Losing my edge

I’m steeled to it in SE Asia and would expect to find it in somewhere like South America, for example, but I was caught completely offguard by mini-scammers in Paris. The couple of unknown middle-Eastern origin who work the trains with a petition showing support for Kosovo’s orphans, then point at the obscured ‘donation’ column next to your name. The masses of black men at the bottom of Montmartre steps who hassle you to the point of rudeness with their ‘let me make you a lucky bracelet’ act. The ‘German’ guy at the station with his ‘my ticket’s been stolen, can you spare me 5 euro so I can phone home’ routine.

It’s certainly made me less eager to return to Paris. And clearly living in NZ is wearing away my cynical edge.

Nederlish

It’s always an experience going back to where I grew up in Belgium. I forget how terrible the driving is, how nobody queues for anything, and how huge the houses are in the area we lived. I didn’d realise they still don’t have a full smoking ban in public places. All of these things haven’t actually changed since my last visit 3 years ago, but for some reason they really stick out a lot more this time round.

It’s also always fascinating for me to see what my Dutch is like after years of hibernation. I still sound like a native, but my vocabulary is very rusty. I’m a lot less chatty because I just don’t have access to the same rich array of words that I possess in English. Because we moved away before I became an independent adult, the Dutch language of adult life is much less available to me because I rarely had reason to use it before we moved to Scotland 10 years ago. On the flipside, my friends seem to have become more patient with my stumblings and the odd thrown in ‘English word in a Flemish accent’. Or maybe I’ve become more resigned to the fact that that’s how it’ll have to be. That said, after only three days, I’ve started thinking in Flemish again…

Airline giggles

I had to giggle. It was bad timing, but the security officer scanning my hand luggage at Glasgow Prestwick Airport saw the humour. I’d just had to remove the four layers of coats and cardigans I’d put on only minutes previously to satisfy the security officer’s colleagues that my hand luggage was within the weight allowance (after which one of the guards told me with concern not to overheat and to drink enough water – water I’d now have to buy at an inflated price because, of course, no liquids over 100ml are allowed through). This kilo of coats and cardigans had earlier been removed from my checked luggage to get it below the 15kg allowance (5kg less than most other airlines) – the checked luggage I’d already had to pay 15GBP extra for just to put it in the hold.

Every member of staff I dealt with looked appropriately embarrassed by the stupidity of the whole system and were very tolerant of my barely suppressed giggles.
Needless to say, this is one budget airline I’ll think twice about flying with again.

Captives underground

The pace of life in London is SO fast. A book my brother gave me has research statistics indicating it has the twelfth fastest pace of life on the planet (www.paceoflife.co.uk). It astounds me every time I visit.

Underpinning much of this lifestyle is the London Underground. It becomes obvious how (understandably) beholden much of the population of this vast mass of a city is to the spaghetti of tunnels filled with trains, when they suspend service of some lines at the weekend for things like Olympic upgrades and general maintenance. Hernias erupt across the replacement bus services, eyes pop and tempers flare, mobile phone companies double their profits as traffic lights hold us up once again.

Understandable, but there is no way I could ever live in a city where life becomes so dependent on a beast like the London Underground.

‘Memoires of a Mediocre Man’ - Intro

I have a particularly wonderful and love-living grandfather. In less than a year he turns 90 and he’s still chipper as ever. He has always talked of writing his memoires – ‘Memoires of a Mediocre Man’. The title is as far as he has ever got.
I’m spending a couple of days with Grandie, so thought I would share some of my favourite of his stories.

How Eileen met Tom (and how Tom became a pathologist) – from ‘Memoires of a Mediocre Man’

Having qualified as a doctor just before World War II, Grandie became part of the Royal Army Medical Corps. His participation in the war was less than eventful. Or so he claims. His unit was intended to join the D-Day effort, but instead was posted to Calcutta at the last minute, so, much to his disgust and disappointment the only action he saw was the daily German mini-bombardment of his base on the east coast of England.

On his return from the war he picked up where he’d left off and merged back into the NHS system, only to find he had trouble finding a job at the level of experience he had. After an especially despairing interview, he stomped off downstairs to find his friend to share his indignation and declare he had no intention of accepting the job. Instead of his friend, he was confronted by a rather beautiful pair of legs, topped by an equally pleasing face. Eileen.
Grandie took the job so he could stick around and have a shot at wooing this lovely woman. Being a shy and polite young man, he hadn’t yet succeeded when that short contract came to an end and he just HAD to find a way to remain in the area longer to get his girl. So he took the one placement going – one in pathology.

When Eileen asked Grandie if she could go with him to watch the Medicals’ Third Rugby Team play, he realised she must like him too. They dated. He proposed to her on Gosforth Pier. And that is how Eileen became my grandmother-to-be, and how my grandfather became a pathologist.

Baby Drama – from ‘Memoires of a Mediocre Man’

At the age of one, my mum got a head cold which then worsened. Gran called Grandie upstairs because the baby was turning blue. After an examination, both Grandie and the GP diagnosed pneumonia. Grandie dashed off to get a can of oxygen and mask while the GP fetched penidural – liquid penicillin. Baby mum was having none of this. She protested, she cried, she spluttered and coughed, and coughed up a glob of mucus that had been blocking her left lung and caused it to collapse. Within minutes the infant close to death was a pink gurgling baby again.

The second drama of the night was that, in the process, Grandie missed the final episode of his favourite sci-fi series, ‘Quater Mass’.

A new companion

Well hello there 2009. You made it here eventually, it's so nice to finally meet you! We've been talking about you a lot - there are high expectations. Sorry, you missed 2008, he just left. But you can pick up where he left off. I'm looking forward to spending time with you. One day at a time though, eh. Let's not rush into anything too fast.