Belgium

When I drive to my local bakery, I double park on the pavement outside with my hazard lights on while I make my purchases (this does not make me Belgian).

By doing this, I am giving the bus driver who must pick up people from the bus stop from behind where I am parked a difficult but not impossible task (this does not make me Belgian).

This, clearly illegal, double parking is carried out in front of a police station (this does not make me Belgian).

The other day, when I did my usual trick, a policewoman waved at me to move on (this does not make me Belgian).

I stopped to argue with her, pointing out that I would only be in the bakery for a moment (yes, I think that this makes me Belgian).

Though perhaps a real Belgian wouldn’t have given up on the argument so easily.

I ran into trouble in the car park again.  I don’t think I should be allowed to park downtown on my own any more.  I lost my ticket. I rang for someone to come and help me. I pushed the button at the entrance to the car park. I pushed the button at the car park exit. I pushed the button on the pay machine. The car park rang with ringing noises but no one appeared. I kicked the pay machine. An attendant came hurrying up. Oh dear.  I explained that I had lost my ticket.

“It’s going to cost you lady”.

“Yes I know”

“Are you sure that it’s not in your bag?”

(Was that question idiot proofed?).

“Eh, yes.  Can I pay by visa, debit card…”

“Ah no, cash only”

Of course, back up to the shopping centre. Queue for cash.  Back down to the basement car park. Does your man have change? No, of course, not.  Back up to shopping centre, get change. Fill in long form giving my name, id card no., car reg, make and model and swearing that this is not a scam. Am free to go.  Blah.

Round at Glam Potter’s yesterday. She had had a difficult day. She had gone to IKEA to pick up a shoe baby L had lost there earlier in the week. As IKEA is planned so that once you’re in you have to see everything, she did a tour of the shop and bought some 99 cent chopsticks. She said that she felt a little odd in the queue as other people bought large items of furniture. Anyhow, on the way home, she ventured into the Brico to get wood to make bedheads (honestly, does that woman not have enough to do, she is disastrously creative).  She asked the man at the check out to help her put the wood in her car. He said no, maybe his colleague would help when he returned from his break. Baby L felt that this was bad news and began to wail and continued to do so until the colleague came back from his break. Then she redoubled her efforts.  The GP drove her car to the door and with the help of the Brico man started to load up her car. A random punter turned up with a trolley (please insert soundtrack of wailing child as background to the following dialogue)

“Please move your car” he said.

“I will, just as soon as I’ve loaded this up”

“Please move your car”

“I’m just going to finish loading this, or, you know, you could walk round the car”

(At this stage, sensing confrontation, the Brico man sidles off).

Conversation which has been in French up to now, starts being conducted in English.

“Your car is in my way”

“Yes, I know, I’m just finishing…”

“I will shoot your car, if you don’t move it”

“You’ll shoot my car, will you? With what?”

At this the man begins to ram our heroine’s car with his trolley. She hastily stuffs in the remainder of the wood and drives off with baby L still roaring. Very traumatic.

And finally, may I recommend that you check out Fluid Pudding for an excellent haiku on breastfeeding and mother’s day.

Had lunch today with my friend the best dressed diplomat.  To my great distress, she is leaving Belgium in August and abandoning me  (on the plus side she needs to shed some of her wardrobe, so this may not be all bad for me).

She has asked me to recommend 12 things for her to do before she leaves.  These are they:

1. Shop on Rue Antoine Dansaert, buy shoes in Suede on Rue de Tongres. Saunter down the Avenue Louise (suspect you will do this more than once).  Shop in the Galeries de la Reine.  Actually buy something in that nice bookshop.

2. Eat in all your favourite restaurants.  Also go to the Belga Queen (because it’s hip and has those strange toilets) and the Ogenblik because it should be one of your favourite restaurants. Save your shillings and go to Comme Chez Soi.  Just the once, because otherwise you will be beggared.

3. Go to Ghent for the day.  Inspect the altarpiece of the Lamb.
4. Go to the Ardennes for the weekend and do the descent of the Lesse in canoe.

5. Attend the 21 July parade and related celebrations.

6. Go to the musee des beaux arts and gaze at the Magrittes and the Flemish primitives and anything else that takes your fancy.

7. Go for a walk around the Etangs d’Ixelles. Go rollerblading in the Bois de la Cambre (I will lend you my rollerblades, if necessary).  Take the tram from Montgomery to Tervuren.  While you’re there have another look round the African Museum.

8. Take the art nouveau tour.

9. Go to mass in Notre Dame au Sablon. Have breakfast in the Pain Quotidien (has to be done). Wander round the expensive antique market and buy an overpriced antique map of Belgium and then head for the Jeu de Balle via rue Haute/rue Blaes.

10. Have a very bizarre beer in that pub across the road from the Saint Gilles maison communale.  Have a standard beer in the Metropole.  Have a drink in the Grand Place.

11. See something in the theatre de la toison d’or.

12. Come round to us for dinner.

We live in a very noisy place.  Obviously, we didn’t think this when we moved in. Our street seemed a quiet backwater.  It’s not.  It’s a short cut for every car in Belgium.  We are on a corner near a junction.  Junctions are exciting places in Belgium. They take their right-of-way rules very seriously.  As Mr. Waffle puts it, “being Belgian means you never have to look left”. This, inevitably, leads to a huge number of tips and near misses and our junction, which features a blind corner, is a great place to have them.  And then there is the lorry which comes and delivers oil to the building across the road at 6 in the morning.  Loudly.  And our bins are collected on Wednesday morning and (cruel) Saturday morning.

During the Summer, somewhere near us, there is a disco venue for the young people.  When they emerge drunken, dehydrated and deafened, they need a place to meet.  They select the doorstep of our building. It’s on a corner and it’s distinctive.  We are looking forward to hearing the following dialogue on Friday and Saturday nights from May onwards (all conducted at top volume, obviously, because they’ve just emerged from a loud, loud club):

Where’s the car again?

I dunno, did anyone see Vero?

I think I’ll just lie here on the road.

Wow, look at the stars.

Where’s Vero?

Will we see if we can walk on top of the cars?

Did I mention that we live in an old building and so, apparently, it’s not possible to fit double glazing.  All the better to hear the excitement outside…

Meanwhile our neighbours also contribute their mite.  The annoying German lady listens to the telly in her bedroom (directly above ours) at top volume. We are sick of German detective shows.  The other night, there was a big bang, as though the telly had been chucked on the floor) and the noise stopped. Maybe she is sick of German detective shows too. The Belgians on the ground floor play electric guitar from 10.00 pm on.  I feel that it may be either spouse but Mr. Waffle feels it must be him because only a man would still be trying to master Dire Straits numbers 20 years after they were originally released.  A compelling argument, I concede.  And this morning at 9.30, the woman downstairs began using her drill.  I suppose, to be fair, trapped between Dire Straits and screaming baby, she felt she had to make some kind of protest.

Also, for one week only, our street is being dug up to put in new lighting.  Excellent, a pneumatic drill.

Is it any wonder our baby doesn’t sleep at night?