:: (nl one) dragging myself away
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.
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.