Reading etc.

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.”

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.

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.

The intro – I’m going for warm and humourous here.

Mrs. Waffle is a harassed mother of three small children [one two year old and five month old twins] who is based in Belgium and has been writing a blog for a number of years. Allegations that she got this gig by attending an ante natal course with the lifestyle editor [and his wife and Mr. Waffle, she hastens to add] are not entirely unfounded. Though I am sure that you would agree with her that having a baby is going to extreme lengths to get an appearance on the website of a magazine, however illustrious, especially when
one realises that she could just have emailed and asked.

The text (something Belgian related as requested):

Fitting In

I have spent more time in Belgium than many of my fellow ex-pats. My parents, for their own obscure and possibly nefarious reason, took us to Heverlee for a weekÂ’’s camping every summer for many years. My father took us to see the Plan Incliné (a wonder of Belgian engineering – and what little girl wouldnÂ’’t like to see a large lock? Oh, stop sniggering). I shopped with my mother in city2 when it was a sparkling new shopping centre. I worked here from 1993-1995, 1998-2000 and returned here in 2003. Belgium is the country where all my children are born. Mind you, they are not little Belgians; it takes a lot more than just being born here to be a Belgian. I think however, the high point of my integration into Belgian society occurred last week.

I was wandering around trying to manoeuvre my double buggy into the shops at Porte de Namur. I was hindered, not just by the dimensions of the buggy but by the fact that it appeared to set off security alarms in the shops; truly I am blessed. I was perhaps a little crabby with the pleasant man in a scarf who approached me with an outstretched hand. ““Hello,”” he said. ““Whatever it is, IÂ’m not buying it”,” I thought crossly. ““Remember me? I’Â’m the waiter from the Rose Blanche“”. And then, I did remember him, he looked a bit different in his civvies, but he had made the Rose Blanche our regular stopping point in the Grand Place.

Like all foreigners, we used to go to the Roy d’Espagne but despite the presence of high chairs, the place is horribly child hostile (if you are childless, you might like to make a mental note of its suitability for you). The waiters hate you, your buggy and your offspring and make no effort to hide it. The Rose Blanche is an altogether more sophisticated and less draughty establishment boasting no high chairs and a large open fire. You might, therefore, be forgiven for thinking that children would not be particularly welcome, but you would be wrong. The staff there are lovely. This particular waiter once gave the Princess seven pieces of chocolate (you know, the piece of chocolate that is your statutory right with every cup of tea served in Belgium) which she promptly stuffed into her mouth before her horrified mother could relieve her of them – but his intentions were undoubtedly good and earned him a disgusting chocolatey smile from herself.

Anyway when this waiter finished cooing over the boys and saying he hoped to see them soon in the café, he took himself off leaving me feeling all warm and fuzzy towards the Belgians. Yes, they love me, of course I fit in, they’d be lost without meÂ….

Comments
poggle
on 10 March 2006 at 09:29
And was madam running up the curtains after all that chocolate? My nephew used to go doolally after much less than that.
beachhutman
on 12 March 2006 at 00:20
Never mind the CURTAINS.
But the danger – for sure – is that they’ll grow up believing chips need mayo.
{WHAT? There are other Belgian traditions? Nah}
belgianwaffle
on 12 March 2006 at 21:11
Thank you Bobble. Pog, yes. BHM, at a birthday party at McDos this am (too hideous to speak about) chips were served with mayo and ketchup. Felt you should know.