My uncle Dirk lives in Elten, just over the German border. Though Dirk is my father's brother, after my parent's separation they stayed close. It seemed a good idea to my mum to catch breakfast in the German city of Kleve, then go on to Elten and visit him. I gladly agreed of course.

There's two ways of getting from Nijmegen to Germany: via Arnhem and the motorway is one, but via Groesbeek and the forest is quite another. The clip underneath shows some of it. Lottie, if you're watching this, look at the horsey fields in the last part of the video too! Excuse the heavy downpour though! :o)



I should've taken pictures of Kleve and at my uncle's place, but I forgot completely. In my defense, it rained a lot, so grim pictures wouldn't have done it justice. Anyway, my uncle seemed well and the banter between the three of us of covered Dutch, English and German culture, politics and of course the family quite thoroughly in two hours. We travelled back via the motorway due to the incessant rain, and my mum and I decided on having a drink at LUX, the filmhouse/pub in Nijmegen. I've included a picture with a glass of Leffe Dubbel, heheh. Oh and do you recognise the jumper? Check the old school photos I posted two days ago! After a drink or two my mum went home, and I went to the pancake-restaurant to have dinner and ice cream with my sister Marjo. The video underneath is me trying to prove she'd been blowing out little clouds of cold air..





Then last but not least.. I also mixed a video of old pictures and clips, to re-create a video blog entry for May 31, 2006. I think it turned out funnier than the original. You can find it by clicking here.. And seen as that's the 3d video with this post, and it's 4am now, I'm calling it a day!

While it was my intention to surprise my dad at his doorstep, I didn't much fancy simply staking out his front door. It's close to my mum's place in Nijmegen but not around the corner - and as my dad is out and about a lot I could've waited a very long time. On Saturday my mother helped me; she called him on his mobile number to get a hold of him. He picked up from Wijchen, where he was visiting his ex-girlfriend. My mum apologised for pressing a wrong button, having no intention to speak to either of them really. "Now I got you on the phone though," she continued, "I do have a package I need to deliver to you." My dad must have thought it concerned something for my sister Elvira, to take on his next trip to Greece. "Can you not fit it through the letter box?" he asked. He then proposed the package be left in the rear garden, but again my mum refused. "Right, I'll call you back, because my phone battery is almost gone." When he called back from his ex-girlfriend's landline number, I picked up. He didn't get it at all, thinking at first he might have dialled the UK by accident. But how, from a friend's phone? As I explained, the poor sod - bless him - struggled to breathe or to believe I was really in Nijmegen.



I met him later in the evening, after he had travelled from Wijchen to Nijmegen and - bizarrely perhaps - laid a pond in another friend's front garden. Not a mean feat by the way, to dig up the garden, lay the pond straight, dig it in and decorate it; all within two hours. I caught a ride some way there with my mum and strolled down the street. We spent some time at his friend's house, over wine and dinner. Both excellent by the way! After that, my dad drove me to his house in Molenhoek (lit. Mill Corner), a leafy village 10 miles or so South of Nijmegen. Here we waited for his friend and neighbour Paul to return from watching the football match. NEC Nijmegen had given the top club PSV Eindhoven a great scare, but couldn't get beyond a 0-0 draw. Paul therefore arrived a bit agitated ("It should have been 3-0!"). My dad being a PSV fan, and myself preferring NEC, we had no problem between the tree of us that it had been a good game and decent result. We then walked to a local pub, but with only crappy Dutch folk pop and bland lager on offer, I decided on the last bus back to town - despite their pleas. I tried to pay the bill, but as per usual my dad wouldn't let me. The bus of course came exactly on time (0.08) and I got home quick enough. Underway I texted my sister, but she was on her way home from another pub by then - so I was home quick enough..

I'm at my mother's home for a relaxing holiday, and found some old picture books and a scanner.. Here's the exciting result! These are my old school photos from 1991 through to 1996. If you can recognise me, you can see I didn't always look my best or even dress nice for the picture. If you want to see them full-size, clicking on the picture will get you to my Flickr page!


Class One.. I'm at the back row, on the right, in a purple jumper.


Class Two.. I'm at the second row, sat at the far left.


Class Three.. I'm on the far right, third row, wearing a red stripey jumper.


Class Three.. But fourth year. I'm sat at the front third from right, wearing red jeans and my favourite jumper - a Christmassy one, but do I look bothered?


Class Four, fifth year and I'm sat at the left front.


Class Four, year six. I'm at the right, last row, wearing the same jumper as two years ago but feeling less glamourous.. And a lot taller as I used to be. Looking at this again, I also spotted the teacher Koch in the back middle - looking a lot like Lottie's dad! Unfortunately I do not have class picture of '97, my graduation year.

My sister, struggling to appreciate my state of drunkenness

After yesterday's knackering travel, I slept until the afternoon and spent time at my mother's house. I used Skype to call Lottie too, luckily just before her dad arrived to make her weekend miserable. It was great to hear her voice again, while looking at an old picture of hers that still functions as the desktop image on the old computer. I made a fuss of the cats Spoekie and Creon, had dinner with my mum and near 9 went out for the night. The bus into town came at 9:04 promptly - I'm still getting used to buses being so bloody punctual here. My sister Marjo arrived on a train from Amsterdam at half nine, so I picked her up there. We then walked to LUX, the arthouse cinema, but the few films showing after ten weren't interesting enough - so went to nearby pub Café de Foyer instead. We chatted and I drank Rochefort Tripel. Just three were enough to seriously do my head in. Near 2am we walked to her apartment and I walked on 'home' after that. It wasn't as boring or as simple as that - it included drunken staggering, rude language and a lot more that I caught on my camera. This one picture of my sister will have to do though, as the rest is far too daft to post on Youtube.

Then today, Friday, I again slept until the afternoon (but I only came home near 5, so that's fine). It's 8pm now but I'm still recovering from the Rochefort. Bloody hell.. My next update will be when I surprise my dad this Saturday - he still has no idea I'm in The Netherlands!

I found a few old clips on my old computer. Here's a quick compilation of video's from two years ago. Leaving work with my then new Olympos camera at hand :o)

It's near 6 on a morning like any other - I should be used to getting up this early, having done for the past year and a half. I'm not though. Lottie kept me up late, but I feel anything but resentful. There's a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon in my system still too, and my legs feel water-logged. I do not want to get up, but I do want to catch the plane to Amsterdam today.. I have to drag myself out of bed. Lottie is also getting up and getting coffee on, very very helpfully.

At 6:30 I'm out the door and towards the bus stop. Bus eight should arrive soon, get me to Manchester Shudehill bus terminal, where I have to connect with the Terravision coach to Liverpool airport. I mean 'connect' as in getting to it on time and grabbing a seat, not as in crossing the road and getting stuck to its front window. As per usual, bus eight keeps me waiting. As the minutes tick by, I call a taxi to make sure I get somewhere. The taxi too keeps me waiting, though it arrives 6:55 before a bus appeared. It's a small woman in massive white Audi, and as she turns into the bus stop, she scrapes the kerb with the front. She laughs it off, I get in and explain my predicament. We have less than 15 minutes to get to Shudehill but it's no problem for her. Jokingly I explain why: "If I don't make it to the bus, I might have to ask you to drive me to Liverpool airport instead!" She replies that any other taxi driver might fail to get to the bus stop in favour of the extra money, but she's not like them. And indeed, she makes it with five minutes to spare. I hurriedly cross the road, scrape myself of a bus front window and grab a seat in the airport coach. It gets to the airport in an hour or so - the only thing bothering me is the Polish driver incessently talking on his mobile phone - driving us single-handedly. Admittedly though, he has skill.

Checking into the flight with my hand luggage, and getting through airport security, is surprisingly easy. Well, security is the usual hassle of stripping off any metals and emptying all pockets, but I get to the terminal with minimal fuss. When boarding starts, I walk to the back of the smallish Airbus and sit right at the back. By some stroke of luck, the seat next to me remains one of only four that remain unoccupied, so I can stretch my legs just a little. I'm grateful, because the seats are otherwise tiny. Just in front of me a Dutch woman and Spanish-looking git (it's raining but he has sunglasses in his hair..) can't stop snogging eachothers wrinkled faces off. I bought Bike Magazine, so I block out the view while mumbling "for fuck's sake.." In truth I'm not jealous, just annoyed at the sloppy kisses, though of course Lottie sitting next to me might have been an option. The flight itself goes smoothly despite the heavy cloud and rain, though as ever I think of what folly it is to be hurtled across the North Sea at 500 mph a few kilometres above the Earth, in a pressurised tube. The fun bit is taxying across to the Amsterdam terminal - ten minutes or so of riding through the country on an aeroplane. It includes crossing a road, a canal, and a motorway!

At Amsterdam Schiphol airport I set about reducing my carbon footprint by getting a train to Utrecht. Again, it's not too busy, so I can relax, close my eyes and enjoy some mp3 tunes. My ticket is checked and stamped by the train conductor, who after that bothers a Spanish fellow passenger with an apparently invalid ticket. "How very dare you ask me to buy a ticket I already paid for, you uncouth bastard?" the man replies, with a high voice and wild gestures. In a typically Dutch fashion, the conductor and passenger agree police should intervene, and the journey continues. At Utrecht Central station, the passenger gets out and shakes hands with two officers, all very pleasantly. I grab my connection to Nijmegen.

Arriving at Nijmegen, the first thing on my mind is getting a haircut. I've not seen scissors in two or three months, and the state of it is badly affecting my ego. At 6'7, I find it difficult to skulk through traffic and shopping streets, so I get to my favourite hairdresser (John Bertine) in town, and while chatting away on life in Manchester, the inevitable footy and the Canary islands my hairdresser will visit, my hair becomes drastically shorter. I can't pay, as my Dutch banking pass no longer works, but a return trip to the ATM is no problem. I then get a bus eight home. Not a Manchester bus eight, a Nijmegen bus eight. Unfortunately, I should have grabbed a bus four instead - I have a 20 minute walk 'home' from a wrong bus stop. Excuse me calling it 'home', but it has been on and off over the past ten years, and though it's my mother's place through and through, I've left my footprint (not the carbon one), among the books in my old room and my Glenlivet in the cellar.

It's around 4pm and my mum is at home - I simply jump over the fence in the rear garden and walk straight in. I'm greeted with saved up birthday and Christmas presents (a basket full of marzipan and chocolate.. yum!), kisses, and, as I'm starving, Dutch peanut butter and cheese on sandwiches. Before you think it, peanut butter on one, cheese on the other - together it'd be as horrible as salt and vinegar on crisps! :o)

I visit the local supermarket to buy the fluids that would've held me back through airport security: tooth paste, lens fluid, deodorant, shaving cream, a raspberry custard, a Dr Oetker Quattro Formaggi pizza, black bread and cumin cheese. Okay, the last few might've been alright at the airport, only I can't buy any of it in Manchester. My mum had plans to go out dancing tonight and I'm quite happy to spend a quiet evening in. I have my pizza, a glass of Leffe Blonde, and fall asleep watching TV Gelderland. Sod it - I've hardly slept the night before and it's been a long day - I'm in bed by 9. That's only 8 in UK time though. I sleep through to 12 the next day - woken up by an apparent thunderstorm. It's council workers on top of the flat roof laying new sheeting.

With a bit of luck in the lottery overdue, Lottie and I of course have plans to seriously improve our lives. Buying a bit of land in the Borders or Highlands, building a fabulous house and settling into a semi-rural lifestyle has got to be the dream. And yet, with all that, you also need a dream car.. A Spyker C8 convertible is our dream road car, but might be a bothersome across the pot-holed country roads. I fancy a Citroen C5 or rather a suave C6 for ultimate comfort. But what would we use to pull the inevitable horse boxes? A Land Rover Defender soft-top 110 seemed the ideal option, until we saw it's evil cousin, the Bowler WildCat 200. And then there is it's younger brother, more attractive still: the Bowler Nemesis. When will my spine stop tingling already?!

I'm watching BBC News 24 as I'm browsing the net (and writing the previous blog entry) and I'm getting angrier at the telly all the time. Apparently the UK government is considering a ban on cigarette machines in pubs, and displays of cigarettes in news agents and other shops. Surely the theory behind it is that, if it is out of view, people will be less likely to buy it. I have never really been a smoker, though I have lit the odd casual fag or cigar. Though I can get very annoyed with Lottie smoking while sat next to me or in the bed room, with smokers on the bus and in other places where I can hardly avoid breathing it in.. I still think the government's idea is utter madness. It won't stop people buying cigarettes - it'll go under the counter if necessary. Instead, the buyer won't see the choice of products (I'll have a harder time still finding Gauloises) or the prices. And the already beleaguered newsagents will be forced to comply with yet more non-sense. "Can I get 10 Richmond please?" I might ask the guy at the garage. "Oh we don't have any." "Al right, what other brands have you got?" "I can't tell you, officially, I'm not allowed to advertise them." "Okay let me have another guess - 20 Richmond Smooth maybe?" "Okay, 7 pounds 23 please." "You're kidding?" "Sorry, this particular package has gone up in price since the tax increase. You do have other choices though." "Like which?" "Guess. But do hurry, there are other customers."

Next week will be a bit odd. On Tuesday, I'm back at the office for a normal day of work, but on Wednesday morning I'll grab a bus to Liverpool and a plane to Amsterdam. I should manage to get to Nijmegen by noon, but might stop over in Amsterdam and Utrecht. If only for a bit of shopping. In Nijmegen, I'll have to walk into my mum's house and unpack - I might have difficulty adjusting actually. It's weird when you're settled into life elsewhere, then re-visit where home used to be. When I did it in 2001, in the middle of living in Edinburgh, I felt completely out of sync. I can't wait to see my mother again though, and Marjo. On Wednesday night, I might visit her, surprise my dad and take them both drinking and talking in town. The weather should improve later in the week, so I can hopefully go for a cycle ride with my dad too. Apart from drinking lots of excellent beer at my favourite haunts, with my favourite people, I don't have an awful lot of plans. I hope this time the trip goes well though. When the norovirus stopped me from travelling last time, it really got me down..

Lottie's mum bought a Land Rover Discovery II a few years ago, and by means of the mail man is still regularly addressed to buy another one. The Discovery III is being advertised with coffee. Since we bought a coffee/espresso machine last year, Lottie and I have become too knowledgeable about coffee for our own good. "Can you taste any Unleaded?" "No, but I do think this coffee goes with the brand - earthy, peaty, dare I say it, a gravelly after-taste."

I'll admit to some stupidity: I once installed a trial version of Microsoft Outlook 2003. I organised all my e-mails files in Outlook, saved it and let the trial license expire. I then had to wait until I could download a trial of Outlook 2007, until I could access the files again. Or shell out for Office 2003/07, but it's never worth the few hundred quid in the shop.

Anyway, I've retrieved e-mails now from the past seven years - most of it spam, the rest of it cringe worthy. It reminds me of people at the Dutch Young Greens, a crazy woman in Hawaii, lovely girls at workplaces and in Australia, travels, meeting my Lottie.. But awkwardly of course, when working with Outlook I have a professional urge to organise everything effectively. So many times the help desk analyst in me thought "I shouldn't fit more than 500 mb in each file, should I?" and the control freak in me added: "Should I file by month and year as on my blog, or by person, category or ehrmm, era?"

I won't elaborate.. But I'm sure my effectively organised e-mail will fill some gaps in the archive on here.. ;o)

It's the first day of Spring, but as usual the 21st of March is cold and wet, hail and snow even making an appearance. It's Good Friday, so it's a day off. It can't really be called a festive holiday though. Lottie was feeling quite rough, so I ended up not going out, nor doing anything else worthy of a mention. The big three oh - hmm.

Last Tuesday I saw "Road" at the Bolton Octagon theatre with Lottie. The writer of the play, Jim Cartwright, is her uncle - and her cousin James played in it. She was excited for these reasons and it being a damn good play she hadn't seen since a decade ago. I was excited as I hadn't visited the theatre in years either, despite my thirst for inspiration. As it was, "Road" turned out to be inspiring indeed, as well as harrowing.

Simply put, the play is about a single Road in a Northern town, and the stories of who live there. It's set in the Eighties, against the backdrop of the massive industrial decline and poverty that struck England. Some of it is funny; the narrator Scullery seems without a care in this world despite sleeping on the Road and being drunk every night. Some on the Road loose themselves in drink, sex and music.. But some characters wonder why they can't escape the feeling something is missing - one boy in particular starves himself to death trying to find out what is missing exactly. And the play ends with four young people in a flat, listening to an old soul record, adding their poetic rants of desperation and crying "Somehow a somehow Ah might escape".. But will they? More than twenty years on, are their lives any different?

In my life now, working in a dreary office on a council estate (Wythenshawe) and living in a former mining town (Kearsley), I have to wonder. Since my move from The Netherlands, I haven't been a happy bunny exactly. My reason for living here, being with my girlfriend, can't be flawed - I'm happy and in love. But besides this it seems, there is only work, commuting and sleep. I re-read the play last Sunday and got out of bed at 3pm feeling angry. While so much more is within grasp - a motorbike license and its ensuing freedom, talking to my family on the phone, grabbing a train to Scotland for a weekend, getting started on my novel again - it seems I just can not. I don't know why. I have to figure it out soon though, as I can quite easily imagine myself sucked into "Road"-like desperation. It already seems to me that since the Twin Towers fell, the years have gone backwards. 2002 in reality was 2000, 2004 was 1998 and OK still, but 2008 is 1994 and it's getting worrying. Soon enough the Eighties will be here all over again - the fashionistas bizarrely dress up for it already. I'd like them to wear greys again as in 1999, when no bright colours were needed to stay cheery - and positivity seemed natural. Perhaps I only dreamt it then, but why then am I so awake now?