A new Family Car

What with the demise of the Opel in February, we have been making do with the Ford Ka. A Ford Ka is a fine vehicle, unless you are fussy about minor things such as comfort, safety and reliability. Getting into one alone is bad enough. With four people it is more comfortable in the fridge. Ours has a crack in the windscreen that is now almost touching the sides, at which point the screen may fall into two pieces and be driven inwards by the wind, and just as you congratulate youself that you ducked in time to avoid decapitation by the lower portion , the top half slams down like a guillotine and finishes you off. Thus we searched for a modest conveyance.

This Maserati caught our eye, but not for long.

It belongs to the father of a horsey girl. He has lots of cars like this. You wouldn't want to be seen in the same car two days running, now would you? People who cannot afford one of these go to the Ferrari shop for something more modest. The car has an interesting affinity with the Gregorian calendar. It has a cylinder for each month of the year and one kph of top speed for every day of said year. And probably one mile per gallon for each of the four seasons.

Anyhoo, we found the Mazza a bit ostentatious. We wanted something like Karolien's MPV in New Zealand, and ended up with a Nissan Almere Tino, a soort of Renault Scenic lokk-alike. From 2000 but spotless and with only 86000 km on the clock. I am allowed to drive it sometimes. The price for hurling myself and the Opel into the canal last icy February.

One always finds photos in odd corners. One day we will sort them all out. This is Opa with his great grandson Sam, at the wedding of Kees and Ans.

Moddles

Further in the photo department, Emma is at that stage wher teeners take millions of pictures of themselves. Mostly they are just teeny-posy things, but occasionally something rather good catches the eye. I needed room in the camera SD card, but hesitated befre deleteing these 3.

The 2 indoor ones are done by holding the camera at arm's length.

Sara, your comments please!

Ponies

As parents of members of The Pony Club we occasionally are called upon to play a major role in the catering at Special Events. Like selling choc-ices and putting hamburgers in the magnetron. Or following reams of ponies making a pointless trip through the woods and then all the way home again. The following are photos from such a recent event. Being bored waiting for ponies, and resisting the temptation to put hidden ropes and wires across their path, I pointed my camera at Other Things. I was still bored, but now I can share my boredom.

They'll be coming along here any day now

Some leaves to look at while we wait

And a bit of wood

Still nothing

And about time too...

Gold and Silver - should they not be under armed guard?

A beauty

And another. Bernadet at the Pony Club with the correct Country Shirt.

Rabbits

With some misgivings we have agreed to accept rabbits once again into the family. Faithful readers may recall the debacle in Beverwijk in which two apparently female rabbits proceeded to over-populate the Northern Hemisphere. They are cute, though. Lotje and Dotje (pronounced Lotcha and Dotcha).

Firstly, a new home. The adapted chicken breeding unit from Tineke's Garden. Now insulated and refurnished. Eventually a staircase will lead to the open air recreation centre.

A public sports arena where they seem to be getting along well with the other inmates.

A contented bunny. But why are my trousers getting damp?

Other animals on the estate are not so welcoming. They don't attack but just ignore the new arrivals.

Its no good talking to me about rabbits. I see no rabbits.


No, none over here either.

Looking back on May

Much of May has been occupied with Irene, people buzzing backwards and forwards to Arizona to help out, while those on the home front wade through the beurocracy that will bring her home in a flurry pf paperwork. A mobile home is also being looked into that can be placed in the car-park looking out onto Tineke's garden. Peaceful and private but with help all around.

But first, I found this superb picture in the camera, the last from New Zealand. Gordon Ramsey has nothing on The Lad when the Good Gourmet Ghost is upon him. Another reminder of the unforgetable time we had in New zealand, literally the time of our lives.

Meanwhile some pictures of Heiloo in the spring.

Through the woods to the Pony Club.

This is on the cycle path. We shall be doing a lot more cycling as I, like Bernadet, have an electrical velocipede. Mine cost about a third of Bernadet's, coming as it did from the Aldi. In my opinion it is a very good bike. Everything is stainless steel and the frame is aluminium. Nothing to rust or corrode. It will probably catch fire instead. It has a twist-grip throttle so you can rev up and pretend to be Valentino Rossi. But not very convincingly. We do spend a lot of time touring the area. Not as far-reaching as Young Stef, but it is amazing what car-drivers are missing. As long as they miss the cyclists.

It's alright here, you bastard, but stay away from my fishpond.

Trees all bare and a well-wrapped woman.

Kees offered to cut the grass. The 'S' is not clear, but the intention is obvious.

Tineke's Garden

For those in other parts of the world who cannot see Tineke's Garden and would like to (probably half the world population), your waiting is over.

Several families survive on the vegetables this garden provides. All through the winter and into the next spring, the freezers are bursting.

It is also a great place to sit with a cup of coffee or a glass of wine.

In June there will be so many strawberries that buckets are thrown away.

Tony the Boy-Racer and other oddities

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Tales of the Open Learning Centre

Maria chapel Heiloo
Dear All. Things have slowed down a bit in the blog department. Along with the sad businees of Irene, there are three ex-colleagues now in various stages of cancer, all terminal. It has been difficult to think of much else lately. Fortunately Irene shows signs of improvement. The long-term prospects are not clear, but at least she has less pain. She is also enjoying the visits of family from Holland. Tineke and Bernadet went first, followed by Opa and Carolien. Carolien returned to NZ and Opa remained. He will stay as long as he can, a maximum of three months on his visa. Before Opa went, he took part in a marathon candle-burning event. People come in one after another to keep a chain going. The candles burn for about 9 days. This attracted the attention of KRO TV who made a program about people who burn candles in this chapel and what the background is to their stories. I shall include a link of any one is interested. Kees has been in Arizona for two weeks and returns today. There will be a break in the chemo treatment in a month or two and it is hoped that things can be arranged to bring Irene to Holland. We are looking at the possibility of setting up a building somewhere on the farm. She prefers to be alone but close to family and help. Anyway, it's looking better for her than it did a while ago.

My job, alas, will probably go at the end of this term. Economics determine that the last in will be the first out. I shall miss the place and the students. And the money! Everything is going well, although I have had some difficult situations to deal with. There are about some 50 computers in a small space, and it is important that people don't disturb each other. I turn a blind eye to soft music, MSN, Hyves etc, prefering to hand out headphones to miscreants rather than ban them. My rule is that you can waste your own time but not that of another. Last week I had to throw out two girls who were fighting. Not with teeth and claws as would be expected in a catfight, but with scarves with knobbly knots tied in them. Stools and vases went flying, but your hero is not afraid of girls and they were ejected. I recently had my first real confronation with boys. Most of the students are girls, but there a few young men between 17 and 20 years old. Some are large and full of themselves, swaggering in with hands in pockets, putting thier feet on the keyboard, turning up the music and pulling gigling schoolgirls onto thier laps. I always dread these occasions. I am not allowed to take action but am instructed to call the class teacher. I have never done this as I would lose all respect from the students. On this occasion a neanderthal with a baseball cap back-to front kept turning up the music, despite my diplomatic pleading and grovelling. I lost my temper, went up behind him and shouted 'OFF'. The room entered stunned silence mode. The monstrous youth and I eyeballed each other for a while, each daring the other to blink, and then he said, softly. 'Make me'. O my God, what now? I have no alternative plan. But I am now looking as fierce as a lion and as steady as rock, not the slightest tremor, but this is because I have concentrated all my physical and mental powers toward my buttocks which would need a crowbar to separate them. 'Make me' he said again, and leaned back on his chair with hands behind his head, the ultimate Mr Cool. Girls are tittering nervously. I am undone. I shall never be able to come into this room again. I am to be humiliated before all. I shall escape with a 'Goodness me, is that the time?' sort of tactic. Then my eye falls on the power cable. Without losing eye-contact, I reach out and pull the plug on his computer and the screen plops and the music stops. Gasps. Then his cronies begin to laugh, tension evaporates and the day is won. Later, on the way to my car, I run a gauntlet of 'OFF, OFF, OFF' but it is not unfriendly. A good day. Sometimes it is not busy in the OLC. I cannot see into both rooms but I knew there was only one girl there, a very plump girl with pebble glasses and the sniffles. As she breathed, one could hear fluids being blown down towards the nostils to form bubbles only to be drawn back up by a monstrous wet snort. I was about to leave my desk to bring her a roll of kitchen paper when there was there was an an enromous liquid sneeze followed by groaning. I went to see if she was alright, and found her looking at the screen which was glazed in snot in subtle variations of hue and opacity that was slowly drifting downwards. She stared at the screen for a few moments, until stimulated by my suggestion that she could perhaps clean it up she began to wipe it with the edge of her hand from right to left, much as one would clean a window with one of those little rubber squeegee things. She only manged to push waves of snot to the left where it slid more quickly down the screen owing to the increase in thickness and the pull of gravity towards the centre of the earth. What was left on the warm screen, a thin layer like a polythene bag, dried out and became quite opaque. I was feeling ill by now, and told her to use another computer. I could see that not only would I have to deal with coagulating but still liquid snot dripping down the screen, I would need to pick off the dried snotty film. Hopefully it would all come off in one layer like that stuff that protects the screens of new mobile phones. I went to get Kleenex and Ajax. When I came back, she was still typing, saying that she had to log off to use another computer. Her fingers were wet and slimy. I wondered if we had anything to get mucus off keyboards, and especiallyfrom between the keys. I would have to prise them all off with a screw-driver and clean them individually. I hope the G doesn't go back where the H was. Later, I heard another massive blubbery sneeze. By the time I got to the other room, the girl had collected all her stuff and was leaving. She was the only one in the room. The only lit-up screen looked as if it had suffered from a mollusc stampede. I said 'what about the terminal?. She looked surpised and said she didn't know nothing about that, mister. Must have been some other fat girl who snuk in, sneezed snot, sniffled and snuk out again. Where's the bucket. I leave you with some of my drawings that try to get the kids to clean up the mess and not leave it all to me.

There is a pakistani cleaning lady but she is not very good and I have a lot of sympathy for her because she does not have much time to clean so many rooms and she gets a lot of complaints and her boss shouts at her. She cannot understand him because she doesn't speak Dutch. I clean up and make sure that it is all perfect before she starts and her boss has no complaints about this room. One night the inspection was early and I still had the broom and bucket in my hand. The Commander of All The Cleaners asked if I was a new one and not to waste Vim or take dusters home and not to stand there like a loon which is not what was paid for but I was to get on with it, chop chop, if I knew what was good for me. Bloody foreigners. The pakistani lady has learned one Dutch word. She can say 'thankyou'.

I leave you with some photos of my favorite tough guys, the two lads doing the midwife course. I think it is brilliant that boys like this want to learn how to help women give birth and how to bath babies.

And that while all thier mates are doing the Motor Mechanics or the Electrical Engineers course. No money for guessing where I think the real men are. When they leave here I will send them T-shirts with a slogan such as 'Macho Midmen', 'Let me hold you, Baby' or some such nonsense. Any suggestions?

By the way, the piece before this was all about Ball Valves. Google Ad-sense tailors the ads to the blog. Now ALL the ads are about Ball Valves. I have power over the ads that appear in this blog. It's a good job that the Ball Valves artikel appeared so soon after Amazing Gyrating Pussy. who knows what disreputable and tasteless purveyors would seek to sully this pristine blog with thier wares.

Stef and Sara - please arrange some Skype time! Love you all
Take care.

Ball Valve Bonanza

We are off steel balls, we are now onto Ball Valves. Google Ad-sense has spoken, and I followed the link and was amazed! I came into the world of Modentic Ball Valves of Taiwan and read the splash headline
HOT News: Modentic model HPV-40FS/41FS/43FS passed API607 5th fire safe testing!!!!!!!

Hot news indeed, I hear you all gasp as one man. Not only that, but Modenic also make metal-seated ball valves, forged ball valves, sanitary ball valves, flanged ball valves, trunnion-mounted ball valves, high-pressure ball valves, globe ball valves, gate ball valves, multi-port ball valves, v-flow ball valves, strainers, and last but not least, synchronous needle valves.

Well! With all this expertise to dazzle the gawping millions, and advertised on my blog, my google Ad-Sense account would surely be bursting at the gussets. I went gleeflully to check. And found:-

	Paginavertoningen	Aantal klikken	Pagina-CTR	Pagina eCPM	Opbrengsten
	102	5	4,90%	€ 6,80	€ 0,69
Totale opbrengst					€ 0,69

Come on folks, help me out! Just buy a few Multi-port ball valves or a bucket of strainers. you never know when you might need one. Be safe, don't get caught out. 69 cents in 3 months is not going to get me that swimming-pool we talked about.

A more sensible blog entry will follow this one, or, since they appear in reverse order of input, will precede this one. Love you all.

Amazing gyrating pussy

Bep is very old, probably around 20 (or 140 in cat years). She was about 8 or 9 when Merel was 4. We expected that when Toos died, Bep would soon follow. They were always together and Bep would surely pine away. If she noticed at all, she kept it to herself. She probably noticed that she wasn't as hungry as she used to be. She always waited until Toos had finished gronfing food like a furry mechanical shovel before nibbling the leftovers. Consequently Toos got fat and Bep got thin. Like Laurel and Hardy. Bep now eats like a horse but is not getting any fatter. Jeanette has four cats. Not only did they resent the two new ones when we moved in, but continued to hate each other. Which made life even more difficult as each now had to look in 5 directions instead of 3. The do not slink around as other cats do , but stomp menacingly towards each other, squaring up and enquiring 'looking for a claw sandwich? How about a bunch of talons, matey?'. Until one would fail to notice that he was passing under a garden chair or a low branch, and would receive a severly raked bottom from a third lurker.

Bep is trying to say something.

If only she could talk!

Mickey is the friendliest of Jeanettes's cats, but suffers from having an extremely large head.

Mimi is shy and does not like to be photographed. Probably embarrassed because she has no head at all. Her ostritch impressions are always well received.

There are 2 others but one, known as The Duke, is so large I would need a wide-angle lens, and the other is a complete hermit, coming in at night

to feed. Few have seen her. Toos was no good at defending territory, always remembering pressing engagements elsewhere if confrontation threatened. Since Toos died, Bep became more territorial. Even the Duke stops at a respectful distance from our door. Despite her old-ladiness she is as ferocious as a pitbull to other cats.

However, Bep has been behaving strangely lately. She cries at the door, gets let out, blinks and looks confused and cries to be let in again. She then wonders why she is not still outside and cries to go out. We should install revolving doors. She also loses her way, walks into walls and is generally not herself. We took her to the vet. He said she is suffering from 'Alzheimers for cats' and that we should leave the light on at night because it would be distressing for her to wake up and not quickly be able to orientate herself. I always thought that cats were nocturnal and thus did not sleep at night. Furthermore, they have excellent night-vision, better than John 'Cats-Eyes' Cunningam, the famous world war 2 night-fighter ace. I should have been a vet. I could make vast amounts of cash telling people thier cat had Trollope's Syndrome and needed lots of expensive pills. Further manifesations of Bep's deterioration are the incredible gyrating fits and the almost daily regurgitation of more material than she has eaten.

The fits are alarming. She curls up into a ball and starts to shake. As the shaking increases, she starts to revolve on her axis like a demented asteroid, while growling in vibrato, because her mouth is moving towards and away from the listener as she spins. It is very frightening to watch and we thought she was dying. After a bit she stopped and went on with her life as if nothing had happened, rubbing up against table legs and purring at flower-pots. Now we just ignore her. Until she vomits. It starts with a bobbing of the head, a low growning and shuddering followed by a mighty heave and a gollop of steaming stew is ejected, sometimes quite hairy. It always happens on things that one has just cleaned. The worst is the leather settee if she is sitting on the back of the seat. It all glides down the smoothly waxed surface until it hits the crack between the back and the seat. The larger lumps remain while the smaller ones and all the liquids slide into the chasm. It's a horror to clean as the leather runs out and the corduroy begins halfway into the ravine.

One should never panic when a cat is vomitting. At first I grabbed her and rushed to the door and it went all over my trousers. The next occasion saw me hold her at arms length, but making a tight turn around the coffee table I centrifuged it all over the walls and curtains. Another time I grabbed her and missed, and she dived under the dining table, heaving up as she went. I followed on all fours and tried another grab. The shiny laminate floor under a heavy table is not the best surface upon which to follow a cat being sick. The cat must pass over what it has just ejected, and when its feet reach the sludge, there is loss of traction. The little legs go faster and faster and the claws tick merrily searching for grip. The pursuer recieves a shower of warm, wet particles as the legs revolve like vomit-wheels. I tried to escape vertically, but forgot that I was under the table and fell back stunned by the blow to the back op my head into the morass as I watched Bep disappear leaving little vomitty footprints.

This looks a good place for heave-up!

Best get some Ajax and a bucket and wait for her to finish. At least it's all in one place. God help us if she ever starts to vomit just before a Gyrating Pussy Attack. The room pebble-dashed in Felix, lumps of nourishing sardine and cod in a wholesome gelatinous jelly. One of the worst sights in the world is a hair-ball that has been there for a few weeks, unnoticed.

Why am I sitting here tapping out this crap! Love you all.

PS: Stef - you noticed the ads! The great advertising stunt is not going well. Google Ad-Sense promised that adverts would be tailored to the tone of the blog. The first ad was for stuff to clean drains and the second for steel balls that are used to knock dried up concrete lumps off the inside of cement mixers. I was to be informed when 70 euros had accumulated. Nothing having happened for 3 days, I looked at my account. Apparently you only get paid if people actually click on the ad and buy some steel balls. The rate is 0.00000001%, less expenses and VAT.

Reflections

Mostly what is written here is not meant to be taken seriously. It is just a journal of the irrelevancies of our lives tempered with humour for a close but widespread family amongst whom humour is a gift shared. In all the blogs, and web-groups over the years we have communicated by laughing at ourselves. It would seem to an outsider, that we are a funny family that this lightness is how we all are. We know that it is not always so. Some of us have known deep tragedy. The heavy things we do in private and through other channels. For myself, life has been many more ups than downs, an easy passage without much effort on my part. Now is a time to think on our good fortune and that it cannot be taken for granted. We can influence our own happiness by how we live but much is out of our hands. We do not always get what we deserve, good or bad. It is the roll of the dice. I am not religious. I wish I were, then I could pray. I do believe in 'something out there' and the real power of good and evil. I can pray that whatever is 'out there' will help Irene and Lisa. Life is not always fair.

It is weekend!

I have no photos to post, and had I any, they would have been about horses. Today at work I had my first experience of handling an exam. It is quite pleasing to note that the bevvy of young ladies clustering around the door, in a violent clash of clothes and smells (some perfumes and deodorants are fine alone, but combined chemically are quite revolting) seemed pleased that 'Mister Spike' would be sitting at the front. I assumed that this was because I was popular and charming. Turns out it was nothing of the kind. I was a soft touch. The first exam was all about skin care and such. 'When I give you the papers you will be quiet and begin. There will then be no talking, no bags on the table and nothing ear-phony in the ears.' It didn't take long for the first of many attacks on integrity. 'Mister Spike, can we have a window open. The 'eat's causing havoc to me pigment cells what's sitcherated in me adipose layer. I think'. Knowlegable Nerd at the front shakes her head and twenty three ladies change their answers. Lots of dropping of rubbers and coughing that sounded like 'hrrumpffarnserfourteensisaitch splutter bugger me I've gobbed on me paper'. They are allowed to leave the room when they are finished. They then hand in the paper and sign The List of Names. They waited until they had accumulated a small task force and then rushed my overseers desk en masse creating confusion and much noise, scrambling for purposely dropped papers, blocking my view of the class. It was some time before I realised that most of the noise was coming from the rest of the class, now happily swapping answers. One girl deliberately left her gold pen on the desk. I, fool that I am, rushed after her to return it. As I left the room, an answer market quickly got going and was doing brisk business as I returned. One girl had an eyepatch and kept looking up at the lamp for inspiration, or to illuminate whatever was perhaps written on the inside. All great fun. Some of them looked totally confused when given a choice of four answers - A, B, another B of another A. Some of the questions were very simple, on the level of - 'If one group attacks another because of differences in race, religion or colour, is this (a) The Pirates of Penzance (b) A bowl of rice-crispies (c) Two soft-boiled eggs (d) Discrimination . On these socio-political questions, the Muslim girls wrote amazingly knowledgable stuff. But they are generally the brightest and the most hard-working anyway. I am still much enjoying my new career. I try to get to the students through drawings on the wall. I shall scan them in. Mostly concerning the awful mess they make and the rubbish they leave. It is sometimes a battle to deal with huge 18 year old youths (there are a few chaps as well as hordes of girls) who come in, sit down and put their feet up on the keyboard and play loud music. One tatooed, muscular Sylvester Stallone, built like a brick karzy, comes in with just a vest and trousers, greasy fifties hair-style, all gold chains and earrings. He wants to borrow a picture book of fairies and elves. He is training to work with little kids in the creche, and is actually one of the nicest and gentlest people I have met here.

Teacher Remko knows all the words of every Fawlty Towers episode. Each morning I am tested with another small lead. 'Papers arrived yet Fawlty?' 'Thpoons?'. 'Just off to see Mr O'Reilly, dear', and I must respond immediately or fail.

I have been having a lot of golf lessons. Everyone I know who plays golf is working in the week, the time that I can play. I booked a round at Sparnewoude, but you cannot play on your own, it is too busy. You join the next group that makes it up to a foursome. Arriving at the first tee, I see that my partners will be a fit looking chap of about fifty and two fit looking ladies. They are tanned and have expensive equipment, with hats that have 'Ping'. And wooly covers for the drivers and woods. And the golf bags have hundreds of pockets for all the stuff they need, rows of tees, pencils, umbrella, ball-retriever-out-of-water-thingy. The man is swishing his 500 euro driver and showering all with grass and twigs. They are a couple and the wife's sister and are an entity. They are not pleased to see me. I apologise for being foisted upon them and hope that I will not slow them down. Having arrived last, I will be first to go. On the range, you have a bucket of balls and you can afford a few mistakes. On the course you have ony one, of course. The first ball is a nervous one. With the 3 watching me, together with another 8 who are waiting for us to move ahead, I make my first shot. Not paricularly good, but dead straight and bounces along the hard ground for about 160 meters. Matey says nothing, unimpressed. The women are next, and it quickly becomes apparent they are are, despite the expensive clothes and clubs, useless. They both manage about five feet. Matey is next, and with his enormous driver in his hand he studies the far flag, throws grass in the air, squats a few times for a better view, studies the map of the hole on the card and eventually takes his stand. The club goes so far back that the head reappears in front of him. An intake of breath and the club uncoils like a powerful spring and sweeps down towards the ball with the noise of an express-train. And misses the ball. Difficult when the club-head is the size of a saucepan. The momentum carries the club around his body and spins him with it like somebody who has just thrown a discus. He is off-balance and falls, the women rush tutting to help him. Much stifled laughter from behind, followed quickly by irritation and a pantomime of watch studying. The rules dictate that the one whose ball is furthest from the flag has the next shot. I will have a long wait. The next shots of all three are measured in yards, in single figures. We proceed in a leapfrog manner, putting towards my ball in the distance. I tell my partners that we are using too much time and that we should let one of the groups behind us move ahead. This group all put their balls about where mine is, and move away for the second shot. I wish I could go with them. It is a nightmare. By the time we get to my ball, they have each used up around 13 strokes. I get a five. Matey does not want to tell me his score, because it's not about points, it's about playing a noble game with the right attitude. He had an 18, but should have given up at 11. It is bad manners to stop playing a round, but this truly was awful. I gave up afte six holes with the excuse that I needed to get home and the prospect of getting to the ninth before midnight seemed to be remote. By the fourth hole we had let three more flights move ahead. And I shared in the collective guilt and the black looks. And I was late for my dinner. Black Looks in Hunger - John Osborne for those who remeber the 60's . Never again. For Adam's amusement I shall post a story that I wrote in 2004, at the time of the GVB exam in Texel. It is spoof on the complexity of the rules in golf.
Another remarkable episode this week is that of

The Amazing Gyrating Pussy. Too late - come back tomorrow!

PS If you see an advertistement about Golf, this is because I have signed up for Ad-sense, whereby gGoogle inserts advertistments in the text and I will receive huge quantities of shekkels on the post.