Spook!

When I was 10 years old, I picked up a book in my local library which had a satellite photo of the Earth on its cover. However, this was no normal photo because where the North Pole should be was just a black circle which on further investigation by me was the entrance to to the interior of the planet where all sorts of wonderful beings lived, or so the author would have us believe. The Hollow Earth theory is quite an old one but very new to my 10 year self. I borrowed the book and for the next four weeks it sat on the book shelf in my room, unread except for the photos in the centre of the book. I don't know why I remember the book so well. I do have a sort of photographic memory when it comes to books, I may forget a title but I can remember within 20 odd pages if I have read it before. That book, however, got me interested in the paranormal and all things strange. I take that sort of thing with a pinch of salt. I'm a paranormal agnostic, I'll believe it when I see it! Talk to most people in Britain and they can recount a story about something strange that happened to them or someone they know. Britain is, after all, a land full of myth and legend.
I don't have a ghost story to tell you this Halloween. I can tell you the strangest thing to have happened to me, though. This happened a good 10-15 years. I was alone in the house except for my dalmation. I awoke one morning, walked out of my bedroom and noticed my car keys on the mat next to the front door. I didn't think much of this, but thought it a little strange that I hadn't heard them fall, my keyring at that time contained around 5 keys. However, when I picked them up, my front door key was bent at a 45° angle. I am still puzzled by it. The force it takes to bend a yale key would have to be quite deliberate as I would imagine that it is impossible to bend a key like that without trying to. It took some effort to return it to its original shape I can tell you. There are of course plenty of explanations, all of which I'm willing to except, the most obvious one being that I did it without realising I had done it and the least obvious being Uri Geller broke into my house during the night! We had, and still do have, a key hook right next to the door. Hanging up my keys was a force of habit in the same way that putting your seat belt on is when you get in the car. It's automatic. That's my slightly spooky Halloween story. Not exactly going to leave anyone sleeping with the lights on tonight. But, it is the strangest thing that has happened to me and I just thought I'd share it with you.

Happy Halloween

Green and Pleasant

It's already been established in a previous post that our house, is a very, very nice house. The garden isn't too shabby either. I've never been a gardener, the only time I've had green fingers was due to a very nasty skin complaint that I'd rather not talk about. However, I suddenly find myself staring at the plot of land at the back of our house and, well, feel this overwhelming urge to attack it with gardening equipment!
Last sunday, we bought a leaf rake. Yesterday, I entered the floral arena, weapon in hand, and spent a rather pleasant hour making a pile of leaves. I even found a dead shrew! Wow! This gardening lark is actually pretty exciting! I left the shrew on top of the pile of leaves as bait in the hope of attracting more exotic forms of wildlife but so far all I've seen was a neighbours cat pooing near the big shed.
I am determined to grow something in the garden. We both want to grow herbs, so I think that's a good start.

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Bump

Our house is a very, very nice house...but like the majority of Belgian houses, it is equipped with shutters on the windows. I call them shutters, I'm not entirely sure if that is the correct term. They are not the Alpine variety you get on buildings in Austria, but rather a type of roller blind, usually white and in our house you have to say 'heave ho, heave ho...' when you pull them up as they feel like someone is doing exactly the same thing as you are, on the other end. I'm thinking of using them to work out with.
In my experience I have never seen a house with these sort of shutters in Britain, although I do remember seeing a badly made commercial for them at the local cinema every now and then. When fully closed at night, the shutters make the house as dark as the black hole of Calcutta, or maybe some other really dark place. Our bedroom is so dark that you can't see your hand in front of your face. It's not even possible to let your eyes adjust to the darkness.
On occasion I get up in the middle of the night to empty my bladder and not wanting to disturb the household, I creep around as quietly as I can. I could turn the light on in the hallway, but the light switch is of the old variety, a black thing that goes CLICK when you use it. So last night I had to spend a penny and like the secret lemonade drinker ( you might want to google that one) I crept around the house, as quiet as a mouse. On my return to the bedroom, feeling fairly pleased with my ninja abilities, I walked smack bang into the door of our bedroom. In fact, I walked into the thinnest, hardest part of the door. Luckily, I hit it with the hardest part of my body, my head, but the ensuing BONK woke everyone up, whilst almost sending me to sleep with little birdies flying and tweeting around my head. My wife kindly placed a torch on the bedside cabinet for me to use in future...

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Mornings.

I don't have a lot to say for myself today. I took the photo that accompanies this mini-post at about 8.30am this morning. It's not the first time since we have been here in our new home that a picture has been taken of the morning skyline. In Britain we have a saying and it goes like this:
Red sky at night, shepherds delight.
Red sky in the morning, shepherds warning.
It's usually a pretty accurate little rhyme. I'm not a meteorologist so I'm not sure why.

UPDATE: 11.28 am... Bright sunshine...slight breeze...actually, weather near enough the same as the photo.
Just to make a liar out of me...

News Flash!

Two big spoons missing for the past 14 days have been found safe and well in a draw located in the kitchen. A police spokesman has described the spoons as being tired but in remarkably good condition. The spoons are now back with the rest of the over sized cutlery and are said to be eager to return to work as soon as possible.

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Misplaced

Anyone who has moved house will be well aware of the pleasures of finding a space for all of the stuff that you accumulate over the years. When people move house in the movies they are usually relocated by competent looking men, dressed in brown overalls, who carry everything into the house and place it where they are ordered to by the lady of the house. Within 30 minutes the house looks like it has never been empty and every piece of furniture looks like it has been made for the very spot that it finds itself in. The good looking and slightly tired couple who have just been moved relax on the sofa with a gin and tonic...slice of lime...and some ice.
In real life you put everything into the nearest available space and watch with dismay as that space becomes less and less available. Once the removal lorry has been emptied, the kettle, which has been lovingly transported in the car along with the posh wine glasses, is produced and a nice cup of tea is made. The removal men would like a coffee. Although we never drink coffee, we have a box that we keep for such an occasion. One of the men would like sugar. We don't take sugar with our tea and so the sugar is kept at the back of a cupboard, on a shelf, next to moth balls and rat poison. So sugar is basically a non-essential and was packed in an unmarked box. I opened and investigated 4 boxes before the removal man told me not to bother. 4 boxes!!
Over the next few days and weeks a familiar pattern emerges. A box is opened, looked into, an object is lifted out and I scratch my head and wonder what the hell it is and where should I put it. I usually put it back in the box and go onto the next one. Because of this action, we now have a sizable summer house(big shed) and a cellar full of boxes and black sacks.
Yesterday I spent 5 hours painstakingly going through the boxes and bags looking for a pair of large spoons that we use to dish up rice and whatever we have with it. They are not expensive items, but they are items that we use a lot. I don't remember packing them. I know they are not in the old apartment because I went through it with a fine toothed comb (British expression meaning I had a bloody good look round!). But I cannot find them. They are not in any of the bags or boxes. They are not in any of the suitcases. They are not hiding in any draws that reside in cabinets. They have disappeared.
I do miss them...
By the way, I have never lived in a house with a cellar. Never. It's rather exciting and mysterious. It looks old and has a window, which is at least 6 feet below ground level. You can open the window a little bit but what's the point?

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The Bike...War is Over

I've spent a bit of time writing about my dislike, some would say hatred, of the humble bicycle. I may have come across as someone in favour of special bike prisons, like the one in the photograph that accompanies this post. Well I want to make it clear here and now that I don't hate bicyles, in fact, I have just returned from a short exploratory ride of some of the roads that surround my new home.
No, I don't hate bicycles. I hate the fact that cyclists in Belgium have some sort of idiotic immunity that allows them to act like idiots. This is not their fault, I understand it is some sort of law in Belgium that makes some people ride their bikes without brains engaged (please note that some is italics to bring to your attention that I'm not talking about all cyclists...just most of them. Any angry cyclist should put themselves in the 'he's not talking about me' bracket).
The first indication of what I call 'the suicidal tendencies of the Belgian cyclist' came to me on the same day I arrived in the country. We were driving down the road and to my amazement I watched cyclists riding across the main road and across side roads without a care in the world. I found this rather strange. It was almost as if people were playing a game of 'dare' with car drivers, as in, 'I dare you to hit me with your car'. I was told that drivers in Belgium must always be on the lookout for cyclists as they have more rights than the driver when it comes to a car vs bicycle accident. In a perfect world this would be a good, if not great idea. But it's not a perfect world and people are definitely not perfect. This rule has simply made the Belgian cyclist believe he is indestructible and is a great example of the blame culture that is developing around the world.
If it's always the other persons fault then I don't have to be responsible for my own actions.
If you are unlucky enough to live in a fairly big town in Belgium then you can expect this sort of thing:
1) A pavement split into 2, one for pedestrians and both for cyclists. I say both because although there should be a separate bicycle path and foot path, most cyclists treat the 2 paths as fair game. Many cyclists take their bikes shopping. That's fine, except when they stand them in the middle of the footpath, which is usually much narrower than the bike path.
2) Motor Scooters are allowed to use the cycle paths. So you have a vehicle that travels at speeds of up to 30mph being driven very close to where you are walking. Believe me when I say that someone riding one of these things can't help but ride it fast.
3) Tour de France wannabe's. These are usually lycra clad men who think they are in a race with every other cyclist on the cycle path. Unwilling to ride around them they torment the offending cyclist with a ting ting on their bell. Unfortunately the offending rider is usually an old man or lady and the sound of the bell seems to affect their ability to ride as they head at a slow speed, handle bars and wheels wobbling furiously as they try to get out of the speed freaks way. Where do they ride to? Why, the foot path of course!
4) Children. Kids are the best. They ride with their friends, usually 4 abreast. Taking up the whole footpath and in my experience the worst of these is the teenage girl. Most kids swerve out of your way when they approach. Teenage girls will usually aim the bike at you and then expect you to throw yourself against the wall as she rides gracefully past. If you don't then you are treated to a look that could curdle milk.
5) Zebra crossings. A cyclist thinks that because they are not a motorist then they don't have to follow any rules when it comes to someone waiting to cross the road. As an avid walker, I have on more than one occasion had to dodge out of the way of a bicylce as I have crossed the road. Admittedly, on some of the newer bike paths, there are traffic lights that tell a cyclist to stop when a car has to. But usually they are ignored.
So you see, I'm not anti bike. I'm anti cyclist. Or, maybe I'm anti whoever made these laws up allowing the cyclist to disengage brain when riding.
As I said, I had a short ride earlier, on the road, because there are no cycle paths here. I had to be aware of other road users, moving over slightly to allow a passing car as much space as I could safely give. Stopping at a T-junction and checking that it was safe to continue. That sort of thing. It was cold but sunny. I could get used to cycling again!
The photo was actually taken at Rock Werchter earlier in the year. It amuses me than thousands of people would go to a rock festival by bike. That cycle park was one of many.

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Moved

Moving house. What a pain in the bum! During my 45 years, I have moved house a few times and I've got to say that it doesn't get any easier. My first, and I hope last, experience of moving from an apartment was something I have no wish to repeat!
We now find ourselves in a place I have heard described as 'the wild west' and 'that godforsaken place'. Obviously by people who have never visited the region because I love it here! We have gone from being close to the Dutch border to very close to the French border and an hour and 20 minutes closer to the ferry terminal at Dunkirk...I can almost smell the fish and chips!
I suppose it's all a matter of perspective. Some people find that living in towns to be perfect for them, whilst others prefer life in the country. Not only do I find this part of Belgium pleasing on the eye, I also love the lack of people here.
We enjoy going to the cinema. In Belgium they have the Kinepolis, a fantastic chain of cinemas which are, I'm sorry to say, better than anything I've ever been in in Britain. We used to visit the Kinepolis in Antwerp, which involved a 30-45 minutes drive and then a slow drive around the car park, looking for a space and finally hordes of people doing people stuff. Last night we decided to visit our local Kinepolis to see the movie District 9 (a fantastic movie!). The journey took us 7 minutes and we parked straight away. We had pre-booked our tickets online but needn't have bothered as the cinema was only a quarter full. I'm not saying that we didn't enjoy our visits to Antwerp, but our Kortrijk visit was a damn sight easier!
As I said, we are close to the French border. We are even closer to the Wallonian border; Wallonia is where the people speak French instead of Dutch. It just so happens that our nearest Hubo (DIY store) was in Wallonia, so we jumped in the car and paid it a visit. It's very strange to drive through a country and suddenly find the street signs change from, for example, Kerk Straat to Rue de Marche. When we lived in Malle one would often see Dutch number plates on cars, now we see French number plates. After our visit to Hubo, we popped into a supermarket next door, a French chain I had never seen before. My wife said what I was thinking:" It's like being on holiday!" The shelves were stocked with French goods as well as those more familiar to me, everyone was speaking in French and it was a little bit surreal. All this just a 5 minutes drive from our home.

A Brief Break

I hope you have enjoyed the Steptoe and Son videos this week. I find as I get older, I get more and more nostalgic. Steptoe was a big favourite of mine when I was growing up. I haven't seen this particular episode for a good few years but I think it's still funny. I was watching Life on Mars the other night with my wife, as you probably know, the show is set in 1973 and I suddenly found myself ridiculously nostalgic over the appearance of the humble Blakey. A blakey was one of 2 things for anyone growing up in Britain in the 1970's. It may have been the Inspector who gave bus driver Butler and his mates a hard time in the comedy show On the Buses, his catch phrase of "I hate you Butler" was a staple of impressionists (that would be the comedians, not the painters).
The blakey I refer to is, or was, I have no idea if they still make them, a small piece of metal shaped like a segment of satsuma and nailed into the heel of shoes to help save the heel from wearing out. For school boys in the 1970's, a blakey ranked along with a rubiks cube as the must have item. A blakey produced the most wonderful clicking noise when you walked, the school corridor would often sound as if an army of tap dancers was walking along it. But I think the real reason for the blakeys popularity was that, when struck quickly and with some force on the floor, it would produce a spark! Of course parents found that their children's shoes were mysteriously wearing out even faster with the use of a blakey than without!
Well, as stated earlier in the week, we are moving house this weekend. Because of this I shall not be posting for a week or so.

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