Further adventures in Surreality

'Any last request?'
Blindfold please.
and make sure someone crops the toilet from the final version.
'Take aim...'
AAAARRRRGGGHHH!!!

Full of yummy Belgian hot chocolate - whith frothed milk and cinnamon on top
But I've used up all the Planete Chocolat cocoa powder now

Birthday pressie from my daughter

This afternoon made me think about this song ('Summer Breeze', by the Isley Brothers)

'Sweet smell of summer, the jasmine's in bloom,
July is dressed up, and playing a tune...'
It was one of Christine's - Lady Lucy's - favourite songs, and she did a blog post on it once.
I wanted to make a link, but sadly, it appears her blog is no longer available
Still, this is for Chris, with my love, and memories of happy days when we were young

Just before he left us, Istvan pointed out the no smoking signs on all the buildings. But there is an area round the back of the dining hall, with log seats and an ash bin. We settle ourselves down and Gabriella lights up.

‘So,’ she asks, ‘What do you think of Istvan? First impression?’
‘Well, he’s obviously very keen on you…’ then, seeing her blank expression: ‘He likes you a lot. He’ll do anything for you. And', warming to the theme, ‘he’s much better looking than Laszlo’.
‘Yes, I knew you were thinking so. I could see it in your face, the way you reacted when you met him at the airport’.
Good god, am I THAT transparent? I shall have to careful around this woman, she’s clearly a damn sight too perceptive.
‘He has those beautiful deep blue eyes’ she adds. ‘He’s a very handsome man’.
Well, I wouldn’t go THAT far, but, humour the woman, she’s a friend, after all.
‘Lovely hair’ I say. I like grey hair on a man. When they get to my age, I figure it’s a bonus if they still have any at all.
‘He’s a little short’.
‘Well, maybe, but that doesn’t really matter. And a little...’ I make a curving gesture with my hands over my tummy, ‘but men of our age, what do you expect? And he’s very charming.’
‘And he has a very good job. A well-paid job’.
‘And a lovely weekend house’ I add. I don’t know about his weekday house, somewhere in Budapest, presumably.
We fall silent for a while. And then:
‘And what about T*?’
Aka the Crazy Frog.
I’m taken aback. It’s a long time since I’ve heard anyone say his name, and I’m shocked by my own reaction.
The longer the pause lasts, the harder it is to think how to end it. I shrug and stare at my feet, conscious of her eyes on me.
‘He doesn’t answer my emails. Not for, ooh, ages. Not since before Christmas’.
Not strictly true, I got that comment from him on Facebook last week but I’ve put that out of my mind. It was nothing.
She puts her hand on my shoulder.
‘Did everybody know?’ I ask.
‘Yes’, Stark, rather brutal. Maybe she didn’t understand what I meant. It’s possible. But I have this feeling again of being completely transparent, of our colleagues and friends watching me tear off little pieces of my heart and throw them at his feet, for him to trample them into the ground. I can’t meet her eye, or I will start crying. And yet, I don’t care, really I don’t. It’s not about him, it’s about me, the embarrassment, the shame, the humiliation.
‘Ach’, I say, ‘It’s fine, it’s fine, no problem.’
‘You know’ she says, ‘with the married ones, it’s never good, because you only know one side of the story’.
I really don’t need to hear this.
‘And he’s too short’, she adds. Hell, what does that matter?
‘We have a saying in Hungarian: Step over it’.
‘I’m over it, really I am. I’m just angry with myself for being so stupid.’
Always that same feeling. Bloody idiot. Why do you do this to yourself?

From the pre-trip exchange of emails, I got the impression that Gabriella’s ‘friend’ had a house near the camp, which we could use instead of roughing it. But this, apparently, was stretching the truth slightly. Rather than being on the island, Istvan’s weekend retreat is on the edge of Szentendre, half an hour’s drive away via the bridge.
We drive to the edge of the town, through streets which get progressively smaller. At last, we pass the end of a single track road. He brakes hard, reverses to the entrance, than we go backward up the road for a couple of hundred metres.
We stop. On our right is a tall and impenetrable hedge.

Well, it looks like a hedge. But why has Gabriella got out of the car? And what is she doing with that key?

There is a gate there, completely smothered by vines, boasting clusters of embryonic grapes. I get out of the car. She smiles at my confusion, and gestures me forward.

Through the gate, down some steps. We are on the edge of the hillside.

The house is perfect, like something out of a story: ‘Through the Hedge, and What Melinda Found There’. Through the hedge, and into another world.

‘So, we can live here, I think ? What would you like to do?’
‘How will we get to the workshops?’
‘Istvan will drive us there and back. Or there are taxis’.
I love the house, but I’m really not comfortable with this idea. It’s too complicated. And poor Istvan, is he to be at our beck and call for four days?
‘I have to drive to Praga – Prague – tomorrow’ he confides to me.
‘I’ve always wanted to go there – how far is it?’
‘About 500 kilometers’.
‘Tell her what you do – I don’t know the English’ says Gabriella.
I don’t catch what he says the first time.
‘Freight forwarding’ he repeats, carefully and distinctly.
‘Aah. Logistics?’
He nods.
Gabriella has found the programme for the summer camp. The last ferry leaves at 8:30, but the evening activities look pretty fun. Tonight for example, blues band concert and palinka tasting round the campfire.
‘Palinka!’ Istvan rolls his eyes.
Could this be the elusive Eastern European nectar I’ve been looking for?
[Ed’s note: It isn’t, but see: http://melinda-in-surreality.blog.co.uk/2008/07/21/becherovka-4480376
‘It’s a spirit distilled from fruit, just fruit, nothing else. It’s distilled three times They just made a regulation that it can only be called palinka if it’s made in Hungary – like Champagne has to be made in Champagne’.
‘Sounds good to me!’ I say, to much amusement.
‘It’s no problem, we’ll call you when we want to come back, and you can come for us. Then you can take us back in the morning, before you leave’.
‘I’m leaving at 5:00AM’.
‘Well, we can walk to the ferry. Or hitch hike. It will be fine, don’t worry. This can be our home. But, it’s up to you’.
‘I think I’d rather stay at the camp’.
‘Well, we’ll see what the room is like’.
We drive back via the ferry station. There is nowhere for cars, but we get directions to another one, half a kilometre further upriver.
Istvan is getting tetchy. He’s very charming, but who needs to wipe their feet that many times in a day?
‘We might as well go by the bridge’.
‘No, it’s coming, look’.
We drive back onto land at the second ferry station we saw earlier, and Gabriella monitors the distance back to the camp. It’s 5 kilometres.
There is a fire going in the middle of the campsite, and the evening meal seems to be in preparation. A vegetarian barbecue – how’s that going to work? I wonder. A young man with long blond hair and a beard plays the guitar and sings ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ in Hungarian to a bemused toddler.

We have the upstairs room we asked for, in building 7. There are four beds, but only the two of us staying there (for now, at least). A bed for the laptop, next to the power socket, and a bed for our suitcases. Gabriella installs the bottle of wine she brought from Istvan’s house in pride of place on the shelf. ‘The centre of our world!’ she says.

The stairs are on the outside of the building.
‘Careful on these stairs after the palinka tasting' says Istvan as he carries Gabriella’s case up them ‘At least you’re right opposite the shower block’.
‘The men’s shower block’ we say in unison. Hmmm, she noticed too.
‘How did you get the cabin next to the men’s showers? he asks.
‘Just lucky, I guess!’ I reply, and we all laugh.

Haven't cheated - honest
But I had to go to a meeting last night and didn't get home till nearly midnight

1. Which are the colours used for a boat’s port and starboard lights?
No idea

2. What famous explorer is associated with a ship called the ‘Beagle’?
Darwin - (though strictly speaking, he was a naturalist not an explorer) - oy, Cass who's doing this, me or you???
PS the captain was Fitzroy - he was more of an explorer - PIPE DOWN WOMAN!!!

3. What is a ship’s or boat‘s diary called?
log

4. What type of boat has twin hulls?
catamaran

5. The word ‘POSH’ was an abbreviation for cabin bookings made by wealthy passengers on ships going to the east. What does the acronym mean?
Port out, starboard home

6. What fictional vessel did Captain Nemo command?
The Nautilus

7. In the 60's, who took a ferry across the Mersey?
Gerry and the Pacemakers

8. Name the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta of 1878, about navy life?
HMS Pinafore (Oh we sail the ocean blue, /And our saucy ship's a beauty./We are sober men and true,/And we always do our duty...)

9. What is the name of Captain Pugwash’s Ship?
Ermmm.. can't remember

10. What vessel did Shirley Temple sing about the in the 1934 film “Bright Eyes”?
Would that be 'The Good Ship Lollipop' by any chance???
Or is this a trick question?

11. In which European city might you travel in a gondola?
Venice.
(or in London - suspended above ground - she's at it again!)

12. Which millionaire built The Spruce Goose flying boat?
Howard Hughes

We drive along parallel to the river. There are intense discussions going on in the front of the car, mostly in English, but I gaze out of the window and watch the river pass by. At the ferry station we stop, and Gabriella gets out and goes looking for a timetable. I get out too and gaze out over the water.

Hard to see how it could be considered blue, by any stretch of the imagination, maybe that’s just in Austria, though I suspect more likely it was only Herr Strauss’ flight of fancy.
‘It is a beautiful colour.’ Gabriella must be reading my thoughts. ‘It used to be brown, but now it is green, or – what colour would you say?’
‘Maybe turquoise?’ even that is a little romanticised, but it is certainly a lovely green. There are canoeists over near the other bank, there were canoeists even in the city centre, quite surprising, not something you could imagine on the Thames.
‘Over there’, she is pointing across the water, ‘that is the island where we are going.’
So, not the other bank after all. I should have realised it wasn’t wide enough.
‘The ferry doesn’t take cars. We will have to go over the bridge. It’s about 10 kilometres’.

We set off again. I disappear into my thoughts, not dozing exactly, though it was a very early start, even for me. We come to the bridge at last, and drive over onto the island. The land here is flat, but the mountains are there in the background, more obvious now there is a distance between us and them, the river in between has disappeared from view. I catch a glimpse of yellow in the fields, not rape, surely? No, sunflowers, all facing the same way, that must be south. We pass through villages with gardens full of geraniums and daisies spilling over in shades of pink and orange. The island is bigger than I was expecting, we seem to drive for kilometre after kilometre through this pretty landscape.
Gabriella has directions to the campsite, but they are talking about the ferry station. That seems to be the first priority.
‘There’s the old boat!’ Apparently the rusting hulk by the side of the road is significant. ‘We must be nearly there’. A turn to the left, a short distance further and the river is in front of us once again, there is a slipway directly in front but we turn right for a couple of hundred metres then pull up outside a yellow house with a yellow car parked in front of it. Gabriella jumps out and goes to talk to an old lady who is standing behind the building holding a bunch of yellow flowers, and there is a yellow digger behind her. Everything is yellow, like the sunflowers, full of sunshine. Another slipway runs past the building, Istvan turns the car left onto it, as though he is going to drive straight into the river, but he stops just in time.

We stare at the river through the windscreen for a few seconds, then he reverses back up and out onto the road. Directly opposite the turning is a noticeboard with a timetable. Gabriella is studying it closely.
‘The last ferry is 8:30’ she says as she gets back into the car. ‘the first is 5:30’.
We drive back the way we came, round the bend to the left and past the rusting boat, then straight on, down an unmetalled track. On our left, a gateway and a battered sign.
‘Here it is’.
We drive through into the campsite. A large wooden building to our left, we pull up in front of it and get out. There are wooden cabins among the trees, a central campfire area, some tents, not many people. We walk up onto the decking of the main building, where a table is set up There is a young woman, Gabriella talks to her in Hungarian first, then English.

The rooms in the cabins are for six or three people.
‘We need a room to ourselves because we have to use my laptop to work on our project’ she says to the administrator. Not strictly true. Embarrassed, I look away. The girl does not seem particularly friendly.
Now we are all climbing back into the car again.
‘We go to Istvan’s house. Registration does not start until 5.’ It must be about 1:30 now.
But first, for reasons I don’t quite understand, we need to find another ferry station. We drive around the island, find the ferry, once again Gabriella jumps out, but there is no one here to talk to, just a slip road leading into the river. We stare across to the other bank. The ferry, with a flat barge alongside carrying a couple of cars, is making its way across to a similar jetty on the other side. Once again, we reverse back to the road.
‘Now we drive to Istvan’s house, back over the bridge’.
Why not take the ferry? I wonder – and what’s wrong with the other ferry?
I don’t ask, but the explanation comes anyway. Gabriella gestures across the river.
‘We don’t know where that goes’.

I can hear Gabriella snoring. She asked me earlier: ‘Do you snore?’
‘Not as far as I know’, I replied.
‘I’ve been told I do. Sometimes.’
I hear her now, a soft background noise, like Ninja when he purrs in his sleep. I can live with that.
She was waiting at the airport, and it was great to see her there and hug her, even if she makes me feel overgrown and clumsy, worried that I will crush this dainty little doll.
‘My friend Istvan is here. He will take your bags. He will take us where we need to go.’
Here’s Istvan. First impression? Hmmm, he’s a lot better looking than the one she brought to Vienna three years ago. A LOT better looking.
We drive through the suburbs of Budapest. Gabriella thrusts a map into my hands.
‘We are HERE. It’s not so nice, but the suburbs never are, are they, whatever the city. Where I live is THERE, so we are quite close. But we are going up THERE.’ She points to a location along the river, north of the city.
Istvan’s phone rings – hands free. The ring tone is like an old fashioned phone from an American 60s TV show, very loud and persistent. He answers.
‘He is working’ says Gabriella. ‘His business. He’s a... I’ll ask him to tell you in English.
We cross the Danube. I remember the last time I saw it, in Vienna – and the first time I met Gabriella.

‘Soon we will be passing the parliament buildings. And do you remember my photo of the train? The one I circulated for the project? It was taken on that bridge there’.
‘Tram’, says Istvan. His English, I’m beginning to realise, is better than hers – or maybe he is just more confident.
‘Yes, tram'.
‘And the cyclists?’ I ask. She nods. The one I thought looked like the Bulgarian Boy Babe. And then he sent me a message saying he preferred motor bikes, and attaching a photo of himself in leathers. Oh yes, I remember .
I watch the river pass by, and remember the last time I was here, taking the bus to Visegrad, without a clue of where I was going.
Suddenly, Gabriella turns round in the seat.
‘Do you like to eat cakes?’ she asks, then adds: ‘Very delicious ones?’
How can one possibly answer a question like that?
‘There is a… not a sweet shop… I don’t know how you say it in English.’
‘Cake shop?’ No. ‘Café?’ No, no.
We settle on patisserie. I launch into my anecdote about conversations with the Crazy Frog, when he would say, ‘I don’t know how you say this in English’ and the answer would invariably be some French word that we’d nicked.
The patisserie is perfect.
‘We always go here. It’s tradition.’
I ask her to recommend something typically Hungarian. Some of the items on offer look familiar, but still vaguely exotic, like the Swiss roll with coconut. They all look delicious.
On the counter are several plates of what look like tiny scones, called, apparently, pigi-pogi. They look just like scones to me.
Gabriella looks thoughtful, then has a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘Esterhazy torte!’ Certainly sounds Hungarian, but by this stage I’ve latched on to one on the shelf above that looks like mille-feuilles with raspberries – translates as ‘Dutch cake’ apparently, probably about as Dutch as Swiss roll is Swiss.
‘I will have the Esterhazy’ announces Gabriella. Then I’ll have the Dutch cake and a taste of Esterhazy.
The long-suffering Istvan pays for the cakes and cappuccinos, and carries them to an outside table in the sun, while Gabriella lights a cigarette, and I just enjoy being here.
The phone rings. Istvan puts down the tray and walks away from our chatter and Gabriella’s smoke.

We share the cakes, half and half. The Dutch cake is a little disappointing, the filling is mainly custard with only a hint of cream. The Esterhazy is sublime. Tastes like… could it be hazelnuts? ‘Istvan will tell you’.
He returns, and the question is put. Chestnuts, he thinks.
‘Do you know langos? [pronounced ‘langosh’]. Istvan, what is it in English?’
‘The English word, I think it starts with F. Or maybe it is scone’.
‘Scones are the little round things on the counter. I think they were called ‘pigi-pogi?’
‘No, no, langos are made from bread dough and fried’.
‘Sounds like doughnuts’.
‘Not doughnuts, they are not sweet. We eat them with garlic sauce, but you can eat them with cheese or cream or ham or other sauces, but we just have garlic and salt. Only the Germans eat them with sweet stuff’.
‘They don’t sound like anything I know’.

Istvan is on the phone again.
‘When we get to Szentendre, we eat Langos. It’s tradition’.
‘It’s scones’ says Istvan when he gets off the phone.
‘Were you just ringing someone to ask them about Langos? I thought you were working!’ I laugh. It definitely doesn’t sound like scones.
‘I don’t think there is an English equivalent’.
‘Yes, yes, there is, there must be’.

When we reach Szentendre, the mystery is solved. No, there is no English equivalent. It looks something like naan bread, but deep friend, and is delicious with garlic and salt.
Sure enough, the sign over the shop says (among several other languages), ‘Scones’.
Definitely not!

I'm doing something tonight that I NEVER do on Mondays (shhh, don't tell anyone!)
For years I've been haunted by this eastern European spirit...
The EMBM (I'm not going into details here about who THAT is) used to rave about some Czech plum brandy he'd drunk somewhere.
And when I went to Hungary in 2000, at a party on a hillside overlooking the Danube (under the full moon, of course), I drank this wonderful nectar... but couldn't remember what it was called.
At the airport, I bought Unicom - big mistake, as it was disgusting
The bottle is still sitting in our cupboard.
When the neighbours had a barbecue, everyone took whatever weird booze they had and shared it around (I brought out my Unicom that night too, but no one would touch it). Someone brought this Czech stuff - and - there it was again - but I still didn't make a note of what it was called

On Wednesday,we had a palinka tasting in the camp - but that wasn't it either
I tried describing it to Istvan - and he suggested it might be Becherovka - so I picked up a bottle at the airport...
and I'm having a little tipple now (tee hee!!!)
Couldn't swear that it's the same stuff, as I probably haven't had the appropriate combination of alcohol to precede it...
But it's pretty nice (a bit like Campari - only totally different ).
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Becherovka

Anglo-Hungarian solidarity

A lovely ripe fig from my garden, for Modone.
Yummy

Our new room mates seem to have arrived...
and one of them appears to be male
I was about to say something about how this is likely to impact my blogging activities...
when he said: would you like a taste of apricot brandy?
So I told him he could stay...
His name's Tom, and he has a distinctly colonial twang.
But we're moving out tomorrow anyways...
so I might not get back to you till then.

Yesterday, I was first to the showers, and the water was stone cold
Today, I went later, and the water was fine, but then I made the mistake of leaving my clothes on the bench in the middle of the communal shower area, and they got a little wet - then I had to put them back on to walk back to the cabin

Surely you didn't think I would post a picture of myself actually wearing it???

Don't know who's choosing the music, but now it's the Doors and Roadhouse Blues!!!
As Gabi's asleep again, maybe I could finish the wine??? (or go down and get some more...)

....standing on the balcony of the second storey of a log cabin in the middle of a forest on an island in the Danube etc etc, under a full moon, in the middle of a thunderstorm, with a paper cup of red wine in one hand, listening to Johnny B Goode...
maybe I should rejion the party...

Now I appear to have excellent connection/response (though the Hungarian keyboard is a bit of a challenge), but no one around to chat to.
Hey ho. Guess it´s past my bedtime anyway - specially as I was up at 3:30.
Night!

Not too much to report from the dreaming spires - other than that it seems unlikely that there will be any paid work coming from that direction
Or that the conference on 'Trust' that I suggested last year and that the MOMD seemed super keen on is likely to happen either

However, the conference itself was wonderful.
After dinner on the first evening I adjourned to the King's Arms with a blonde aussie woman 'just for a quick drink' where we ensconced ourselves in a sofa for a spot of people-watching and were eventually requested to leave at 12:45 when they wanted to close the pub - well so she says, I don't remember that bit, OR trying to unlock the gate to get back into the college
And on the last evening I got into an intense conversation with a young Belgian nuclear physicist-turned-philosopher about the social construction of scientific knowledge and the nature of reality - my favourite chat-up line - and shared his brolly
He does seem very keen to scrutinise my publications (as I am his).

This was taken on the middle evening, when I shared a relatively restrained curry and bottle of Chilean white (a strange concept, but perfectly palatable, despite being white) with the aforesaid aussie blonde and the conference organiser (a very old friend), before returning to college and strolling round the quad in the moonlight for a while. Am planning to post a slightly 'enhanced' version of this on photographyblog, see what they make of it

My video on Youtube of the Karim Bagilli quintet, posted so that I could access it from here, has generated some interest. A comment appeared by someone who said he was at the concert, and although he thought Karim (the guitarist) was good, he was basically slagging off all the other musicians, especially the female singer.
Yesterday, I received a message from Karim himself saying he had spoken to the person who posted it, they had apologised, and would I mind removing the comment.
I was so startled I sent a rather gushy reply saying how much I'd enjoyed the concert, and asking if he ever performs in the UK, because I would be very interested in seeing the band again. To which he responded that he doesn't often get over here, but will try to and will let me know.
Just goes to show you can't be too careful round here... you never know who might be listening

Hey, good news!
I've discovered I can once again get into a skirt I bought when I was still working in a proper office!!!
Unlike two years ago when I seem to remember blogging about the opposite experience.
So, the pilates must be doing some good.
Of course, it's 5 years out of fashion, but it fits, and that's good enough for me
Now, what do I need to pack to get the MOMD to ply me with wine again like last year?

This form of poetry, with 3-line stanzas in a rhyme scheme: aba bcb cdc etc, is known as a 'terza rima', Italian for 'third rhyme' (according to Writing Magazine).
I think it's quite a pretty name, so thought I'd give it a try.
Sorry the subject isn't so pretty, though .

Grey Days

What do you do on the grey days,
The days when nothing makes sense,
And it seems this is how it is always?

When the darkness around is as dense
As the gloom of the gloomiest night,
And the pain and the hurt are intense.

You’re trying to look for the light,
You know it must be there somewhere,
But the shutters are drawn down so tight,

That there’s no way of reaching the air,
You peer through impenetrable haze,
And you wonder why you even care.

So what do you do on the grey days?
The days when you just need a friend,
To tell you it won’t be for always,
And all will be well in the end.

(c) Melinda Belynda 6th July 2008

My body is idle, but my brain is humming – however, not in a constructive way. I brought my notebook out to the hammock to work on my novel, but I’ve written one and a half sentences, and they just duplicate what I’ve done before, I was only trying to get back into the story.
My mind is running on strange tracks, well, maybe not so strange, they are the same as always, recently.
I WAS going to write – honestly I was – but there is something terribly seductive about a hammock in the sunshine...

http://www.authspot.com/Poetry/Summer-Idyll.152185

The rain has eased. We are meeting at the hotel at 4:20, work session tonight, we need to prepare our presentation for tomorrow. But I still have an hour or so to myself. How to spend it?
I head back towards the engravings shop I passed this morning – there was one particular print in the window (of a cat, naturally), and I’d like to have a rummage through those old maps. But, when I get there, it’s still closed. Maybe Tuesday morning, if I get time between the end of the meeting and the train.
There is a picture in the window of the gallery next door that takes my fancy – is it too cheeky to take a photo?

[Ed's note: a terrible photo, I know, but I rather like the reflection of my umbrella - took me a few seconds to work out what it was!]

Now I’m looking for a creperie – must check out those crepes Mikado. There has to be one round here somewhere, I wander round the back streets, still enjoying my solitude. Past Planet Chocolat, past the hotel– maybe I should just go back and chill for half an hour? - no, I’m on a crepes mission.
There on a rather shabby corner – ‘Maison des Crepes’ – sounds about right. I peer through the misty windows – looks perfect.

Inside, a table by the window, ‘Le menu madame?’ ‘Merci.’
Crepes Mikado – vanilla ice cream, cream, hot chocolate sauce – mmm. Rather a lot of hot chocolate lately. What else is on the menu?
Crepes Marie Galante – bananas, rum, raisins, nuts. Sounds good.
‘... avec chantilly, s’il vous plait. Et un cappuccino.’
Two little girls, aged about 8 or 9, on the next table. One gestures to the spare chair on the other side of my table, says something, I smile, nod, and she moves it across. They perch on the edges of their chairs, kicking their legs and chattering while the waitress brings their hot chocolate and my coffee.
Here comes Papa, to occupy my spare chair – oh la la! Blond, bespectacled, looks Flemish but definitely Francophone – there again, the Crazy Frog is red-blond with those deep blue eyes and lop-sided grin and that throaty laugh... for god’s sake woman, get a grip.
I stir the froth on my coffee, and watch the drizzle through the window.
After this, it will be work and friendship and arguing and laughter and hugs and debate and drinking beer and no more sitting on my own in cafes scribbling in notebooks.
And here are my crepes – what could be more orgasmic?

Fin

My Eastern European friends have gone back to the hotel to rest, and I set off to find the botanic gardens. The way doesn’t seem so grim today, but the nineteenth and twentieth century parts of the city don’t have the charm of the mediaeval town.

I cross the grim flyovers. Behind the 19th century glass house of Le Botanique loom the sleek glass towers of the business district. The parterres and the statuary remain, but the collection has been moved elsewhere.

The Bruxellois do seem to love their statues –well, if not love them exactly, at least they respect them more than they deserve.

I buy a coffee from the bar inside the old Orangerie, take a seat on the terrace, and check my phone again. Two messages from Ilze. Somehow, even though it is in my trouser pocket, I never notice the vibrations.
“Where are you? I’m at the Arcadi with Hanne and Daniel.”
Reply: “I was there an hour ago with Marika and Gabriella. I’m at the botanic gardens.”
“We’re having lunch. Arto has just arrived.”
Reply: “See you soon.”
I finish my coffee, and head back towards the old town. But when I reach the Arcadi, they’ve already left. I check for messages – they have gone to the hotel ‘for a rest’.
And it starts to rain.
So, lunch – on my own, it seems. No problem. But what? Where?
The first time I ever came to Brussels, the first night here, we had dinner at the Roy D’Espagne, and I had stoempf (bubble and squeak) with ham and sausages. We’ve never been back, but I liked it. I should have gone there for dinner last night – we’re bound to go to the Thai place tonight.
So, lunch.
Through the Galeries Hubert, through the huddles of people sheltering from the torrents. I fish my brolly from my bag, open it up, ‘mad dogs and Englishwomen...' and strike out, smiling, down the alley and across the Place.

I made this video of the cathedral bells, but I can't find any way of rotating it

(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.