Today we went to Ghent. Although Ghent was, as always, very pleasant, the whole experience was so exhausting, I have no energy to describe it. Have a couple of links instead.
Men breastfeeding: all they have to do is try.
Jojo’s fantasy life: you will really like this.Â
My sister’s attempt to ensure that her carbon footprint is suitably significant: 186,865 kms and 5 continents so far this year.
I heard a man on the radio the other morning talking about the Walloon economy (unwell compared to thriving Flanders – I suspect that if you had the slightest interest in hearing that, you knew it already). Anyhow, he was saying that the benefits from the Flemish economy also help Wallonia “ce que nous economistes appellons ‘le spillover’â€. Is there no word in the language of Voltaire to cover this concept? Or self-service restaurant “le self†or air conditioning “l’airco†or a car park “le parkingâ€? The final insult to the French language was delivered on the radio this evening. The Belgian ambassador to Sweden has written a book and he was being interviewed. “So”, said the interviewer, “if two diplomats have a ‘spirited exchange of views’ it means they had a huge fight, right?” “C’est vrai” said the diplomat” que la langage de la diplomatie, c’est la langage de l’understatement” Tell me, is there really no equivalent for the word “understatement” in the language of diplomacy? Good grief. You will note that I am making progress on my aim of becoming a grumpy pedant in two languages.
And, in an entirely unrelated matter, please consider what is possibly the greatest waste of money, ever. I appreciate that this is a challenging category in which to excel, but I think you will agree that this product sees off the opposition in style. Credit for disseminating information on this new high in the tasteless, expensive and useless goes to Spirit Fingers.
I was on the metro recently (standing) and an elderly woman and her son were travelling together.  He was about my age and she was possibly in her 70s and looked very unwell.  She was leaning heavily against the wall for support.  Nobody got up to give her a seat. I looked very disapprovingly at the eight sitting commuters in my line of sight.  I didn’t say anything because her son was with her and I thought that, if he didn’t say anything, then it was hardly my place to step in.*  My deepest disapproval was reserved for a young man in his 20s with no visible handicap who was sitting comfortably while talking loudly on his mobile phone and casually surveying the rest of us.  I gave him my look of utter disdain. I have had some practice with the look of utter disdain. I once had to employ it against a range of men in their 50s and 60s who felt it was perfectly acceptable to warmly squeeze the shoulders of young women who came within their ample range.  I have to say that in that context it was not particularly effective and perhaps my friend D’s approach would have got better results, she suggested that I say to the next squeezer “touch me again and you pull back a bloody stumpâ€.  She told me that she had had good results with that in the past.  I opted to go for her sister’s approach of refining my look of utter disdain.  I spent some time curling my lip while she (the sister) sighed despairingly and said “no, no, that’s a come hither lookâ€.  I had always felt that she was entirely wrong about that.  However, the other day when eventually, the metro emptied out, I ended up sitting beside the loud young man.  I gave him my concentrated look of utter disdain and he winked at me. Well, that does explain a lot about the squeezers.
*Being helpful is sometimes not very helpful.  Witness the man who very helpfully rushed to help me put the boys’ buggy on the tram this morning.  He refused to let any passengers get out wrested the buggy from me and started pushing it forcefully on to the tram. In his enthusiasm, he managed to wake both boys (who had been sleeping peacefully) by somehow collapsing Daniel’s side of the buggy and poking Michael in the eye with the parasol. Both woke up and began to howl in understandable indignation. Struggling to make myself heard over the bawling, I thanked my helper through gritted teeth. There’s no pleasing some people.
The weather is beautiful here today and I have just started working slightly reduced hours meaning that I have a half day on Wednesday. The Princess and I have just lunched and she is now napping while I idle. It all feels very illicit. I have been using the time to catch up on old emails. Maybe this is a little mean, but let me quote to you an email text in full:
“Hi,
Sorry, but I’m a French spoken guy. I would like to know how jou translate “Choisir c’est renoncer” in English. Hint: in Dutch it’s: Kiezen is verliezen. By the way, do you know an English spoken guy who would be happy to correct my English … and I would correct his French. The problem is that because of my job when I post a request I need an answer rather quickly (a couple of hours ). Thanks and Congratulations about your baby.â€
OK, Fabian, since you ask, I too searched the internet to find “choisir c’cest renoncer†in English. It was not there or at least I couldn’t find it and since you are mailing me and the title of my blog post was your best bet, I presume you experienced similar difficulties. If it’s any comfort to you, I looked up the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations in hard copy and couldn’t find it there either. Yes, this is a quality blog. Thanks for the tip on the Dutch translation though, if I’d known that at the time, it would have made all the difference.
Tempting though your offer to an “english spoken guy†is, I’m afraid that I can’t, just now, identify someone who would be willing to provide a free English language revision check in a couple of hours, even in exchange for your kind offer to do likewise to a French text.
Thanks for congratulations on my baby, it makes your message so personal. Actually, I have twins and a three year old: which particular baby did you wish to congratulate me on? No, I am not bitter. No, really. The sun is shining and I only have two loads of washing to do.
Our upstairs neighbour who is a respectable German lady of a certain age (of course I’m going on a certain age myself but she’s definitely been there for a while) appears to have a new man. He is in his 50s with distinguished greying hair and a solid, portly but not entirely unattractive person. We see his large Luxembourg registered BMW in the garage regularly. We run into him on the stairs. Mr. Waffle got chatting to him and he said that he was Canadian. I pointed out that he doesn’t sound as though English is his first language. Mr. Waffle pointed out that this doesn’t preclude him being Canadian. This is mere quibbling as he doesn’t sound as though French is his first language either. I think he is pretending to be Canadian to besmirch the honour of a hardworking and virtuous nation.*
Saturday two weeks ago, Mr. Waffle had gone out with herself and I was home alone with the boys. The doorbell rang. It was the alledgedly Canadian man. He said “I left my wallet in the office early this morning and I have no money, could you lend me 20 euros?†“Of course†I said and handed it over. Then he said “Actually could you make that 40?†“Of course†I said, slightly less readily, wondering why the hell he couldn’t drive in to his office and pick up his wallet. Then he said “How much have you got?†And even though I had in fact 200 euros in my purse, I paused, even though I suddenly realised his office was probably in Luxembourg and that was why he wasn’t so keen to drive back, I paused. Didn’t he have any other friends in Brussels, why was our upstairs neighbour not giving him money? Had he scammed his way to the BMW in the garage? “Um, no that’s it, I’m afraid†I said untruthfully. And boy am I glad, because two and a bit weeks on, despite regular polite meetings on the stairs and in the garage, have I got my 40 euros back? Gentle reader, I have not and I am bitter; clearly I have supplied the start of a deposit on a rolls.
*Mr. Waffle, who, you will recall, holds a Canadian passport himself so is an expert on these things, tells me that they are clubbing cute baby seals at the moment, so maybe the tag virtuous is not appropriate, though I am sure it is very hard work.
On my last day of blogging for the Bulletin, I thought I would mention some other bloggers. Yes, I know, it’s all me, me, me, but look, here’s a little break.
If you want to tune into what Belgian mothers are thinking, may I recommend to you the ever delightful Peggy who is a mother of two with a loving husband and a rotten boss. I should mention Thierry who is responsible for the very limited knowledge of Belgian politics which I boast. Never have so many represented so few would appear to be a good summary. He is also a mine of information on things in Brussels from statues to events. I will also plug Nicholas a fellow Irish blogger who will give you all the information you will ever need about distant parts of Europe (ooh, definitions, definitions, but yes, I think Europe) from his blog based in Belgium; I see he was quoted in the Observer at the weekend, so be impressed that he’s blogging for you. And lastly, I am going to give you a link to someone who is not an expat based in Belgium, so perhaps not very relevant to your life here but, you know, still an expat and writer of a brilliant blog on the joys and horrors of living away from home.
I encourage you to check out Heather. Finally, as Friday is St. Patrick’s Day, I should record that the GB supermarket chain is reinforcing negative stereotypes by doling out 40 Happy Days (don’t blame me, I didnÂ’t think up the name) points on
purchases of beer. Happy Saint Patrick’s Day.