Santa Claus comes to town and Other Events

Santa Claus comes to Holland on Dec 5. Unlike the English equivalent, he does not come from the north pole with reindeer and elves, but from Spain, in a steam-boat. This year we would not be doing Santa Claus with the family, but with Jan and Desiree, parents of Emma's best friend Eva. Usually Santa Claus involves making 'surprises' which are presents that typify the person receiving. This is an aspect of Santa Claus that I find so charming in the Dutch. One may construct something to praise, villify or humble the recipient. This year sadly we would not be surprising each other. We would be with ourselves and Emma, Eva and her parents plus her brother and granny and a single lady whose relationship to the family was unclear. We were each charged with buying an inexpensive present for each of the 8 people without knowing who it was for. A complex game ensued in which a throw of the dice determined that we would either pick up a prezzy from under the tree, pass all our prezzies one or more places to the left or right, or move ourselves a number of places, or open a prezzy. Granny was excused from the moving bit because she has iron things on her legs and it would have taken forever to get the game over. As it was we spent the next three hours (after Jan's excellent cottage pie) moving ourselves or our pile of prezzies around the table. It was then discovered that there was no end to the game, nor any way to claim outright ownership of a prezzy. The single lady gave way first, collapsed with exhaustion and went home, thereby forefeiting all her accumulated wealth. New rules were argued out whereby a six thrown enabled the player to at last lay claim to one of the prezzies before him. As the evening began to turn to morning, rules were changed again so that anything other than a 3, and shortly afterwards including the 3, would gain a present permanently. The game stampeded towards it's conclusion in the early hours, to the relief of the players who departed with thier prizes and to thier beds. Great fun.

One of my cherished gains, this amazing snowman with a clever remote control, whereby from a distance of   45 centimeters, one can cause the realistic figure to illuminate itself in an alarming manner. It has two possibilities. One is 'off'and the other, not surpisingly, is 'on'. One could for instance, conceal oneself behind a doorway and cause an unsuspecting passerby to squeal with amusement. Or perhaps he would kick it or stamp on it.

I also accquired this novelty underwear. I have not used it for fear of embarrasment at the urinals when trying to extricate myself  for a pee, the trunk being a closed tube. I also fear that it may look not as good under my sagging stomach as on the Tarzan figuer on the box.

And finally, the self propelled clockwork bulldozer with many centimteres of track to test the imagination.

More Tales of the OLC

It has been quite busy in the Open Learning Centre. Everyone is getting ready for Christmas, having just got over Sint Nicolas. Hence this fine Christmas tree, placed and decorated by my colleague Gerry (a girl's name in Holland). Gerry works three days and I do two. Consequently we don't see much of each other. It's a bit like the old joke about the two Japanese sewage workers who saw each other only in passing when one came on shift as the other came off. In 40 years they had never spoken. When one retired he was asked to define this tepid relationship. "We were just Nips that passed in the shite". Gerry is great and is always decorating the OLC to make it as pleasant and warm as possible. We now have a system for booking students in, consisting of an elecric pen to tick them as they arrive. The fact that most then go out again is irrelevant to the system. A rather stunning girl with  dusky, south-american looks stood before me and I enquired her name. She said she was Jennifer Lopez, and I told her I was Paul McCartney and would she please stop pissing about as we were rather busy and there were lots of other students waiting to register. I was using my Basil Fawlty alter ego. Right, since most of your class is in, we'll see who we have left, shall we? Scans down electronic list. Lopez, Jeniffer, 17, Class MQZZ. Oh "Lopez". You see I thought you said "Ftqwmunch". Red face as Jennifer Lopez walks away muttering that Paul McCartney is good-looking, so no chance of confusion.

Students do specialised things, like learning how to look after handicapped children etc. They also do general things like art and languages. The art teacher asked them to paint something abstract but which had some bearing on the speciality they were following. Jochem, a jolly lad doing things with babies and midwifery, painted this masterpiece.

It is entitled "Despair, with Embryos".

One last thing before I forget. Sometimes girls enter the OLC carrying huge bags of stuff, crash helmets, shopping, coats, scarves etc. Sometimes they just go and sit at a table in a group without taking thier coats off, presumably because they have no work to do but are forced to be here because I book them in, and they stay because a teacher with a list may put in an appearance to see if they are all still here. The fact that they are doing nothing is not part of the check. Here they must be and here they will stay. Last Friday, I encountered the ultimate in this trend of being here without a purpose. Two ladies entered dressed in black leather. They had black gauntlets on thier hands and crash helmets on thier heads. They looked like something out of Judge Dread or I Robot. To my astonishment, they sat at a table, difficult as they both had backpacks on with all thier books, so could only sit by leaning forward and slumping face down onto the table. They then proceeded to communicate very loudly. It was a bit like deep sea divers, or space-men. You can only hear each other if your helmets are touching. For the sake of peace and good order, I approached them, but could not get thier attention. Eventually I rapped sharply on the helmets and enquired if they might be able to hear each other better if they removed a helmet or two. They replied that they would be able to go home in a mere 35 minutes, so it wasn't really worth the trouble, was it. I pointed out that most people come here to do some work, at which point one of the robots slumped over a computer and tried to log on. The gloves made it difficult as one finger covered six keys, and they gave up.

As indeed should I.

PS - Adam, I found this super guitar on Marktplaats. Cost 100 euries, on a fancy stand that itself sells for 125 new. OK, it's only the cheap Ovation ("Applause") but plays fine. It's a bit shallow from front to back, so not a lot of volume, but sounds great if you get your ear over the sound hole. I don't play by ear myself, so I haven't actually heard myself play. Alright, I'm off..
Next episode - the amazing Santa Claus evening.

The Art Class - Jugs in Colour and the Live Model.

The Art Class has moved on. Having mastered the charcoal and the water colour we were informed by the Mistress that we were on the verge of a new stage in our development. I was summoned to Her presence. "Grasshopper, you have learned many things, but now you will face your dragon. One of you will consume the other, for so is it written. Today you will create, not with wood tempered by fire, nor with pathetic hues diluted with water, but with the full bodied robustiness of  - Acryl!. There can be no mistakes. Once applied, the Acryl cannot be undone. And you shall, in this most dangerous of tests, conjure for me an image of those things that are most dear to your soul. The Jugs!". The same set of battered coffee pots and other assorted vessels were brought out and we all started on the Acryl, a difficult medium that spreads out like butter but which goes hard quite quickly before you have quite finished poncing about with it and you are left with a scab  on your canvas. I had a bad viewpoint as the two little jugs were behind the big one, but as in golf, you play the ball as it lies. The Mistress Guru seemed quite pleased with our efforts and suggested that, as a reward, we might like to take a look at the Live Model, should we so wish. Should we so wish? Is the Bear catholic? Does a Pope crap in the forest? We (or at least the men) jostled outside the door marked 'Quiet please, Live Model Class'. A lady with a finger raised to her lips ushered us in to this holy place. We entered in a solemn file with eyes downcast, daring not to look, but our hormones overruled our manners. The Live Model, I observed with a tinge of unseemly disappointment, was fully clothed and had a bushy moustache. And was quite a fat chap .I nodded my approval at the ring of canvasses, some of which had him between a whale and a stick insect, and filed out again, mumbling 'bollocks' or some such epithet. Next week is the Christmas Holiday, which is as well, else Guru will probably want reindeer and snowmen, carol-singers and wise men.

Ho Ho Ho to all.

Making Christmas decorations

Tineke's birthday. A Dutch birthday event consists of sitting around in an ever-widening circle and talking nonsense while cups of coffee and cream cakes are thrust at one. All very nice but somewhat predictable, and unless one knows what people are talking about, or worse still, one has heard it all before, the birthday party is then either very confusing or extremely boring. Kids would not accept it, and thus kid's birthday parties are always full of exciting activities, trips to the Zoo or McDonald's.

Our lecturer shows the technique. Note the video surveillance in case anyone takes too many glass balls.

All credit to Tineke who organised a trip for the adults to break out of the cake-and-coffee circle of death. The Dutch spend lots of hours around this time making decorations for the Christmas table. They usually consist of few bits of evergreen, 3 pine cones, some glass balls, a lot of moss and a beer glass with a candle in it. All fiished off with a squirt of artificial snow.

The students take note

Tineke booked us all into a christmas -table-decoration making workshop. With lunch. We all arrived at a huge farmhouse that has been converted to a culture thingy shop and christmas decorations paradise. Even the trees outside had all been sprayed silver. Inside was a hampton court maze to ensure that customers were confronted with 14 kilometers of display shelving packed with every cultural knick-knack that man could possibly concieve, while moving in space a distance of  13 meters from the carpark to the reception desk as the crow flies.

As beginners, we would all be making the same decoration, a hardboard star with a beer glass glued to it. We would learn how to pad it all up with bubble plastic, apply moss, twigs, little glass balls and pine cones. Everything was most carefull regulated. Lists told us that we were allowed 3 large glass balls, 6 medium and 12 small ones. Since all the medium balls were all used up by the previous group, we were allowed to swap our allocation of medium balls for large or small at a very reasonable rate of exchange. We looked with envy at the little tigers and elephants which we would not be able to use at our price level. .

Can someone help me unglue my fingers?

Mossy things were attached with wire, smaller objects with glue from a glue gun, a device that either failed to apply enough glue, or hosed the walls with it if you pressed too hard.

                                                  Julius is trading sand for large glass balls

Everyone ended up with a reasonably cultural object to enhance the Christmas Blowout, but I fear that lighting a candle could be quite an inferno with all that incendiary moss, pinecones and the explosive glue. And then the glass balls exploding with the heat and showering diners with glittering shrapnel.

Lunch and off home with pride our magnificent Christmas table enhancments. A most enjoyable day.

Thanks Tineke.

Winter

It is now extremely cold and my heart goes out to Adam and Carolien in New Zealand who will be cutting short thier lazy summer to return to ice and snow in January. Bernie has a handbag with hide-away straps that convert it into a full-size mountaineers back-pack. Worth a photo just to see how daft it looks.

By the way, the garden webcam is working again and is now set up to look at birds feeding. It is particularly interesting because the feeder house is low enough to enable any of the five cats to also grab a quick meal. I thought about drugging the bird seed after listenenig to Tom Lehrer's "Poisoning pidgeons in the Park"
when they see us coming the birdies all try 'n hide, but they still go for peanuts when coated with cyanide... Tom Lehrer

Here is Merel on a very cold horse

Autumn

The house is finally painted, a job that has taken the whole summer, just a few hours per month as background task. Henk Zoontjes who last painted the house about 17 years ago earns my praise and admiration. I have not found one blister nor any sign of flaking. A true craftsman. Anyway, I have to say that because, despite being almost 80 years old, he is still an intimidating figure in his leathers tearing around on his powerful motorbike. He also does not miss his karate evenings, and is perhaps the oldest black-belt in the country.

Love Hurts

Emma's door and wall are covered in poems. I try to get her to put them on her blog in case they get lost. When I last went to look, I found this photo over the poem 'Love Hurts.. I don't know if it is her own, though she does make stunning pictures, but I love it.

Emma's Poems

More Tales of the OLC

During the month, the whole of the OLC has been moved to the ground floor of the Nova College. No mean feat with all the books, DVDs and computers. We now have a very large open space instead of the double rooms between which we had to run to stop cat-fights, riots, farting and belching competitions and duels with mayonaise and ketchup loaded hamburgers as weapons. All went well and we managed to lose a lot of superflous stuff in the transfer. Like all the kiddies books that sudents need to formulate their theses on creche and kindergarten management. Having been assured that there was no demand and that everything is on Google anyway. I therefore to the Oxfam shop (twice) with my car completely full of books, stacked everywhere. On a violent bicycle-avoidance manouvre, the tower of books on the front seat collapsed all over me. At the Oxfam shop all the books spilled out into the street like fish from a trawler as I opened the door.  "And what do you have for us?" said the lady of the shop as I emerged from under a mountain of books. "Surgical boots, madam". The rows of empty shelves looked marvellous with a couple of pots of flowers. During the following days we were besieged with masses of people looking for kiddies books. I had to explain to them that we had got rid of them all because there was no demand.

It is also the time for the "werkweek" during which our young boys and girls move into a hotel and do projects together. Or something. I love this drawing from art teacher Kees  in the Werweek Journal.:

The text reads 'Find the Fridge'.

We have a few deaf students, and our young einsteins are sent to work in places where deaf people may be. It is therefore part of the education that people have a basic knowledge of the deaf hand-sign language. For example, Jennifer has gone to her teacher to seek help about her problems. She explains that because of her deafness, her classmates are often intolerant and very rude to her, and things have not been easy at home either what with her mother on the chemo and her father on the drink.

Can you work out what her teacher tells Jennifer to do?

Another challenge is to stop kids calling me Mister. "Please stop calling me Mister. Spike will do" "Oright, Mister". Or "Don't call him 'Mister'. He don't like it when we call him Mister, do you Mister. That right Mister?". The job is very tiring, but still fun. I am reminded of Madness - Lots of girls and lots of boys, lots of smells and lots of noise. Not so many boys here, but the smells are no less evident. Gotta go and stop bloodshed. Bye all.

Some things never change

The Art Class - Jugs and Melons

I pursue a number of activities in order to stave off inevitable dementia and to make supposedly the best use of the time I have left. At a recent cremation we wandered through the graveyard, and I remarked to Bernadet that most of these people were younger than me when they arrived here. The cartoons for HEILOO-ONLINE fill a small part of the day between bath and breakfast. The writing is a bit blocked at the moment, but will reignite. Things are very busy at work, the house painting is almost finished, the holiday home needs attention, and our snooker team is about to take on the entire Third Division. I am scheduled on Tuesday to join battle with the ladies team 'Chicks with Sticks'. By what madness have I now enrolled in an art class? I am not sure why, but doing sketchy cartoons is not enough and I would really like to see if I can draw and paint properly. I was also inspired by a program on the BBC about a nude model who poses at art classes. The lady was stunning, but the students, mostly middle-aged men, did not seem to be doing a lot of painting. One chap just stared at this beauty for half the program until the teacher looked at his blank canvas and indicated that it might be time to open his paintbox. This is for me, I thought. I recall from my boyhood that my father joined the Camera Club 'Life Studies' course. Nobody noticed that he didn't have a camera. 

The first evening we new students joined in a cup of coffee and discussed our motives with our lady teacher. 'Will we be doing people' I asked tentatively. 'Oh yes, portrait painting is very popular'. 'But will we also be doing, you know, nudge nudge, live er.. that is to say, people of the opposite.. er.. without any, as it were, encumbering sort of garmenty stuff . I have a thing about garments. I can't draw or paint them, it's just a phobia, rather silly really!'.

'We shall be getting straight into the basic forms. Tonight we shall be concentrating on the jugs' she said, as my cup and saucer crashed to the floor. We all rushed off to the studio, to be confronted with the jugs. After drawing them, I said that I had finished. 'You have still space on your paper, she said. 'More jugs, More Jugs', I did more jugs until it was time to go home. With my jugs. I wondered if Michaelangelo went through the jug phase. Probably not, else that scene in the Sistine Chapel with Angels reaching up to God would be one where they are all holding up tin mugs, and God is wielding an astronomical coffee pot. 

JUGS by Spike

The following week, I again enquired when would we be moving towards the parts they seldom mention. 'We shall continue to explore the round forms, the globes. We shall be doing.... the melons. I did not allow my imagination to fool me again, and sure enough, the melons were ... just melons and gourds. 'More Melons. More melons'. Until it was time to leave. With my melons. 

 
MELONS by Spike

As I left, I saw a door with the note MODEL CLASS. I coughed loudly and shouted 'Sorry, wrong door' before opening the door. They all turned to look at me, except for the nude model. She was bald and had no face. She had been pensioned off from C and A after a long carreer as a shop window dummy. I shall keep you all informed. Stef, How is your passport problem? Can you and Jas still get over? I can help with the ticket. Love you all. Dad.

Miracle Toast

From Bauke and Karolientje, this amazing gift. Forget the Turin Shroud! This is a real gem to share with you. I shall take it to work and process the teachers sandwiches while they are not looking. Many of them toast their sandwiches. Watch carefully for reports in next weeks Christian Herald and the Catholic Times.
The instructions read:
Press into a piece of bread and insert into the toaster. When the toast pops out, behold, a miracle!.

Rabbits

First sight of the progeny pf the Amazing Virgin Birth. All six are well. I hope to have the BunnyCam fixed up this week, but must first sheath the cables in carbon steel.

Storm

The Dutch have a saying. They like to go onto the beach to "uitwaaien", or wave yourself about in the wind. Something like blowing away the cobwebs. The beaches are full when it is hot, deserted when it is not hot, but full again when there is a mighty wind. What they seem to like best is a real sandstorm, so that they can walk at forty five degrees into the wind while the sand stings their eyes and penetrates their necks. Because when it is time to go back, the wind is pushing you along and the sand is no longer cutting your face to pieces.

Heavenly, just like banging your head against a wall to feel so good when you stop.




Egmond Beach Wind Sculptures

Big waves out there

More big waves, for want of something more interesting to say


















For this picture I lay on wet, very cold sand. I hope you all appreciate my sacrifice


Isn't this fun! Shall we just do another kilometer or two?

Opa is 83

Opa is 83. This year the celebration was in Irene's house. As usual, the house was filled with Opa's seven sisters and their spouses forming the hard centre of the celibants. Throughout the day, flying vists by all and sundry and thier friends and relations. A Dutch birthday consists of sitting in a circle consuming vast quantities of coffee and cakes followed eventually by beer and spirits, and generally regurgitating the past. The circle begins quite small, just a few people round a table. They can of course enjoy a quiet conversation in which they can actually hear each other, and what is more important, listen. As more people arrive, the circle increases in diameter. Furniture is moved about to accomodate the newcomers, ensuring that nobody will feel left out, even if one or two may prefer to fade into the background and form private circles. The result is that everyone is too far away to hear all that is happening on the far side of the circumference, and we now have too many people for polite discussions. The circle now has many separate dissertations zapping across its infinite diameters, each trying to assert its authority by increasing volume in order to absorb or subdue the competition. As the alcohol takes hold, everyone begins to laugh and sit back to enjoy the by now incomprehensible wall of noise. All great fun.

I was not actually present for most of the time as Wednesday is my fixed golf day, and my partner had already booked. By the time I did return, almost everyone had left, but there were still a few cakes. And so much food that we all moved back to make an evening meal of it.

LANG ZAL HIJ LEVEN.

Since I was not there, I cannot properly comment on the photos taken by Bernadet. But I will.

Jan looks quite happy to have found a place outside the circle

















The adorable Auntie Sjaan in the fetching blue waistcoat, flanked by Aunties and uncles.

Opa and two of his sisters.

Consumers is what birthday parties are all about. Jelly and icecream and all.

I sadly missed the musical cabaret. I had been given songs to learn on the guitar. I spent three days learning the things, but it was all over when I arrived from the 18th hole and the show went on with one guitar less to support the clarinet. All the more annoying since I had spent hours and hours learning some of the songs I like least, to put it mildly - "Heart of Gold", "Me and Bobby McGee", "Country Roads" etc. It only needed "Mr Bo Jangles" to complete the set.

"This next song is about...er, Jan, we're finished the song and it's time for the next...You can stop now, like between the songs. Um, Jan, about that next song we talked about...Jan? Never mind."

Julius, Mark, Raneer  and Ninke

Dinner time

Dinner time again but from a slightly different angle it would appear.

Myself and Emz are late comers but there are a few stalwarts present, and as you see, still an awesome spread of culinary delight.

The Holiday Home for Pets Meat Pie Company

For the duration of my illness, this blog has transferred to 


mrspikkles-thoughts.blogspot.com


While cruising around Heiloo on our electrical bicycles, we came across this little garden and holiday chalet. To our astonishment, it was for sale for the price of a set of tires for the Ford Ka. We have yet to find a real catch in the deal. It may turn out that you are not actually allowed to stay in the house nor hang around in the garden for more than 10 minutes except on Ash Wednesday or Pancake Day. What has happened is that this is the last year in which these places can be bought and sold. if you have one and don't get rid of it on time, you are stuck with it for life, as we shall be, and can only give it away to the Holiday camp to avoid the yearly rent for the ground. At my age, long term commitments involve looking at months rather than years in the future. The ground rent is about 2000 a year, and we paid 2000 for the house. Fill it full of germans (germans Fawlty?) for a week or two and all the costs are covered. The investment is too small to be thinking about a real risk, and the TV, fridge, gas fires, kitchen, garden hut and furniture are worth more than the price of the house. I wont say that the the people were keen to sell, but a pen was put in my hand and then they moved some papers around underneath the pen to make marks and then they rushed away crying 'Yippee'.

So, if any of you want some time in Holland, this is is your place. And we don't have to have you in our house making it look untidy.

It is primitive, with just one bedroom but it is comfy and the garden is huge, including swings and a slide.