Revenge of the Little Black Dogs...

We had the windows in our house replaced the other day. It turned out to be the coldest day in Belgium since the great freeze of 1562, when '...men froze where they stood in their trousers...' and icebergs floated down the Ijzer. So having your windows taken out and laying your home open to the elements was not ideal. Sure there was a certain novelty in walking around with a hat, coat and gloves on and not having to go outside. Having the front door open all day, or should I say having no front door all day, presented a peculiar problem. Sometime during the morning one of the workmen asked me if I had a dog. I followed his gaze and saw standing in the middle of our living room a French Bulldog, wagging its poor excuse for a tail and looking like he owned the place. He didn't take much coaxing out of the room and out again into the street, but as soon as I walked back into the house, he followed me in. The next time I got him out into the street I looked around for someone who looked like they had lost a dog. Rather annoyingly the only person I saw looked like they had lost a cat. After some minutes of me walking into the house and the dog following me in I reverted to shouting at it and waving my arms in a menacing manner, which wasn't very menacing to be honest. Waving your arms around only makes you look like a demented bird trying to fly. Eventually the door was put on and the dog had to stand on his back legs whilst his front legs were resting against the wall, and look into the house through the window-less holes at the front of the house. However, he took every opportunity during the day to nip into the house every time the front door was open. I don't know who's dog he is, I've not seen him on my travels. Towards lunch time he left the front of our house and trotted off down the road, the conspiracy theorist in me wondered if he was going to report to ninja-yappy. He came back in the afternoon, had a dump on the drive (not easy to clear up on a loose stone floor) and disappeared down the road, never to be seen again. I hope...

News from the Wild West of Flanders...One

He is black, furry and as big as a small dog. Actually, he is a small dog. Half Ninja, half yappy. He lives in a cafe and hides in shrubbery, waiting for an un-suspecting victim to pass. I have been aware of him ever since I first walked past him because he stepped out of the shrubbery and onto the pavement. I suspect he had got bored waiting for someone to pass and decided to stretch his legs because as soon as he saw me he darted back to his hiding place and tried to blend in with his surroundings. I gave him a knowing look as I walked past, and he looked at me with a sheepish expression on his face, which isn't easy for a dog.

Since that day I have passed his hiding place with an air of alpha-male superiority, always giving him the eyeball as I passed and watching as he tried to back even further into the shadows.

In recent weeks I have walked a different path. Eager to explore my surroundings for connecting paths and roads. Today I walked past the cafe, my mind on the podcast I was listening to, yappy-ninja completely forgotten about. I bet he couldn't believe his luck as he watched me walk towards him. I hate being surprised, whether it's by someone saying 'surprise!' and handing you a present or a dog suddenly jumping out at you and going 'YAP! YAP! YAP!' Luckily, I wasn't holding anything breakable. Had I been carrying a box of eggs or maybe a tray of crystal glasses (as you do when you go for a walk) then they would have made a nice accompaniment to my shout of 'WAAAH!' and my arms suddenly shooting up into the air. To be honest, the dog couldn't have bitten my hands even if it had been standing on a box, it's that small! Heart in mouth, I resisted the urge to kick the things arse as it saunterd...saunterd!...back into the shrubbery.

Party

Peanuts.
Mini-Sausage rolls.
Crisps.
Cheese and Pineapple on a stick.
Cocktail Sausages.
Chicken Nuggets.
Mini-Pork Pies.
Cheesy Nibbles.
Sandwiches.
Dips and Bread Sticks for Dipping.
Voluvents.
Vegetables tastefully sliced into sticks.
None of the above were available at the party I went to last saturday. People of Belgium, party food is not a bowl of soup! Party food is peanuts and crisps and all of the above. Beer loves peanuts, wine adores a chicken nugget. It one of the fundamental laws of nature which I sometimes find missing in Belgium. I have never been to a party or social gathering in this country and seen the merest hint of a bowl of nuts. I even had to take my own to a party last Christmas!
I dislike parties intensely. I don't mix well, especially without a pile of nuts cupped in my hand. It's not you dear party goer, it's me. I find it hard to talk to people I don't know. It's always been the same. I can remember pretending to be asleep whenever my parents took my siblings and I to friends houses because I was too shy to talk to them. I tried this on saturday but my wife kept on waking me up!
The party on saturday started off particularly difficult for me. The first thing the host said to me was:
"I read your first 2 posts, then forgot all about it."
Which was heart warming and inspirational.
I was then faced with a long table full of local politicians. (Don't ask)
The first thing anyone said to me was about the outcry in Britain about the Belgian bloke taking up Presidential duties as head of the EU.
In boxing parlance I was immediately fighting on the ropes.
Should I have explained that I don't represent the British People in any official capacity? Or should I have just explained that the news article they were referring to was written in a newspaper that still has front page headlines about princess Diana, over a decade after her death?
I took the later option but only after venturing an opinion about Belgian politics and its habit of changing Prime Ministers every year or so.
I think that round was drawn.
Despite the lack of peanuts, the evening turned out ok. I found myself in the company of people who I sort of know but only meet at parties. We soon discovered a mutual interest in books and music and spent a few hours waxing lyrical about our favourites. We made the long journey back home hungry, sober and with a long list of books to read, most of which I couldn't remember to save my life.

Welke Taal etc....

Doesn't time fly? One minute I'm complaining about fireworks and the next two weeks have gone by! I guess you can expect more of the same in the future. In this part of Belgium they talk with a funny accent. I think I've already said this before. I talk with a funny accent wherever I go on this side of the English Channel. My understanding of the dutch language hasn't really got any better. Why? Because people don't ever speak their language the way that foreigners learn it. Sure, it's quite easy to get the gist of what people mean when they talk about something whether you can understand the words or not. A trick I learnt for using at parties is to nod and smile, follow the talkers facial expressions. The problem usually comes when they ask you a question. I was standing in a queue this morning in Delhaize and an old chap in front of me placed a divider down between my food and his. I said thank you, because I'm polite, and I followed his facial expressions to register the correct response. Slightly mischievous smile and his statement ending on a slighty raised note indicating to me that he was making a slight joke ending in a question. I went through the appropriate responses and chose to answer in a small hearty chuckle and "Ja". Well he looked at me as if I had just kicked his dog, moved his food as far away as he could from mine and muttered something under his breath.
So, that happens sometimes. I had a man ring the doorbell last week and stood listening to him for a good 2 minutes before telling him that I didn't understand a word he was saying. So he repeated it. We both silently agreed that him telling me again wouldn't make a blind bit of difference and we parted on amicable terms. I guessed he was trying to sell me something, as were the scouts who turned up just this past saturday. The youngest, red of cheek, held up a manky bag of bread rolls and asked me something in the kind of voice that made me wonder if the older, taller scout behind him was poking him with a stick.
I guessed he was asking me if I wanted to buy his bread rolls, although why he would think that I don't know. Maybe he had found them outside on the pavement and was doing a good deed by asking me"are these bread rolls yours?I found them on the pavement". I didn't have to search far for the appropriate response this time.
At the end of the queue I was in this morning I encountered a new problem. I always talk in Dutch, or something similar to Dutch. I just need a few stock words...ja, nee, bedankt. That will usually suffice. This morning I had luncheon vouchers to use.

Me: Ik heb maaltijd cheques...ses euros.
Check out lady: Ok that will be six please.
Me: Een..
Check out lady: One..
Me: Twee...
Check out lady: Two...

I suddenly found myself losing the power of thought. She continued to speak in English and I continued to mumble in Dutchney. It was all starting to confuse me. She was speaking English and I was speaking Dutch. A part of me was telling me that it's ok to speak English now, she has found you out...but I couldn't. We had the scenario of me bidding her 'goede dag' whilst she bid me 'goodbye'...I left the store grinning and feeling slightly ridiculous for some reason.
How did she know I was English, my pronunciation was perfect...ahem...maybe she had x-ray vision and could see my Union flag underpants.

Bang!

Remember remember the fifth of November Gunpowder, treason and plot.

I see no reason why gunpowder, treason

Should ever be forgot...

And it hasn't been forgotten. In the year 1605 Guy Fawkes was caught trying to blow up the Houses of Parliament (no comment), tried and convicted as a traitor and then hung, drawn and quartered. A year later the king and members of Parliament commissioned a sermon to be read every November 5th and the above rhyme is one such example. It's a rhyme I learnt as a child and one that is still repeated today.

It was compulsory to celebrate Guy Fawkes night until 1859 and I suppose because the populace had to celebrate, then they decided to do it in style. In time, people began to make effigies to burn on bonfires and when fireworks became more readily available then they too were implemented into the celebrations. As children we would make a guy from old clothes, stuffed with newspaper and place a mask made from the same pulpy paper they used to make egg boxes from on its head. The guy would be taken to a good spot, usually the Red Lion pub, and my brother and me would demand 'a penny for the guy' from passers-by and the occasional drunk. The making of a guy was an integral part of earning money to buy fireworks but to be quite honest all of our money went on Black Jacks and Fruit Salads in the sweet shop. I've not seen anyone with a guy for many years, I expect it still goes on, but in the 70's you couldn't walk along the high street without some snotty nosed kid thrusting his hand in front of your face and demanding money.

Confession time.

I hate Fireworks. A close encounter with the wrong end of a sparkler turned me off at a very early age. Ok, maybe hate is too strong a word, I don't stand at the window shaking a fist at a passing rocket, but I do dislike them. I could always take them or leave them and the only time in recent years that I have attended a party on fireworks night resulted in a lot of beer drinking and a number of fireworks falling over and chasing screaming kids around the garden. It was a very surreal night...bloody funny at the time though.

I think it's time we stopped tormenting Guy Fawkes, he has been punished enough. Besides, I see today that MP's in Britain want to award themselves a £40,000 a year pay rise...you can insert your own ending here .............................................................................