hopital looking like Amy Winehouse in those horrific 2007 ballet shoe paparazzi shots.

But hey, test done, and hopefully I don't have diabetes, my bairn will suffer no lasting side-effects other than maybe a predilection for Monster energy drinks and I can just get on with the serious business of getting fatter and fatter. After being bridesmaid for my friend this weekend, obvs. Everyone loves a pregnant bridesmaid! Woop woop! That DJ better have Salt n Peppa Push It, I'm telling you.

And so I shall leave you with a few things that are floating my boat this week despite the impending tolling of the Back To Work bell:

* James Booth's new biography of Philip Larkin is Book of the Week on Radio 4. YOLO! You can listen again for seven days only here. It sounds wicked and is giving me endless quotable nuggets of twitter joy. Don't thank me all at once.

* The idea of getting a tattoo done by this woman. In another braver, edgier life.

* Donna Wilson has launched a range of baby and children's clothes for John Lewis. LOOK. Can I justify buying this now? Do you think a boy could wear this? I totally do, so don't tell me otherwise, yeah?

* This is my favourite twitter account ever. Everything she says makes me die. There's an English Language A level coursework project in it somewhere.

And you? What's rocking your boat? I could do with some good social media accounts if anyone has any recommendations (I want more real people, yerr narr?), book recommendations to keep my reading strength up as term begins or, you know, places where I can look at pretty baby stuff is always welcome. And if anyone has any creche advice for an actual Creche Idiot (that's me), please do tell. What should I be looking for? What questions should I be asking? Although you should know I have all the tax questions covered. I'm cool like that.

I got my hair did, in the words of Missy Elliott

Hiya. It's been hot, hmm? Stinking hot. Oh-my-gawwwd-get-those-patio-doors-open-hot. No-duvet-on-the-bed-hot. I-cannot-physically-bear-to-do-the-ironing-hot. Various appellations, one particular breed of muggy Belgian airlessness. Pregnancy may have assaulted my skin (I'm a red-chinned hormonal mess at the minute), robbed me of some fairly major independent memories (Adam: "You used to live with a girl called Jenny. She was a nurse. She lived in your house for four months." Me: "I have no idea what you're talking about." I am GENUINELY FRIGHTENED that my brain is about to DISAPPEAR) and I have a furious hunger that CANNOT be sated no matter how many ricecakes with peanut butter I gorge upon, but by far the most noticeable side effect is that before I was always cold. Now, I'm always hot. I have my own personal central heating system and it's the size of a canteloupe, apparently. 

Anyhoo. I'm researching creches since I was openly laughed at for not having found one yet. I cannot believe that this child is still in utero and I'm browsing websites depicting arty 50mm shots of fully-grown toddler cherubs with golden curls and gap-toothed smiles having a wonderful time shaking tambourines at their weekly 'La Boite a Musique' class and scoffing organic mid-morning snacks. Yerr whaaaat? And it's all taken on a new urgency since it turns out that the childcare option I sort of had my eye on charges 100 euros per day. PER DAY. Or, in alternative fiscal terms, two grand a month. Hahahahahahaha. Hahahaha. Ha. 

Ahem. And so we will be pursuing other avenues. 

OK, that's my scintillating pregnancy update rant over with. You're welcome. 

So today I had my hair copperfied/de-greyed in Belgium for the very first time. Yes, I have lived here for over two years. No, it is not at ALL preposterous to go back to the UK every time one needs a haircut/colour. My big fear was the language gap: that I would explain in halting French that I wanted a shaggy fringe and my layers tidied up and that somehow that would translate into, 'SHAVE IT ALL OFF, BIG BOY!" Anyway, turns out the owner of the salon is from Manchester and everyone in there is trilingual (of course they are) and the girl who did my hair was actually so chatty I could hardly finish my slutty hairdresser novel. Although she was Spanish (I think), she'd definitely picked up a trace of trademark Belgian directness: "No, we must use permanent colour, the semi-permanent will not cover the grey." Thank you. "And I will not use a toner or an ammonia colour because your hair is dry and in bad condition at the ends." And again, I thank you.

Anyway, it turned out nicely. Gratuitous selfie:

Voila, no grey! And ze hair is in much better condition. Merci, Desiree. 

And this is the slutty hairdresser novel:

There is an apple sticker in the groove on the floor - I am a slattern. 

Everyone reads shite at the hairdressers: it's international law. Plus, in my defence, the choice was this or Cosmo which actually had a two-page spread on 'Decode his Emojis!' BUUUH. Anyway, you've probably heard the premise: mid-20s newspaper hack is paid to have a sexy social life by The Telegraph; it all goes a bit Pete Tong in a sex-and-drugs-and-misery kinda way; but then JUST as she gets herself a prescription for some anti-depressants she meets a fella and has a baby and life becomes all rainbows and kittens and bucolic idylls. As frustrating as it sounds. Yes, I am a prude and a bore. Whatevs.

All Quiet On The Belgian Front

Except it’s not all quiet, is it? It’s bloody mental - hence the disappearing act. 

Firstly, WE NO SPEAK NO HALF-TERM. I know; an unthinkable outrage. School continues slouching towards the 28th June (yes I know, we break up in June, for two magnificent months; I need to put the ‘unthinkable outrage’ into perspective before some Gove-toady points it out). And despite missing out on my usual time-celebrated half-term traditions like, you know, watching an entire series of America’s Next Top Model in one go, I should probably acknowledge the fact that we have had forty-four billion bank holidays in May alone (hurray for Pentecost and all its friends). 

Plus things can’t be that bad because it’s May, and that means only one thing: the season of the street festival is upon us. I can barely step outside of the door without hearing the jolly rump-pump-rump of a marching band, and that kindles a certain pseudo-holiday-feeling in the soul. It was the birthday party of a local street (?) a couple of weekends ago and there was a veritable bonanza of food, drink and inflatable-related fun. There was even a medieval market at Montgomery. Apparently it’s an annual occurrence and a Bit of A Big Deal, so Bedders and I headed up there on a Friday evening to find a graveyard of sad Monk and Merry Maiden stallholders peering through the drizzle. The air was full of the smell of leather goods at highly-inflated prices and there were some quite, err, specialist stalls selling bows and arrows and mead. 

Anyway, back to contemporary Europe. So today Bedders was on his way to work - minding his own business, dragging his Ryanair-approved trolleybag - and, somewhere between Montgomery and Maelbeek, was relieved of his wallet. Several phonecalls and one frantic bank visit later and our joint Belgian account was three thousand euros lighter (thanks, guys). PLUS our HSBC account had been stripped of a grand (most of which belongs to HSBC, who didn’t seem to think it strange that we were out spending hundreds of pounds of an overdraft we don’t even have at quarter to nine on a wet Thursday morning). 

(NB If we sound we have enormous amounts of cash, we really don't. We're burrowing money away for a sickeningly enormous tax bill that'll land sometime in December) 

Parental Reaction:

My mum (she’s definitely what I’d call Crime Aware) is currently waiting for a lift to her knitting group somewhere in South Wales and muttering furiously about how she saw an episode of Crimewatch or somesuch recently that said thieves in London use flick knives to slash handbags and then buy FUR COATS and CROWNS with their ill-gotten gains. 

My dad rang me (he never rings me) and was rendered inarticulate with rage: “How in the name of Jaysus....the bastards.”

Quite a crime wave going on at the minute in Brux, it would seem. Some friends of mine from home were here for a mini stag do early this week and saw a literal and actual DIAMOND HEIST taking place. Well, they saw some plain-clothes police wrestling a bloke to the floor and extracting a gun from his back pocket, then blindfolding him in the Grand Place. Sheesh. 

But enough of this seedy underbelly of society stuff and onto more pleasant Brussels craic. Oh, I did the 20K! And didn’t die! Good, eh? I made it in a relatively comfortable 2 hours and 4 minutes and I’m now feeling all sorts of uncharacteristic and unwelcome pressure to go ‘sub-2 hours’ at the Great North Run (that’s a nauseating running phrase and I promise to never, ever use it again). And I saw Freddy Thielemans, Mayor of Brussels, at the starting line who waved us off and for one glorious moment I thought he was smoking a fag even though the whole event was heavily-sponsored by the European Commission and their ‘Ex-Smokers Are Unstoppable’ initiative that meant that there were sinister-looking black balloons everywhere (ugh, black balloons. Just ugh.) But alas no, it was merely the angle of his hand. So anyway, the race began, I successfully avoided the Brussels TV cameras (oo yeah, interview me, I look particularly beautiful today with my scraped-back hair and five hours sleep!), the open manhole (no joke) and the slippery cobbles. And afterwards I used a sweaty 10 euro note that Bedders had secreted in a pocket to satisfy a perverse post-run desire for a waffle and a Martini. Oh, it was a tremendous moment. 

So, what else has been happening? Well, a new tramp has started hanging out across the road from our apartment, and what a fine fellow he is. He has a paper cup and a brass neck and expertly weaves in and out of the cars while the traffic lights are turned to red gesturing mournfully at car windows. Then the lights flick back to green and he stands to one side, drinking a beer and occasionally pissing against a tree. 

So that’s been interesting. 

I’ve also been busy indulging my inner angst-ridden teen by reading age-inappropriate books. Despite that fact I’m hurtling at alarming speed towards a milestone birthday (clue: it starts with ‘thir’ and ends in ‘ty’), for some unfathomable reason I’ve been indulging in the latest Year 9 craze: namely, John Green. I read The Fault In Our Stars in two days on the tram and this was only because I just about managed to prise it out of the clammy hands of a thirteen-year-old girl who declared that it was THE MOST AMAZING BOOK OF ALL TIME OH MY GOD LAURA I JUST WANT TO MARRY AUGUSTUS WATERS HE IS LIKE A DREAMBOAT. Or something like that (as IF teenage girls today use the term ‘dreamboat’). Let it be known that my Year 9s are, quite literally, wetting themselves about it (ha, that’s an in-joke. The narrator of the book can’t abide it when people mis-use literality. I feel similarly). 

Seriously, though, it’s good. And miles better for a thirteen-year-old than the likes of Twilight and Bella Bloody Whatsherface who’s moody for no good reason (unlike, say, the good reason of Having Cancer) and just CAN’T UNDERSTAND WHY ALL THE WORLD FANCIES HER. The key to Hazel’s attractiveness is that she’s mad into Literature and she quotes T S Eliot at will. And the pair of them - Hazel and Augustus - are actually quite witty; although I should warn you, they do occasionally sip into Dawson's Creek philosophical-analytical territory. But back to the plusses: the title comes from an expertly-deployed Julius Caesar quote. Ultimate kudos. 

Picture

So I read it and my review to them was, ‘Well, I like it very much. But if I was thirteen I would freakin’ LOVE IT.’ Which went down rather well, I must admit. I declined to mention that if I was thirteen I would have been paralysed by awkwardness and been forced to smuggle it out of the school library because it has a cover that alludes to a romantic relationship. It reminds me of the time I went on holiday to Ireland with my parents and was reading an Irvine Welsh novel. 

Picture

Had to keep that bad boy on the Down Low.  

And finally, as I mentioned last time, I saw Gatsby. If anyone’s been waiting for a review of Luhrmann’s Ode to Excess, here’s my mother’s verdict which I received via stream-of-consciousness-style text messgae:

“Saw that Great Gatsby film it was a bit strange at the start but then it was quite good. X” (sic)

Get her Caitlin Moran’s job, people!

Read/seen/done owt good recently? 

German Exchange

Sooo I went to see the David Hockney Exhibition in Cologne. 

Hockers. What a guy. 

And it was AMAZING for the following reasons:

1) We booked, all casual like, online a couple of weeks beforehand. None of this Royal Academy queuing-for-months/selling-kidneys-in-order-to-procure-tickets nonsense. 

2) There was a *big breath* video installation on four walls with nine screens showing the same country lane but each wall showed it in a different season. Oh, and it was just impossible to look at without your eyes roving all over the thing and the wintery one hurt my eyes it was so brilliant and white like real snow. And it was, like, properly amezzin.

3) This painting was one of the first ones I saw and it blew my mind. 

Garrowby Hill, oil on canvas, 1998

The colours were unreal - this picture does it nooo justice. And the plough lines in the field must have been created by dragging some cardboard with a zig-zaggy edge through the paint like I remember doing in primary school. I just wanted to run my fingers over it and feel the ridges. 

4) Cologne was beautiful. And full of lovelocks which provided a non-insignificant amount of imstagram joy:

mismacdonner instagram

5) And we stayed in a B&B (within spitting distance of the Erotic Superstore, yer narr) which looked like THIS: 

WOAH. This isn't a futon, by the way. Actually a big, posh, white, shiny bed. 

So yes, Cologne. I can totally recommend it for luscious-arty-shopping-city-break. 

Now mustn't spend any money ever again until, err, March (at least). 

Africa Museum, Tervuren

In our mission to visit as many different tourist attractions with as many of our visitors as possible, we took a trip out to Tervuren last weekend. 

Next door to my new school, there is a museum dedicated to Belgium's colonial past; specifically, in the Congo. It boasts an enormous taxidermy display and rooms filled with instruments, weapons and Picassoesque masks. Leopold II commissioned the building of the museum - take a look below, it's a pretty grand place - to house his growing collection of African artefacts and show them off to the Belgian populace. 

In the entrance hall there are several gilt statues of African children with swollen bellies kneeling at the feet of wealthy Belgian benefactors. It takes that kind of angle. The circa-1900 angle. 

He was quite the boyo, Leopold. Museum already in mind, he headed out to the Congo for a shooting trip with his pals every so often with the intention of recreating the African savannah in several dozen glass cases. He was like a mad Noah, killing a male and female of every creature he could get within 20 feet of. 

He even shipped out a number of natives, built African-style huts in the carefully-pruned gardens of the museum and invited visitors to view his 'human zoo'. 

Along with the spoils of Belgium's spree, there's also a (much smaller) interactive section with gory photos of plantation workers holding the severed hands of other Africans who raised voices against the brutal exploitation of the country, the random acts of violence executed by authorities and the rubber trade. 

The guidebook explains that the Museum will close for a refurbishment at some point in the next year, and the new-and-improved Afrika Museum will place more emphasis on the darker side of Belgium's past, and the emergence of Zaire and the Democratic Republic of the Congo. The intention is to redress the balance between the awe inspired by viewing the extensive collection of artefacts and set it more firmly against the exploitative means used to acquire it. 

Meanwhile, I'm taking my Year 10 class there in a couple of weeks for a creative writing exercise. I think the grinning toothy skulls will really bring something special out of them...

Phototastic: Brussels update

It's my fifth week in Bruxelles. 

I no longer feel a complete div when asking for something reeeeeally simple in a bar/café/shop. 

We have blinds up, which means no more commando-crawling from the shower to the bedroom in order to avoid the neighbours' stares. 

I know my route to work. I read on the tram. It is lovely. Next week, I will cycle. Grrr. 

I feel I'm getting to grips a little with this place and its eccentricities. 

This week, Matthew of Telegraph fame visited. We chanced upon a festival where 12-foot-high figures danced and span to a marching band playing Quando, Quando, Quando. Belgium loves a marching band - I know this, I've learnt. We ended up watching them dance in an old folks' home courtyard. The old folks were loving their lives. 

We've been pretending to be cool enough to hang out at Café Belga at Flagey. In actuality, we are nowhere near cool enough. But when I have some beautiful European tortoiseshell spectacles, well, we'll see. I'm going to start a pinterest board dedicated to sexy eyewear. 

They do graffiti really well in Brussels. Whole sides of buildings are dedicated to Tin Tin, Snowy and that Captain Birdseye bloke. I think you can do a tour. 

We've been to the flea market down at Jeu de Balle a couple of weekends in a row. It's sort of full of crap, but interesting crap. 

Oh, now cake. Cake is good. Although it had been So Flippin' Hot (these blue skies are not touched up, Guides' honour), cake has not really been on the agenda. Beer has.  

We have been 'doing' cafés at the weekend. I like the concept of Make Yer Own when it comes to sandwiches. 

Surely to God no one would buy a fur coat in this weather? Yikes. 

Oh, and I like the greeny glass and the pointy roof that this house has going onnnn. We could have ended up on this street, although I'm glad we didn't. The tram is noisy and the pizza takeaways are plentiful. 

After my little clothes splurge (ahem) Bedders and Matthew had a nose around some blokey clothes shops. The wooden walls in this place (the website is amusant) inspired Matthew to finish his sauna. I loved the cabinet and the faded rug. 

Oh, and we have done The Brussels Bus Tour. We did it with our other recent visitors, Matt (different Matt) and the Very Pregnant Shirley as it was A Pregnant Friendly Activity. It was clumsily translated and slightly baffling - "Let's just take a moment to run you through the three main European institutions for which Brussels has become so famous - the Parliament, the Commission and the Council." Eight and a half minutes of mind boggling information later - "So there you go!" Um. OK. 

And clearly I have been playing around with the camera. Ta da.

Work is brilliant - like, so very, very brilliant, and I probably need to have me some revised thoughts on private education, perhaps in written form to get my head around it all - but busy, and so this is a lazy string of pictures. 

More soon. 

Objets Trouvé: Shopping mojo

Somewhere, sometime, I lost my shopping mojo. 

I used to be a horror for shopping. My early 20s were littered with birthday cards from my mother with 'hilarious' jokes on the front re: the amount girls spend on cardigans and bags and whatnots. 

I was one of those girls. 

Then...well, I don't know what happened. I lost a little bit of weight, and I grew up a little bit, I suppose. Suddenly H&M's Divided range wasn't all that hot anymore. I started to freak out in shops. I didn't have a clue what suited me. I forgot how to dress. 

And then I stopped really caring. 

Or maybe I did, but I stopped thinking about it so much. 

I wore lots of stripes. And navy blue and grey. Like a sort of preppy sailor. 

And then, I discovered shopping in Brussels. 

Woah. 

These chassures are loafers. I know not the French for loafers, so let's make it 'loafres', oui?

They are freakin' aubergine. They are the comfiest things I have ever put on my feet. 

I am experiencing early-20s purchase-related joy for the first time in years. I love them. This deserves some sparkle. 

I have just bought an entirely new work-wardrobe. I know. I am bad. 

But it really doesn't help that everyone at my new place of work is a) a bit European and b) ergo, is a bit smart 'n' sexy. And that it's a bit less formal than my last place of work, where 'Power Dressing' translated with very few exceptions into 'Ill-Fitting Boxy Suit From Next'. 

If only those clothes could talk. 'Hello, I'm DEVOID OF PERSONALITY!' they would scream. 

So I went a bit mad. 

This is not even everything I bought. And I could have bought more. I had to come home in order to stop spending money. 

I rang Bedders. 'Bedders, I could do this EVERY WEEK!' I squealed. 

'Please don't,' he croaked. 

Ah, the irony. Last week I was writing about a feminist handbook. This morning I was tweeting about the very funny reviews for Bic's ladypens. This afternoon I'm doing a BIG SQUEALY POST ALL ABOUT CLOTHES!

I'm nothing if not a contradiction. 

The last month, in a nutshell.

Hello there.

I'm shuffling one foot awkwardly. Super-awkwardly. And avoiding eye contact.

It's been a long ol' while, hmm? My apologies. I was caught up in a nuclear holocaust - suffering with a fat-fingered disease which meant I couldn't type - doing a lot of hair-washing...actually, I was just doing a million and one necessary but dull things that HAVE to be done, it seems, when you're moving out of your house and renting it to someone else/living temporarily with the in-laws/sporadically meeting a husband who now lives in another country/going to hen dos/doing an online course for a brand spanking new qualification that you're teaching in September....

I'm going to stop there because the use of the second person is irritating me. You get my gist, though. All that is left to say is ET CETERA.

Gaaaah.

But hey - I'm back. The good news is, I've done a LOT of reading and re-reading over the last couple of months (school stuff, but grand stuff - Lolita, All My Sons, Brighton Rock, Madame Bovary, In Cold Blood - wowzer), so I shall press on with a few Recommended Readings when I get the chance to process some opinions of them and pen them in a semi-literate fashion.

Here's the me, me, me stuff, though, lazy-girl style (i.e. via instagram. I think it might just have to replace my memory when it finally gives up the game in about, oo, two years).

In June, we went to Corner of Eden. I've mentioned it before. No, I'm not on commission - I just love it.  The place has a similar effect to temazepam, although without the memory loss and slurred speech. We stayed in the Shepherd's Hut, which I can whole-heartedly recommend. There's a mad dash across the yard to the bathroom involved in the morning wearing a dressing gown, but that's half the fun, no? And when furnishings are as outrageously tasteful as this, who cares?

My beautiful, beautiful bike was also delivered. As anticipated, it is beauty incarnate.  If you follow me on twitter or instagram, you may have  will definitely have heard me crowing about it. Here is is in the flesh metal. You have permission to squeal.

And so, we packed up all out stuff to move. It was crackers. I had a random desk in the middle of the front room for a fortnight. I drank wine and packed boxes in the early hours of the morning. Bedders was in Brussels. I was like a madwoman shimmying around a desk in the front room. At one point, I cried. "There's a DESK in the front ROOM.' It was a worrisome time. Here is aforementioned desk, in the front room. 

It'll look grand in a Brussels apartment, non?

I went on a hen do. There were Sports Day-esque games and craic a-plenty. And the Ceremonial Drawing Of Moustaches On Faces. And Pimms. It was splendid fun. 

(Going Off On A Tangent Just For One Sec: It did make me think, though, about the nature of friendship, and how it will be difficult to keep in touch with friends in Brussels. Or maybe I'm a big old cynic and it will be fine. Or maybe I'm realistic and it's all grand because the important ones will stick around. Yeah? Reassurance, s'il vous plait? Oh, I booked a French course, by the way. And a holiday for August - Barcelona and Valencia. Recommendations please!) 

Then I left my job, which was a Very Big Deal as I've been there for four years ('oh, you fledgling!' I'll scoff when I've done 30 years in Brussels - mebbes) and was given lots of uber-lovely cards and presents, including the flowers below. And I drove home with the windows open listening to Luke Kelly's Free The People (not a deliberate choice, honest) pounding the steering wheel and grinning like a loon. Because Our Big Adventure Is About To Begin.

And so it begins with an anniversary (I've outstripped all previous efforts and bought The Very Best Card EVER. Just wait). And a baby (nephew or niece? I'm going with nephew. And BY GOD I hope that they call it Hugh). And it really began this weekend when we sloped off to Kirklington in North Yorkshire to gatecrash a very hospitable fellow's jazzy Village Hall fundraiser and ate and drank and talked with good people. It was joyous. And the house, Mike (if you're reading), is beautiful. I am a little in awe.

Sooo...that's me. What about you? Does anyone have any thoughts on the keeping-in-touch-with-people-when-you-move-away thing? Or friendships with sell-by dates? Or (happy, happy thoughts!) recommendations for Barcelona or Valencia? Gracias.