The Dutch have changed their spelling again. We can throw out the last lot of dictionaries, bought not so very long ago. Some of the changes are going to be the source of endless confusion. Take, for instance, the one about the names of different nationalities and groups. From now on, you have to give them all a capital letter. So an eskimo becomes an Eskimo and a 'kelt' [Celt] - seen one recently? - a Kelt. So far, so good...
A special distinction is made for the word 'Jew' - 'Jood' in Dutch. If you're using the term to refer to someone in terms of the ethnic group to which the belong, then you refer to him or her as a Jood (pronounced 'yode' ) - with a capital letter. If you're using the term to refer to someone in terms of the religious group to which he or she belongs, then you still use the same spoken word ' jood' - but it's written with a small letter.
Now, in a nation of farmers where bluntness is the rule and nuances are trampled under foot - you're asking for trouble expecting people to make a distinction like that.
And nevermind the farmers, what are the rest of us going to do if asked to write something about secular and religious Jews in Israel? Is the one a Jood and the other a jood or do you get round it by using the adjective - always a small letter - and calling them both joods? Will quality newspapers have to print corrections to explain that Mr. B. was wrongly referred to as a small letter jood in yesterday's paper when, in fact, he's a capital Jood?
Luckily, I don't have to write in Dutch.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Milan beats PSV
One of the hazards of having a man in the house is that you occasionally have to put up with football on TV. Dutch team PSV Eindhoven, looking a little pale in grey strip with 'Philips' on the front, are facing Opel-sponsored Milan - a dashing bunch in red-and-black stripes and black shorts. Sorry for the Dutch, but the Italians are an altogether better looking lot. As footballers go, that is. While I'm musing about their looks, they've already scored one goal and my Buddy - a Dutchman in his passport but not in his heart - is already showing signs of switching allegiance to the Latin side. "Kom op, jongens [come on, guys]," he's urging them when they're near the Dutch goal. "I don't mind if it's 1-1," he says, as PSV nears the Milan goal.
Come on, Milan, bet you can beat PSV hands down!
Come on, Milan, bet you can beat PSV hands down!
Monday, April 25, 2005
Four steps to Plum Village
Some blogs not only have great posts, they have great links as well. Narcissist is in that class. I think it was via there that I came across Michele and found myself playing the 'Comment game' and saying 'hi' to lots of people I've never met and never will... It's fun, try it. And somewhere in her massive list of links, I came across Beginner's Mind - someone in a pain clinic who keeps a wonderful list of links to Buddhist sites. And so I called in at Plum Village to find out how the Vietnamese Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh is doing. His book 'Living Buddha, Living Christ' is on the table next to me - full of quiet wisdom.
"You are made up of non-you parts," he once said. I think that's profound.
"You are made up of non-you parts," he once said. I think that's profound.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Castrigation - the new punishment
Brain's a bit fuzzy today. That must be why I invented a new word: to castricate (see post below). It has possibilities. I see the future Concise Woxford definition as: 'to castigate a male in a particularly unpleasant manner'. I meant, of course, castrate.
Now don't go getting any wrong ideas. This isn't something I really ever think about!
Now don't go getting any wrong ideas. This isn't something I really ever think about!
Sun and sea again
Saw the sea again yesterday! Wow, twice in one weekend. It was blue, blue, blue, shimmering and sparkling. This time, it only took us 40 minutes to get there - even though we went to a spot further up the coast called Castricum. Nothing to do with 'castricate' - the Romans must have been here once. We called in first at Castricum-on-Sea, parking illegally and for free in the disabled car park and strolling for five or ten minutes down the sand dune and along the wooden boards laid out on the beach in front of the row of restaurants. It felt like holiday-time again. For me, that is. For Bud, born and raised on a Caribbean holiday island, it's a bit of a memory of home - a poor substitute for the real thing. "I did it for you," he said, reminding me of his big-hearted gesture in getting me to the seaside again. (He says the same thing when he does the washing up...)
Today it's still sunny and we've been sitting out on the balcony, soaking it up. Pale and wan as I am, I've come inside for half an hour to enjoy the quiet and cool and catch up on my blog. "It looks like you're going to spend the whole afternoon inside, doing your blog," says Bud. "No, not true," I say, wishing he'd buzz off outside again and leave me to it. Men are wonderful but a girl has to have some time alone...
In my next life, in England, I want a garden with some shady trees to sit under. I'm not asking much, am I?!
Today it's still sunny and we've been sitting out on the balcony, soaking it up. Pale and wan as I am, I've come inside for half an hour to enjoy the quiet and cool and catch up on my blog. "It looks like you're going to spend the whole afternoon inside, doing your blog," says Bud. "No, not true," I say, wishing he'd buzz off outside again and leave me to it. Men are wonderful but a girl has to have some time alone...
In my next life, in England, I want a garden with some shady trees to sit under. I'm not asking much, am I?!
Friday, April 22, 2005
Sun and sea
I saw the sea today. The North Sea. It was blue on the horizon, turning to grey at the coastline where it deposited a froth of grey-green scum. The place we went to is called Zandvoort. It's the nearest beach to Amsterdam - only 22 miles away. Twenty-two miles and it took us exactly TWO HOURS to get there by car. I'm laughing out loud as I write this, realising that it means we averaged 11 miles an hour! Bud, my chauffeur, doesn't find it funny. He's asked me to go and make a cup of tea for us. Hold on...
Tea's brewing. Slow moving traffic is a feature of Dutch life. Traffic jams seem to be our speciality. We've actually abandoned a trip to the coast in the past because there were so many roadworks and diversions, we could no longer work out how to get there.
Tea's ready. Anyway, today we made it. Walked along the promenade on top of the sand dunes, enjoying what I call the 'hill experience' - looking down at the sea.
(Despite Holland being below sea-level, you do actually look down at the sea when you're at the coast - either from the top of a sand dune or the top of a dike; it's the land behind you that's lower. I remember being disappointed the first time I went to the coast here. I'd expected to climb up the dike and see the water lapping the top of it on the other side! Don't suppose even the Dutch would be able to build a construction strong enough to hold back the ocean like that!)
A quick beach walk and then we chose a beach cafe, sheltering from the wind behind the white fence topped with perspex 'windows' that face out to sea. It was lovely sat there in the sun, listening to the sound of the waves, that soothing sound of the sea that evokes happy, carefree, holiday feelings. Lovely. Too short. But lovely just to be there for a couple of hours again.
Tea's brewing. Slow moving traffic is a feature of Dutch life. Traffic jams seem to be our speciality. We've actually abandoned a trip to the coast in the past because there were so many roadworks and diversions, we could no longer work out how to get there.
Tea's ready. Anyway, today we made it. Walked along the promenade on top of the sand dunes, enjoying what I call the 'hill experience' - looking down at the sea.
(Despite Holland being below sea-level, you do actually look down at the sea when you're at the coast - either from the top of a sand dune or the top of a dike; it's the land behind you that's lower. I remember being disappointed the first time I went to the coast here. I'd expected to climb up the dike and see the water lapping the top of it on the other side! Don't suppose even the Dutch would be able to build a construction strong enough to hold back the ocean like that!)
A quick beach walk and then we chose a beach cafe, sheltering from the wind behind the white fence topped with perspex 'windows' that face out to sea. It was lovely sat there in the sun, listening to the sound of the waves, that soothing sound of the sea that evokes happy, carefree, holiday feelings. Lovely. Too short. But lovely just to be there for a couple of hours again.
Sunshine
Yes, we have sun! It's a rare event. I'm going to make my morning cuppa and wrap myself around a nice hot piece of toast (we may have sun but it's still cold). This is my early morning time - well, not that early any more - while Bud's still slumbering. A girl has to have a bit of time to herself, you know...
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Did it
I told him and he's going to - phew just missed being overlooked twice, will have to get quicker on the mouse - he's going to look into it tomorrow. I sounded convincing that I want the company to pay - just before the call, I saw that the course fee didn't include VAT (that's another 19% , isn't it?).
Hmm, that's really a lot. We'll have to see...
Look for another employer who'll pay it?
Hmm, that's really a lot. We'll have to see...
Look for another employer who'll pay it?
Go for it...
Just doing a little early morning blogging here, over a piece of toast (but no tea). Trailed through every communications course in Britain via Monster.co.uk/learning last night and found there are only three in the area I want to do. One's at a school on the south coast, rather inacessible and arranged on a one-afternoon-per-week basis - I can forget that. The other's up in Manchester, takes place in residential blocks on Fridays and Saturdays - so would definitely be do-able - and costs an even bigger small fortune than the London course. That's reassuring, that it costs more. It's a broader course but sounds very theoretical. As I've already got a Masters degree, I don't think I need another one.
So I'm going to take the plunge and tell my boss this morning that I want to do the London course. And would they like to pay? I'm not in a strong bargaining position as the application period closes next week - and I'm going to do it whether the suckers pay or not... But I shan't say that, of course. Banish that thought from your mind jj, this is the course that will make you infinitely and instantly more useful to them, motivate you to do your very best for them (write even better bin liners) and will turn you into One Motivated Employee overnight. Right?
I'm so poor at lying. This is the way OUT of the international bakery...
Keep your fingers crossed.
So I'm going to take the plunge and tell my boss this morning that I want to do the London course. And would they like to pay? I'm not in a strong bargaining position as the application period closes next week - and I'm going to do it whether the suckers pay or not... But I shan't say that, of course. Banish that thought from your mind jj, this is the course that will make you infinitely and instantly more useful to them, motivate you to do your very best for them (write even better bin liners) and will turn you into One Motivated Employee overnight. Right?
I'm so poor at lying. This is the way OUT of the international bakery...
Keep your fingers crossed.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
To do or not to do?
I'm considering doing a comms course in London. It's run so that you can keep your job while you do it - in modules, three days at a time. It would be a chance to meet other people in my field, maybe get a toe hold in England ready for The Move. Flying there wouldn't be a problem - you can get cheap tickets nowadays to London. But the course is expensive and that makes me hesitant on taking the plunge. Of course, the company might pay, or pay some of it but I'm almost loathe to ask them. Have to move fast as applications close soon. Decisions, decisions. Never easy for an INFP. But, on the other hand, I'm rather INFJ-ish at times and would like to get things settled and get on with it.
Bud says I shouldn't try and work out what all the consequences will be - just go and do what I want. That's the problem, I said. All I really want to do is chuck my job and go and bum along a few British beaches for the summer or waft off to New Zealand and spend my time gliding through clear waters in a canoe (actually, I never did that), digging my toes into hot sand and staring out to sea in search of dolphins.
Course, or no course, I'll never really be at home in the corporate fishpond. Wouldn't I be better to take life by the horns (ouch, no) and go off and do something completely different?
Yes, but what?
Maybe it's the course that will be the bridge to that 'something completely different'...
So you go and pay all this money and then go off and do something else. That doesn't make sense.
Who said life has to make sense?
Other people get good jobs without doing courses (and, anyway, you're too old, my dear).
Ahh, let's do it - just get on with it!
It's not easy being an infp....
Bud says I shouldn't try and work out what all the consequences will be - just go and do what I want. That's the problem, I said. All I really want to do is chuck my job and go and bum along a few British beaches for the summer or waft off to New Zealand and spend my time gliding through clear waters in a canoe (actually, I never did that), digging my toes into hot sand and staring out to sea in search of dolphins.
Course, or no course, I'll never really be at home in the corporate fishpond. Wouldn't I be better to take life by the horns (ouch, no) and go off and do something completely different?
Yes, but what?
Maybe it's the course that will be the bridge to that 'something completely different'...
So you go and pay all this money and then go off and do something else. That doesn't make sense.
Who said life has to make sense?
Other people get good jobs without doing courses (and, anyway, you're too old, my dear).
Ahh, let's do it - just get on with it!
It's not easy being an infp....
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Overlooked
Quick blogging break. Others have a smoking break, so why not a blogging break? Write it in Word first then paste into blogger and be ready to click the screen away before the next extrovert comes barging through that door… In yesterday's desperation, I took a two hour lunch break, walked among the daffodils and bought a book - always my answer to pain. Sat and read the first third of it, sitting on a windy bench overlooking a canal. It's a book of short stories: 'The Lemon Table' by Julian Barnes. The first one's about a man who measures his life in terms of haircuts. The next one's a very different love story with a tragic twist. And the third one's a simply brilliant conversation between two widows at a café. I laughed out loud, always a good therapy, and mused over the idea of starting a little novel or short story writing based on the daily trials and tribulations of the international bakery.
Hmmm, all these people around me could be characters in my first book…
Unfortunately, I have to wait a little while before posting this. My warm hearted, ghetto-blaster colleague, the one with the sticky-up blonde hair, broad studded belt and jangling thick wrist-wrapping construction that clatters across the keyboard and doesn't really do the word 'bracelet' justice, has returned to her spot - overlooking my screen. I do wish Blogger would make it's logo a little less conspicious.
Hmmm, all these people around me could be characters in my first book…
Unfortunately, I have to wait a little while before posting this. My warm hearted, ghetto-blaster colleague, the one with the sticky-up blonde hair, broad studded belt and jangling thick wrist-wrapping construction that clatters across the keyboard and doesn't really do the word 'bracelet' justice, has returned to her spot - overlooking my screen. I do wish Blogger would make it's logo a little less conspicious.
Bring on Arjuna
Monday. Flat as a punctured tyre after half an hour in the office. Why? They - the London lot - have postponed for yet another week the e-newsletter I've been working on since Christmas. It's incredible. We just keep writing stories and putting them in the bin. I should change my title to Chief Bin Liner. There's nothing, simply nothing, more frustrating for a writer than having the publication date postponed indefinitely. If I look back at my time at the international bakery, it seems that I've spent 70% or more of it waiting. Waiting for things to settle down after the latest reorganisation.
I find it so teeth-gnashing frustrating, I could cry.
So I came home and blew the dust off my copy of the Bhagavad Gita and read this bit:
You have the right to work, but never to the fruit of work. You should never engage in action for the sake of reward, nor should you long for inaction. Perform work in this world, Arjuna, as a man established within himself - without selfish attachments, and alike in success and defeat.
And:
They live in freedom who have gone beyond the dualities of life. Competing with no-one, they are alike in success and failure and content with whatever comes to them.
I think that's the attitude to have. And I don't have it. And it's becoming clearer to me every day that I'm in the wrong job.
Time to get working on publishing that CV....
I find it so teeth-gnashing frustrating, I could cry.
So I came home and blew the dust off my copy of the Bhagavad Gita and read this bit:
You have the right to work, but never to the fruit of work. You should never engage in action for the sake of reward, nor should you long for inaction. Perform work in this world, Arjuna, as a man established within himself - without selfish attachments, and alike in success and defeat.
And:
They live in freedom who have gone beyond the dualities of life. Competing with no-one, they are alike in success and failure and content with whatever comes to them.
I think that's the attitude to have. And I don't have it. And it's becoming clearer to me every day that I'm in the wrong job.
Time to get working on publishing that CV....
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Ray
Why do weekends end so soon?
The sun shone today.
We saw the film Ray - about singer Ray Charles - yesterday and liked it so much that we bought the CD of the film music today.
Yesterday, I bought the book 'Please Understand Me' and did and re-did the personality type test. Result: INFP. Unhappy with being relegated to some lost one per cent of the world's population, I re-did the test a third time and decided that sometimes I'm a bit INFJ-ish. I work well with deadlines and I don't agonise over all decisions...
Either way, it's now official: I'm an introvert.
Something tells me I won't be putting it on my CV.
Footnote: The book does answer my question as to why some people can be annoyed by my quietness. If you're an extrovert who runs on interaction with people, I suppose I could be sapping your energy. Funny, what one little comment from a colleague can set in motion!
The sun shone today.
We saw the film Ray - about singer Ray Charles - yesterday and liked it so much that we bought the CD of the film music today.
Yesterday, I bought the book 'Please Understand Me' and did and re-did the personality type test. Result: INFP. Unhappy with being relegated to some lost one per cent of the world's population, I re-did the test a third time and decided that sometimes I'm a bit INFJ-ish. I work well with deadlines and I don't agonise over all decisions...
Either way, it's now official: I'm an introvert.
Something tells me I won't be putting it on my CV.
Footnote: The book does answer my question as to why some people can be annoyed by my quietness. If you're an extrovert who runs on interaction with people, I suppose I could be sapping your energy. Funny, what one little comment from a colleague can set in motion!
Saturday, April 16, 2005
My old flame
Bud has greying Afro hair that's in need of cutting at the moment. It was standing on end as he emerged from under the bed covers. Back-lit by the light from the window, those grey fuzzy wiggles - you couldn't really call them curls -look like flames, rising to a point at the crown of his head.
And as I write this, he's bellowing at me from the kitchen - complaining that I've, yet again, not thrown the empty jam jars out but left them on the sink unit top. Blah. Little fire ball. Such a dear heart and such a pain in the neck at times...
Thank goodness for blogs, a place to let off a little steam...
And as I write this, he's bellowing at me from the kitchen - complaining that I've, yet again, not thrown the empty jam jars out but left them on the sink unit top. Blah. Little fire ball. Such a dear heart and such a pain in the neck at times...
Thank goodness for blogs, a place to let off a little steam...
Come surf with me ...
Funny, where a little random blog link surfing takes you… You can follow me on this surprising little trail:
The Narcissist
Whispering Loudly
The Journey, April 14 entry on blog types
Type Blogs
Type Yourself link to Humanmetrics Jung Typology Test
And so, while dear Pal was enjoying the final minutes of his rainy Saturday late morning lie-in, I've filled in the test. Result: iNFp Healer Idealist. So it's official: I'm an introvert, though intuitive as well!
I click on the description by D. Keirsey and, heh, I’ve seen this page before – several years ago when I filled in a similar test and got the same result!! I’ve always remembered it and never been able to find it back.
And then, even more startling, I skim down the page to the end and see this sentence: Full descriptions of the Healer and Idealists are in Please Understand Me or Please Understand Me II. ‘ Please Understand Me’ is one of the two books that Rachel recommended in her comment on my post of a couple of days ago.
Oh, and now I see that Princess Di was an example of a Healer Idealist. Hmm, that’s very interesting. I don’t see myself being a Princess Di figure at all… Could it explain why I have such difficulty accepting Camilla? Or could it be that I simply have a long-term failure to recognise myself – that I filled the test in wrong all those years ago and I’m still filling it in wrong today?
I take a look at the iNFp description offered by a certain Joe Butt, curious to see if he offers any better examples - and discover that I’m in the company of Homer, John the Evangelist, William Shakespeare, ‘Mary the mother of Jesus’ and Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis (spelled wrong as ‘Onasis’). That’s quite some company.
If I’m an iNFp at all, I’m a very puzzled one.
But thankful too. Only this morning, I put in a call to the Unknown asking for a little guidance on where my life should go. Perhaps the blog surf gives some clues?
What type are you?
The Narcissist
Whispering Loudly
The Journey, April 14 entry on blog types
Type Blogs
Type Yourself link to Humanmetrics Jung Typology Test
And so, while dear Pal was enjoying the final minutes of his rainy Saturday late morning lie-in, I've filled in the test. Result: iNFp Healer Idealist. So it's official: I'm an introvert, though intuitive as well!
I click on the description by D. Keirsey and, heh, I’ve seen this page before – several years ago when I filled in a similar test and got the same result!! I’ve always remembered it and never been able to find it back.
And then, even more startling, I skim down the page to the end and see this sentence: Full descriptions of the Healer and Idealists are in Please Understand Me or Please Understand Me II. ‘ Please Understand Me’ is one of the two books that Rachel recommended in her comment on my post of a couple of days ago.
Oh, and now I see that Princess Di was an example of a Healer Idealist. Hmm, that’s very interesting. I don’t see myself being a Princess Di figure at all… Could it explain why I have such difficulty accepting Camilla? Or could it be that I simply have a long-term failure to recognise myself – that I filled the test in wrong all those years ago and I’m still filling it in wrong today?
I take a look at the iNFp description offered by a certain Joe Butt, curious to see if he offers any better examples - and discover that I’m in the company of Homer, John the Evangelist, William Shakespeare, ‘Mary the mother of Jesus’ and Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis (spelled wrong as ‘Onasis’). That’s quite some company.
If I’m an iNFp at all, I’m a very puzzled one.
But thankful too. Only this morning, I put in a call to the Unknown asking for a little guidance on where my life should go. Perhaps the blog surf gives some clues?
What type are you?
Friday, April 15, 2005
I wish we had a piano
I wish we had a piano. If I threw my sofa out, we would have room for one - but that seems an unreasonable trade-off. I want my sofa and my piano. Pianos and me go back a long way. Right back to the time before my birth when my dear Mum soothed me with the tinkling tones of Amaryllis rendered so effortlessly by her on our old black upright. It soaked into my soul. Later, as little girl, I’d tug at her skirt and ask her to ‘play Amawyllis again, Mummy, please – just one more time’.
Later still, as a bigger little girl, in those lonely days when Mummy seemed cold and distant, we got rid of the old black upright piano and replaced it with a modern version. Heartbroken, unable to tell anyone, I watched them carry the love of my life out of the house – and cried myself to sleep every night for the next four years. No kidding.
Years later, in therapy, I drew a picture of the Old Piano. When I put down the crayons and looked at it, I saw the unmistakable shape of a delicate pink foetus floating under the keyboard near the strings. The piano was my link to my mother…
The link never broke; the bond proved stronger than everything that came in its way. But the feeling that a piano is one of the essentials of a good life has never left me. In times of stress in my sad teenage years, I survived by playing the piano. I’d play for hours and hours, working through the Clementi book from start to finish. Yes, Clementi. When I read on Rebecca’s blog that she’d been playing Clementi, it brought all this back.
So here I am in a flat in Amsterdam that’s too small for a piano. Get a bigger place, I hear you say. Yes, we will but we want it to be in England.
Just wait. One of these fine days I’ll tell you I’ve bought a piano – and you’ll know I’m home.
Later still, as a bigger little girl, in those lonely days when Mummy seemed cold and distant, we got rid of the old black upright piano and replaced it with a modern version. Heartbroken, unable to tell anyone, I watched them carry the love of my life out of the house – and cried myself to sleep every night for the next four years. No kidding.
Years later, in therapy, I drew a picture of the Old Piano. When I put down the crayons and looked at it, I saw the unmistakable shape of a delicate pink foetus floating under the keyboard near the strings. The piano was my link to my mother…
The link never broke; the bond proved stronger than everything that came in its way. But the feeling that a piano is one of the essentials of a good life has never left me. In times of stress in my sad teenage years, I survived by playing the piano. I’d play for hours and hours, working through the Clementi book from start to finish. Yes, Clementi. When I read on Rebecca’s blog that she’d been playing Clementi, it brought all this back.
So here I am in a flat in Amsterdam that’s too small for a piano. Get a bigger place, I hear you say. Yes, we will but we want it to be in England.
Just wait. One of these fine days I’ll tell you I’ve bought a piano – and you’ll know I’m home.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
The Quiet Girl speaks
Today was a much better day. If anything, I was even quieter - stealing away to an empty office for a couple of hours to get something written. But first, I patched it up with the complaining colleague of yesterday. She'd already walked past my desk without speaking or looking but later, when I came back into the open space from my secret hideaway, I found her unpacking boxes behind my chair. Better seize the occasion, I thought, and launched into speech:
"How are you doing, Karin?"
She looked up - she was half kneeling - and said a rather emphatic "Good morning", pointing out presumably that I'd failed once again to utter the obligatory words (it was half past ten by now).
I breathed in. The words "go to hell" flashed through some primitive part of my brain but fortunately - as I'm not much of a talker - didn't get past my throat. For one awkward nano-second it looked as though war might break out after all, despite the reconciliation attempt.
One nano-second, two nano-seconds. And then, click, it was over. "These boxes," she said, "it doesn't seem to matter how much clearing up I do - I've been working on them three days and they just don't seem to get any less."
"Yes, there are rather a lot of them," I agreed, surveying the cluttered array of stacked and half opened cardboard crates. She smiled and I smiled and went on my way - back to the other office, out of harm's way.
It felt good to have sorted that little bit of nonsense out before it grew into a major conflagration. It also felt good to be out of the open plan office, away from the computer and to get my article written and sent off for approval.
And then I come home and find that several of you have left supportive comments on yesterday's post. And I realise that being a writer not a talker is a JOLLY GOOD THING!
"How are you doing, Karin?"
She looked up - she was half kneeling - and said a rather emphatic "Good morning", pointing out presumably that I'd failed once again to utter the obligatory words (it was half past ten by now).
I breathed in. The words "go to hell" flashed through some primitive part of my brain but fortunately - as I'm not much of a talker - didn't get past my throat. For one awkward nano-second it looked as though war might break out after all, despite the reconciliation attempt.
One nano-second, two nano-seconds. And then, click, it was over. "These boxes," she said, "it doesn't seem to matter how much clearing up I do - I've been working on them three days and they just don't seem to get any less."
"Yes, there are rather a lot of them," I agreed, surveying the cluttered array of stacked and half opened cardboard crates. She smiled and I smiled and went on my way - back to the other office, out of harm's way.
It felt good to have sorted that little bit of nonsense out before it grew into a major conflagration. It also felt good to be out of the open plan office, away from the computer and to get my article written and sent off for approval.
And then I come home and find that several of you have left supportive comments on yesterday's post. And I realise that being a writer not a talker is a JOLLY GOOD THING!
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
I HAVE VERY LOUD THOUGHTS
I was an early bird at the office this morning - out of the house with only a biscuit for breakfast and at my desk before 8.30. Yes, I call that early! Three colleagues were talking quietly at the other side of the open plan office when I arrived. They didn't look up or speak and I shrugged it off as one of those things - and failed to notice my own faux pas: I didn't say 'Good morning' to the air as I breezed in through the door.
In Britain, we'd see that as just being discreet, not making a fuss, not imposing yourself arrogantly on other people. In Holland, they see it exactly the other way round: that arrogant woman has just walked in without greeting us.
I hadn't been at my desk more than 20 minutes when a bright young colleague who I thought was nice came flouncing by and said: "You're quiet. You never say a thing. What's wrong - do you not like us?" and, while I gawped at her in shock and gathered my wits about me ready to launch my defence, added: "Are you like this at home?"
WHAT? What cheek! You don't talk like this to a colleague you've only shared an office with for two days...
Of course, she wouldn't know that only the very night before, Bud had said to me: "J, you're so quiet, why don't you speak more?!" She wouldn't know, would she? Would she.....?
Something about the defiant look in her eye made me feel she definitely did know she'd hit a tender spot somewhere in me.
I hate it when people accuse me of being quiet. As though it's a crime. What's wrong with being quiet? Why does it bother her, bother you if I'm not babbling like a brook from morning till night? I accept that for Bud, a born chatterbox if ever there was one, it can be a bit much (or a bit too little) at times. But for a colleague who sits on the other side of the room?
Hmm. Methinks something else is going on here. Let me see... she has a rather menial job that involves unpacking a lot of boxes - and stashing pens and papers away in the cupboards behind my desk. She has to pass my desk several times a day. Perhaps she feels overlooked...
Curse the open office. How am I supposed to work if I have to greet everyone who passes my desk during the day? I sit next to the door, for g..'s sake...
In any event, she touched a nerve in me, and made a major dent in an otherwise promising day. By the time my boss rang at 9.30, sounding bright and optimistic, I was already wishing I could put on my coat and go home again.
I told Bud about it when I did get home this evening and he dissolved in chuckles. Just rescued himself from a clip around the ear by agreeing that only a Dutch person could be blunt and rude enough to barge in and make such a dumb remark. And then he took me out for a drink and cake - and sat quietly in the bar while I talked his head off about my working day.
Unfortunately, we didn't put it on tape to produce as evidence that I'M NOT ALWAYS QUIET, DAMN IT!
Anyway, what's wrong with being a writer, not a talker? As I said to the Dear Colleague, "maybe it's just my style".
In Britain, we'd see that as just being discreet, not making a fuss, not imposing yourself arrogantly on other people. In Holland, they see it exactly the other way round: that arrogant woman has just walked in without greeting us.
I hadn't been at my desk more than 20 minutes when a bright young colleague who I thought was nice came flouncing by and said: "You're quiet. You never say a thing. What's wrong - do you not like us?" and, while I gawped at her in shock and gathered my wits about me ready to launch my defence, added: "Are you like this at home?"
WHAT? What cheek! You don't talk like this to a colleague you've only shared an office with for two days...
Of course, she wouldn't know that only the very night before, Bud had said to me: "J, you're so quiet, why don't you speak more?!" She wouldn't know, would she? Would she.....?
Something about the defiant look in her eye made me feel she definitely did know she'd hit a tender spot somewhere in me.
I hate it when people accuse me of being quiet. As though it's a crime. What's wrong with being quiet? Why does it bother her, bother you if I'm not babbling like a brook from morning till night? I accept that for Bud, a born chatterbox if ever there was one, it can be a bit much (or a bit too little) at times. But for a colleague who sits on the other side of the room?
Hmm. Methinks something else is going on here. Let me see... she has a rather menial job that involves unpacking a lot of boxes - and stashing pens and papers away in the cupboards behind my desk. She has to pass my desk several times a day. Perhaps she feels overlooked...
Curse the open office. How am I supposed to work if I have to greet everyone who passes my desk during the day? I sit next to the door, for g..'s sake...
In any event, she touched a nerve in me, and made a major dent in an otherwise promising day. By the time my boss rang at 9.30, sounding bright and optimistic, I was already wishing I could put on my coat and go home again.
I told Bud about it when I did get home this evening and he dissolved in chuckles. Just rescued himself from a clip around the ear by agreeing that only a Dutch person could be blunt and rude enough to barge in and make such a dumb remark. And then he took me out for a drink and cake - and sat quietly in the bar while I talked his head off about my working day.
Unfortunately, we didn't put it on tape to produce as evidence that I'M NOT ALWAYS QUIET, DAMN IT!
Anyway, what's wrong with being a writer, not a talker? As I said to the Dear Colleague, "maybe it's just my style".
Sunday, April 10, 2005
She did look good
So Charles has married his Camilla. I confess: I watched the whole thing from start to finish – using the time between the civil and the church ceremonies to nip down the road on my bike to the Saturday fish market. I was back just in time, 3pm, to see the Royals arriving at St George’s Chapel (one of the loveliest churches in all England, by the way).
Second confession: I’ve begun to accept her. I have to say, she did look good – even if she was a little awkward. The designers did a fine job on that wedding gown.
Will she regret it, was the question I asked myself throughout. Charles appeared mildly miserable, as usual, and – apart from turning the pages of the service book for her – seemed to pay little attention to her during the blessing. We weren’t given close-up shots of their faces but I didn’t see his head turn even slightly. She clearly didn’t know what to do with the bouquet and, although I could see it via TV better than he could, it took a while for him to help her out of her predicament. (You could almost see the thought going through her head: “what do I do with this bloody bouquet?”).
Charles, in my view, just wasn’t there. Absent, twiddling his thumbs – literally – for much of the ceremony. Was it too much, being back in church, on his knees next to the bride? A little too close to the bone?
I looked at Camilla, stuck there in the church, left to struggle on her own to do the right thing, and I felt a chill, sensed an invisible veil of isolation descend upon her. Now, I thought, now she’s starting to feel what Diana felt. The same chill again, later, on the steps as the Queen – beaming to her subjects – gave not a single sign of acknowledgement in her direction before stepping into the car and going home to watch the races. You’ve joined The Firm now, girl, hold on to your head and don’t trip over those steps…
Ironic, that her life’s path should take her along this route where she now will experience at least some of the trials that Di went through. And if she does well and the public warms to her – as I think we might – Charlie Boy will again run up against the green-eyed monster, waving at him and pointing out ‘she does it better than you’. It’s going to be interesting. Life’s a school…
I let Diana rest now. I’ll bury the memory of Camilla the Rottweiler. C&C have confessed to their ‘sins and wickedness’, He Up There has forgiven and blessed them via the Church of England so I should give them a chance.
Just pray the Queen lives to be 110….
Second confession: I’ve begun to accept her. I have to say, she did look good – even if she was a little awkward. The designers did a fine job on that wedding gown.
Will she regret it, was the question I asked myself throughout. Charles appeared mildly miserable, as usual, and – apart from turning the pages of the service book for her – seemed to pay little attention to her during the blessing. We weren’t given close-up shots of their faces but I didn’t see his head turn even slightly. She clearly didn’t know what to do with the bouquet and, although I could see it via TV better than he could, it took a while for him to help her out of her predicament. (You could almost see the thought going through her head: “what do I do with this bloody bouquet?”).
Charles, in my view, just wasn’t there. Absent, twiddling his thumbs – literally – for much of the ceremony. Was it too much, being back in church, on his knees next to the bride? A little too close to the bone?
I looked at Camilla, stuck there in the church, left to struggle on her own to do the right thing, and I felt a chill, sensed an invisible veil of isolation descend upon her. Now, I thought, now she’s starting to feel what Diana felt. The same chill again, later, on the steps as the Queen – beaming to her subjects – gave not a single sign of acknowledgement in her direction before stepping into the car and going home to watch the races. You’ve joined The Firm now, girl, hold on to your head and don’t trip over those steps…
Ironic, that her life’s path should take her along this route where she now will experience at least some of the trials that Di went through. And if she does well and the public warms to her – as I think we might – Charlie Boy will again run up against the green-eyed monster, waving at him and pointing out ‘she does it better than you’. It’s going to be interesting. Life’s a school…
I let Diana rest now. I’ll bury the memory of Camilla the Rottweiler. C&C have confessed to their ‘sins and wickedness’, He Up There has forgiven and blessed them via the Church of England so I should give them a chance.
Just pray the Queen lives to be 110….
Friday, April 08, 2005
Holy Breeze
Well, he's at rest now, bless him. I'm glad it's all over. I didn't watch the full spectacle - just turned on the TV now and again during the morning to get an overall impression. My overall impression is that the Roman Catholic Church is a mighty organisation run by a lot of very old men. Women don't get a look-in, unless they arrive with their heads demurely covered like the next best Muslim.
In fact, my lasting impression from the Pope's funeral will be the wind - all those cardinals in billowing red gowns, clutching their hats, or whatever they're called, and that nice red bible on the coffin whose pages were supposed to flutter in the breeze. They did flutter for a few minutes until a rather hefty gust slammed the good book shut.
Chapter finished. Let's get on with LIFE.
In fact, my lasting impression from the Pope's funeral will be the wind - all those cardinals in billowing red gowns, clutching their hats, or whatever they're called, and that nice red bible on the coffin whose pages were supposed to flutter in the breeze. They did flutter for a few minutes until a rather hefty gust slammed the good book shut.
Chapter finished. Let's get on with LIFE.
Monday, April 04, 2005
April 8th - a wedding or a funeral?
I know it's not funny, agree it doesn't show me in a good light (jaybie - you killjoy) but I just can't help laughing about the news that the Pope's funeral clashes with Prince Charles' ill-fated wedding. Both are scheduled for April 8th.
Since not only Charlie himself but also two of his most prominent guests - the Archibishop of Canterbury and Prime Minister Tony Blair - could be going to Rome for John Paul's do, it's all a little tricky, to say the least.
Apparently HRH is reconsidering. He might postpone his nuptials to Saturday.
If I were him, I think I'd read the tea leaves and forget it altogether...
Since not only Charlie himself but also two of his most prominent guests - the Archibishop of Canterbury and Prime Minister Tony Blair - could be going to Rome for John Paul's do, it's all a little tricky, to say the least.
Apparently HRH is reconsidering. He might postpone his nuptials to Saturday.
If I were him, I think I'd read the tea leaves and forget it altogether...
Out for lunch
Back to a little sanity here. Or, at least, back from the philosophical ramblings of Professor Zenbo to the everyday tedium of the international bakery. We have a new boss. He's the top man in our part of the empire, bearing down like a hawk on all those lesser bosses below him (and above me). They're sweating. Particularly the ones in London.
Such a pity....
It looks nice outside. Think I'll go out for lunch...
Such a pity....
It looks nice outside. Think I'll go out for lunch...
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Professor Zenbo and the theory of M
The Piccadilly Online Broadcaster sent staff reporter Jaybie to interview blog host Professor Zenbo. Here, the first of a three-part series on the maverick professor:
Jaybie: Professor Zenbo, tell us something about yourself, your life, work, interests, aims, fears...
Professor Zenbo: I'm a 40-something professor in the Life Academy, Faculty of Philosophical Imagination, researching into a variety of sundry issues - from ancient Greek to the effects of corporate tyranny on the female reproductive cycle. My driving aim is to find meaning in the web of apparently meaningless events that make up my, and most other people's lives.
Jay: Have you had any success in that?
Prof Z: 'Success' is an interesting word to use in this context.
Jay: Well, have you had any?
Prof Z: I haven't had any of that for a little while.. what with Mr. Zenbo's illness, followed by mine ... :) however, to let me continue, your phrasing of the question, in terms of 'success' indicates that you, too, have succumbed to the modern mindset that measures every human endeavour in terms of some outwardly visible, socially recognisable sign of success. When, in fact, the real effect of a particular activity may be an inner shift in the researcher's own reality which many manifest outwardly only at a later stage - or may not, as the case may be...
So in terms, of the effects of my research -
Jay: Have you been able to find any meaning in all this meaninglessness?
Prof Z: It depends what you mean by the word 'meaning' ...To continue what I was -
Jay: What do you mean by 'meaning'? What does meaning mean to you?
Prof Z: 'Meaning' means several things to me. Firstly, if we look at it from the etymological perspective -
Jay: Please can we skip the history and keep it simple. This is a blog broadcast, not the Times Educational Supplement...
Prof Z: Well, for a start, 'meaning' begins with an 'M'. First associations that spring to mind (hem... that coincidentally also begins with an 'm' ...) are ME, MINE, MAMA and, of course, a big yellow 'M' on a red background. Etymologcally -
Jay: You mean - YOU eat at McDonald's?!
Prof Z: Yes, of course, now that's a particularly interesting area of research - as we all know from that man who was filmed stuffing himself with hamburgers and chips for 30 days.. What interests me there - apart from a large bag of chips smothered in ketchup or (in Holland) in mayonnaise (note: one red, the other yellow) is, as I've just hinted, the use of the primal colours red and yellow to hook consumers before they've even learned to get their grubby little fingers round a big fat bag of chips -
Jay: I'm afraid our broadcast time is up, Professor Zenbo, thank you for joining us -
Prof Z: Er - let me quickly just add, on the subject of 'meaning' -
Jay: Our conversation with Professor Zenbo will continue next week with a look at quantum physics and Red Indians.
Jaybie: Professor Zenbo, tell us something about yourself, your life, work, interests, aims, fears...
Professor Zenbo: I'm a 40-something professor in the Life Academy, Faculty of Philosophical Imagination, researching into a variety of sundry issues - from ancient Greek to the effects of corporate tyranny on the female reproductive cycle. My driving aim is to find meaning in the web of apparently meaningless events that make up my, and most other people's lives.
Jay: Have you had any success in that?
Prof Z: 'Success' is an interesting word to use in this context.
Jay: Well, have you had any?
Prof Z: I haven't had any of that for a little while.. what with Mr. Zenbo's illness, followed by mine ... :) however, to let me continue, your phrasing of the question, in terms of 'success' indicates that you, too, have succumbed to the modern mindset that measures every human endeavour in terms of some outwardly visible, socially recognisable sign of success. When, in fact, the real effect of a particular activity may be an inner shift in the researcher's own reality which many manifest outwardly only at a later stage - or may not, as the case may be...
So in terms, of the effects of my research -
Jay: Have you been able to find any meaning in all this meaninglessness?
Prof Z: It depends what you mean by the word 'meaning' ...To continue what I was -
Jay: What do you mean by 'meaning'? What does meaning mean to you?
Prof Z: 'Meaning' means several things to me. Firstly, if we look at it from the etymological perspective -
Jay: Please can we skip the history and keep it simple. This is a blog broadcast, not the Times Educational Supplement...
Prof Z: Well, for a start, 'meaning' begins with an 'M'. First associations that spring to mind (hem... that coincidentally also begins with an 'm' ...) are ME, MINE, MAMA and, of course, a big yellow 'M' on a red background. Etymologcally -
Jay: You mean - YOU eat at McDonald's?!
Prof Z: Yes, of course, now that's a particularly interesting area of research - as we all know from that man who was filmed stuffing himself with hamburgers and chips for 30 days.. What interests me there - apart from a large bag of chips smothered in ketchup or (in Holland) in mayonnaise (note: one red, the other yellow) is, as I've just hinted, the use of the primal colours red and yellow to hook consumers before they've even learned to get their grubby little fingers round a big fat bag of chips -
Jay: I'm afraid our broadcast time is up, Professor Zenbo, thank you for joining us -
Prof Z: Er - let me quickly just add, on the subject of 'meaning' -
Jay: Our conversation with Professor Zenbo will continue next week with a look at quantum physics and Red Indians.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Sick
The cold won. I've been off work today. Ha! Felt like I had flu, bubonic plague or both. Bud tells me I look chi-deficient, like a vegetarian who's low on iron. And that's despite my hour sat out on the balcony lapping up the sun. (Yes, we had sun today).
I'm hanging around the flat like I'm haunting the place. Am really sick of seeing these four walls. Bud has actually gone out on his own to escape the feeling of being on a hospital ward. He's sitting with a book and a beer at a nearby bar, bless him. I've just rung him on his mobile to check he's not being molested by any Dutch Amazons. There was raucous laughter in the background; the sound of normal life going on somewhere out there.
I'm sick. I'm in that sort of half-dazed state where you waste copious amounts of time in front of a computer screen (I know, I should be in bed), making frivolous enquiries on google, delving into things that are none of your business in a manner bordering on obsession. Tried to work out where one blogger's lover lives and think I've cracked it. She said it was 20 mins' drive north from X and 30 mins' drive to Y. So armed with MapQuest and a map of a city somewhere in the western world, I've typed every likely looking combination of X,Y and Z into the Search bar and pressed 'Go'.
Bingo. I think I know the answer. Now what do I do with this useless information?
I'm hanging around the flat like I'm haunting the place. Am really sick of seeing these four walls. Bud has actually gone out on his own to escape the feeling of being on a hospital ward. He's sitting with a book and a beer at a nearby bar, bless him. I've just rung him on his mobile to check he's not being molested by any Dutch Amazons. There was raucous laughter in the background; the sound of normal life going on somewhere out there.
I'm sick. I'm in that sort of half-dazed state where you waste copious amounts of time in front of a computer screen (I know, I should be in bed), making frivolous enquiries on google, delving into things that are none of your business in a manner bordering on obsession. Tried to work out where one blogger's lover lives and think I've cracked it. She said it was 20 mins' drive north from X and 30 mins' drive to Y. So armed with MapQuest and a map of a city somewhere in the western world, I've typed every likely looking combination of X,Y and Z into the Search bar and pressed 'Go'.
Bingo. I think I know the answer. Now what do I do with this useless information?
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