Last Day Of April

So. Matty's eighth anniversary came and went and I was really miserable. It wasn't just the anniversary, it was remembering that I felt really old when she died and kind of grateful to have had a mother so long and now I am eight years older again and feel that I'm not doing anything particularly great with my life and not finding much joy in it.

And I'm cross. Oh, so cross. Everyone (nearly everyone) annoying me. Wondering why everyone (nearly everyone) is so stupid, so obtuse, so ignorant. The *nearly* is a get-out clause for anyone who has been in my vicinity recently. Of course, I'm not talking about you. Obviously. It's not you, it's me.

Guess I'm depressed. Again. I thought I was done with all that.

However. It's not going to last. I'm sure of it. I've got all kinds of special tools to deal with it thanks to a special someone. She'll know who she is.

Other news. Hannah has gone to Europe for a month, Ziggy left to Nellybert's tender care. I'm trying to arrange a trip to deepest, darkest Norfolk to see my Englander grandchildren. Bert has a significant birthday approaching which might allow him more affordable travelling. The hens are laying well and the Irelander grandchildren have been camping in the woods.

Every day in May I'm going to blog my blessings. It's a special tool.

Here's one for the last day of April. All about home.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/17223773@N00/albums/72157681925080226

Dandelions

At this time of the year dandelions are in their full flush of flowering. This is the time to make dandelion wine if one is so inclined. Not me, for my freezer is still full of raspberries, gooseberries and redcurrants and anyway, dandelion wine is fiddly, faffy and, in the end, overly sweet.

When we were children dandelions were ‘piss the bed’. I tried making chains from them in the school playground. Bigger kids taunted me. Touch those and you’ll wet the bed. I was embarrassed. How did they know? I wet the bed anyway, even when I didn’t touch dandelions.

There were counting games. How to tell the time using dandelion clocks. We’d blow the seeds away, one o’clock, two o’ clock and so on. It was always mid afternoon or early evening with dandelion clocks.

These days dandelions have other meanings. For those of us who consider ourselves ‘green’ they are no longer a pernicious and evil weed, but rather a valuable source of food for early pollinaters and caterpillars and no decent gardener should ever be without them.

But now, at this time of the year, this first flush of dandelions on roadside verges bring back poignant memories. In the very last days of our mother’s life, when I was making those daily journeys to her home and the weather was so fine, the dandelions carpeted the central reservation of the dual carriageway and every year since then when they bloom in profusion I am nearly undone.

Snatched From The Jaws

It is a really lovely morning and I'm pottering around waiting for the first of the happy campers to emerge from the wood. All the doors are open to let fug out and Spring in. Then comes an odd noise from the kitchen. I investigate and there is Big Fat Fred with something tiny in his mouth. I think it might be a field mouse. He runs outside but I catch him and prise his jaws open. Out falls a little bird, a goldcrest. I assume it is dead. It's not. There is some movement. I bring it to Bert. He says leave it somewhere safe and see how it does. I find a box, place the goldcrest inside. Immediately it flies towards the window. I catch it and take the bird outside and place it in the rhododendron hedge. That's a good, safe place for little birds as it is too tangly for the fat cat to get into. The goldcrest looks a bit dishevelled and sits for a moment, then flies further into the hedge. I can still see it and fetch my camera to take a picture using a close up lens. Fifteen minutes later the bird is still there. After thirty minutes it has disappeared. Hopefully to live, fly and breed another day. And to stay out of the house. Cats live there!

Bernadette

It's fifty years today since Bernadette Devlin was elected to parliament as the member for Mid Ulster. She was 21 years old. I was a few years younger than that, too young to vote but still very keen on politics. I remember her as one of the few who could give Ian Paisley a bloody good argument in the TV political discussion programmes at that time. How we cheered her in our house. For Paisley was a verbal bully and our Bernadette was well able for him.

When she was elected to Westminster the Daily Mirror had her on the front page. I don't remember the headline but it was patronising, concentrating on her gender, youth and fashion sense. She was photographed on a playground swing as if she was a little girl. I was very cross about this. Hardly a mention of her fierce socialist politics, instead comments on the length of her skirt. But it was 1969! Everyone wore short skirts then, even Elizabeth Windsor.

I tried to find the photograph on the internet using the keywords  'Bernadette Devlin Daily Mirror Swing'. No luck. Except for the news item about her taking a 'swing' at the Home Secretary, Reginald Maudling on the day following Bloody Sunday. 

The Lilac Dress

Yet another freezing day. Apparently, this blustery chill wind is coming from Scandinavia. It is to ease tomorrow. My Irish grandchildren arrived just after lunch for a sleepover that I had completely forgotten about. According to their mother, they were very excited and had been looking forward to it all morning. Yet the first thing they did when they got here was to have a big row about the contents of the dressing up box, in particular, a lilac taffeta dress and a toning lace trimmed shawl. Evie said never gets a chance to try the new items first. Delicate negotiations were carried out and Evie got her chance to wear the dress.

She looked very nice in it too but did not agree as Martha had told her it would look horrible on her so she wasn't so sure. Her red sequinned shoes (several sizes too big) don't appear in this picture as we got photo-bombed by Maya.

Here we can see the red shoes peeking out. Martha, ever the stylist, had informed Evie that they "wouldn't go."

An hour or so later and Martha was back in the favoured costume and Evie was happy in her hoodie and fluffy blanket. All are enjoying 'How To Tame Your Dragon'.

Blossom Oh Dearie

Well, here I am exhausted again, the result of two days and nights of socialising with the Banjo clan who mostly all talk at once and then a very early start for the airport this morning to deliver Miss Hannah to Norfolk for the celebration of her birthday with the Englander side of the family.

The weather has turned very cold with a nasty wind coming from the East. So brisk is the breeze that it blows the washing off the line and my glasses off my face. It has also blown the blossom from the apple and plum trees. There is always something to blight one's hopes of a bountiful harvest.

I've had a quiet day. Just one outing to the local shop where I stocked up on chocolate and biscuits. Needless to say, this was a short-lived pleasure and I am feeling both guilty and unhealthy.

Blackthorn blossom, hardier than plums and apples.

I Actually Quite Like Mondays

The weekend plan worked out well except Saturday turned out to be a very fine day so tiling was abandoned in favour of gardening.

We started a new flowerbed and most of the plants in the picture were planted, mostly verbascum and aquilegias. The rest of those pots were cleaned up and mulched. They are pines that Zoe grew from seed, a fig and some lilies. On Sunday Bert started the tiling and I tidied the garden.

That's a work in progress.

Today was another fine day. Bert spent the morning on the tiling and I helped with the cuts by spraying water while he used an angle grinder. He forgot to tell me to be careful of flying dust and tonight I have a sore eye. Tomorrow he will be purchasing a tile cutter to finish the job.

I spent the afternoon making dinner and having little chat with the girls. Martha and I were looking at pictures on Flickr and she noted that I get a lot likes from 'Jean' and 'Ganching'.

Who is Ganching? 

I told her about blogs and blogging and that Ganching and I have been writing blogs since before she was born.

It might be fun to see what I wrote when you were born.

We found this from the day of her birth,

Today was always going to be a busy day. We'd planned to go visit, with a view to procuring, Kune Kune pigs. Later we'd be going to the Wee Manny's for a surprise birthday party.

What I didn't expect was hearing from Dave that Zoe has been safely delivered of a daughter, our first grandchild. She was a week earlier than expected - the impatient little thing!

So now I must go and wash the smell of pig from my person and get myself ready to visit Zoe, Dave and daughter.

And a few days later,

How fascinating this little human being is! And really, all she does is nurse and poo and burp and pull the most peculiar faces. I'm told she cries but, so far, never in my presence.

She is, of course, far more beautiful than the normal run of babies. She is, which goes without saying, already displaying signs of superior intelligence. And, for a creature barely a week old, she is amazingly strong and active and alert.

Am I besotted? I think I must be.

But I had an oven to attend to and salads to make and Martha wanted to read more. About ten minutes later she was able to inform me that I'd written hardly anything when her sister was born and that Evie was almost a year old before she featured in Nelly's Garden. Sibling rivalry. I told Martha that Flickr was where I'd put all my Evie pics. I hope I wasn't telling a lie.

My Plans For The Weekend

These days, weekends don't mean that much. Every day, excepting Monday and Thursday, is the weekend for me. Nevertheless, I have plans.

Tomorrow morning I plan to be awakened early by Roy, barking to get out. Realising it is Saturday I will get up at whatever ungodly hour it happens to be, pull on a pair of jeans over my pyjamas, stuff my feet into my gardening boots, wrap myself in a big coat and head to the garage for the Saturday Guardian.

On my return, I will start breakfast whilst perusing the magazine.

I will remove jeans, boots and jacket and return to bed with coffee and bits of the paper.

Sometime later I will get up, feed and water the chickens, drink more coffee, check the internet to make sure no celebrities have died in the previous 12 hours and drink more coffee etc. etc.

By now Bert will be up and aching to begin tiling the kitchen. I will have cleared it to aid him in his labours. To further help him, I will repair outside to sow vegetable seeds in the polytunnel.

At some point, I will return to the house, admire Bert's progress and if it is a fine day will work in the flower garden. And after that, I will simply potter about.

If visitors turn up and if they are at all politically minded I shall run my latest survey past them. Which is,

Name the worst Prime Ministers in your lifetime?

So far most people are saying May and Cameron.

On Sunday... oh, I haven't a clue about Sunday. I'll potter a bit. Maybe sow more seeds. Read. Take some photographs if it's fine. A walk?

10 Things I Did Today

This blog post is a steal from Ganching for I really do need some inspiration to keep this blog on the road. You do know that this Brexit shambles has a large number of people suffering from low spirits, despair and bad nerves? I am one such person and it is even affecting my night's rest. This morning I was awakened (by a dog) from a dream where a hot young priest was being fed into a hospital incinerator. Mind you that particular dream might have been more to do with Fleabag than Brexit.

So, the ten things.

1. Got up at 7 o'clock. Which was really 6 as my body is not yet used to British Summer Time. Why? Dogs.

2. Went to Newtownabbey and picked kitchen tiles with Hannah's assistance.

3. Sowed four different kinds of sunflower.

4. Watered the polytunnel

5. Went for a short walk.

6. Sat staring at the computer screen in silent despair as I realised that's all I actually did today because cooking supper barely counts as it was only mince and onions which is one of Bert's favourites.

Then...

7. Thought about charging my phone.

8. Poured a glass of wine.

9. Watched a clip of Stephen Colbert,

10. Updated Nelly's Garden. Does that count?

All in all, a quiet sort of a day.

A Cold Nose

The dog wakes me up almost every day. Which dog? Sometimes it is Judy who pads into my bedroom and bumps me with her cold nose. Sometimes it is Roy who barks insistently from a downstairs room. If it is Roy there will usually be a cat sitting on the other side of the patio doors. The time will be somewhere between 6-7:30am. I get up, make coffee and when all dogs and cats are inned, outed and inned again, I return to bed to drink coffee and read. On Saturdays, I throw on some clothes and drive to the garage to buy the Guardian.

Today I was awakened from a vivid dream, which some might even call a nightmare. I was lying on a filthy bed in a derelict house. Derelict houses regularly feature in my dreams. In this dream/nightmare, I could not move and thought I might be dead. There were at least two other nameless people lying on beds near me and they were definitely dead, rotting in fact. I decided I was still alive and got up and left the house and the dream segued into that one where one is out in public improperly dressed. It was quite a relief when I felt Judy's cold nose against my face.

Passengers

I spent a couple of hours weeding and tidying in the polytunnel and found this bee lying on its back, too tired and spent to fly away. I tried it with some honey and its proboscis came out immediately and it started to feed.

This picture was taken using a magnifying app on my phone. That was when I saw the mites crawling on the bee. At first, I thought this was the cause of its ills but it turns out that these mites are often to be found hitching a ride on bumblebees. The mites feed on the debris to be found in bumblebee nests, such as wax, pollen and tiny insects. They are not harmful but sometimes when too many are clinging to the bee's body it can make flying difficult.

And that is the new thing that I learned today. I put the bumblebee in the garden near some flowers and left it and the passengers to get on with their lives.

Spring

Spring's here. Which is, I suppose, a good thing.

The clocks will soon go forward, the evenings will be longer and there are seeds to be sown. I can hope again.

Yet - everything feels wrong. I am filled with anxiety and am comfort eating like a savage. My granny jeans (Gap) feel tight and so does my chest. The doctor says I probably have a mild infection and has prescribed an antibiotic. That's a week ago now and I haven't picked it up. I should, even if it is only to tuck it away for a time of greater need.

And I cannot find the kitchen tiles I like. And my garlic isn't thriving and my friend's little bantam rooster died while I was looking after it. And Brexit. And Scott Walker died.

Maybe tomorrow will be better.

Thoughts...

Sometimes life seems far too sad and serious to just, y’know, blog…

There was New Zealand. Thoughts and prayers obviously. Except I think we don’t actually do enough thinking. I’m thinking that the right thing to do would be to stand up to hate, to fearmongering, to lies. Let no-one away with it. Prayers are OK. Let’s pray that the world becomes less hateful, less fearful and more truthful. Let’s start with our own selves.

There was Cookstown. A local incident but still shocking and horrible. Thoughts and prayers? There will be plenty of those this Friday when the three young peoples’ funerals will be held. Such a waste of promising young lives and such sorrow for those left behind.

Conversations With Strangers: Part 2

My second conversation with a strange one took place outside the restrooms in Marks and Spencer. We'd been to the rally, taken the girls to lunch and I was all on my own waiting for them to come out. There was a comfortable seating area and I was feeling rested and content.

There was a woman close by, around my own age, fussing with a wheeled shopper. She asked me,

Do you know if the buses have started running yet?

I had to confess I did not know that.

She said in grumpy tones,

It's those protesters at City Hall. No buses running because of them. I don't know what they're even protesting about!

I said,

It's not a protest. It's a rally, part of International Women's Day. It happens every year.

Well, I don't know what they need to be out shouting and marching and stopping the traffic. There's no need for it!

Of course, I informed her (with some delight) that I had taken part in it. She did not look impressed.

Humph! I don't see the point of it. Stopping the buses. They need their backsides kicked! 

So I said to her,

You know how this country is. Everyone enjoys taking to the streets for a bit of a march or a parade.

She never even answered me. Just flounced off pulling her wee shopping trolley behind her.

Conversations With Strangers: Part 1

On Saturday I went to Belfast with Zoe, Martha and Evie to take part in an International Women's Day rally. Three generations of one family ready to Reclaim the Agenda.

I was on the train first and while I was waiting a woman, close to my own age, struck up a conversation. I've got one of those approachable faces. As all inhabitants of the British Isles are wont to do she started with the weather. It has been rather changeable recently. Then things took a different turn.

What do you make of Brexit?

I was surprised. One doesn't expect such a blunt question from a stranger.  Still, I answered her.

Absolute shambles.

She agreed.

This Karren Bradley. What do you think of her?

She should resign. Possibly the worst Secretary of State we've ever had.

She agreed then said,

I liked the last woman. What was her name again?

Theresa Villiers. Awful woman. Hadn't a clue about Ireland. Supported Brexit. 

What about Geoffrey Whatshisname?

Who?

The Labour man.

Jeremy Corbyn?

Yes. Do you like him?

Perhaps not the best Labour leader for the present time. What do you think?

I prefer the Conservatives.

Really? Conservative with a small 'c'?

What do you mean? Oh! I hear the train coming. I'd better go out and find a place.

Three minutes later the train did come. I didn't see my interviewer again.

 Zoe and Martha on the train

 Gathering for the rally

Flying Tiger

My second conversation with a stranger in the next post. She spoke violently and rather than sloping off, she stormed. All I could do was laugh.

March Reading List

For several months now I've been reading 10-12 books simultaneously. I was inspired to do this by Will Self, who in answer to the question,

What are you reading currently,

Replied, 

Before I read digitally, I’d be reading perhaps 10 books simultaneously – but now I read as many as 50 at once...

This intrigued me. I don't read digitally apart from journal and newspaper articles so thought that 10 would be a good number to start with. So far it has worked out well.

Since embarking on this project I usually have ten on the go, never more than thirteen. I have a system (I love systems) where I aim to read three of the books every night. If there is time, and there usually is, I read three in the morning. That way each book will get picked up every other day or so.

When a reading session is finished one book is retained, the one I am most eager to go on with, and two will be returned to the back of the queue and two picked from the front for the next session. This method has increased my reading dramatically and I have completed more books in 2019 than I'd normally read in half a year.

The books are a mixture of fiction and non-fiction and there is normally a couple of very light reads among them. These light reads are not necessarily the most enjoyable but I usually persevere.

Currently, I'm reading twelve books, fiction by Charles Frazier, Esther Freud, Kate Atkinson, Patrick Ness, Toni Morrison, Anna Burns, Sebastian Faulks and Matthew Thomas and non-fiction by Stephen McGann, Suki Kim, Edward Stourton and Catherine Simpson. Stourton is the light read. I may not finish it.


Half of the books are from the local library, one is a new book (Milkman) and the other five are second-hand. I got Jazz in Amsterdam.  Varina and Human Traces I'm reading after Bert. He loved both. Almost finished Hideous Kinky and have just begun Simpson and McGann. 

  I should return to this theme in a few weeks time so that we can all see how I'm getting on. One more thing, I should add a previously read book to the mix. There are novels on my shelves I've had since I was sixteen years old. I'm sure some of them could bear another read. After all, there must be some reason I've held on to them for half a century.

Blogger's Block

I struggle these days with Nelly's Garden. Two recent posts have discouraged me. The most recent was A Bit Of A Siege in which I described some fraught visits to Ikea. A response (from a dear cousin) worried me. I'd been critical of some aspects of my Ikea experience but ultimately felt that part of what went wrong was my own fault. My cousin had a relative (her husband's side of the family) who worked in the Belfast store and she was concerned, on his behalf, that I had a less than satisfactory experience. That worried me. Made me think that my attempts at light-heartedness might be making someone else feel less than good about themselves.

What can I say? I'm a snowflake. At least no-one has got in touch to rail against me for disrespecting the besieged defenders of Derry.

The other posting that attracted opprobrium was Alpha and Loudmouth. I wrote that one out of shame. Shame because I listened to vile racist abuse and did not speak up. In the comments in response to a regular commenter, I remarked that both women would have been Trump supporters if they lived in the USA. I am certain of that. This drew fierce comment from another regular commenter. I get it. I was associating racists with Trumpism. And I stand by that in the context of this place.

The thing is, I know my conservative (right-wing) and Loyalist neighbours. They don't trust Catholics, they don't like foreigners, they have little compassion for immigrants. They voted for Brexit, even though as citizens of Northern Ireland that was very much against their interests. British right-wingers mainly approve of the United States' current leader.

Definitely, Trump gets a very bad press in the kind of papers I read but I do understand this - not all Trump supporters are racist but, it does seem, that most racists are Trump supporters. And this is what I would like to know, and I know I have at least one Republican Trump supporter who reads this blog, is this - what is it about this man that you support?

A Bit Of A Siege

It was Bert who I first heard using the expression 'a siege' to describe a situation that was somewhat fraught. It must be a Northern Ireland Protestant thing, Derry never far from their minds, the taste of rattus norvegicus still on the tongue.

Well, it's been a bit siegy at Nellybert's this past week or more what with all the dog visitors (Gracie, Maya, Dora and Jack) and the kitchen fitting. Good news. It's nearly done. It's almost functional but, as it is sore in need of decorating, there will be no photographs until that is completed.

Today was a complete siege. Thankfully I had Zoe by my side to support me through it. It was The Return To Ikea.

There was a lot of stuff to bring back. For some reason, Ikea sold and delivered to us an entire set of drawer fittings for a unit that was meant to be shelved. So that had to go back as did various white bits, some superfluous fittings, a damaged door and some knobs that we'd changed our minds about. The whole lot came to about £250. Shame I'd lost the original receipt. So it was off for a bit of a wait and a people watch at Returns.

There are some funny people around. One woman returned three packets of paper napkins. I cannot imagine bothering to do that myself. I'd have kept them to use another time even though when that time came I'd have totally forgotten where I'd stashed them.

Eventually, my number was called. I wheeled my laden trolley to the young man's desk and began explaining that I was going to be a complete pain in the ass as I had no receipt as it had become buried under four grands worth of kitchen and then I'd gone to Amsterdam and never saw it again.

Amsterdam? he said. No problem, he said. And then efficiently worked his way through everything while telling me how much he loved Amsterdam and how he'd been there eight times and was going back in July. Did I partake? he asked. Sure, said I. When in Rome and all that.

As sieges go, that part wasn't too bad.

Zoe and I had arranged to meet in the restaurant. I was to phone her when I was done but, siege!, no coverage. Eventually, I had her paged. What's the name? asked the Ikea co-worker. Zoe Surname, I told her. Soon this message rang out throughout the store,

Customer Announcement. Can Zoe go to the restaurant where her Mum is waiting for her?

I was worried that there might be flocks of Zoes descending on the restaurant but just one turned up. My one.

We had the usual run through the store. I replaced handles and damaged door, bought another pull-out tray for the larder and inserts for the cutlery drawer. The door and tray had to be ordered, paid for at the till and collected from another desk. Somehow, between the till and the collection desk, I mislaid the receipt and another one had to be printed. Siege! Meanwhile, Zoe started gathering her bits and pieces to take to the van and somehow between the till and the collection desk and the van a little alarm clock she'd bought for her youngest daughter was not to be found. Siege! First thought was that it had been left at the till but apparently not. What happened next was that an Ikea co-worker had to take details and then go and watch security footage whereupon she returned and informed us that they had Nelly on camera picking it up at the till and placing it on top of some shelf brackets and then leaving the till area. So that was gone. Dropped somewhere and picked up by someone who has got themselves a free alarm clock. Good luck to whoever it is, may they never oversleep again.

To console ourselves for the loss of Evie's clock we returned to the restaurant and ate cake. Nothing else for it. As siege tucker goes that had to be a whole lot nicer than boiled rat.

This is the style of our kitchen. Not the handles. Ours are black.

Frank

I said to Bert the other day,

We'll need to get those worktops off the floor before Frank comes. You know he'll piss himself silly all over them.

Well, as it turned out, Frank paid his last visit to our house this very evening. In the gloaming, there was just enough light for Bert to make ready his little grave.

Jazzer was distraught. She'd just made a very hard decision but the right one for Frankie.

He was nearly eighteen years old. That's a long time for a dog. A dog that lived with one family and one home for his entire life.

Guarding the younger members of his family. He was around four then. Already a regular visitor to Nellybert's.

And this was on his first visit.

Scared of nothing. Frank faced up to other dogs, cattle, cats, horses, goats and...

pigs...

 

Dear Frank. We will never forget you.

After Amsterdam Before Ikea Kitchen

At The Minute

I got back from three nights in Amsterdam on Wednesday and, honestly, it's taken this long to regain my equilibrium. The house is literally upside down. No kitchen sink, no worktops, no oven. Yet Bert has been working flat out. It didn't help that Ikea's picking and delivery service did not come up to scratch. Only today I had to hotfoot it to the Belfast store to get the brackets that hold the oven up. And had to wait an hour to get it sorted. There is no word of Ed the Electric. (We're having to move plug points and light switches around) and the kitchen sink worktop won't be cut until Monday/Tuesday at the earliest as Bert has decided to have the experts do that. Then we'll need a gas fitter to connect the hob. So much for do-it-yourself.

My private secret sitting room has become a flatpack store room as has the hallway. The dishwasher is disconnected so all dishwashing has been moved to the scullery. Still, a week will make a big difference.

A Day Or Two Ago

Amsterdam was lovely. I walked for miles and miles. Walking in unfamiliar cities has to be one of my very favourite things. I set off each of the two mornings with no particular plan. I might go to the Botanical Gardens, I might go to the Van Gogh. I will stop off at any interesting place or site that catches my eye.

Hortus Botanicus. 

Things I noticed about Amsterdam,

1. The men have amazing hairlines.

2. David Beckham must have Dutch ancestors.

3. The people (notably the men) are very polite.

4. The Men! Still sexy in their sixties and seventies.

Some other things.

1. There were no apparent homeless people or beggars. I'm told there are two reasons for this. The Dutch social welfare system is supportive and Dutch people have no time for beggars.

2. The ladies on the trams are very impatient. Not very Dutch. Still, I expect they have to deal with a lot of very silly tourists.

3. The cyclists take no prisoners and they do not wear helmets. Neither do their children.

4. There are hardly any children.

5. In keeping with the Dutch refusal to wear cycling helmets, they are also fairly unconcerned that there are acres of deep water hazards everywhere, and that their stairs are amazingly tricky and steep with no warning signs to watch one's head or beware of falling. I found this refreshing. Dutch people (unlike the British) expect people to take responsibility for their own personal safety.

Where we stayed.

In a hostel! I always thought that hostels were grim, utilitarian places inhabited by penniless youth. The hostel was called Generator, 4 years old and formerly a university building. It was lovely. Great atmosphere and everything one could possibly need except room service and a heated swimming pool. It was well-connected, public transport had one at the centre of things in no time but during the day, I found it more fun to walk.

Other things I found interesting.

1. A huge amount of ring-necked parakeets just like in London.

2. The city felt safe.

3. Walking through the red light district (daylight hours) there was a commotion. A woman, wearing a lacy slip, little else, outside on the cobbles trying to entice a little French bulldog back to their shared apartment.

Reading.

1. Vacation time means reading time.

2. I brought Ian McEwan's Amsterdam. Seemed appropriate. By the time I got to the section actually based in Amsterdam, I'd already walked those places.

3. I finished the McEwan on the third night and immediately swapped it for another in the hostel's book exchange shelves. The book I picked was The Genocides by Thomas M. Disch. I'd heard of neither the title or author before. It was a thought-provoking and gripping read. I finished it on the plane home the next day.

4. Of course, I found a bookshop. It was wonderful, specialised in English language books and was alphabetized! I bought Sula by Toni Morrison. The bookshop owner seemed impressed with my choice (or maybe he was just being polite?). Still, you never get that fellow intellectual knowing nod when the paperback proffered is a Cecilia Ahern.

End.

Then I ate what Amsterdam calls a space cookie but our friend L. calls home baking. Things might get surreal. Best stop.