Naked people in sand with chairs

One looks particularly upset. I suppose you would be too if there were chairs so nearby, but you were unable to sit on them because you had no thighs.

The neighbours leave their beer cans all over my doorstep

... so I dropped a hint by leaving a message on their front door:

Not really. But I thought it funny.

Antwerp blues

He caused the riot in cell block number 9

There's always a Smurf involved. Don't be fooled by blue.

I saw this one is on the wall of the prison in Mechelen this morning. Outside wall, of course. How could I know what the inside wall looks like?

Why I drink cognac

I need the glass. I really do.

Me doing Friedlander...

... minus the skill and Leica. But otherwise, completely the same.

Get in mah belly

Some leftover choccies needing a new home:

Powder at the office

Good morning, Dandy Crab

Wij zijn klaar voor de Sint

With sympathies to car owners

Put up the tree last night

Follow the path

Feeling flat

Flat pack furniture. Now there’s a thing. I’ve just returned from helping a Lady Friend assemble her Ikea wardrobe.

Her assumption: Ryan is male. He owns a hammer and a screwdriver. He weighs more than 40kg and has weight and strength behind him. He’s the man for the job.

However, as I am sure you are well aware, assumption is the mother of all screw-ups.

I am indeed a male. I do own a hammer and screwdriver. But these serve more as objets de art - collector pieces that have a rare aesthetic quality (in the sense that the less I see of them, the better).

I also weigh more than 40kg, but do not attribute this to strength, but in fact, to lethargy. Do less with more, is the general philosophy, here.

Lady Friend’s assembled wardrobe is of some considerable size. Well, of course it would be. However, it needed to be assembled in a room roughly about the same size as a newt’s arse (assuming that newts have arses). Space, however, was not to be my major challenge.

It was the printed, wordless instructions that proved to be my obstacle. Apparently a two-year old could understand these instructions. Would somebody please find this two-year old? What the hell would a two-year old be doing with a set of wordless instructions anyway – other than eating them?

Lady Friend speaks little Flemish and even less English (French is her mother tongue). I speak even less French than she speaks English. Communication, as you can imagine, is a joy.

Whilst assembling the furniture piece in the newt’s arse, I break into a sweat. Not from physical exertion you understand, but from frustration at being told what to do – in French.

Unfortunately “Would you shut the hell up, woman,” is not a phrase I am akin to in French.

Every breath I take. Every move I make. She is watching me. And commenting pointedly to the wordless instructions. If only she were wordless.

What added fat to the fire was that everything she said was right. Blasted. How is it that women can be so perceptive of wordless instructions?

Real men don’t need instructions, I was always lead to believe. Women, it seems, thrive on them – using them as tools to deprive men of their masculinity.

It all ended well enough, you’ll be pleased to know. Lady Friend has a nice new wardrobe. And we’re still on speaking terms (she speaking slightly more than I, which I think I’ve made abundantly clear to you by now).

How to be discreet: lesson #3

My friend Collins

2 measures of Bombay Dry Gin, freshly squeezed juice of half a lemon, slice or two of said lemon and Schweppes tonic water. Oh, and ice.

Literally hours of entertaining conversation is guaranteed. Even if it's only with yourself.