(I'm not talking about washing machines now)
Sometimes you think you pick up the signals...
And you don't act.
And you wonder...
And sometimes you DO act...
And you fall flat on your face
So, what's the answer?

Went to put the washing machine on this morning, set the programme, pressed the start button and...
an ominous 'thunk', an irritating beeping noise, and flashing LED display: 'E 40'.

What the HELL does that mean???
Looks like the perfect way to round off my perfect week
It's a relatively new machine, so I don't understand its little foibles yet. A rising sense of panic as I rush up to attic and empty contents of filing cabinet over the floor looking for instruction book. It must still be under warranty, but who wants to go through all that hassle, and anyway, where did we get it from and where the hell are the details?
No luck. Back down two flights of stairs to the utility room, where in forlorn hope I switch it off, reset the programme, switch on again, to be greeted by a repeat of the 'thunk, beep, flash' routine.
(Ed's note: Nine years in IT left me a firm believer in the 'switch it off and on again and see if the problem goes away' technique).
I gaze at in despair... then notice something...
Touch the door... a little pressure... and... it closes!
Try again... bingo!!!

(If only all life's little traumas were so easily resolved.)

Message from Facebook:
'From: Steve (30, male, United Kingdom)
"is interested in Making New Friends"

Steve's first impression of you:
You are stunning!'

Steve, mate, whoever and wherever you are, I'm flattered, really I am
But...

I'm old enough to be your mum

Sitting upstairs in the Roy D’Espagne, table for one, by the window, looking out across the Place in the pouring rain, drinking vin rouge and waiting for my stoempf.

Lots has happened. I checked my phone just after my last entry, and found a message from Gabriella: ‘I’m at the hotel with Marika. Where are you?’
‘Enjoying the sunshine, don’t know where. Do you want to meet for coffee? See you at the Grande Place in 10 minutes’.
I head back to the Lower Town. As I enter the Grande Place, the phone rings.
‘We’re in the Grande Place, where are you?’
‘Just got to the Grande Place, I’m standing by the stall that sells pictures, heading towards the flower stall.’
‘Sorry? ‘Where are you?’ Gabriella’s English is not great, but one hell of a lot better than my Hungarian.
‘By the flower stall.’ I stop, scan the Place, but I can’t see them.
‘I don’t understand. I’m giving you to Marika’.
Marika’s voice – confident, her English more assured.
‘Hi, where are you?’
‘In the Grande Place, by the flower stall’ I still can’t see them.
‘Wearing green?’
‘Yes!’
‘We’re right behind you!’
I turn, and there they are, a couple of metres away, laughing, Marika still holding the phone to her ear.
We smile, we hug, we laugh, we kiss.
I take them to the Arcadi. They look at the menu.
‘No English’ says Marika. I hadn’t noticed, I can usually find my way round a French menu with out too much trouble, so it hadn’t occurred to me.
There is ‘Tarte bocoli et epinards’. ‘Brocoli’ I can cope with, I don’t know ‘Epinards’, but the Flemish translation is ‘Spinazie’ (the advantage of Brussels, if you can’t read the French, sometimes the Flemish is easier to decipher). Gabriella doesn’t recognise ‘spinach’, but Markia does, so we try to explain. They both order it in the end, while I, not ready for lunch, go for the chocolat maison and the cheesecake I passed on yesterday.
Speaking of lunch… I’ve finished my stoempf and wine now. I wonder what ‘crepes Mikado’ are, I’ve seen them mentioned in lots of places. Should I order dessert, or a cappuccino, or get the bill and decamp for somewhere less pricey? Looks as though the rain is easing.
Back at the Arcadi, I told Marika about the concert on Friday and Strojmachine. She knows of them, of course.
‘The Stroj? They’re very... specific!’ she said with a laugh. I showed her the video on my camera. ‘VERY specific! But the music is great!’
‘Was it good?’ the waiter at the Roy has come for my plate.
‘Very good, thank you. Do I pay you, or downstairs?’
He leaves the bill. ‘I’m coming back’ he says. Me too, I hope.

Is it better to string the game out indefinitely, and continue to enjoy playing it for its own sake?
Or, in trying to reach a resolution, to provoke a crisis – knowing that to do so is risky: you may be moving the game on to another level, or you may cause it to crash into the buffers.
How do you make that choice? Whatever you do, you can be sure that things will never be quite the same again.
Maybe it’s easier if you have confidence that there will be other games to play, rather than if you feel as though this is the only game in town.

I sleep in – well, not strictly true. I’m awake at 5, read for a while, then find I’m ready to doze again, and give in to the temptation. When I surface again, it’s nearly 8:30. Breakfast in the hotel; coffee, oranges and croissants; the Rough Guide in front of me, where to this morning?

Sunday in the sunshine. I will head back to the Upper Town, give it a second chance. En route I pass a second hand book shop, window full of old engravings, oh bliss! I must come back when it’s open, though there are no hours shown.
In another closed shop window there’s a poster for a free folk festival, featuring the Karim Bagilli Quintet (the band from Friday night with the memorable flautist), but it’s the same weekend I’m in Telford (12th July), why does everything happen at the same time?
Trying to find the Galeries Ravenstein, I come across the Place Albertine – I know where I am, just down from where I was yesterday. By the statue of King Albert, I spot a Euro coin on the ground – an Irish one. I put it in my pocket for luck.
Here are the Galeries, elegant and empty – oh, this is the way I should have come yesterday afternoon instead of my fruitless search for the Jardin Botanique.
There’s an accordion player on the steps up from the Galeries. I fish out my lucky Euro, smile, wish him bonjour. ‘Merci beaucoup, madame’, but his eyes remain closed, lost in music or indifference.
I enter the park via a different gate from yesterday. Is that man over there alone eyeing me up? I steal a second glance, catch him doing the same, but our paths only cross at a distance of 50 metres or so.
I sit on a bench by the lily pond – the lilies are only just starting to open – revelling in the sunshine and writing these thoughts.

I discover there are a hell of a lot of Spanish people in Brussels. Half of them seem to be parading in front of the Bourse, blowing whistles and trumpets, waving flags and shouting ‘Viva Espana!’ while the other half drive up and down the Boulevard Anspach blowing their horns. I text Eduardo: ‘You know about football, did someone just win a match or something?’ When I return an hour and a half later, they’re still at it.
I eat special fried noodles with king prawns, banana flambé, Singha beer, liqueur coffee. There’s a guy eating alone, dark, very Latin, ridiculously sexy – the kind I automatically dismiss from my thoughts because – well, why would such a man look twice at me? And anyway, that’s not what I want – I don’t know what I DO want, but I’m sure it’s not that.
I psyche myself up to go back to the Cuban bar, drink mojitos and listen to the live music. But when I get there, the music has been cancelled in favour of the football – as it seems to have been in the other bars as well.
The live entertainment in the Grande Place tonight – apart from the Spaniards – consists of a man in a monk’s habit cutting up bread and cheese and selling them for a Euro a time. His patter has the audience in fits, but my French isn’t good enough to keep up.
Outside the Roy D’Espagne, I freeze on the terrace (away from the telly and ubiquitous football) drinking hot chocolate with Baileys (outrageous at 10 euros, but what the hell) and wait for the moon to rise above the Hotel de Ville while the sun sets.

It’s 10:20 – 40 minutes till happy hour at El Metekeo – mojitos at 4 euros each – has the football finished yet? Edu has replied to my text: ‘Spain 2 Sweden 1’. ‘Lucky I didn’t ask Daniel!’ I text back. The moon has disappeared behind the building. Another hot chocolate? A mojito or two? Or back for that bath and a good read?
There’s music (not live) coming from somewhere... L’Homo Erectus – I won’t fit in too well there. My Rough Guide lists the lesbian bars though, I could extend my options...
At El Metekeo, the football is still on. At the Music Village, the Sinatra Reunion Big Band is wowing them, two nights only. The haunting strains of ‘YMCA’ drift from L’Homo Erectus.
I buy a bottle of water from the tourist shop. That hot bath seems very tempting. Time to call it a night.

The slump hits mid-afternoon. Brussels doesn’t do parks, it seems. I find one, a fairly uninspiring affair, and it starts to drizzle. I try to head for the Botanic Gardens, and I’m wandering through a wasteland of brutalist concrete blocks, brooding over gloomy poetry.
Past the cathedral, I give up on the botanic gardens idea as the rain gets heavier, and go back to the Arcadi café, for a bacon and mushroom omelette and a cappuccino. The resident cat snoozes on the bench opposite, until s/he is evicted to make way for more customers, and takes refuge under my seat.

I head for the shops but wander aimlessly; I decide against the skirt and top and can’t find the cardi I saw last night. I need a jacket, but who sells jackets in June, even in Brussels? In the end, all I buy is two scarves from one of the tourist shops (6 euros each, 2 for 10).
I hunt in vain for a cyber café – how can there not be one, here, right in the centre of the city? I feel lost, disoriented, not literally (I can find my way pretty well round here now), but emotionally. Back at the hotel, I can’t raise much enthusiasm for the evening ahead, alone. Maybe I’ll just read my book, have a bath. I text the others. No one is arriving till tomorrow.
Then, I rouse myself, reapply my makeup, put on one of my new scarves and head off towards the Thai restaurant where we always go.

What is it that you want?
Not me, it seems.
What you are looking for,
I can't provide. And all
I do to try and please you, falls
Against the wall
of your indifference.
And if I walk away,
Will you even notice that I've gone?

But what about my hopes,
That hang like withered orchids
On the stems of yesterday?
There's nowhere else
That I can plant them now.
I'll wrap them up in paper, hide the stench
Of their decay,
And bury them.

(c) Melinda Belynda, 14th June 2008

Three hours round the Musee des Beaux Arts. I sit with a coffee in the museum cafe, and realise how tired I am. What's the plan for this afternoon? More walking. Round the parks, round the town, more museums, at the very least, round the shops. Whatever, it will involve walking. Or a cafe to sit and write in - an Internet cafe, perhaps? Write what? More drivel? Can I sit and write my novel? Hmmm.
Oh, chocolate on my fingers again, the small square that came with my coffee, on my fingers, on the Rough Guide, on my notebook... chocolate everywhere.