Day 198: I Am Definitely Going To Amsterdam

It is true! I am leaving Blighty on Friday to do some WORK in an ADVERTISING AGENCY in the Amsterdam for five weeks! It will be like The Old Days, when the Old Days were good and I still liked working.

Assuming I have not died from shock by lunchtime on my first day (biologically, I was not made to work; I was made to be a duchess*), I will continue to write my web-log and post photographs of the Miracles I See In The City Of My Temporary Residence.

I will start with a Miracle I saw the other day in a shop window in Old Amsterdam. He has friends (regular readers will have seen the dog), and shares a window with a crocodile, a goose and a rabbit.



















* Why is that woman Fergie (Chanteuse from Black Eyed Peas, not Foolish Duchess of York) a cretin? She spells "Duchess" with a 't', and doesn't know the difference between London Bridge and Tower Bridge. However, she is very good at miming the administration of oral love on loose-limbed dancing guardsmen with ill-fitting bearskins, so I may let her off.

Day 196: I Am Almost Definitely Going To Amsterdam

Hot news! A nice Canadian man (not the self-haircutting pathologist), a nice lady with a kind laugh and I are ever closer to "closing the deal"! We have had a brief 'conference call', during which they murmured in sonorous tones into a desk telephone, and I yelped into my mobile telephonic device whilst trying to remove pork chop from my new crown. Now we are exchanging emails.

A man called Otto has just emailed me to tell me I can, if I wish, rent a house "across the canal from [your] office" for the knock-down price of 5,000 Euro. I said no, reeling slightly at the expense; but most of all I am reeling from regular recent use of the following expressions:

- the office
- my office
- I will be at work
- I will be working
- I have got job (for a bit)

I am sure I will die of shock on the first day, for it has been six and a half months since I worked in an office with other people. I will have to concentrate and remember what it's like; from what I can recall, it has little to do with watching Murder She Wrote, and everything to do with not eating sweets all day, laughing when people tell you what to do, or talking to people like they are mentally deficient.

Excitingly, however, I will be joining a Gymnasium in the Amsterdam, as cycling about the place without lights will not be enough to significantly reduce the doughboy-like appendages that still lurk about the place like Banquo's porky ghost.

I have made my choice of Gymnasium without so much as viewing the facilities: I shall be joining the one that is run by a man named Pepijn Le Heux. I am hoping he will be my Particular Friend, so that I may introduce him to others. "Let me introduce you!", I will cry, clogs flapping in the wind. "This is my Particular Friend, Pepijn Le Heux!".

Pip pip!

Day 195: I Drink From The Head Of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk

Last night, to a dinner party. Dinner parties are invariably a bore, as most people cannot cook and are boring. Very occasionally the food is at least edible and the company entertaining, but rare indeed is the dinner party at which you discover halfway through pudding that your host's lodger (man-like, despite her enormous bosoms), has very surprising interests.

A fellow guest and beautiful environmentalist surprised us all (not least our host) by revealing that one night she had asked to borrow mittens from the man-like lodger. "Upstairs, bottom drawer", said the odger. The Beautiful Environmentalist opened the bottom drawer and what did she find? Oh no, my friends, not mittens, but a range of S&M 'gear', made mainly of red rubber, folded carefully in the drawer where the mittens should have been. (She found the mittens in another drawer, and no more was said on the subject.)

As pleasing as this story was, and as charming as the company and food, nothing could prepare me for the heights of joy I was to experience later in the evening. "Coffee, anyone?" said our hosts (a question which translates as: time to go home now, everyone!). "Yes!", we cried, ignoring their unspoken plea to be left in peace. Coffee was made, and cups were brought. And I was given this mug: a mug festooned with head of Atatürk; a mug that made me so happy I nearly wept, for I have long been a fan of Atatürk: he enjoyed wrestling, was very particular about his appearance and had a dog called Fox.

But the best was yet to come. Not only had the food been more than edible and the company sensational, but the host (still in shock following the rubbery revelations), said: "I would like to give you that mug, as it makes you happy. I have two. I can spare it."

Now I am drinking from the head of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk and thinking about mittens, rubberwear, wrestling and a dog called Fox. It is not unpleasant. I shall take Atatürk to the Amsterdam with me, and see if he likes it there.

Day 195: I Am Going To Amsterdam

Hot news! It is Almost Certain that next Wednesday, I will mount an aeroplane marked DESTINATION: THE DAM. I will then fly to the Amsterdam where I will live for five or six weeks, earn some money (which, I was astonished discover, I have to work to get), do something I find interesting and live in a rental flat that I will Make My Own with some exported fripperies and gee-gaws (e.g. Beaver the Beaver, a scented candle and a 'throw').

Most thrillingly (enticed by the complex series of waterways that run through Amsterdam and breakfasts made mainly of cheese and ham), I am to receive a visit from a Canadian Pathologist. Whilst I toil over hot advertisements, he will Amuse Himself visiting the Amsterdam's many and manifold attractions including, perhaps, the Van Gogh museum and the "red light district" where, as I understand it, you can buy coloured lightbulbs.

"But you cannot write your Web-Log if you are working! You are Non-workingmonkey!", I hear you cry. Regular readers will be more than aware of my practised reponse to this sort of panic-mongering, but for the sake of Newer Readers: yes, technically I will be 'working'; but as it is freelance work, I remain essentially non-working. In other words, being "non-working" is a state of mind, and it is this that allows me to both work (in a practical sense) and yet remain non-working (in an emotional and spiritual sense).

But all this is Leaping Ahead! First, there is the packing and the Trip itself. But neither of these are a chore, and particularly not the Flight to Airport of Amsterdam, a place where there exists a sign made especially for me.

Day 192: I Smell Like A Hamster

All boys smell of hamsters. When a boy no longer smells of hamsters, he is A Man. Girls never smell of hamsters. (They smell of other things, I know, but you'll never meet a lady who smells of hamsters.)

Girls don't smell of hamsters because they are not stupid. They know that if you want to dry your clothes, you do not stack them all up on top of each other and stuff them on a radiator. You space them out and let the warm air circulate. In that way, your clothes dry properly and you do not parade about the place with crispy jeans and t-shirts that smell like the bottom of a hamster's cage.

Although I am not a boy and am not (despite the fact of my short hair, which often causes people in restaurants to call me 'sir' until I turn round and they see my enbonpoint*) a man, I have a jersey that smells like it has been lining a hamster's cage for many months. I wash it; I dry it carefully; I wash it alone; I wash it with other things. I dry it on a rack, on a hanger, and draped directly over the radiator but all to no avail. It smells of hamsters all day and all night. It is a non-stop centre of Hamsterstench. A blind man would smell me coming and say, "Smell that? That's a first year Chemistry student at the University of Aston, that is. Someone get him a proper clothes drying rack, will they?".

Unlike "Beautiful Jersey With Weird Hooks and Eyes" and "Touch It, It's Cashmere, Black and You Want It" Jersey, Stinky Jersey cost £19.99 from Sainsbury's and was bought in a Panic. It is not made of wool. I think it is made of plastic. It does not wash well, it bobbled within a week and it stinks (of hamsters). It reminds me that it is better to save up the money of six Stinky Jerseys and get one "It's Black, Cashmere and You Want It" Jersey (in much the same way that it is better to save up twenty "It's such fun!" handbags and get one "Cunting hell, you could get a car for that" handbag).

These are dark days, my friends. I am showing my age. Any second now I will be telling you to moisturise twice a day. And yet I must face the truth: I am 37, like Radio 4, like kind Men (not boys that smell like hamsters), believe in Quality over Quantity, and cannot walk the streets smelling like a Chemistry undergraduate. Only one course of action remains: I must give Stinky Jersey up, and hope it meets its destiny as the lining of a slightly grubby hamster cage.



* At which point, if I am in France, they gather in the kitchen, point, and exclaim "Il y a du monde au balcon!" in amazed tones.