Day 201: I Survey My Local Cake Shops

Much to relate, what with De Twat*, the 4am clogdancing neighbour upstairs, a gymnasium made of black marble with people sobbing in reception, Glorie the Bicycle (feat. Basil, her basket) and the organic supermarket. But there are things to do and so, until later, I leave you with some stunning photographs of the two cake shops that are within two minutes' walk of my New Amsterdam Home.

As you will see, they are VERY different. One is guarded by polar bears; the other by snakes with strange lolling tongues, Barbie stuck in a cake, Scary Marzipan HeadFace and pink penguins overseen by newly-married couples. Bet you can't guess which one I want to buy MY cakes in!












































































































*For a while I thought "die" means "the" in Dutch, despite evidence to the contrary and Knowing It Really. It would have been funnier in some ways (what with "die, twat" being entirely appropriate in the circumstances), but WRONG in a way I do not like. Alwaysconfused (who has no blog, otherwise he/she would have a link) pointed it out nicely and without being a knobber. He/she also makes an excellent point about going round and being nice. I had forgotten this as a tactic - as correct and effective as it usually is - because it didn't work on TwatBoy. But thank you AlwaysConfused for not being annoying and allowing me to make an Important Correction.

Day 201: I Am Being Followed By TwatBoy

Regular readers will be aware of the work of TwatBoy, my fuckwitted upstairs neighbour, and his hideous little flatmate, Fucking Cretin.

One of the many benefits of moving to Amsterdam (or so I thought), would be six weeks' respite from their endless stomping, bellowing, door slamming and crashing about. This, combined with being a good few hundred miles away from my astonishingly noisy, virtually retarded cat, would allow me to sleep for a whole night without being disturbed, possibly for the first time since TwatBoy moved in last September.

Or so I thought. But it is 5.23am and I am awake. For upstairs there lives TwatBoy's Dutch cousin, De Twat. He mainly enjoys running up and down his wooden floor (in clogs), jumping off his furniture, chasing his shrieking girlfriend around, bellowing and slamming his front door over and over again.

I have noticed a pattern. I sleep if I am in the country (French or English; either will do, although I suspect that General Countryside would be fine) or sharing a bed with a pathologist. But I can't move to the country, for I am Working In Amsterdam for a bit; pathologists are hard to come by (and pathologists I would share a bed with rare and precious indeed). Drugs are no good; warm milk and baths and all that are nice enough, but don't help much because getting off to sleep isn't a problem; I can't use earplugs, because I need to hear the alarm clock. Notes (polite or otherwise) usually serve only to exacerbate the problem, and I can't get a gun at this time of night.

I cannot be responsible for my actions. Does anyone know anything about Dutch law? I'm hoping for manslaughter on the grounds of diminished resposibility, which will be directly attributable to the fact that I HAVEN'T HAD MORE THAN THREE HOURS' SLEEP A NIGHT FOR WEEKS.

There is nothing funny about this at all. Nothing. Which is strange and unusual, and almost more disturbing than the fact that there is more than one TwatBoy in the world. I give up.

Day 200: I Am A Failure As A Blogger, But My Brother Realises That Danny De Vito Is Not Even Four Feet Tall

I have been taken off a blogroll! It is almost certainly not the first time, and yet suddenly I am curious; I am alarmed; I am (dare I say it?): Taking Myself Seriously.

I thought you were supposed to do the Hot Internet Web Log Action for fun! If the prevailing winds were favourable and delivered self-haircutting pathologists, new chums or book deals, then so much the better. (One and two: yes; fingers crossed for three!) But no! This is a Serious Business, and I am A Serious Blogger. I know this, because I write an email asking why I have been taken off a blogroll!

An immediate (and accurate) observation would be that I am in fact a knobber. But I like to think that it is a little more complex than that; that by suddenly taking myself seriously, I have Grown Up. I have Failed as a normal, cheerful sort of person with a web log who counts herself lucky to have met Canadians with American Hair and made new chums. Instead, I Am A Serious Blogger. I shall, from this moment on, care about my web stats, blogrolls, whether or not I have a publishing deal*, and what people think of me.

Simply put, that means that there is no more room for this kind of nonsense:



Meanwhile my brother, Runningmonkey (three years younger than me, despite looking older than me: a fact often remarked upon by literally everyone we know), is watching a film with Danny de Vito in it. His incisive criticism so far has included the ground-breaking observation: "Fuck me, he's really SHORT, isn't he? I had no idea he was so short! He's not even four foot tall!".

* I'd still like one though, with a picture of a monkey on the front and an advance of £10,000.

Day 199: I Watch A Shrimp On A Treadmill Listening To Curtis Mayfield

I have also watched this and teared up a bit (despite the fact that that Judi Bowker was an idiot and didn't deserve a horse like Beauty):



And this. This was REALLY good.



What is even better is this, which is a variation on the same theme. Longer, but better in so many ways. Ways I can't quite describe.

(With thanks to my brother, Runningmonkey.)

Day 199: I Am At Work

I am at work! In an office, on a canal! There are desks and people who give you big metal Apple laptops. There is also a cupboard with pencils in it and pencil sharpeners to keep your pencils as sharp as your mind must be.

It is like the United Nations! Everyone is very nice, and from a different country, but mainly the Canada, and the bit of the Canada where they speak French I do not understand. This pleases me, as it reminds me of pathologists.

This afternoon, I am to buy a bicycle and sign some documents for an "apartment", as I believe they are called here.

Now I must go and do some work (whilst remaining essentially "Non-Working" in my heart).