Strange markings

Found this tag at three different points around Antwerp. Anyone know who, why and wherefore?

Antwerp's first Chinese restaurant...

... is, if I got it right, Wah Kel. Stepping inside is like going back in time, with lacquer wood panelling, gold tassels and a doorbell over your table, which you can ding (or dong) if you want, for attention.

It's an adventure! Snug in the heart of Antwerp's red light district, you'll be one of a truly varied clientèle hailing from in and around the nearby streets. Sailors, pretty girls, pretty used-to-be-a-boys, families, sons and daughters who eat plates and plates of delicious fare, Chinese in nature. But whatever you are, you'll get the same delightful, friendly service.

It's fatty, it's greasy, and I love it!

The Conn...

... and others of notable (and imagined) facial hair.

Happy birthday, Harald!

Enter the Dome

Here's the first-ever Michelin Star restaurant I've been to. I'd give you their web address, but it appears to be down. Grand enjoyment. On a grand scale. And then some.

We stayed eating, drinking and enjoying for four hours straight, excluding toilet breaks. Pretty bloody fantastic.

A cup of the good stuff

Starbucks opened their doors in Antwerp Central Station a few months ago, to much fanfare. So I know that Starbucks is this hugely successful brand and that blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. But my. A cuppa of their freshest is the price of a small mortgage .

Deli France is my favourite at the station. For but a few coins (no paper money is involved), you can, would you believe, ask for a cup of coffee using those exact words, and they will understand what you mean. They will also produce one without having to use a machine that sounds like it is spitting or throwing-up into your cup. Highly recommended.

The Godfather of Soul on Wolstraat

Try not to look up all the time.

The floor can look pretty, too.

I know it's disgusting. But I like it.

I don't know what amazes me more...

... the fact that there's a guy playing a violin sat at the bar, or that my glass is empty (and I'm still having fun).

Roger plays the piano. With Rosé.

Working hard at Lambermontmartre on Sunday: part deux

Followed by a(nother) drink in the most civilized fashion at Amuse. Good fun.

Fantastic, friendly and French

I tried this restaurant in Antwerp Old Town (Zirkstraat) last week.

Scrumptious (which is a difficult word for me to spell, without the aid of a dictionary. But I looked it up. That's how good).

Why I like Belgium: reason #5

The Kempen.

Here's a really lovely restaurant

It's called Raven, and you'll find it on the Grote Markt. Dee-licious food, with even more dee-lightful wine. Certainly worth a visit.

Waiting for Tram #15

Beer cans aren't mine. Honest.

Golden solden

Tall Ships Races hit Antwerp

Saw some ships yesterday evening that are part of the Tall Ships Races docking in Antwerp this weekend.

No news yet on when the Short Ships will arrive. Assuming anyone spots them, of course.

New finds on Klapdorp

Unique little bar on-slash-off Klapdorp:

And another, whose name I forget, but with a whole lot of chandelier:

Why I like Belgium: reason #12

Belgians, or certainly the ones I've met, are exceptionally proficient at cooking steak.

But the Emperor of Steak Bakers you'll find at this restaurant. Quite simply, the best steak I have eaten in this land.

But.

Round. Ball-shaped. Semi-circular. Elliptical. Globular. I look down, and I notice evidence of a most unsettling nature. My belly, once flat, is no more. It is still my belly, of course. But flat it is not.

It would be flat. If the degree of flatness that I desire required absolutely no effort whatsoever. But it seems that flatness requires some degree of effort. Which almost completely rules me out of the equation.

It's not that I'm lazy, you understand. It's just that I find the concept of exercise rather boring. If, for example, exercise held the same degree of excitement, enjoyment and sociability that, say, eating did, then I quite simply would not be writing this post.

If I had the body of a twenty-year old... well, I would probably be a serial killer.

As I see it, I don't have an exercise problem. Nor a weight problem. What I have is a food problem. Or, to be more precise, a Belgian food problem. The ruddy blighters do the food thing so incredibly well, here.

Pray for me.

Working hard at Lambermontmartre on Sunday

Sometimes it's here...

Why I like Belgium: reason #62

Terras-ke doen!

Double-you

Burn baby, burn

The Lady with the Spinning Head

Joy #1

Antwerp on a sunny day in May

Picnickin'

People don't wear enough hats

Here's a rather lovely sign you'll see at most construction sites around Antwerp. It seems to suggest that you have to wear at least one part of the costume shown in a Magritte painting before they'll let you in.

What if you show up with just an apple?

Why I like Belgium: reason #7

Sometimes you'll find a piano player in a bar. And you'll know he's a piano player because he's playing a (wait for it) piano.

Without the piano, said player would simply be a person in a bar, wandering what on earth to do with his fingers. Oh, behave.

Thumper

I fell last week. Rather hard, mind. Left a scar on my head, which is not the most inconspicuous of places to have a scar, but I had very little choice in the matter.

My story - and I'm sticking to it - is that I was helping a fair maiden traverse rather treacherous terrain (called 'pavement' in these here parts). Whether she indeed needed help, or perhaps that she was helping me, is irrelevant as I see it.

The next thing I can remember was seeing how quickly the pavement was moving in the general direction of my head. It hit me in the exact same spot - would you believe - where I got the scar. Had I the chance, I would have sworn. But as my mouth was very quickly filled with pavement, I did not.

And yes, there was alcohol involved. But a whole lot more pavement. Which makes the issue of alcohol irrelevant, too.

My past week has been somewhat tainted with dizziness, forgetfulness and an almost complete inability to tie my shoelaces in the fashion I am accustomed.

Many thanks to the countless friends, colleagues and family - who upon seeing me, offered comforting cheers such as 'Ha ha', 'Idiot' and 'Pavement boy'. Without your support, I could not have made it through.

Lessons in The Mundane

Here's a post I wrote I couple of years ago. It's called 'Ritual and Sacrifice':

It’s the year 2007. We have the Internet, high definition TV, self-cleaning ovens and hybrid cars.

But in spite of all these wondrous advancements that make the life of modern people easier, there remains one savage, brutal and ghastly task. One activity that has not developed over the ages; one that has not become easier.

If you have not guessed already, I am talking about the demonic task of laundry. Laundry at the laundro-mat. Even the barbaric Mayans had no such ruthless ritual of laundry at the laundro-mat. Look away now if you are of a nervous disposition.

Laundry. I used to enjoy it. But no more. Each visit to the laundro-mat results in penance. In sacrifice.

And the high priestesses of washing (women) leave us peasants (men) in ignorance.

Ask a question to a high priestess and she will give you an answer in a language none of us understand; the language of Colour, Softener and Spin Cycle.

Now, please understand, I am not being chauvinistic. I believe that women, still to this day, have had to work harder than men to achieve. But, perhaps in silent revenge, they have made a pact with women all over the planet, to – much like the Freemasons – keep the proper ritual and practice of laundry secret.

The result is catastrophic. Men, like me, are forced to sacrifice many socks (only one at a time, mind), colours and shapes per visit to the laundro-mat.

I think the god (who is not really a god, just someone with lots of mismatching socks) of laundry is well pleased with the feed after each of my visits.

My visits to the altar - the Wishee Washee as it is called colloquially – are almost always a plight against despair. Other men gather, too. There’s almost always a priestess there. With a knowing glare, a book which she pretends to read, and I think a hidden camera.

The men know of her powers. Of her strength. But our inert will to succeed (some call it stupidity) prevent us from asking the priestess for wisdom. We men look amongst each other. The question is obvious. What temperature?

A magical coin is extracted from one of the peasant’s pockets. Well, let’s see. There is a selection of 5 temperatures on the washing machine. 20 is too cold. And surely 80 is too hot. We want clean clothes, not boiled potatoes. And so we take the difference between the two and end up with a choice of 40 or 60. The magic coin is flipped, heads it’s 40 and so on.

Our first challenge is passed. Or is it? The priestess pretends not to notice our endeavours. She makes no comment, but exhales a series of “Pfhmss” and “Tsk, tsks” just to try and make us loose concentration, I believe.

We are unwavering. Next it’s to decide where to actually pour the powder. And what if you have powder blocks? What are you supposed to do then?

Tears well up in one of the men’s eyes. The pressure is too great. He breaks rank and looks to the priestess. She points slowly to the East. Which is more or less in the direction of the pictorial instructions that are hung from the wall. Blasted. Instructions.

We can tell the look in her eyes. She thinks we are idiots. She knows much.

Next we proceed to put our washing in. I feel brave. I put everything together. I want to get out of the hellish place as fast as possible, so I make no separation. “It don’t matter if you’re black or white” as the song goes.

I can feel the eyes of the high priestess down the back of my neck. I break out in a cold sweat.

The other men, sensing her displeasure, have bolted.

She clears her throat with a giggle and proceeds to say nothing.

The machine speaks to me. As soon as I close and lock the door, it says “38 minutes” until the cycle of death is completed.

It is at this point that the black magic bursts forth from the deepest crevices of hell, and – without opening the door of the machine – internally combusts each and every item of clothing within.

Water and powder cannot produce such chaotic effect. No. A darker force is at work here.

If you can, stay away. The Wishee-Washee is no place for men.

Ring-a-ding-ding

Been partial to a bit of whisky in the evenings, lately.

Reminds me of Bob when he said: "Can you keep a secret? I'm trying to organize a prison break. I'm looking for, like, an accomplice. We have to first get out of this bar, then the hotel, then the city, and then the country. Are you in or are you out?"

"I'm in. I'll go pack my stuff," replied Charlotte.

"I hope that you've had enough to drink," said Bob. "It's going to take courage."

Good memories #3 - Mieke and plum wearing sunglasses indoors

Good memories #2 - Mark, Christine & Raph

Good memories #1 - family

Eight

Why I like Belgium: reason #63

The Queen's ball

A chicken with a can of beer up it's butt...

... is what we ate in South Africa.

Fantastic! (Less so for the chicken).

Shove a half-full beer can (opened with a tin opener) up the bum of an olive-oil drizzled, seasoned chicken, and put it in a kettle bbq for around an hour.

Early start this morning

Central Station on a Sunday afternoon

On the way to work this morning...

Doing the Lingo. Badly.

When I first arrived in Belgium, I held a secret contempt for the foreigners who had lived here for so long and had not yet mastered the local language.

I was silently aghast at the fact that – after even 6 months of living here – some could still not even say hello, goodbye, please or thank you in Flemish. In secret, I thought that such as these were rude. Lazy. And pathetic.

And that’s a little bit of pot calling the kettle black, as I discovered recently.

You see, after living in Belgium for close on 4 years now, I’ve discovered a rather remarkable patheticness (a new English word) in my own self. I still cannot speak Flemish fluently.

Understand a Flemish conversation – that I can do. Order a beer – that I can do. Order another – that I can do, even more effectively than the aforementioned.

But try to speak in Flemish in sentences requiring more than 3 words… I struggle. Actually, more than struggle. I become completely unhinged.

Having a Flemish conversation with me is akin to holding the hand of someone learning to rollerblade for the first time. My words, dialect and diction are all over the place.

Yes, I feel as if I have fallen into that realm of patheticism (also a new English word) that is usually reserved for those who don’t know how to turn a computer on, fry an egg or make a cup of tea.

It’s not that I don’t try, you understand. I do try. But when I try speaking Flemish to a local, I experience what I now like to call ‘The Belgian Squint’.

Let me describe it to you: the head of the Squinter is almost always tilted to the left (yours, not theirs), their mouth is ever so slightly open, their left eyelid (again, your left, not theirs – keep up) is completely closed, whilst their remaining eye looks to you as if you have just farted. That is the Belgian Squint. A concomitant mix of shock, horror, disgust and pity.

The language that almost always follows a Belgian Squint is English. So polite, so friendly are the Belgians, that rather than have their language butchered, bastardised or belittled by a roller-blading linguist, they will switch to English to help you on your way.

At the office, we agree that meetings can be conducted in Flemish. But I prefer to respond in English – if only for the sake of time. If I were to respond in Flemish, trying to say “Yes, I would like some more stationery, thank you”, it would take as long as Gaddafi’s recent speech to the UN .

And so I am here. Stuck in my patheticness. But at least I can order beer. With the efficiency and prowess of a true local.

In which I bank.

Have you ever noticed that the word ‘wank’ rhymes with ‘bank’? If you’re into wordology, you’ll find that the derivative Latin ‘wancus’ does indeed refer to participle ‘wancum irritatum’, which is the ancient root form of the word meaning ‘house of storage’(*). Hence it is not unlikely that one would find much wank in a bank.

It is not – you understand – that I expect that any bank is necessarily full of wankers. No. That would be ignorant of me to suggest. What I am saying is that banks are generally full of wanking – not wankers. Well, I suppose if you are wanking, that does indeed make you a wanker, but that line of thought simply doesn’t help my argument at all. Let’s just say – for point of discussion here – that banks are full of wanking.

Why? I’ll tell you.

I lost my bank card about a month ago. An incredibly wankful thing to do, I admit.

I telephoned Card Stop to help me do what their name so generously offers it will.

In no time at all, the ladytron at the end of the line promised my card was indeed stopped and that she would automatically send a new one to my branch.

“Goodbye,” she said.

“I have a branch?” I asked.

Click.

Wank. I have a branch? That’s news to me. I’ve been wanking banking online since before I can remember. I expected that my physical branch was somewhere in alpha beta nine of internet cyberspace.

As it turns out, my branch is located in a completely different dialect district of Antwerp (Melsele). May as well be on another continent if you’re living in a country the size of Belgium.

So I contacted the said branch, and asked if they could deliver my new card to a dialect district that I could understand (anywhere outside of Melsele).

“Of course, not a problem.”

Now that’s customer service for you. Except that it’s not. Its wank. Complete and utter wank.

Because that was one month ago. And millions (*) of phone calls, emails, trips to Melsele (have you ever been there?), cancelled cards, re-issued cards and at least seventeen free mints (which don’t taste like mints at all. Why do they call them ‘mints’, then? Sarcasm?) which lie in a pot on the bank clerk’s desk, later, I still don’t have my card.

Wank. Wank. Wank.

Until today, when the wanking ended.

Or so I thought. I went to collect my new bank card, only to find that the bank had cancelled my credit card. But fear not, for they had immediately re-issued me with a bright and shiny new credit card. With a photo of a lovely baby elephant on it. Cute. But still. Wank.

I tried to express my frustration to the bank clerk.

But, it would seem that ‘wank’ is not an oft-used term in the dialect of that particular branch.

Perhaps I should again ask them to switch branches to a bank that uses the same dialect as I?

(*)Rubbish.

Scarf face

Some onlookers may consider me to be a fashion victim. A title which I feel to be somewhat inaccurate. To be a fashion victim, I assume that you’d have to at least be at the scene of a fashion crime. I’ve been nowhere near anything fashionable, so therefore feel that the title cannot be accurately applied to me.

I’m more of a non-fashion victim.

It’s not that I don’t like, appreciate or admire fashion. Westwood, Galliano and Ford look fantastic on other people. But if I tried any of their clobber on, I look like a badly-decorated Christmas tree. In June.

Which brings me to my story. I was recently given a rather nice scarf. A pink one. Giddy with delight, I was. Thing is, the scarf in question is very similar to the scarves worn by folk in the Middle East.

Wearing it has caused some ripples. On both sides of the fashion fence.

At a recent meeting, one client passed comment; it appeared he was somewhat offended by it. Oh dear.

At another gathering, someone commented that it could be associated with something a terrorist would wear. Oh. So terrorists wear uniforms now do they?

Imagine a conversation at the Terrorist Corporate Branding Committee meeting:

“I’d like to propose a bigger backpack, please. Our bombs look too big in this one.”

“I second that motion. And while we’re at it, let’s do away with combats. They’re so pre-2000’s Madonna. Lycra is just so in this season.”

I checked with one of my Middle Eastern friends, to see what he thought.

“No worries. You’re safe, mate. Scarves like that one are generally blue. Yours is pink. Worst that can happen to you in my region is that you’ll be stoned by an angry mob.”

There was a similar kerfuffle in the States recently, too. I believe it was a Starbucks TV ad which featured a not so unattractive lady sipping a grande mocchio latte with vanilla (or similar). She too was wearing this ‘terrorist’ scarf. Complaints abounded, and the ad was pulled.

Silly? Or serious?

Anyhow. I’ve stopped wearing my scarf for now.

I just hope that Bin Laden isn’t one day eventually captured, and found to be wearing pink underwear. That would cause me a considerable problem.

(Some) things I learnt in 2008

1. How to make tiramisu.
2. No matter what the recipe suggests, you should add at least double the amount of Amaretto to the ingredients of tiramisu. Otherwise you are just eating over-priced Italian cheese with swimming, soggy, coffee-dunked finger biscuits.
3. ‘Friends’ are precious. But the old-school definition of friends. Not the Facebook definition. I know this because I managed to become friends with myself on Facebook today. Now I’m getting spam from me. Beat that.
4. To travel is indeed fantastic. But to have a home to call your own is truly a blessing.
5. It’s easy to forgive. But even more difficult to forget. No matter how good the intentions are, time is usually the winning ingredient. The more time you have, the easier it becomes to forget. I think. I just hope that I have enough time left to forget.
6. ‘Plum’, ‘doughnut’ and ‘turnip’ are politically-correct and quite acceptable forms of insult. You can call someone a plum and not feel that you have necessarily offended them.
7. George Bush is a Plum.
8. Robert Mugabe is the Emperor of Plums.
9. That going to a doctor does not solve all your problems. They can ease the symptoms. But it’s best not to get sick in the first instance. Doctors know this, I think.
10. Some friends are like olives. Drinking a martini is generally better with them involved.
11. I like Phil Collins.
12. It’s lovely to work for a company that you like. Let alone a boss that you like, too. But when the chips are down, all is fair in love and war. This is not a criticism or a reference to any person living or dead. It’s just a thought. A boss once told me, “Be patient with your leaders. One day, you may have to become one.”
13. The tattoo I got when I was 21 (a Celtic armband) is the 2008 equivalent of a ‘Tweetie the Bird’ tattoo from the early 90s (which Doughnuts got when they were 21).
14. You never really appreciate something until it is gone. This includes things like toilet paper, your health or people you love. So to be grateful is a good thing.
15. That tough love is something we could possibly all benefit from. Tough love, not as in fetish love (steady, now), but tough love as in leaving your loved ones to their own devices… unaided and without sympathetic support. But always with a watchful eye and a close presence. It’s difficult to do this, I think. Popular support is for showing sympathy. But I don’t think this is big, clever or smart.
16. That wearing a medium-sized shirt used to look sexy. Now it looks a little silly. And tight. That’s over-priced Italian cheese with swimming, soggy, coffee-dunked biscuits for you.
17. Not sure on number 17.

 

Things I still don’t know, but am hoping to learn in 2009:

 

1. My purpose.
2. Everything else.

 

Micro-warm greetings this season

Economy Class? Now there's a contradiction.

Don't you think that the recline button on an airplane seat could be the most anti-social invention, ever?

The passenger in front of you may as well be mainlining on heroine, smoking a joint and urinating on the air stewardess. That behaviour would at least be somewhat socially acceptable in comparison to the rude, graceless and downright nasty act of putting a chair into the recline position.

There are 3 rules to enjoying a good flight:

1. In the event of an emergency, the exits are there, here and here.
2. The seat belt works like this.
3. You’re in Economy Class. Not First. Not Business. Economy. Which means that you may be expected to skimp a little here and there. There are no walk-in showers, bubbling hot tubs or horizontal beds. Please bear this in mind before you thrust yourself backwards into the lap of the poor, unsuspecting passenger behind you.

The shiny, smiling air stewards neglect to mention number 3.

I recently returned from a flight of eleven hours. Nine of which I had the unfortunate pleasure of hosting some stranger’s head in my lap.

Said person wanted to enjoy the recline position in Economy Class. Excuse me for being a bit direct for a moment, but what a stupid, selfish prat. If you want to recline in Economy Class, the best thing to do is buy a First Class ticket.

So, I am blessed with the sight of someone’s balding forehead within millimetres of my nostrils for the good part of a journey.

In a vain attempt to alert the said passenger into realising that he has perhaps performed a lewd act without realising it, I think of spilling some of my airline food over his head. But I fail miserably in this endeavour, realising that his act of reclination has pushed my food tray down to shin height.

“Excuse me sir,” I politely interrupt his attempted slumber. “But do you think you could put your chair back up ever so slightly. I’m sure you’re a very lovely person, but if you had wanted to sleep with me, you should have at least offered a movie first.”

But the reclin-ed man feigns temporary deafness.

Eventually I manage to crawl out of my chair and go stand near the galley.

“Excuse me, sir” says the shiny, smiling air steward (the one who forgot number 3), “but you cannot stand there – you’re blocking an emergency exit. It needs to remain clear in the event of a fire.”

As if I wouldn’t move out the way if there were a fire.

I opt to go to the lavatory. At least there’s a seat inside with no recline position option in front or in the rear. And a ready supply of water. Nice. But eventually the novelty wears thin.

I wonder up to the First Class curtain after flushing and peak through.

They have a camp fire burning, an ice cream van in the corner and Don McClean singing lullabies. Now that's class.

The Good Doctors

I do admire and respect doctors. Please believe me. They are in many cases the guardians of human life. It’s just that my experience with the profession, as you may already know, has not always been the most enjoyable.

Of course, the doctors in question have almost always helped me out, except in the instances where they haven’t at all.

After a bout of health issues, I went to see a number of doctors. Amazing what they specialise in. Of course, the body is a miraculous thing and its workings far above the full understanding of man, I believe.

But my. Our doctor folk do like to take advantage of the fact.

I go to my doctor, who is what they call a ‘general practitioner’. Now, the clue is in the title, I would have thought. I would have thought that my doctor was a general expert. With a general view of everything. Every part of the body. Nice. Exactly what I needed.

But no. She (my doctor) offered her best diagnosis, “I will refer you to a specialist.”

I have to at this point mention that she was referring me to a bum specialist. I explained – quite accurately, I believe – that I was having some digestive issues, and she clearly thought that it was an issue that only a bum specialist could assess, and hopefully, solve.

But bums aside, are you following my train of thought? You can hardly call yourself a generalist, when you don’t have a general idea about everything. Perhaps the board outside the doctor’s practice should read “General Practitioner (Except for Bums, Eyes, Nose and Ears. But everything else is fine. Please, come on in.)”.

Are we then to assume that doctors who are generalists are also amateurs? It’s like the generalists were the lazy larkabouts in medical school. Had they exerted a bit more effort, they would have been in for the lesson about bums.

Nope. My doctor missed the bum lesson.

So, she refers me to the bum specialist. Again, please understand that my admiration is high. Anyone who wakes up in the morning fully understanding that they will be gazing at bum holes the entire day (oh, where we could go with that line), has my respect.

“Johnny, Sue! What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“A bum doctor, mummy!”

I blame the parents.

Anyhow, at the bum specialist, I am asked the next obvious question. So obvious in fact, that I did not anticipate it.

“Drop your trousers and briefs, please.”

“Pardon?”

“Drop your trousers and briefs, please. I need to take a look.’

Sputter. Cough. Wheeze.

“But doctor, is not my accurate – almost verbose – description of how I feel not good enough? After all, I don’t even know what it looks like down there. Why should you be the first?”

“Seriously. I need to see.”

I proceed to drop my trousers – and briefs (which thankfully were my favourite ones) – and stand facing the doctor.

“Turn around and bend, please.”

“Are you sure you want to go ahead with this, doctor? I won’t tell anyone if you don’t, and of course I won’t mind.”

“We are in the medical profession. We are used to this kind of business.”

We?! Where on earth did the ‘we’ come from?! Was the bum specialist to invite more friends and passers-by into the room when I was bowed over, bum akimbo?

Nevertheless I did as the specialist requested, nervous that a fright fart would escape. Don’t judge me. Many of you have let out fright farts before, and I pretended not to notice.

But after a few light prods and pokes (I do indeed fully understand the beauty of the word ‘light’), a few ‘hmmmms” and only one “aha”, the doctor continued. “All right, you can dress again.

“I will need to refer you to a tummy doctor.”

Grand. At least I got to moon the bum specialist. The visit would have been rather useful had it not been a complete and utter waste of our time. My bum got some air time and the bum specialist got some Euros.

And off I go to the tummy doctor. At least he won’t need to see my bum. He won’t, will he?

My grand pedestrian adventures.

Remember those tales when we were young? You know the ones where all the animals of the enchanted forest ran to the mighty Lion or the wise Owl to look for advice, courage and support in times of trouble?

The little animals always went to Lion or Owl, didn’t they? You never saw them seek the all-knowing Bunny Rabbit. Or the charismatic leadership of the Tortoise. Or the encouraging word of the Lesser-Spotted Hyena (if they could find him). No. It was always the Lion or the Owl. Mighty creatures. Creatures worthy of seeking advice from. Not small things. No. Lion. Growl. Owl. Hoot.

Stories that never featured a Lion or Owl were rubbish, weren’t they? A bit whimsical and boring. But a Leading Lion or the Oracle Owl. That, we could all believe in.

Anyway, my point is this: why don’t people do this in real life? Why go to the bunny rabbit for advice when there may be a Lion just around the corner?

Let me explain.

I enjoy walking. It’s the best way to explore this enchanted forest, I find.

The thing is that people (from outside the forest) stop. And ask me questions. Not a problem in itself, you see. Questions are a good thing. I find that the problem is often almost always in the answers I give in return.

You see, some form of crazed delusional mania overtakes me when a stranger stops and asks me for directions. I am excited to be asked, of course. Being asked for directions when you yourself are from outside the forest implies that you look and act like a local. Which is nice.

And so, I begin to answer the stranger, and give him directions of the most elaborate nature. Honestly and truly trying to help him or her in their navigational predicament. They accept my answer most graciously, and totter off, in the direction I sent them.

This crazed mania suddenly leaves me as soon as they have left shouting distance. And I realise what hogwash I had just told them. Street names were inverted. Rights were mixed up with lefts. And train stations became cathedrals and cathedrals become Night Shops.


It’s not that I’m trying to purposely misguide people, please understand. It’s just that I seem to completely lose the plot when someone asks me for directions or assistance en route. I like talking to strangers, but let’s talk about the weather instead. Directions and maintenance are for the Lion or the Owl.

It doesn’t end with directions, either. Yes, some visitors to the forest ask me for assistance with their motor cars. Just the other day, I was out for a totter when I spotted a lady and her motor parked on the pedestrian path.

Blood drained from my face when I realised that she spotted me.

“Ah, a man!” she must have thought. “He must be able to help me!”

I tried my best invisible look, but to no avail.

She made the first plea, “Excuse me, mister. Do you know anything about cars?”

You know I don’t. I know I don’t. So why the blooming heck did I ask her to pop her trunk so that I could take a look at the engine? What was I looking for? A lesser-spotted hyena?!

You see what I mean? I cannot seem to help it. This crazed delusion overtakes me, and in my willingness to help, I only make matters worse.

I jiggled and prodded a few things in the boot, wiping my now dirty finger in a manly fashion on my fashion jeans.

“Any idea’s?” she asked. And do you know what my answer was?

“Perhaps you should go for a bit of coffee and cakey and come back in a wee while. It’s perhaps over-heated and needs some time to recoup. That should do the trick.”

Now I am giving auto mechanical advice, which includes the words ‘coffee’, ‘cakey’ and ‘wee while’.

Lions. Owls. And rabbits. There’s a lesson, here.

God and I

I had a conversation with God a few nights ago.

Mind you, it wasn’t really a conversation. It was a monologue.

I was telling God that He had possibly missed the plot when He created mosquitoes. Of course, my monologue wasn’t of a completely negative tone. Nature, in general, I mentioned to Him, was a particularly spectacular idea. And He deserved all praise and congratulations for a fine, wonderful result; particularly in the short amount of time that He did it in.

But what’s up with mosquitoes? Why and wherefore?

Could He not have ordered all mosquitoes down into the pit of hell together with Lucifer, when He had the chance? We all know that mosquitoes are attracted to heat. He could have done them all a favour.

Sparing no detail, and as I could no longer sleep, I explained to God the hours of unnecessary discomfort I had suffered – that very night – from a single mosquito bite.

I even showed Him. Look. See. Right here, on my finger – the bit where the skin stops and the nail starts. I had to explain that I was not of course pointing at Him, but simply showing him where on my person the offence had occurred.

What on earth possessed the mosquito to do that, I enquired of God, rather exasperated?

What a cruel, heartless bastard of a creature.

Not only can you not effectively scratch in that place, but, surely, there is no blood there, either. After I apologised for saying “cruel, heartless bastard” to God in conversation, I suggested, that in light of it’s cruel behaviour, that He completely banish mosquitoes from the planet.

Well, perhaps, I admitted to God, I was being a bit hasty. Not all the mosquitoes in the world, but perhaps just the one bloody mosquito that was somewhere in my apartment, buzzing about looking for pointless places to bite me on.

I apologised to God for saying “bloody” in conversation, and then decided to assist Him in ridding the pest from the planet.

I was gong to annihilate the creature. That is, squash every last amount of life out of it’s small, squashable body. With a great deal of resolute satisfaction. Greenpeace, PETA and tree-huggers can kiss my bum (I don’t think God minded that I used that word).

I became a stalking predator. Listening out for the buzz. There it was – zummffming about – past my head. It landed, and I spotted it’s landing place. Crouching, I went for it… but it saw me and flew off again!

Never letting up, I followed. It landed on the wall above the flower pot. But this time I tried to fool the mosquito into thinking I was heading for somewhere else other than it’s own position. It worked! I thwacked it hard and good.

Death was imminent. As was a broken flower pot; a needless waste that could have been spared, I subtly mentioned to God.

Although God did not directly answer that night, I have since been presented with somewhat of a solution. You see, I have since discovered the wonder of a window. And the fantastical thing it does when it is shut.

I do believe in miracles. Thank you, God.

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