In Belgium the 31 December is known as Old Year's Evening as opposed to New Year's Eve. As I write this I am braced for the tide of children and accompanying adults who will begin to call on our house to sing. A tradition here is to go out and sing on Old Year's Evening and be rewarded with sweets, it is a bit like Trick or Treat but without the Halloween costumes.
I don't know whether this is a local thing or a national thing but I am glad it doesn't happen on New Years Day otherwise the reception they get would be less than pleasant.
Anyway the kids are meant to sing a song, apparently the same one and I wish I knew what it meant. The adults accompanying them do so at a safe distance, you have to feel for them having to get up even earlier than their victims to prepare the kids for their frosty outing. One year I had forgotten they were coming and therefore had no sweets ready, we really scraped the barrel that year, they got all of the rejected sweets from Christmas. This year we have bought sweets especially for the occasion, they are candy necklaces, the ones where you can bite halfway through a candy loop and then fire the other half across the room using the elasticated necklace. It can be quite effective at close range!
They have until 12.00 then all bets are off, so far we have not had anyone and it is 08.42. I wonder if being midweek and a working day it has had an impact on the numbers of parents able to escort the kids?
It is a bit odd but I feel I cannot go to the toilet until 12.00! I mean it is not like waiting for a delivery or a tradesman to turn up, I think I should be able to afford missing one or two renditions of the song for the sake of comfort. Sods law as soon as I get to the bog the door bell will go. I was thinking of answering the door in my underpants but then I don't want to scare the neighbours.
The cat is peacefully laid next to me on his special fur rug, he is even snoring. He was harassing me earlier, well seeking attention.
Back in the UK we never did this singing malarkey as a child, we did work. We used to go around clearing snow from paths and getting rewarded for it, sometimes well other times not so well. Child labour, you can't beat it.
Tuesday, 31 December 2013
Sunday, 1 December 2013
Wasps! Quick Call The Fire Brigade!
During the Summer we noticed that there seemed to be quite a few wasps around our garden and although they did not pose a problem as such it was a concern. Towards the end of the Summer I noticed that there seemed to be a bit of a swarm above our bedroom window, the nest, it would appear, was between our roof and the insulation in the loft. At the time An and I were lying on the lawn looking up and we decided that the weather would soon bring a frost and that they did not seem to be doing any harm. That was to change.
As the weather got colder the wasps started to find a way into our house, which at first was not so obvious. We would regularly come home from work and find the odd one gazing, longingly out of the window. We eventually found out that they were coming through the light fitting in our bedroom. If you have ever seen The abominable Dr Phibes you can understand my slight concerns with them getting into our room at night. Enough was enough, An called the fire brigade.
In the UK you can call the local council or a pest control company and they will sort out your problem, but here in Belgium it is the fire brigade that sort out wasps. In fact the sister-in-law has called them out no less than 7 times, I think there is a pattern developing here...
Now before you get excited the fire brigade does not turn up en masse, no, they make an appointment and two of them (in our case) turn up with a flat bed truck, a ladder and some chemical spray in a dispenser. The two who showed up in our case were like chalk n' cheese, one had a face only a mother could love and the other, who was about 12, looked like he could have been a stripper part time. I was out when they eventually arrived leaving An to show them to our bedroom! They got right to work and I caught them after they had finished. It was awkward, I mean what do you say to a couple of firemen who walk out of your bedroom as you get home? All innocent I assure you! Anyway they sprayed a few of the wasps and the idea was that they would infect the rest when they went back into the nest and they should all die off in about 4 days. They also assured us that they would not have damaged the insulation or the roof and that they will not return the following year.
Roll on two weeks and we had no less than 20 or so wasps coming though the light fitting in dribs and drabs, in fact after the visit there were about 5 or so on day one. The poison was working but I was not keen that they were potentially falling onto my head as they escaped from Agent Orange.
This morning at around 6am I woke almost instantly to the feeling of something landing on my chest and rolling down my t-shirt. Faster than any Ninja and realising the possibility that a somewhat drowsy wasp was potentially about to attack my tits, I sprang up lifting my top and backing away from the area of the bed near the pillow. Now at this point I was not sure if I was imagining it but it was too late for that, An remained in slumber as I did what any sensible person would do and I switched on the bedside lamp, this was a mistake but then a blessing. The wasp saw the light and, forgive the pun, made a beeline for it! Now the thing had some energy from the warmth of the light as he began to play pinball in the lampshade. An was now rousing from her sleep as I alerted her to our intruder.
The wasp in the meantime was now quite active having had the equivalent of a defibrillator activated against its hairy ass. It flew out of the lampshade and smacked into the wall dropping behind the headboard. An helpfully said 'well, what now?' I was actually relieved as the chances of the wasp getting up of the floor were quite slim judging by the previous victims we had seen. That was not good enough though, we could not let this rest. We started to move the bed but on doing so to our horror we noticed the amount of dust that had gathered there and that the wasp was somewhat overwhelmed by it. Making a mental note to hoover at some point soon, I realised that I would require the arms of an orangutan in order to get to the wasp and kill it. Not having an orangutan handy I had to think of something and quick before he made a bid for freedom. At this point he went for it and got under the skirting board, to the protest and despair of An. It was not to last. I grabbed a towel and by that time he had come back out, presumably not finding the cramped conditions to his liking. I dropped the towel onto him and dragged it to the side of the bed, An then did the deed and killed him. Now we were awake at 6 am on a Sunday morning, bloody marvellous!
I managed, much to the annoyance of An, to get back to sleep. I drempt of being based in a WWII airfield that was being bombed, I had to man my anti-aircraft gun with my crew and I had difficulty finding them in the dark. An did eventually get to sleep and she drempt about giant wasps chewing their way through the brickwork!!!!!!! Make of that what you will.
Anyway just remember if you need to get rid of wasps then call the fire brigade, they cost about 28 euros and will come back out if they don't manage to get them the first time round. So as well as getting rid of the wasps you can get a free show too!
As the weather got colder the wasps started to find a way into our house, which at first was not so obvious. We would regularly come home from work and find the odd one gazing, longingly out of the window. We eventually found out that they were coming through the light fitting in our bedroom. If you have ever seen The abominable Dr Phibes you can understand my slight concerns with them getting into our room at night. Enough was enough, An called the fire brigade.
In the UK you can call the local council or a pest control company and they will sort out your problem, but here in Belgium it is the fire brigade that sort out wasps. In fact the sister-in-law has called them out no less than 7 times, I think there is a pattern developing here...
Now before you get excited the fire brigade does not turn up en masse, no, they make an appointment and two of them (in our case) turn up with a flat bed truck, a ladder and some chemical spray in a dispenser. The two who showed up in our case were like chalk n' cheese, one had a face only a mother could love and the other, who was about 12, looked like he could have been a stripper part time. I was out when they eventually arrived leaving An to show them to our bedroom! They got right to work and I caught them after they had finished. It was awkward, I mean what do you say to a couple of firemen who walk out of your bedroom as you get home? All innocent I assure you! Anyway they sprayed a few of the wasps and the idea was that they would infect the rest when they went back into the nest and they should all die off in about 4 days. They also assured us that they would not have damaged the insulation or the roof and that they will not return the following year.
Roll on two weeks and we had no less than 20 or so wasps coming though the light fitting in dribs and drabs, in fact after the visit there were about 5 or so on day one. The poison was working but I was not keen that they were potentially falling onto my head as they escaped from Agent Orange.
This morning at around 6am I woke almost instantly to the feeling of something landing on my chest and rolling down my t-shirt. Faster than any Ninja and realising the possibility that a somewhat drowsy wasp was potentially about to attack my tits, I sprang up lifting my top and backing away from the area of the bed near the pillow. Now at this point I was not sure if I was imagining it but it was too late for that, An remained in slumber as I did what any sensible person would do and I switched on the bedside lamp, this was a mistake but then a blessing. The wasp saw the light and, forgive the pun, made a beeline for it! Now the thing had some energy from the warmth of the light as he began to play pinball in the lampshade. An was now rousing from her sleep as I alerted her to our intruder.
The wasp in the meantime was now quite active having had the equivalent of a defibrillator activated against its hairy ass. It flew out of the lampshade and smacked into the wall dropping behind the headboard. An helpfully said 'well, what now?' I was actually relieved as the chances of the wasp getting up of the floor were quite slim judging by the previous victims we had seen. That was not good enough though, we could not let this rest. We started to move the bed but on doing so to our horror we noticed the amount of dust that had gathered there and that the wasp was somewhat overwhelmed by it. Making a mental note to hoover at some point soon, I realised that I would require the arms of an orangutan in order to get to the wasp and kill it. Not having an orangutan handy I had to think of something and quick before he made a bid for freedom. At this point he went for it and got under the skirting board, to the protest and despair of An. It was not to last. I grabbed a towel and by that time he had come back out, presumably not finding the cramped conditions to his liking. I dropped the towel onto him and dragged it to the side of the bed, An then did the deed and killed him. Now we were awake at 6 am on a Sunday morning, bloody marvellous!
I managed, much to the annoyance of An, to get back to sleep. I drempt of being based in a WWII airfield that was being bombed, I had to man my anti-aircraft gun with my crew and I had difficulty finding them in the dark. An did eventually get to sleep and she drempt about giant wasps chewing their way through the brickwork!!!!!!! Make of that what you will.
Anyway just remember if you need to get rid of wasps then call the fire brigade, they cost about 28 euros and will come back out if they don't manage to get them the first time round. So as well as getting rid of the wasps you can get a free show too!
Saturday, 30 November 2013
Learning Dutch
It has been some time since I last wrote on the blog, work has been somewhat busy as has life in general. Anyway I am due to change career in about a years time and as such I am exploring the possibility of seeking employment in Brussels. To further this aim I have started to take Dutch evening classes.
One can argue that it is probably better to learn French, that being the language most widely spoken in Brussels, but I also wish to hold decent conversations with my family and argue effectively with my wife (only kidding)!
The course which I signed up to back in August was for 1 evening per week from 18.15 - 21.30. The course lasts an entire academic year and ranges in levels from 1 to 8. You can take up to three evenings per week but for me that would be quite unworkable. I would only need to do 1 term to complete level 1 and thus if I had the time it would be quite handy. We were left under no illusion though, homework is a must, so clearly if you can allow the study to dominate your life then you are ok, if not then it has to be at a more reasonable pace.
The course I have enrolled in is subsidised by the Flemish Government and costs only 72 Euros, which is quite outstanding value for money.
The only drawback for me is that I have to commute from work through the hellish rush hour to get to my school in Leuven in good time to begin. Most of the time it has not been a problem but it does not take much to stop the traffic dead. I have had to miss a couple of lessons so far due to work but you are allowed to miss a given percentage and still pass the course. I am quite lucky as I have been studying Dutch for around 7 years and therefore it is relatively straightforward. I must add that I am in level 1, as my grammar and writing is not good enough for level 2. The result of that is I am way ahead of most of the class and I can understand almost everything the tutor is saying (the lesson is delivered in Dutch with occasional English explanations).
My class is quite a mixed bunch in terms of nationality and profession. There are Spanish, British, French, German, Italian, Bosnian, Russian and Ukrainian people. All of them are quite pleasant and cheerful, despite us all being tired after working during the day. Some, like myself, are quite good others struggle a bit. There is a break at around 20.00 for a coffee, chat, toilet and smoke (if that spins your props).
The format of the lessons varies with one to one with classmates, delivery by the tutor, video, written exercises, repetition and questions from the tutor. Having taken the Teaching English as a Foreign Language, it is not quite as varied as that but it is enough. As an example we recently discussed prepositions, there were no practical exercises to demonstrate these. In one lesson I had to explain to my colleague the individual components of a sentence so that he could understand what it was that he had to say as an answer. The question was 'What was the name of your first pet?' I had to explain this without the benefit of English as he did not understand that. The tutor did not feel the need to demonstrate the difference between mine and yours (which I did with the aid of a pen), what a pet (huisdier) was, what first (eerst) meant etc. To be fair he was a complete beginner but then that was level 1! Still it helped me in developing my communications skills and ability to teach too!
The problem with knowing more than what is being taught is that I end up not giving the model answer and also I am sometimes caught out with things that I simply do not know and have not taken the time to learn. I discovered recently that asking how someone is should get a specific reply for example - Hoe gaat het met jouw? Met mij gaat het goed. Most people will respond with just one word goed, prima, slecht etc. So I have learnt how I should reply even if in reality people do not use the rest of the phrase. In fact most just say Hoe gaat het? or Alles kits achter the ritz? My spelling maybe out and that latter question is basically 'how's it hanging?' and is usually just said between men.
Anyway the company that provides the course is Groep T and I would recommend it if you are in the Leuven region.
One can argue that it is probably better to learn French, that being the language most widely spoken in Brussels, but I also wish to hold decent conversations with my family and argue effectively with my wife (only kidding)!
The course which I signed up to back in August was for 1 evening per week from 18.15 - 21.30. The course lasts an entire academic year and ranges in levels from 1 to 8. You can take up to three evenings per week but for me that would be quite unworkable. I would only need to do 1 term to complete level 1 and thus if I had the time it would be quite handy. We were left under no illusion though, homework is a must, so clearly if you can allow the study to dominate your life then you are ok, if not then it has to be at a more reasonable pace.
The course I have enrolled in is subsidised by the Flemish Government and costs only 72 Euros, which is quite outstanding value for money.
The only drawback for me is that I have to commute from work through the hellish rush hour to get to my school in Leuven in good time to begin. Most of the time it has not been a problem but it does not take much to stop the traffic dead. I have had to miss a couple of lessons so far due to work but you are allowed to miss a given percentage and still pass the course. I am quite lucky as I have been studying Dutch for around 7 years and therefore it is relatively straightforward. I must add that I am in level 1, as my grammar and writing is not good enough for level 2. The result of that is I am way ahead of most of the class and I can understand almost everything the tutor is saying (the lesson is delivered in Dutch with occasional English explanations).
My class is quite a mixed bunch in terms of nationality and profession. There are Spanish, British, French, German, Italian, Bosnian, Russian and Ukrainian people. All of them are quite pleasant and cheerful, despite us all being tired after working during the day. Some, like myself, are quite good others struggle a bit. There is a break at around 20.00 for a coffee, chat, toilet and smoke (if that spins your props).
The format of the lessons varies with one to one with classmates, delivery by the tutor, video, written exercises, repetition and questions from the tutor. Having taken the Teaching English as a Foreign Language, it is not quite as varied as that but it is enough. As an example we recently discussed prepositions, there were no practical exercises to demonstrate these. In one lesson I had to explain to my colleague the individual components of a sentence so that he could understand what it was that he had to say as an answer. The question was 'What was the name of your first pet?' I had to explain this without the benefit of English as he did not understand that. The tutor did not feel the need to demonstrate the difference between mine and yours (which I did with the aid of a pen), what a pet (huisdier) was, what first (eerst) meant etc. To be fair he was a complete beginner but then that was level 1! Still it helped me in developing my communications skills and ability to teach too!
The problem with knowing more than what is being taught is that I end up not giving the model answer and also I am sometimes caught out with things that I simply do not know and have not taken the time to learn. I discovered recently that asking how someone is should get a specific reply for example - Hoe gaat het met jouw? Met mij gaat het goed. Most people will respond with just one word goed, prima, slecht etc. So I have learnt how I should reply even if in reality people do not use the rest of the phrase. In fact most just say Hoe gaat het? or Alles kits achter the ritz? My spelling maybe out and that latter question is basically 'how's it hanging?' and is usually just said between men.
Anyway the company that provides the course is Groep T and I would recommend it if you are in the Leuven region.
Thursday, 19 September 2013
Why I Work In An Effing Office!
This is a tale of proper planning and preparation and having the right tools for the job, in this case it was rather a half arse attempt on my part born out of previous experience that almost failed. The silver lining to this tale and the moral of the story is to have the determination and perseverance to fight through when all seems hopeless.
It all started with a cursory inspection of the rear brakes on my Jaguar X-Type. I only had the car for another week before I was due to hand it over to an auction house and pick up my new car. Unfortunately I was due to cover some considerable miles in that last week and I came to the conclusion that the rear brakes were no longer safe and needed to be replaced. I have changed brakes with my step-dad many times in my childhood and more recently on a number of cars that I have had since. The basic task is as follows:
Loosen wheelnuts
Put blocks on either side of the front wheels to stop it rolling off.
Select first gear
Release the handbrake
Jack car up
Remove wheel and place under the car in case the car should fall
Loosen the two nuts holding the brake calliper in place.
Remove worn pads
Inspect brake disc for damage/wear
lever back piston in the calliper to make room for the new pads (I will come back to this)
Take the replacement pads, apply anti squeal grease and place into calliper
Put it all back together and repeat on the other side.
Now this job really should not take more than about an hour to complete all told. It took me two days in the end as I shall now relate! Before I begin it is worth mentioning that there was a time critical factor that would come into play. I had an appointment in Germany on the Thursday and before departing I called into the car parts shop to acquire the brake pads, this is always fraught with danger as there are thousands of parts to choose from and they must be the correct ones otherwise you are Donald ducked, so to speak. In order to ensure I had the right parts I gave them my registration document which showed the vehicle identification number. I also took the opportunity to buy a couple of ratchet spanners, which would aid my removal of the callipers. I then drove to Germany and was back at a reasonable time to begin fitting the brakes in the afternoon.
I had the rear wheel off in no time and had the calliper removed and the brake pads out, then came the moment of truth, I compared the new pads to the old ones and to no great surprise, they were completely different! So came the second trip to the car parts shop where I was informed that they would have to order the parts in, thankfully they would be there by 09.00 the next day. I was not impressed but then what can you expect? In order to speed things up I unwisely decided to remove the pads from both sides of the car and then replace the wheels. So to summarise, my car was now without rear brakes and chocked up. I planned to quickly replace the brakes the following morning and then get on with some work.
The next morning I took my wife to work so I could then use her car during the day. I left it until 09.36 before going to pick up the parts. To put things into context I would be picking up the wife at 16.00 before going to the Ardennes
Having picked up the parts the next task was to whip off the wheels in turn, lever back the pistons and fit the pads. I started on one side and it quickly became apparent that the piston was not going to lever back, in fact it seemed stuck fast. This presented problems because if it was seized then it would mean obtaining a new calliper and then would involve messing about with brake hydraulics, of which I had little or no experience of, I was not chuffed. I tried removing the cap on the brake fluid reservoir in order to allow the pressure to be relieved, this did not work. I resolved to get the other side done and thus replaced the wheel and went to work on the other side. Having removed it I then came across the same problem. Now with both pistons refusing to budge it was highly likely that they both could not be seized and that it was just a case of me not being able to move them. So I felt compelled to obtain the correct tool for the job, something that I should have had from the outset but that my previous experience had demonstrated was not really necessary. I had in fact done my wife's brakes recently without any issue and she drives a Volvo V50.
Cue a trip to a different car parts shop (I was unhappy with the other one), this was my third visit to a shop. When I got there I was told that they had sold their last specialist tool the day before and could order it in. The pressure started to tell. The price was 44 euros for a hand powered tool and 88 for a hydraulic powered tool. I asked if they could recommend a shop that may have it, you got it they recommended the one I had already been to, cue the fourth trip back to the other shop!
It is worth mentioning that my Dutch and their English was not up to the task and so I had to resort to miming a few times, but it should have been obvious. So I went to the original shop where I got the brake pads and looked for the specialist tool, they had a hydraulic one but not the hand powered one. I had to show the staff what I was talking about and I asked if that was all he had, he said yes but then I may as well have asked him in Klingon and he would have still said yes. I had very little faith in what I was being told. Two key points from this visit, firstly the tool was 108 euros (and that was after a discount) and I specifically and clearly asked him if I needed anything else to operate the tool. He said no but what he should have said is 'have you got an air compressor?' The answer of course would have been no, I would discover this critical point in the not too distant future.
Once back at the car I then whipped the wheel off again (I had lost track of how many times I had jacked the car up and removed the wheels). I then read the instructions for the tool and got to the gem which said, 'and plug your air hose into the tool' The anger and frustration at this point is best left unwritten. I was starting to boil and get rather hacked off. I tried, in vain, to use the tool without the air and I succeeded in opening up the piston and effectively jamming the tool onto the calliper, at least it was not seized!
During the whole evolution I was sweating in the heat of the sun and at different stages wearing thick knee pads, gloves, shorts, t-shirt and sandals. I looked a bit of a twat really but I was not concerned with that!
Anyway cue the fifth trip to a different shop, Freetime, to procure an air compressor. After asking advice and obtaining an air hose at a cost of 28 euros and a compressor at 114 euros. I asked the sales assistant about the fittings and he said there were two sizes of fitting, large and small. I said I thought that the tool had a small fitting and that was just as well because the air compressor and air hose were both small fittings. I was wrong. I returned to the car, carefully read the instructions for the air compressor and then went to connect up all the parts. When I got to the bit where I connected the air hose to the tool I discovered that in fact the tool had the large fitting. To say that I was swearing under my breath is an understatement. Time was marching on and I was no closer to finishing the job. I should have added that I was nervous about using the compressor as it is in essence explosive being very high pressure, in reality it was simple to use as I would eventually discover. Anyway cue the sixth visit to the shops, Freetime again, to get an adaptor to connect the small to the large fittings on the tool.
At Freetime I found out that they did not have the required fitting and could not assist, in a word, bollocks. I asked if he knew anywhere that I could get such a fitting and he pointed me to the Iron shop. Now I had passed this inconspicuous place many times, noting the name but being oblivious to the Aladdin's cave of tools and bits that lay behind this deceptively innocent façade. I duly pulled in to the parking area on my seventh visit to a shop. The shop itself is full of tools and fixtures and fittings, clothing and all sorts of male DIY and professional things. I could, on any other day, spend an hour or so looking around. Not today though. The ladies behind the counter could not understand what I was asking for and I could not explain it, not without being rude as it involved male and female connectors. Anyway the short answer was to bring the air hose and the tool into the shop (at my dismay as the tool was jammed onto the calliper).
I decided to try Hubo before heading back just in case they had the fitting (eighth fruitless visit to a shop) they did not have the part I needed. So I returned to the car and managed to free the tool from the car and take both that and the air hose to the Iron shop, visit number nine. When I got there and presented the bits the ladies confidently said that they did not have the part and would have to order it. I could have screamed out for the mercy of God but I kept my composure, realising the desperation of my predicament I tried to think of an alternative. I resolved to try one last place before considering widening the scope of my search to other towns and cities. I went back to the original car parts shop for my tenth visit of the day.
Irately I explained to the lady in that shop (being watched by the bloke who had sold me the tool) that they said I did not need anything else but that in fact I needed an air compressor and that I had subsequently bought one. I now explained the issue with the adaptor and asked if they had anything that could help me. They duly produced a smaller male connector that could be screwed into the tool when you remove the other one and it cost 2.20 euros. At last I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. By the time I left the shop it was around 14.40 and I was now getting concerned about having to pick up my wife.
When I got to the car it had just started to rain, I laughed and thought bloody typical. I have worked on cars in some awful conditions so this rain was not going to prevent me from completing the job. I managed to complete the task in about 20 minutes after that and in my haste had forgotten to add the anti-squeal grease, which was to annoy fellow motorists and pedestrians as I drove by later on.
In the end I had spent approximately 350 euros on all tools and materials for the replacement of the rear brake pads. To do the front and rear plus discs and labour would have cost me 600 euros. Looking on the bright side, I now definitely have all of the tools required to do the job and I am now seeking to expand my collection of pneumatic tools!
The moral, stick with it and make sure you have the right gear before you start! The car has now been sold and is squealing its way around Peterborough now.
It all started with a cursory inspection of the rear brakes on my Jaguar X-Type. I only had the car for another week before I was due to hand it over to an auction house and pick up my new car. Unfortunately I was due to cover some considerable miles in that last week and I came to the conclusion that the rear brakes were no longer safe and needed to be replaced. I have changed brakes with my step-dad many times in my childhood and more recently on a number of cars that I have had since. The basic task is as follows:
Loosen wheelnuts
Put blocks on either side of the front wheels to stop it rolling off.
Select first gear
Release the handbrake
Jack car up
Remove wheel and place under the car in case the car should fall
Loosen the two nuts holding the brake calliper in place.
Remove worn pads
Inspect brake disc for damage/wear
lever back piston in the calliper to make room for the new pads (I will come back to this)
Take the replacement pads, apply anti squeal grease and place into calliper
Put it all back together and repeat on the other side.
Now this job really should not take more than about an hour to complete all told. It took me two days in the end as I shall now relate! Before I begin it is worth mentioning that there was a time critical factor that would come into play. I had an appointment in Germany on the Thursday and before departing I called into the car parts shop to acquire the brake pads, this is always fraught with danger as there are thousands of parts to choose from and they must be the correct ones otherwise you are Donald ducked, so to speak. In order to ensure I had the right parts I gave them my registration document which showed the vehicle identification number. I also took the opportunity to buy a couple of ratchet spanners, which would aid my removal of the callipers. I then drove to Germany and was back at a reasonable time to begin fitting the brakes in the afternoon.
I had the rear wheel off in no time and had the calliper removed and the brake pads out, then came the moment of truth, I compared the new pads to the old ones and to no great surprise, they were completely different! So came the second trip to the car parts shop where I was informed that they would have to order the parts in, thankfully they would be there by 09.00 the next day. I was not impressed but then what can you expect? In order to speed things up I unwisely decided to remove the pads from both sides of the car and then replace the wheels. So to summarise, my car was now without rear brakes and chocked up. I planned to quickly replace the brakes the following morning and then get on with some work.
The next morning I took my wife to work so I could then use her car during the day. I left it until 09.36 before going to pick up the parts. To put things into context I would be picking up the wife at 16.00 before going to the Ardennes
Having picked up the parts the next task was to whip off the wheels in turn, lever back the pistons and fit the pads. I started on one side and it quickly became apparent that the piston was not going to lever back, in fact it seemed stuck fast. This presented problems because if it was seized then it would mean obtaining a new calliper and then would involve messing about with brake hydraulics, of which I had little or no experience of, I was not chuffed. I tried removing the cap on the brake fluid reservoir in order to allow the pressure to be relieved, this did not work. I resolved to get the other side done and thus replaced the wheel and went to work on the other side. Having removed it I then came across the same problem. Now with both pistons refusing to budge it was highly likely that they both could not be seized and that it was just a case of me not being able to move them. So I felt compelled to obtain the correct tool for the job, something that I should have had from the outset but that my previous experience had demonstrated was not really necessary. I had in fact done my wife's brakes recently without any issue and she drives a Volvo V50.
Cue a trip to a different car parts shop (I was unhappy with the other one), this was my third visit to a shop. When I got there I was told that they had sold their last specialist tool the day before and could order it in. The pressure started to tell. The price was 44 euros for a hand powered tool and 88 for a hydraulic powered tool. I asked if they could recommend a shop that may have it, you got it they recommended the one I had already been to, cue the fourth trip back to the other shop!
It is worth mentioning that my Dutch and their English was not up to the task and so I had to resort to miming a few times, but it should have been obvious. So I went to the original shop where I got the brake pads and looked for the specialist tool, they had a hydraulic one but not the hand powered one. I had to show the staff what I was talking about and I asked if that was all he had, he said yes but then I may as well have asked him in Klingon and he would have still said yes. I had very little faith in what I was being told. Two key points from this visit, firstly the tool was 108 euros (and that was after a discount) and I specifically and clearly asked him if I needed anything else to operate the tool. He said no but what he should have said is 'have you got an air compressor?' The answer of course would have been no, I would discover this critical point in the not too distant future.
Once back at the car I then whipped the wheel off again (I had lost track of how many times I had jacked the car up and removed the wheels). I then read the instructions for the tool and got to the gem which said, 'and plug your air hose into the tool' The anger and frustration at this point is best left unwritten. I was starting to boil and get rather hacked off. I tried, in vain, to use the tool without the air and I succeeded in opening up the piston and effectively jamming the tool onto the calliper, at least it was not seized!
During the whole evolution I was sweating in the heat of the sun and at different stages wearing thick knee pads, gloves, shorts, t-shirt and sandals. I looked a bit of a twat really but I was not concerned with that!
Anyway cue the fifth trip to a different shop, Freetime, to procure an air compressor. After asking advice and obtaining an air hose at a cost of 28 euros and a compressor at 114 euros. I asked the sales assistant about the fittings and he said there were two sizes of fitting, large and small. I said I thought that the tool had a small fitting and that was just as well because the air compressor and air hose were both small fittings. I was wrong. I returned to the car, carefully read the instructions for the air compressor and then went to connect up all the parts. When I got to the bit where I connected the air hose to the tool I discovered that in fact the tool had the large fitting. To say that I was swearing under my breath is an understatement. Time was marching on and I was no closer to finishing the job. I should have added that I was nervous about using the compressor as it is in essence explosive being very high pressure, in reality it was simple to use as I would eventually discover. Anyway cue the sixth visit to the shops, Freetime again, to get an adaptor to connect the small to the large fittings on the tool.
At Freetime I found out that they did not have the required fitting and could not assist, in a word, bollocks. I asked if he knew anywhere that I could get such a fitting and he pointed me to the Iron shop. Now I had passed this inconspicuous place many times, noting the name but being oblivious to the Aladdin's cave of tools and bits that lay behind this deceptively innocent façade. I duly pulled in to the parking area on my seventh visit to a shop. The shop itself is full of tools and fixtures and fittings, clothing and all sorts of male DIY and professional things. I could, on any other day, spend an hour or so looking around. Not today though. The ladies behind the counter could not understand what I was asking for and I could not explain it, not without being rude as it involved male and female connectors. Anyway the short answer was to bring the air hose and the tool into the shop (at my dismay as the tool was jammed onto the calliper).
I decided to try Hubo before heading back just in case they had the fitting (eighth fruitless visit to a shop) they did not have the part I needed. So I returned to the car and managed to free the tool from the car and take both that and the air hose to the Iron shop, visit number nine. When I got there and presented the bits the ladies confidently said that they did not have the part and would have to order it. I could have screamed out for the mercy of God but I kept my composure, realising the desperation of my predicament I tried to think of an alternative. I resolved to try one last place before considering widening the scope of my search to other towns and cities. I went back to the original car parts shop for my tenth visit of the day.
Irately I explained to the lady in that shop (being watched by the bloke who had sold me the tool) that they said I did not need anything else but that in fact I needed an air compressor and that I had subsequently bought one. I now explained the issue with the adaptor and asked if they had anything that could help me. They duly produced a smaller male connector that could be screwed into the tool when you remove the other one and it cost 2.20 euros. At last I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. By the time I left the shop it was around 14.40 and I was now getting concerned about having to pick up my wife.
When I got to the car it had just started to rain, I laughed and thought bloody typical. I have worked on cars in some awful conditions so this rain was not going to prevent me from completing the job. I managed to complete the task in about 20 minutes after that and in my haste had forgotten to add the anti-squeal grease, which was to annoy fellow motorists and pedestrians as I drove by later on.
In the end I had spent approximately 350 euros on all tools and materials for the replacement of the rear brake pads. To do the front and rear plus discs and labour would have cost me 600 euros. Looking on the bright side, I now definitely have all of the tools required to do the job and I am now seeking to expand my collection of pneumatic tools!
The moral, stick with it and make sure you have the right gear before you start! The car has now been sold and is squealing its way around Peterborough now.
Sunday, 1 September 2013
Running
I am not the the fittest person jogging about the place but I have become accustomed to going for a jog in a bid to keep some kind of fitness level and to continue the struggle against middle aged spread. The home town affords quite a few varied routes ranging from a full 16km to a rather brisk 3km, depending upon the mood.
When I am out and about, and my breathing has stabilised, I often take the time to think things through, often going through the latest bollocks going on at work, just thinking about future plans or reflecting on the past. Sometimes, but not always, I pay attention to my surroundings and notice things that I had not on previous runs.
My runs take me along both urban and rural scenes, past rivers and through woods, I sometimes wonder what has happened here in the past, thinking about the two world wars and the bad things that happened back then. One of the longer runs follows the course of the Demer river, I run along one side and then cross a bridge and run down the other side, a giant loop.
There are hazards, for a start pedestrians are the lowest of the low, there are cycle lanes and roads and not many footpaths. Sometimes there are no cycle lanes either. I have to have my wits about me to avoid being run over by cars and more especially by bicycles. There is no quarter given and as I like to listen to music it is a bit more risky when I cannot here them coming. I do dress in brightly coloured gear, this is so that they can clearly see me when they hit me!
My pace is hardly quick, I often get myself into a breathing rhythm of four beats with the right foot hitting the ground every other beat. I try not to match the music otherwise the pace would be too much. In fact I deliberately shorten my stride if I am on a long run just to keep my endurance. There is no method in my madness, just determination to keep going. Although interval training yields better results, so I am told, I have this psychological object of not breaking out of my jog, no matter how tired I feel.
I have now run the Antwerp 10 mile run 4 times and the last was particularly difficult, I think my training plan was all wrong. I was doing a single 10 mile run each week up until the day. In previous years I had done up to three short and one long distance run per week. Part of the problem is having the time to do the work, it is so easy to break out of the habit, especially with work commitments.
I have not yet enter the run this year, but I will get it done, it has become a bit of a habit now and gives me something to motivate me. It will begin to get colder soon, with winter approaching I need to dig that bit deeper to keep going.
Monday, 19 August 2013
Counting Skidmarks
Not one of the most appealing of titles to this entry but truthful none the less. On my regular commute I decided it would help pass the time a little if I was a little more observant when driving to work. I have to stress that I do keep my eyes open and pay attention to the other traffic, I mean to do otherwise is to invite disaster.
I noticed on my drive in that there are an exceptionally large number of skid marks on the route into work and I was hypothesising as to why this was the case. I noticed that most of them tended to be leading from the fast to the middle lane as they approached junctions. I surmised that these were drivers that had failed to anticipate their exit at a reasonable time and decided to make a crazy death manoeuvre across the traffic in a bid to avoid driving an extra 3km to the next junction. Some of the more worrying ones led into the trees and indeed the central reservation, one can only imagine the face of the driver when they work up and dropped their bottle of Jupiler.
The other favourite pastime is removing aggressive drivers from my arse when they decide that the 128km/h is just not fast enough for them and that a safe distance is really not required behind other cars. I mean after all my brakes must work as well as theirs because all cars have the same characteristics and maintenance levels eh? I have enjoyed many a happy hour banging on the brakes as the umpteenth emergency stop has been carried out by the driver in front of me, this ripples its way down the traffic jam until it either catches someone unawares or it gets to the end. It is a bit like a Mexican wave but without standing up.
I am sure my car has a pothole magnet fitted, no matter how often I drive the route I always seem to hit the same damn places each time, cursing loudly and gritting my teeth as my suspension takes another jarring. It is like flying a spaceship in a computer game and wondering how much longer my shields will last after the next asteroid hits it. It is much the same when I get smacked by rocks thrown up by other traffic.
Something else that is a tad annoying is when the Flemish radio stations die off as I cross into the forbidden territory that is Wallonia. Do you know that I can receive the signal well into France if I am on the coast road? No not in the case of traversing the demilitarised zone entering Wallonia. I just turn it off as to be honest I cannot be bothered to listen to the Syrupy French language.
Today I was witness to some early morning entertainment as I left the E40 to join the R0 ring road. This is a particular pinch point as there are four lanes, two going ahead and then two exiting to the right, the two exiting change to one going left and two going right. Now, the majority of the traffic usually wants to go to the right (the airport direction), but they often leave it far too late and then dive in at the last moment. What is more, they then go down the lane meant for left bound traffic to try and squeeze another place on those going right. They do this at increasing speed as to go slow is to lose out completely. I go left and so often find myself behind some monkey trying cut the traffic up.
Today was special, I got to the junction at about 6.15 ish, I was lined up for my exit with a lane to my right and two to my left, we got to the bit where the solid white line came into play (meaning it is illegal to cross it and results in a severe fine if caught). To my horror, if not surprise, a rather large lorry carrying a heavy load of concrete decided to switch to my lane at the last moment, causing me to brake heavily. Now, that was not all, there were two other cars in front of me, one of which decided he wanted to go straight on and therefore swung across the solid white line, very near to the point of no return (they made it). The second car as expected wanted to go right and duly swung right. It would have impressed the Red Arrows display team and more so in that they were all within a cars' length of each other when they made their moves. Throughout all of this I was keeping a safe distance, having re-assessed my gap between the chopper in the lorry and myself.
I think it was the adrenaline but I suddenly became that much more aware of what was going on from that point onwards.
I noticed on my drive in that there are an exceptionally large number of skid marks on the route into work and I was hypothesising as to why this was the case. I noticed that most of them tended to be leading from the fast to the middle lane as they approached junctions. I surmised that these were drivers that had failed to anticipate their exit at a reasonable time and decided to make a crazy death manoeuvre across the traffic in a bid to avoid driving an extra 3km to the next junction. Some of the more worrying ones led into the trees and indeed the central reservation, one can only imagine the face of the driver when they work up and dropped their bottle of Jupiler.
The other favourite pastime is removing aggressive drivers from my arse when they decide that the 128km/h is just not fast enough for them and that a safe distance is really not required behind other cars. I mean after all my brakes must work as well as theirs because all cars have the same characteristics and maintenance levels eh? I have enjoyed many a happy hour banging on the brakes as the umpteenth emergency stop has been carried out by the driver in front of me, this ripples its way down the traffic jam until it either catches someone unawares or it gets to the end. It is a bit like a Mexican wave but without standing up.
I am sure my car has a pothole magnet fitted, no matter how often I drive the route I always seem to hit the same damn places each time, cursing loudly and gritting my teeth as my suspension takes another jarring. It is like flying a spaceship in a computer game and wondering how much longer my shields will last after the next asteroid hits it. It is much the same when I get smacked by rocks thrown up by other traffic.
Something else that is a tad annoying is when the Flemish radio stations die off as I cross into the forbidden territory that is Wallonia. Do you know that I can receive the signal well into France if I am on the coast road? No not in the case of traversing the demilitarised zone entering Wallonia. I just turn it off as to be honest I cannot be bothered to listen to the Syrupy French language.
Today I was witness to some early morning entertainment as I left the E40 to join the R0 ring road. This is a particular pinch point as there are four lanes, two going ahead and then two exiting to the right, the two exiting change to one going left and two going right. Now, the majority of the traffic usually wants to go to the right (the airport direction), but they often leave it far too late and then dive in at the last moment. What is more, they then go down the lane meant for left bound traffic to try and squeeze another place on those going right. They do this at increasing speed as to go slow is to lose out completely. I go left and so often find myself behind some monkey trying cut the traffic up.
Today was special, I got to the junction at about 6.15 ish, I was lined up for my exit with a lane to my right and two to my left, we got to the bit where the solid white line came into play (meaning it is illegal to cross it and results in a severe fine if caught). To my horror, if not surprise, a rather large lorry carrying a heavy load of concrete decided to switch to my lane at the last moment, causing me to brake heavily. Now, that was not all, there were two other cars in front of me, one of which decided he wanted to go straight on and therefore swung across the solid white line, very near to the point of no return (they made it). The second car as expected wanted to go right and duly swung right. It would have impressed the Red Arrows display team and more so in that they were all within a cars' length of each other when they made their moves. Throughout all of this I was keeping a safe distance, having re-assessed my gap between the chopper in the lorry and myself.
I think it was the adrenaline but I suddenly became that much more aware of what was going on from that point onwards.
Tuesday, 13 August 2013
A Day Trip - Kazerne Dossin The Holocaust Museum
It has been a while since I last wrote, what with work being as hectic as it is and things happening around the house. Anyway I am on a week long holiday at home and one of the things that was recommended was to visit a museum in Mechelen. I must warn you that this particular blog is somewhat more serious than my usual offerings.
The Museum that my wife and I visited is called the Kazerne Dossin, the Holocaust Museum in Mechelen. The name derives from the barracks (Kazerne) Dossin where Jewish people were sent to be processed and board transportation for the concentration camps during the 2nd World War. Before I continue I must say that the museum is very simple, if a little understated, but the impact is profound. I have read a fair bit about the holocaust and other related material but I could not help but be shocked by the scale and barbarity of what was done. The views I give here are my own and I do not intend to shock or offend anyone, I simply want to say how I felt and what I was thinking as I walked through the halls of pictures.
The museum itself is in a plain white building with five floors and a basement. The basement houses a café and the top floor houses a special exhibition area, which was not open when we went today. The entry fee is 10 Euros for a regular adult and begins with an introductory video on the ground floor. They have hand held audio devices which have the narrative in English, Dutch and French. The video goes through the persecution of the Jewish people through the ages and explains a little about why this has happened before stopping short of the main purpose of the museum, which is to mark the rise and impact of the Nazis on this unfortunate storey.
You can see before you ascend the stairs the walls covered in passport photos of the victims who were transported from Kazerne Dossin, the photos that are not greyed out are those who survived this awful time, there are not many in the sea of pictures.
The next three floors are broken down into Mass, Fear and Death. Somewhat brief explanations for discussing the subject and why things happened the way they did. In the first instance when they refer to mass they are suggesting that if a crowd or group is large enough and can be persuaded by a hard line minority then they can be swayed. The argument, often stated, is that the depression and the humiliating defeat of the Germans in the First World War created the right conditions for the masses to seek an alternative and a common 'enemy'. It was with this background that the rise of the Nazis was possible. Poor economic conditions often give rise to civil unrest and the desire to blame others for the failures is not uncommon. I say this because given the recent credit crunch and severe economic conditions nations have sought to place the blame for this at various places and indeed society has become less tolerant of those who do not contribute to the wealth of the nation. One of my thoughts was that could this ever happen again, you would think not but then we have seen similar things in other countries such as the former Yugoslavia and Rwanda.
The second section entitled Fear suggested that once in power this small group of extremists can keep control of the masses by instilling fear in them. One does not have to look far to see where that has happened more recently. In the case of the Nazis they destroyed any political opposition and established tight control over the German people. As you can imagine this created a wave of refugees as they ostracised the Jewish community with renewed vigour. It is important to point out that they did not just limit themselves to the Jewish population but also they looked at other groups such as the Roma people with the same disregard. The result of this was that there were many foreign refugees in Belgium (and in other countries) before Kazerne Dossin came into use as a transportation centre. In fact the point was made that a lot of the nations did not do a great deal to assist and that the unhealthy attitude towards the Jewish community was not a sole attribute of the German nation.
The last section, Death, was quite hard hitting as you would expect. It was about the transportation and extermination of people. I have read some quite harrowing accounts of this before and seen imagery of the atrocities as well but nothing can stop the sense of revulsion and astonishment that one human being can be so barbaric to another.
When moving through this particular museum the main thoughts I had were that what had taken place was practically on my (adopted) doorstep. Such things had not happened in the UK, although I am sure the Scots, Irish and Welsh will have examples of similar behaviour towards them, I am not sure if it ever amounted to extermination on an industrial scale. I thought too of my family and how I would feel if they were in this position, there was no quarter given, age and sex were irrelevant it was a process as cold as that was.
What was interesting in this case is the contribution of Belgium to this process, the presentation made a point of emphasising the effective Belgian Civil Service in staffing the deportation of the victims. In fact there was a suggestion that more, much more could have been done to hinder this activity. It is unfair, however to lay total blame on those who were involved in the machinery of staffing the deportation of the Jewish and other victims. As with any country at that time, individuals would be compelled to choose between what is morally correct and doing what they had to in order to survive. There were both sympathisers and those who actually believed in what they were doing was right, again any country at the time would have had such a mix of people. It was interesting to note that some key politicians at the time decided to collaborate with the Germans, but then surely a politician's aim is to remain in power and therefore this is not surprising. There were examples of those who did their best to hinder the process and indeed powerful people who resigned rather than be complicit in the activity. I did think that collaborators are just those who ended up on the wrong side at the end of the war, morally of course the 'right' side won, but no doubt there are examples of atrocities committed by the winning side (I just don't have the knowledge to talk about them).
I did wonder whether the UK would have behaved in the same manner as Belgium if confronted with the same situation. I decided that we would have behaved the same way because the same dilemmas would have presented themselves to us and people would have to make a choice.
Another of the interesting parts of the exhibition showed that the majority of the resistance came from the Wallonian part of the country. More acts of sabotage were taking place in the French speaking side than the Flemish. I am sure we could have a wide ranging debate on the reasons and moral arguments behind the statistics and I am not sure what the museum was getting at by highlighting this to the visitors.
Probably the most striking image out of the whole collection was one of a group of women and children stripped naked and being marched towards a pit, where they were about to be executed. In the sequence of photographs there was a lady hanging back, I cannot remember if she had a child as well but it was clear from the image that she was heavily pregnant. I stood for some time looking at this image before turning away. I thought of that unborn child, words failed me at this point and they still do.
When I did my equality and diversity course the instructors made a point that such discriminatory behaviour often starts at the very basic level where one person creates a perceived difference and others begin to follow. It starts with words and then escalates up to actions which get ever more extreme. People probably think it is too far fetched that calling someone names will lead to genocide but the reality is that it can and it did.
As a child at school I remember the schoolyard and the harsh reality that I grew up in, attitudes were different in the 70s and 80s but that does not excuse the behaviour. What was clear and becomes clearer every time I visit such places as Kazerne Dossin is that as a child I simply did not understand the impact of what was said or done. I was, to an extent, following the mass at the time. I was taught by my mother to stand up for my beliefs and not to be afraid to stand alone if I felt that was the right thing to do, I have done so many times. To hide within a crowd is to lack the moral courage to say and do what is right and this is what happened, in my opinion.
I would encourage anyone to take the time out to visit these places and try and understand what happened and why and then to apply that to the world they live in today to make sure we avoid such a thing happening again.
It is important that we remember and understand.
www.kazernedossin.eu
The Museum that my wife and I visited is called the Kazerne Dossin, the Holocaust Museum in Mechelen. The name derives from the barracks (Kazerne) Dossin where Jewish people were sent to be processed and board transportation for the concentration camps during the 2nd World War. Before I continue I must say that the museum is very simple, if a little understated, but the impact is profound. I have read a fair bit about the holocaust and other related material but I could not help but be shocked by the scale and barbarity of what was done. The views I give here are my own and I do not intend to shock or offend anyone, I simply want to say how I felt and what I was thinking as I walked through the halls of pictures.
The museum itself is in a plain white building with five floors and a basement. The basement houses a café and the top floor houses a special exhibition area, which was not open when we went today. The entry fee is 10 Euros for a regular adult and begins with an introductory video on the ground floor. They have hand held audio devices which have the narrative in English, Dutch and French. The video goes through the persecution of the Jewish people through the ages and explains a little about why this has happened before stopping short of the main purpose of the museum, which is to mark the rise and impact of the Nazis on this unfortunate storey.
You can see before you ascend the stairs the walls covered in passport photos of the victims who were transported from Kazerne Dossin, the photos that are not greyed out are those who survived this awful time, there are not many in the sea of pictures.
The next three floors are broken down into Mass, Fear and Death. Somewhat brief explanations for discussing the subject and why things happened the way they did. In the first instance when they refer to mass they are suggesting that if a crowd or group is large enough and can be persuaded by a hard line minority then they can be swayed. The argument, often stated, is that the depression and the humiliating defeat of the Germans in the First World War created the right conditions for the masses to seek an alternative and a common 'enemy'. It was with this background that the rise of the Nazis was possible. Poor economic conditions often give rise to civil unrest and the desire to blame others for the failures is not uncommon. I say this because given the recent credit crunch and severe economic conditions nations have sought to place the blame for this at various places and indeed society has become less tolerant of those who do not contribute to the wealth of the nation. One of my thoughts was that could this ever happen again, you would think not but then we have seen similar things in other countries such as the former Yugoslavia and Rwanda.
The second section entitled Fear suggested that once in power this small group of extremists can keep control of the masses by instilling fear in them. One does not have to look far to see where that has happened more recently. In the case of the Nazis they destroyed any political opposition and established tight control over the German people. As you can imagine this created a wave of refugees as they ostracised the Jewish community with renewed vigour. It is important to point out that they did not just limit themselves to the Jewish population but also they looked at other groups such as the Roma people with the same disregard. The result of this was that there were many foreign refugees in Belgium (and in other countries) before Kazerne Dossin came into use as a transportation centre. In fact the point was made that a lot of the nations did not do a great deal to assist and that the unhealthy attitude towards the Jewish community was not a sole attribute of the German nation.
The last section, Death, was quite hard hitting as you would expect. It was about the transportation and extermination of people. I have read some quite harrowing accounts of this before and seen imagery of the atrocities as well but nothing can stop the sense of revulsion and astonishment that one human being can be so barbaric to another.
When moving through this particular museum the main thoughts I had were that what had taken place was practically on my (adopted) doorstep. Such things had not happened in the UK, although I am sure the Scots, Irish and Welsh will have examples of similar behaviour towards them, I am not sure if it ever amounted to extermination on an industrial scale. I thought too of my family and how I would feel if they were in this position, there was no quarter given, age and sex were irrelevant it was a process as cold as that was.
What was interesting in this case is the contribution of Belgium to this process, the presentation made a point of emphasising the effective Belgian Civil Service in staffing the deportation of the victims. In fact there was a suggestion that more, much more could have been done to hinder this activity. It is unfair, however to lay total blame on those who were involved in the machinery of staffing the deportation of the Jewish and other victims. As with any country at that time, individuals would be compelled to choose between what is morally correct and doing what they had to in order to survive. There were both sympathisers and those who actually believed in what they were doing was right, again any country at the time would have had such a mix of people. It was interesting to note that some key politicians at the time decided to collaborate with the Germans, but then surely a politician's aim is to remain in power and therefore this is not surprising. There were examples of those who did their best to hinder the process and indeed powerful people who resigned rather than be complicit in the activity. I did think that collaborators are just those who ended up on the wrong side at the end of the war, morally of course the 'right' side won, but no doubt there are examples of atrocities committed by the winning side (I just don't have the knowledge to talk about them).
I did wonder whether the UK would have behaved in the same manner as Belgium if confronted with the same situation. I decided that we would have behaved the same way because the same dilemmas would have presented themselves to us and people would have to make a choice.
Another of the interesting parts of the exhibition showed that the majority of the resistance came from the Wallonian part of the country. More acts of sabotage were taking place in the French speaking side than the Flemish. I am sure we could have a wide ranging debate on the reasons and moral arguments behind the statistics and I am not sure what the museum was getting at by highlighting this to the visitors.
Probably the most striking image out of the whole collection was one of a group of women and children stripped naked and being marched towards a pit, where they were about to be executed. In the sequence of photographs there was a lady hanging back, I cannot remember if she had a child as well but it was clear from the image that she was heavily pregnant. I stood for some time looking at this image before turning away. I thought of that unborn child, words failed me at this point and they still do.
When I did my equality and diversity course the instructors made a point that such discriminatory behaviour often starts at the very basic level where one person creates a perceived difference and others begin to follow. It starts with words and then escalates up to actions which get ever more extreme. People probably think it is too far fetched that calling someone names will lead to genocide but the reality is that it can and it did.
As a child at school I remember the schoolyard and the harsh reality that I grew up in, attitudes were different in the 70s and 80s but that does not excuse the behaviour. What was clear and becomes clearer every time I visit such places as Kazerne Dossin is that as a child I simply did not understand the impact of what was said or done. I was, to an extent, following the mass at the time. I was taught by my mother to stand up for my beliefs and not to be afraid to stand alone if I felt that was the right thing to do, I have done so many times. To hide within a crowd is to lack the moral courage to say and do what is right and this is what happened, in my opinion.
I would encourage anyone to take the time out to visit these places and try and understand what happened and why and then to apply that to the world they live in today to make sure we avoid such a thing happening again.
It is important that we remember and understand.
www.kazernedossin.eu
Monday, 15 July 2013
Queues - The Rules
Being British and more to the point English, I know all about the etiquette of queues. It does not just go from the humble post office but extends to all sorts of places, the ice cream van, the bus stop even the toilet. People are often seen in many places around the British Isles having polite arguments about the other person being before them in the queue. 'No, no, I am sure you were before me', 'But really I insist you must go first, I only have a trolley full of food to buy...'
Belgium, if you so much as blink and you will find some old biddy has slipped past you, bakers, bus queues, supermarkets, everywhere. I was recently passing through Brussels airport on my way home and I happened to overhear a rather terse conversation between a French speaking Belgian and someone I can only assume was British. She was getting quite irate at the accusation that she may be trying to push in whilst stood in the queue for passport control. 'What, you think I am pushing in, do you have a problem? Eh, eh, eh?' Then cue a quick burst of French to the amused bystanders who think it is hilarious, more so because the innocent party cannot understand what is being said. Of course we are so sensitive, the British that is, that we will often not mention when someone has been rude enough to squeeze in. When we do we expect the guilty party to apologise profusely and step aside, in fact the crowd would be baying for blood and they would have to leave the area immediately. We certainly don't expect a vicious response, which I can only describe as defensive. Now at this point, having noted that two people had already jumped me in the queue, I was so tempted to turn around and say, ' well, in addition to cycling, the other national sport in Belgium is queue jumping, they are Olympic champions at this'. However, I chose to remain silent, I mean what's the point? I have not quite picked up this indifferent habit yet but people are shocked when I let them go before me as if to say 'hey, is there a trap door here or some other danger lurking?'
Now saying that of course the UK is changing and is always evolving, my first experience of to hell with queuing, the slowest gets crushed attitude was in London. My illusion of green and pleasant hills, friendly neighbours and strong communities was well and truly shattered when I caught my first tube on the London Underground. we are, however, still leagues ahead in terms of courtesy to complete strangers, some parts of the UK more so than others.
There is a strange paradox here, the Belgians do like to use ticket machines to determine who should come next in the queue. I cannot quite get my head around this, the idea that there should be an utterly fair way of dealing with people in the right order. That said, the buggers will not tell you when the ticket machine is not in use so you can stand there like a chimp holding number 5 and everyone else is just getting served because they are not using the machine today. In stark contrast you can be the last two people on earth and the buffoon behind the post office counter will still expect you to push the button and print a needless ticket. 'I say, old chap, I have just walked across this barren wasteland and yours is the first cheerful and human face I have seen in days, would you mind telling me how much it is to post this?' 'You need to take a ticket sir', 'I'm sorry, was there a queue, did I have to barge in through this throng, this heaving, sweating bunch of mail denied freaks?' 'Still have to take a ticket sir' After much chundering I then go to the machine and am faced with a choice of buttons than I cannot read and quite frankly would most likely end up triggering the launch of a nuclear missile if I get them in the wrong order. Thankfully it doesn't matter too much but you may end up getting directed to another window. It is all a test.
Oh by the way, there are no rules. It is survival of the most cunning and devious and they come in all ages and look like angels too so watch out!
Belgium, if you so much as blink and you will find some old biddy has slipped past you, bakers, bus queues, supermarkets, everywhere. I was recently passing through Brussels airport on my way home and I happened to overhear a rather terse conversation between a French speaking Belgian and someone I can only assume was British. She was getting quite irate at the accusation that she may be trying to push in whilst stood in the queue for passport control. 'What, you think I am pushing in, do you have a problem? Eh, eh, eh?' Then cue a quick burst of French to the amused bystanders who think it is hilarious, more so because the innocent party cannot understand what is being said. Of course we are so sensitive, the British that is, that we will often not mention when someone has been rude enough to squeeze in. When we do we expect the guilty party to apologise profusely and step aside, in fact the crowd would be baying for blood and they would have to leave the area immediately. We certainly don't expect a vicious response, which I can only describe as defensive. Now at this point, having noted that two people had already jumped me in the queue, I was so tempted to turn around and say, ' well, in addition to cycling, the other national sport in Belgium is queue jumping, they are Olympic champions at this'. However, I chose to remain silent, I mean what's the point? I have not quite picked up this indifferent habit yet but people are shocked when I let them go before me as if to say 'hey, is there a trap door here or some other danger lurking?'
Now saying that of course the UK is changing and is always evolving, my first experience of to hell with queuing, the slowest gets crushed attitude was in London. My illusion of green and pleasant hills, friendly neighbours and strong communities was well and truly shattered when I caught my first tube on the London Underground. we are, however, still leagues ahead in terms of courtesy to complete strangers, some parts of the UK more so than others.
There is a strange paradox here, the Belgians do like to use ticket machines to determine who should come next in the queue. I cannot quite get my head around this, the idea that there should be an utterly fair way of dealing with people in the right order. That said, the buggers will not tell you when the ticket machine is not in use so you can stand there like a chimp holding number 5 and everyone else is just getting served because they are not using the machine today. In stark contrast you can be the last two people on earth and the buffoon behind the post office counter will still expect you to push the button and print a needless ticket. 'I say, old chap, I have just walked across this barren wasteland and yours is the first cheerful and human face I have seen in days, would you mind telling me how much it is to post this?' 'You need to take a ticket sir', 'I'm sorry, was there a queue, did I have to barge in through this throng, this heaving, sweating bunch of mail denied freaks?' 'Still have to take a ticket sir' After much chundering I then go to the machine and am faced with a choice of buttons than I cannot read and quite frankly would most likely end up triggering the launch of a nuclear missile if I get them in the wrong order. Thankfully it doesn't matter too much but you may end up getting directed to another window. It is all a test.
Oh by the way, there are no rules. It is survival of the most cunning and devious and they come in all ages and look like angels too so watch out!
Sunday, 30 June 2013
Mind The Gap, Stand Clear of The Platform
On a visit to London one of the things my Sister-in-law and her husband noticed was that there seemed to be some warnings which where to all intents and purposes obvious. For example when travelling on the Tube the warning to stand clear of the closing doors, the message given before the doors close was seen as superfluous. Isn't it obvious that you need to keep out of the way of the doors as they close? Isn't the audible alarm enough to warn you? In the UK we are familiar with the culture of litigation and therefore the explosion of obvious warnings which we used to take for granted as competent adults.
In fact as a child if I were to hurt myself say on a bouncy castle then my parents would just tell me to be more careful in future, it was part of growing up. Now though, we expect to be told, have warning signs and be supervised when we use these things and God help them if they end up with someone getting injured.
There are warnings to look left and right at crossings, to stand back from platforms, to mind the steps, beware hot contents (in hot plastic cups with coffee in them), hot pies, etc etc. In Belgium it appears that the local population do not need to be warned of such things, they learn from experience that there are things out there which they need to be careful with. I do admire the country for being sensible in this respect.
Mind you, if you see how they manage road works then you must wonder how more people are not killed on a regular basis. The road works are best described as dodgy, there is a section on my commuter route which shifts two lanes towards the hard shoulder in order to bypass a bridge that they are not working on, I say not as I have never seen any workmen doing anything with it as long as I have been commuting back and forth since August last year. Anyway, the traffic 'cones' that guide you on and off the road are rather short and sharp, in fact so much so that I have seen cars in the slow lane cut straight across, ignoring the guiding lines to go right. What this means is that the car on the left crashes into the side of the car that makes the mistake, brakes hard (and possibly gets rear ended) or smashes through the cones (I have seen the wrecked cones giving evidence of a previous incident). Now imagine if there were any workmen there too, thank God they are never about!
The Brits on the other hand have absolutely shedloads of cones that guide the drivers well before any changes, along with average speed cameras and appropriate limits that people generally keep to. We even have people working on the road works too, it is so much more efficient.
What of other health and safety then? Well when the builder was working on our house the lift they used was interesting, I am not entirely sure if it was certified as fit for purpose or indeed stable. I was however going up and down all day on the thing carting bricks up and down. I suspect that a builder (a decent one) in the UK would construct a scaffold next to the house and it would be almost nuclear proof. There was a plank of wood from the roof to the lift, this would make contact with the lift as it got to the top. There were no hand rails and I would push the wheelbarrow across the gap. It is a different attitude to the whole subject. Although An tells me that she doubts whether it conformed to normal practice in Belgium. I have to say that I have noticed cranes with loads suspended above the street when they have shut down and gone for beer and frietjes. There seems to be no consideration that the load may fall or swing into things, maybe incidents do happen but no more so than anywhere else?
I won't begin to talk about playgrounds, you should see the stuff they have in these places, the kids love it but a British health and safety guru would have kittens. There are far too many high things to fall off, fast moving bits to hit people and quite frankly hard objects that can cause injury. How on earth will Belgian kids get to adulthood with such dangerous places to grow up and no one supervising them either, I fear for them. I remember having to face these challenges myself and boy was it....oh hang on, I actually survived! Maybe I was really lucky?
I will leave you with a classic phrase from my childhood relating to being picked on by much older and bigger kids. My parents used to say, 'the bigger they are, the harder they fall', complete and utter tosh. The bigger they are the more they can kick seven bells out of you if you get caught. David and Goliath is a story in the Bible and unless you are a ninja then generally speaking bigger people (when you are a kid) are best as either allies or avoided. You would not believe it now but I was a very fast runner.
In fact as a child if I were to hurt myself say on a bouncy castle then my parents would just tell me to be more careful in future, it was part of growing up. Now though, we expect to be told, have warning signs and be supervised when we use these things and God help them if they end up with someone getting injured.
There are warnings to look left and right at crossings, to stand back from platforms, to mind the steps, beware hot contents (in hot plastic cups with coffee in them), hot pies, etc etc. In Belgium it appears that the local population do not need to be warned of such things, they learn from experience that there are things out there which they need to be careful with. I do admire the country for being sensible in this respect.
Mind you, if you see how they manage road works then you must wonder how more people are not killed on a regular basis. The road works are best described as dodgy, there is a section on my commuter route which shifts two lanes towards the hard shoulder in order to bypass a bridge that they are not working on, I say not as I have never seen any workmen doing anything with it as long as I have been commuting back and forth since August last year. Anyway, the traffic 'cones' that guide you on and off the road are rather short and sharp, in fact so much so that I have seen cars in the slow lane cut straight across, ignoring the guiding lines to go right. What this means is that the car on the left crashes into the side of the car that makes the mistake, brakes hard (and possibly gets rear ended) or smashes through the cones (I have seen the wrecked cones giving evidence of a previous incident). Now imagine if there were any workmen there too, thank God they are never about!
The Brits on the other hand have absolutely shedloads of cones that guide the drivers well before any changes, along with average speed cameras and appropriate limits that people generally keep to. We even have people working on the road works too, it is so much more efficient.
What of other health and safety then? Well when the builder was working on our house the lift they used was interesting, I am not entirely sure if it was certified as fit for purpose or indeed stable. I was however going up and down all day on the thing carting bricks up and down. I suspect that a builder (a decent one) in the UK would construct a scaffold next to the house and it would be almost nuclear proof. There was a plank of wood from the roof to the lift, this would make contact with the lift as it got to the top. There were no hand rails and I would push the wheelbarrow across the gap. It is a different attitude to the whole subject. Although An tells me that she doubts whether it conformed to normal practice in Belgium. I have to say that I have noticed cranes with loads suspended above the street when they have shut down and gone for beer and frietjes. There seems to be no consideration that the load may fall or swing into things, maybe incidents do happen but no more so than anywhere else?
I won't begin to talk about playgrounds, you should see the stuff they have in these places, the kids love it but a British health and safety guru would have kittens. There are far too many high things to fall off, fast moving bits to hit people and quite frankly hard objects that can cause injury. How on earth will Belgian kids get to adulthood with such dangerous places to grow up and no one supervising them either, I fear for them. I remember having to face these challenges myself and boy was it....oh hang on, I actually survived! Maybe I was really lucky?
I will leave you with a classic phrase from my childhood relating to being picked on by much older and bigger kids. My parents used to say, 'the bigger they are, the harder they fall', complete and utter tosh. The bigger they are the more they can kick seven bells out of you if you get caught. David and Goliath is a story in the Bible and unless you are a ninja then generally speaking bigger people (when you are a kid) are best as either allies or avoided. You would not believe it now but I was a very fast runner.
Getting Married
I met An in October 2005 and after courtship that lasted a couple of years I thought it might be timely to pop the question. I had received a few combat indicators from the family and An, which meant that there was a fair chance of success.
I have always been one to get quite attached quite early in my relationships, but in this case and more recently I had acquired an attitude of taking things as they came. I wasn't really looking when An showed up, in fact we met on a horse riding holiday in Tuscany. I even had my mother with me as I wanted to show her another part of the world, not having had the chance to travel far. I said to my mam, when she said that she didn't want to cramp my style, 'oh no I have no intention of meeting anyone!' My mother checked An out and observed the flirting each day we went riding, she neglected to brief me though! An for her part had always been quite cool when in relationships, not wanting settle down, often cutting things short.
Anyway, when we came to getting married I was in the process of getting a Belgian ID card. When you live in Belgium you must register with your local town hall, this is so that they know you are here legitimately and so they can send you a tax return.
In order to get married you need to involve the town hall, in essence you can have both a civil ceremony and a church service or just a civil ceremony. You must have the civil bit, the equivalent of going to the Registry Office back in the UK. However, it is not just a case of booking the event and attending, there are forms to fill in and in my case I had three challenges to overcome before I could have the ceremony.
Now I am not talking about slaying dragons or climbing mountains, although that would have a degree of logic, no. I had to: prove I was British, prove I was not married and obtain a copy of the marriage laws of the UK in Dutch. Now I know what you are thinking, holding a British passport surely means that I am in fact British or at least I have British citizenship. Sadly this official document, which allows me to travel across borders and is recognised as my identity document in countless countries around the world was not sufficient, in a word balls. Now the second challenge really was a challenge, did I have to go round every town hall in the UK and get a declaration? I had no idea how to prove that I was not already married. The last one was the easiest but I would have to obtain the relevant laws and get them officially translated (could not be done by any normal person, but has to be properly translated).
The next hurdle was dates and timing, it would have to be a Saturday and therefore twice the cost of a weekday and I had to have a minimum period of time before they could process the paperwork. At this point in exasperation I said, forget it I'll get married in Scotland, it is both easier and quicker! They did relent and tried to be a little less obstructive at that point.
In the end I had to go to the British Embassy to get the certificate of Britishness, Laws of marriage and a declaration that I was not married. The Embassy were familiar with this process and asked me to bring along the specific document from the town hall as all of them asked for differing things. Of course it cost to have these documents provided, but then no more expensive than any other wedding stuff.
The wedding traditions are a little different over here, apparently the groom is supposed to collect the bride and then take her to the venue. I did make a point of having my last night of freedom among my closest friends and family. An was going to make her own way there having been collected by her sister. I was waiting at the local town hall for her arrival.
There are some details to fill in here, I along with my circle of trust stayed at a hotel in Leuven. We had the Last Supper and then retired to the hotel where I and my two best mates had a nightcap. I left Sam and Spider to it after a while and unfortunately they proceeded to drink one or two more beers and spirits, including the dreaded Duval. Duval in Dutch is devil and it is quite appropriate a name too! Sam can drink like a trouper and so can Spider, the difference however can be seen the following morning.
We rose and had breakfast and I was in a bit of a tense mood. I, for the first time, was quite stressed about getting things organised and being on time. Meanwhile back in Aarschot An was the exact opposite and utterly relaxed about the whole thing. When Spider turned to for breakfast he was as white as a sheet and experience told me that this condition would get worse before it got better. He was not at all well and his first words when he met my future father-in-law was; 'can you tell me where the toilet is please?' He was sick to the extent that even the cat refused to enter the toilet after he had finished. The nice touch of the spatter on his jacket rounded it off, much to the amusement of all present. I was still tense but only to get things done to timing. I was driving a small minibus carting everyone around. I was told at least once that it was not too late to escape to Las Vegas.
Once I got to the town hall I then became very calm, it was because there was nothing else I could do. From then on it was a very, very laid back and relaxed day.
Tradition dictates that the bride and groom lead the way into the town hall and everyone else follows, I wanted to do it the British way which was to have everyone seated and me up front waiting. Nope, I was alone with Sam waiting at the front whilst everyone else came in after An, it felt a bit weird but then I suppose I had not briefed everyone about what I wanted. The ceremony was all in Dutch, which I am afraid I was not up to speed with. The best bit of the ceremony was signing a blank sheet of paper, upon which they could write anything!
When the ceremony was over we left together this time and in front of the crowd as it should be! Waiting outside were the ladies of the Ladies Circle with champagne, we then had a drink in the park with the guys who turned up, it was a bit like a garden party. The sun was out and it was a really pleasant afternoon. We overran on the timing and were a little late for the reception, which was a very small do in the same restaurant that I had proposed to An in, The Gelofte.
We followed up the reception with an evening do at our place, again only small do for the close friends and family. My mate Sam and his wife Mandy had flown in from New York and were feeling the effects and Mandy was pregnant too. We had two wedding cakes, a traditional British fruit cake (brought through by air by my mother)and a Belgian sponge with fresh cream and fruit. It seemed to last for ages and eventually we got to the hotel in Leuven with the rest of the gang. We had a breakfast the following day to round things off.
The following day (Sunday 25th May, apart from being my brother's birthday), Sam and Mandy were due to fly out to the UK. There was an air crash at Brussels Airport the same day, which was a bit off-putting. There was no honeymoon as I had to get back to work in Scotland ready for my deployment to Iraq!
I have always been one to get quite attached quite early in my relationships, but in this case and more recently I had acquired an attitude of taking things as they came. I wasn't really looking when An showed up, in fact we met on a horse riding holiday in Tuscany. I even had my mother with me as I wanted to show her another part of the world, not having had the chance to travel far. I said to my mam, when she said that she didn't want to cramp my style, 'oh no I have no intention of meeting anyone!' My mother checked An out and observed the flirting each day we went riding, she neglected to brief me though! An for her part had always been quite cool when in relationships, not wanting settle down, often cutting things short.
Anyway, when we came to getting married I was in the process of getting a Belgian ID card. When you live in Belgium you must register with your local town hall, this is so that they know you are here legitimately and so they can send you a tax return.
In order to get married you need to involve the town hall, in essence you can have both a civil ceremony and a church service or just a civil ceremony. You must have the civil bit, the equivalent of going to the Registry Office back in the UK. However, it is not just a case of booking the event and attending, there are forms to fill in and in my case I had three challenges to overcome before I could have the ceremony.
Now I am not talking about slaying dragons or climbing mountains, although that would have a degree of logic, no. I had to: prove I was British, prove I was not married and obtain a copy of the marriage laws of the UK in Dutch. Now I know what you are thinking, holding a British passport surely means that I am in fact British or at least I have British citizenship. Sadly this official document, which allows me to travel across borders and is recognised as my identity document in countless countries around the world was not sufficient, in a word balls. Now the second challenge really was a challenge, did I have to go round every town hall in the UK and get a declaration? I had no idea how to prove that I was not already married. The last one was the easiest but I would have to obtain the relevant laws and get them officially translated (could not be done by any normal person, but has to be properly translated).
The next hurdle was dates and timing, it would have to be a Saturday and therefore twice the cost of a weekday and I had to have a minimum period of time before they could process the paperwork. At this point in exasperation I said, forget it I'll get married in Scotland, it is both easier and quicker! They did relent and tried to be a little less obstructive at that point.
In the end I had to go to the British Embassy to get the certificate of Britishness, Laws of marriage and a declaration that I was not married. The Embassy were familiar with this process and asked me to bring along the specific document from the town hall as all of them asked for differing things. Of course it cost to have these documents provided, but then no more expensive than any other wedding stuff.
The wedding traditions are a little different over here, apparently the groom is supposed to collect the bride and then take her to the venue. I did make a point of having my last night of freedom among my closest friends and family. An was going to make her own way there having been collected by her sister. I was waiting at the local town hall for her arrival.
There are some details to fill in here, I along with my circle of trust stayed at a hotel in Leuven. We had the Last Supper and then retired to the hotel where I and my two best mates had a nightcap. I left Sam and Spider to it after a while and unfortunately they proceeded to drink one or two more beers and spirits, including the dreaded Duval. Duval in Dutch is devil and it is quite appropriate a name too! Sam can drink like a trouper and so can Spider, the difference however can be seen the following morning.
We rose and had breakfast and I was in a bit of a tense mood. I, for the first time, was quite stressed about getting things organised and being on time. Meanwhile back in Aarschot An was the exact opposite and utterly relaxed about the whole thing. When Spider turned to for breakfast he was as white as a sheet and experience told me that this condition would get worse before it got better. He was not at all well and his first words when he met my future father-in-law was; 'can you tell me where the toilet is please?' He was sick to the extent that even the cat refused to enter the toilet after he had finished. The nice touch of the spatter on his jacket rounded it off, much to the amusement of all present. I was still tense but only to get things done to timing. I was driving a small minibus carting everyone around. I was told at least once that it was not too late to escape to Las Vegas.
Once I got to the town hall I then became very calm, it was because there was nothing else I could do. From then on it was a very, very laid back and relaxed day.
Tradition dictates that the bride and groom lead the way into the town hall and everyone else follows, I wanted to do it the British way which was to have everyone seated and me up front waiting. Nope, I was alone with Sam waiting at the front whilst everyone else came in after An, it felt a bit weird but then I suppose I had not briefed everyone about what I wanted. The ceremony was all in Dutch, which I am afraid I was not up to speed with. The best bit of the ceremony was signing a blank sheet of paper, upon which they could write anything!
When the ceremony was over we left together this time and in front of the crowd as it should be! Waiting outside were the ladies of the Ladies Circle with champagne, we then had a drink in the park with the guys who turned up, it was a bit like a garden party. The sun was out and it was a really pleasant afternoon. We overran on the timing and were a little late for the reception, which was a very small do in the same restaurant that I had proposed to An in, The Gelofte.
We followed up the reception with an evening do at our place, again only small do for the close friends and family. My mate Sam and his wife Mandy had flown in from New York and were feeling the effects and Mandy was pregnant too. We had two wedding cakes, a traditional British fruit cake (brought through by air by my mother)and a Belgian sponge with fresh cream and fruit. It seemed to last for ages and eventually we got to the hotel in Leuven with the rest of the gang. We had a breakfast the following day to round things off.
The following day (Sunday 25th May, apart from being my brother's birthday), Sam and Mandy were due to fly out to the UK. There was an air crash at Brussels Airport the same day, which was a bit off-putting. There was no honeymoon as I had to get back to work in Scotland ready for my deployment to Iraq!
Sunday, 23 June 2013
Let's Buy a Box of Bees!
An managed to find a company that sells boxes of bumble bees, the idea being that they can be placed in the garden and then cross pollinate the plants as they go about their business. They only last between 8-9 weeks and then they die off, the queen survives and goes off to make her home elsewhere. All of this for 70 euros, although you can get a smaller box. The 70 euros gets you 7-800 bees. If you are interested then the website is here www.biogroei-shop.be.
I was having lunch with my colleagues and I told them that the following day I was going to pick up these bees. This caused some amusement and curiosity. Surly it was going to be dangerous to transport 700 bees in the car? What if they were homing bees and as soon as I open the box they all bugger off back to the shop? I had to bee certain it was going to bee safe! The lady in the shop told me that I had to bee careful not to rock the box too much as there is a water/sugar solution that is the food and if it comes into contact with the cotton wool (their nest) then it will be bad. Of course I then set out over winding roads and undulating hills a bit like Postman Pat, great no chance of sloshing about there then. To make matters worse despite my exceptionally careful driving I did end up with a couple of dodgem cars in front of me that insisted on doing an extreme trial on their brakes, they worked and were very effective, thankfully so where mine. I think the bees were getting car sick by the time I got home.
I had images in my mind at one point of herding bees, but then I am not sure what the equivalent to a sheepdog would be for the bee world, a bird of some description maybe? I did see a programme recently that said Bees are positively charged and flowers are negatively charged so when a flower has been visited it then remains neutral for a while. Apparently bees are attracted to negatively charge things. As an added precaution when transporting them I thought I should positively charge myself, but then that would be a bit extreme.
Once home I set the box of bees inside a rabbit hutch, you will be pleased to hear there were no rabbits in there too, we bought the hutch to keep the box out of the sun and rain. The box can either be closed, have an entrance open that allows bees in but not out and then have one that allows both entry and exit. The idea being if you want to work in the garden you only have the one way hole open for two hours then they are all in. We had to wait until they had settled for the night and let them out the next day. There was no rush though, when we did open the door they just had a quick look outside and went back in, it was a bit damp. They stuck a leg out gave a tut and then thought naaaaahh, maybe later.
I am looking forward to seeing a bit more of them!
I was having lunch with my colleagues and I told them that the following day I was going to pick up these bees. This caused some amusement and curiosity. Surly it was going to be dangerous to transport 700 bees in the car? What if they were homing bees and as soon as I open the box they all bugger off back to the shop? I had to bee certain it was going to bee safe! The lady in the shop told me that I had to bee careful not to rock the box too much as there is a water/sugar solution that is the food and if it comes into contact with the cotton wool (their nest) then it will be bad. Of course I then set out over winding roads and undulating hills a bit like Postman Pat, great no chance of sloshing about there then. To make matters worse despite my exceptionally careful driving I did end up with a couple of dodgem cars in front of me that insisted on doing an extreme trial on their brakes, they worked and were very effective, thankfully so where mine. I think the bees were getting car sick by the time I got home.
I had images in my mind at one point of herding bees, but then I am not sure what the equivalent to a sheepdog would be for the bee world, a bird of some description maybe? I did see a programme recently that said Bees are positively charged and flowers are negatively charged so when a flower has been visited it then remains neutral for a while. Apparently bees are attracted to negatively charge things. As an added precaution when transporting them I thought I should positively charge myself, but then that would be a bit extreme.
Once home I set the box of bees inside a rabbit hutch, you will be pleased to hear there were no rabbits in there too, we bought the hutch to keep the box out of the sun and rain. The box can either be closed, have an entrance open that allows bees in but not out and then have one that allows both entry and exit. The idea being if you want to work in the garden you only have the one way hole open for two hours then they are all in. We had to wait until they had settled for the night and let them out the next day. There was no rush though, when we did open the door they just had a quick look outside and went back in, it was a bit damp. They stuck a leg out gave a tut and then thought naaaaahh, maybe later.
I am looking forward to seeing a bit more of them!
Saturday, 22 June 2013
Travelling
Firstly I must apologise for the gap between this and my last post. It has been a tad busy what with a trip to London and some time off in between.
An and I went over to London with Pia, her best friend. The trip is almost an annual event where we go over to shop for shoes and then take in a musical when we have time. I am pleased to say that after another trip I am well on the way to completing the directory of shoe shops to be found in all parts of the Greater London area. Actually our programme was quite comprehensive, which I shall now relate.
We set out at silly o'clock in the morning in a bid to miss the rush hour traffic on the Thursday morning. We had to travel down from Aarschot, past Leuven and on to the ring road, then traverse the most congested part between Zaventem and the turn off to Antwerp (we carried on to the Gent exit), after that the run down to the coast was uneventful. In fact we were quite lucky, apart from two drivers who I scared the crap out of by doing some enforced manoeuvres brought on by the erratic driving of other motorists. We made it to the Eurotunnel in plenty of time and made the crossing ahead of schedule. That was the 2 1/2 hour drive out of the way on this side, we noted the severe traffic jams on the opposite side of the road and were grateful to be heading in the other direction. As we exited the tunnel and got underway things were going just fine until we hit an unexplained traffic jam as we got up towards the M20/M25 junction, we had plenty of time though as we did not need to be at the Albert Hall until 15.00. I cannot remember when we got to the hotel in Ealing but it was around 11.30 ish. We left the hotel not long thereafter and headed into town.
For those who do not know, the Victoria and Albert museum is in South Kensington, which is not too far away from Ealing relatively speaking. We bought some Oyster cards, a very good tip, as they could be given credit which you use as and when you travel. If you happen to reach the point where a travel card would have been cheaper then it caps the cost at this level, otherwise it takes fares as you use them. The Oyster card has a deposit of £5, which can be reclaimed along with any unused credit at the end of your trip. One point of warning though, you cannot get a refund from a combined Tube/railway station, it has to be just a tube station. Don't ask why but that is the way it is. We stopped off in South Kensington for lunch at a Pain de Quoitidien, one of An's favoured hostelries. During lunch we played a game to spot those ladies who do not have to work for a living and decided that those carrying backpacks were definitely tourists.
Now I didn't know this, but the V&A is right next door to the Natural History Museum and both of these are well worth a visit. We were a bit early for the David Bowie exhibition, which was being tightly controlled by using timed access. We took the opportunity to traverse the shop, actually you could not get round this, very clever marketing. There were a large number of kids in the shop who were, along with others, barging about and getting very excited about the souvenirs available in the shop. It was not long to wait though and my feet were already protesting at the length of time I would be standing, a sad feature of my trips to London.
David Bowie is not someone who I am a particular fan of but then it is always nice to learn something new and to understand a bit about his work. I have to say the two key points I picked up on was that he had had a fight when a boy and suffered a punch to the eye which left him with a permanently dilated pupil, the other was that he is called David Jones and changed his name to differentiate between the singer from the Monkees. Both were a revelation to me and now I shall look closely to every picture of him that I look at from now on! The rest of it was an education as well but he was really before my time. We bought a platinum album which included songs from the 60s, 70s and 80s, clearly this had some dross on as far as I was concerned but I recognised quite a few of the well known ones.
When we left the museum we headed off towards Chelsea for the first of our marathon walking/shopping expeditions. It was not far to go and to cut a long story short I ended up reluctantly buying a pair of shoes for £145, these were comfortable, initially but not when worn for the entire day the following day!
We got back and had supper at the hotel, the service there was very good I have to say. I did get an odd phone call asking if I still wanted to keep both rooms, which was odd as I was standing in one of them as I took the call. It would appear that I had booked two rooms by accident, although I did not get the customary confirmation email when I did so. More importantly the man I spoke to when checking in did not think to question the double booking at the time. Thankfully I did not get charged otherwise I would have been most unimpressed.
The following day we took a trip up to Camden Town, where the girls bought no less than 5 pairs of shoes between them, including a pair of Doc Martin boots from the British Boot Company. Camden Town is an amazing place, full of market stalls and interesting shops, I would strongly recommend a visit. There is also a world foods area where you can get a whole range of different food to sit and eat either there and then or by the lock gates. It is a place where you could spend a while with a camera and get some great shots. I met an American Artist who had a tag which was called the Killer Bunny, he combined rabbits with movie and TV scenes with some quite disturbing images. Not for the kids I have to say but fascinating as an idea. He told me that he got his inspiration from Watership Down and chose to combine that with the Movies and TV. I showed An the picture he had of Smurfs being nailed to the wall, she was not impressed (Smurfs originating from Belgium). Check out the website but be prepared to be shocked! http://www.killerbunny.co.uk/egn2/
We continued our trip by heading to Spitalfields and then Brick Lane. Really it was just a shopping trip disguised as a sightseeing tour. Brick Lane was not what I was expecting but Spitalfields is worth a trip. We finished up by heading to my Aunt and Uncles place in Clapham and had a nice curry. We made our delivery of Neuhaus chocolates and caught up with the family, apart from Max who was out at the time.
Saturday was also going to be a bit of a shopping day but we also planned to take in a Salvador Dali exhibition followed by a show in the evening. There was a plan to get to Libertys and I wanted to get some photographic kit from nearby Wardour Street. It was this day, with regret, that I wore my new shoes and paid the price with my feet. I only had the whole day walking for God only knows how far. You would think after having reached the age of 40 that I would know the risks associated with buying new shoes and then breaking them in. When looking for the photographic shop on Wardour street I of course turned the wrong way down the street and walked the entire length of it before realising that the shop was in the opposite direction. I had neglected to make a note of the number and knew only too well that had I abandoned my search down one end it would have been but 10 metres further on. Anyway I did find it and it was disappointingly tiny but yet well equipped. I was after a background support, which they had. I also bought a couple of other things spending around £200 in the shop and now looking like an assassin carrying a rifle in my black elongated bag that held the stands. It was heavy and awkward, but I was willing to bear the burden. I also took in a trip to Hamley's, I could not walk by without checking it out as usual.
Once the shopping phase was done we headed off to see Rock of Ages, this is a show that takes well known Rock songs and mixes it with a typical story of hope, love and celebration. It is really very funny the 'compere', for want of a better word, was outstanding. I don't know what came first the show of the film but I just cannot imagine the movie because I cannot see how it would work. I won't spoil it for you but you will not be disappointed.
For Sunday we took in the Bluewater shopping centre on the way back and also stopped off to get some nice things from a branch of Sainsburys, this was topping up on UK stuff. Strangely enough we did this and then started the Dukan diet (a strict protein diet that lasts a while). I currently have two blocks of Wenslydale cheese, two malt loaves, some crunchy peanut butter, Hartley's blackcurrent jam, sandwich spread and Pringles. Thankfully they have a long use by date and we have some visitors in July so we will be breaking the rules then!
An and I went over to London with Pia, her best friend. The trip is almost an annual event where we go over to shop for shoes and then take in a musical when we have time. I am pleased to say that after another trip I am well on the way to completing the directory of shoe shops to be found in all parts of the Greater London area. Actually our programme was quite comprehensive, which I shall now relate.
We set out at silly o'clock in the morning in a bid to miss the rush hour traffic on the Thursday morning. We had to travel down from Aarschot, past Leuven and on to the ring road, then traverse the most congested part between Zaventem and the turn off to Antwerp (we carried on to the Gent exit), after that the run down to the coast was uneventful. In fact we were quite lucky, apart from two drivers who I scared the crap out of by doing some enforced manoeuvres brought on by the erratic driving of other motorists. We made it to the Eurotunnel in plenty of time and made the crossing ahead of schedule. That was the 2 1/2 hour drive out of the way on this side, we noted the severe traffic jams on the opposite side of the road and were grateful to be heading in the other direction. As we exited the tunnel and got underway things were going just fine until we hit an unexplained traffic jam as we got up towards the M20/M25 junction, we had plenty of time though as we did not need to be at the Albert Hall until 15.00. I cannot remember when we got to the hotel in Ealing but it was around 11.30 ish. We left the hotel not long thereafter and headed into town.
For those who do not know, the Victoria and Albert museum is in South Kensington, which is not too far away from Ealing relatively speaking. We bought some Oyster cards, a very good tip, as they could be given credit which you use as and when you travel. If you happen to reach the point where a travel card would have been cheaper then it caps the cost at this level, otherwise it takes fares as you use them. The Oyster card has a deposit of £5, which can be reclaimed along with any unused credit at the end of your trip. One point of warning though, you cannot get a refund from a combined Tube/railway station, it has to be just a tube station. Don't ask why but that is the way it is. We stopped off in South Kensington for lunch at a Pain de Quoitidien, one of An's favoured hostelries. During lunch we played a game to spot those ladies who do not have to work for a living and decided that those carrying backpacks were definitely tourists.
Now I didn't know this, but the V&A is right next door to the Natural History Museum and both of these are well worth a visit. We were a bit early for the David Bowie exhibition, which was being tightly controlled by using timed access. We took the opportunity to traverse the shop, actually you could not get round this, very clever marketing. There were a large number of kids in the shop who were, along with others, barging about and getting very excited about the souvenirs available in the shop. It was not long to wait though and my feet were already protesting at the length of time I would be standing, a sad feature of my trips to London.
David Bowie is not someone who I am a particular fan of but then it is always nice to learn something new and to understand a bit about his work. I have to say the two key points I picked up on was that he had had a fight when a boy and suffered a punch to the eye which left him with a permanently dilated pupil, the other was that he is called David Jones and changed his name to differentiate between the singer from the Monkees. Both were a revelation to me and now I shall look closely to every picture of him that I look at from now on! The rest of it was an education as well but he was really before my time. We bought a platinum album which included songs from the 60s, 70s and 80s, clearly this had some dross on as far as I was concerned but I recognised quite a few of the well known ones.
When we left the museum we headed off towards Chelsea for the first of our marathon walking/shopping expeditions. It was not far to go and to cut a long story short I ended up reluctantly buying a pair of shoes for £145, these were comfortable, initially but not when worn for the entire day the following day!
We got back and had supper at the hotel, the service there was very good I have to say. I did get an odd phone call asking if I still wanted to keep both rooms, which was odd as I was standing in one of them as I took the call. It would appear that I had booked two rooms by accident, although I did not get the customary confirmation email when I did so. More importantly the man I spoke to when checking in did not think to question the double booking at the time. Thankfully I did not get charged otherwise I would have been most unimpressed.
The following day we took a trip up to Camden Town, where the girls bought no less than 5 pairs of shoes between them, including a pair of Doc Martin boots from the British Boot Company. Camden Town is an amazing place, full of market stalls and interesting shops, I would strongly recommend a visit. There is also a world foods area where you can get a whole range of different food to sit and eat either there and then or by the lock gates. It is a place where you could spend a while with a camera and get some great shots. I met an American Artist who had a tag which was called the Killer Bunny, he combined rabbits with movie and TV scenes with some quite disturbing images. Not for the kids I have to say but fascinating as an idea. He told me that he got his inspiration from Watership Down and chose to combine that with the Movies and TV. I showed An the picture he had of Smurfs being nailed to the wall, she was not impressed (Smurfs originating from Belgium). Check out the website but be prepared to be shocked! http://www.killerbunny.co.uk/egn2/
We continued our trip by heading to Spitalfields and then Brick Lane. Really it was just a shopping trip disguised as a sightseeing tour. Brick Lane was not what I was expecting but Spitalfields is worth a trip. We finished up by heading to my Aunt and Uncles place in Clapham and had a nice curry. We made our delivery of Neuhaus chocolates and caught up with the family, apart from Max who was out at the time.
Saturday was also going to be a bit of a shopping day but we also planned to take in a Salvador Dali exhibition followed by a show in the evening. There was a plan to get to Libertys and I wanted to get some photographic kit from nearby Wardour Street. It was this day, with regret, that I wore my new shoes and paid the price with my feet. I only had the whole day walking for God only knows how far. You would think after having reached the age of 40 that I would know the risks associated with buying new shoes and then breaking them in. When looking for the photographic shop on Wardour street I of course turned the wrong way down the street and walked the entire length of it before realising that the shop was in the opposite direction. I had neglected to make a note of the number and knew only too well that had I abandoned my search down one end it would have been but 10 metres further on. Anyway I did find it and it was disappointingly tiny but yet well equipped. I was after a background support, which they had. I also bought a couple of other things spending around £200 in the shop and now looking like an assassin carrying a rifle in my black elongated bag that held the stands. It was heavy and awkward, but I was willing to bear the burden. I also took in a trip to Hamley's, I could not walk by without checking it out as usual.
Once the shopping phase was done we headed off to see Rock of Ages, this is a show that takes well known Rock songs and mixes it with a typical story of hope, love and celebration. It is really very funny the 'compere', for want of a better word, was outstanding. I don't know what came first the show of the film but I just cannot imagine the movie because I cannot see how it would work. I won't spoil it for you but you will not be disappointed.
For Sunday we took in the Bluewater shopping centre on the way back and also stopped off to get some nice things from a branch of Sainsburys, this was topping up on UK stuff. Strangely enough we did this and then started the Dukan diet (a strict protein diet that lasts a while). I currently have two blocks of Wenslydale cheese, two malt loaves, some crunchy peanut butter, Hartley's blackcurrent jam, sandwich spread and Pringles. Thankfully they have a long use by date and we have some visitors in July so we will be breaking the rules then!
Just Minding My Own Business
I am now commuting daily between home and work, which on a good day is about an hour and a quarter but on a bad day anything pushing 2-3. As you can imagine with most places the volume of traffic is rather predictable at given points. I am lucky in that most of my route is free moving most of the time.
Anyway as I was pootling along at 120km/h ish I was happily listening to the radio and avoiding the potholes and crazy loons with their last minute.com changes to road position. On the radio, once again freely airing, Rosana's 'What's My Mother f**king Name' was playing out uncensored and probably in multiple nursery schools across Belgium. Now I am used to the apparent lack of regard for explicit English swear words being used on the Belgian radio during the day but what nearly made me swerve into the central reservation and had me cursing at the radio was when the DJ and his guest had an exchange. The subject of the exchange escapes me now but the guest muttered under his breath God Damn It in Dutch and was told off by the DJ saying hey hey this is national radio, please! I mean what? I think my tirade at the radio lasted at least 2 minutes. It made an otherwise routine trip just a tad more interesting.
Anyway as I was pootling along at 120km/h ish I was happily listening to the radio and avoiding the potholes and crazy loons with their last minute.com changes to road position. On the radio, once again freely airing, Rosana's 'What's My Mother f**king Name' was playing out uncensored and probably in multiple nursery schools across Belgium. Now I am used to the apparent lack of regard for explicit English swear words being used on the Belgian radio during the day but what nearly made me swerve into the central reservation and had me cursing at the radio was when the DJ and his guest had an exchange. The subject of the exchange escapes me now but the guest muttered under his breath God Damn It in Dutch and was told off by the DJ saying hey hey this is national radio, please! I mean what? I think my tirade at the radio lasted at least 2 minutes. It made an otherwise routine trip just a tad more interesting.
Tuesday, 4 June 2013
Home
One day I was driving over from the UK, back from work to my new home. I have driven the route from Portsmouth up the A3, along the M25, down the M20, through the tunnel, then from Calais through France towards Brussels, round the ring road and then up towards Leuven and then the last stretch to Aarschot. I got so used to this that I started getting the welcoming feeling as I passed Leuven. It is the kind of feeling you get when you have been away from home and the familiar landmarks begin to appear as you near the area of your youth, your upbringing. The thought occurred to me that, although I feel welcome, I have very little local knowledge of the area in which I live. Back home in Gateshead, in the UK, I know the area down to the finest details. I don't need to orientate myself because I just know where everything is. Mind you growing up in a conurbation such as Tyneside, you cannot possibly know everywhere, but I knew our territory very well. I know where to go to get things or indeed find things. In Aarschot I depend on knowing a lot less and being a little less orientated. I cannot tell you which way is North or indeed which way most cities are relative to where I am. Of course, I do know where things are relative to Aarschot on a map, but on the ground it is a different story. I can work out which direction North is by using the sun and my watch but I have never taken the time to do that.
The feeling of being at home is special, there is nowhere quite as welcoming for me as the North East of England. The accent is special and it honestly feels like everyone is part of my family when I am out and about. I could sit and listen in a bar all day just absorbing that feeling of comfort. Here in Belgium it is not that I do not fit in or I do not feel welcome, I know some fantastic people here, both friends and family and I love them dearly.
I suppose one way to look at it is that I have spent 40 years learning to express myself, be able to read and write in English and I would like to think that I can hold a decent debate given the chance. Unfortunately I am starting out somewhat behind the curve in Dutch. I am very fortunate that the people I have met are just as good in English as they are in Dutch so I don't have to have the advanced skills I need to be able to hold a complex conversation. It is not that I want to chat deeply about politics or some other technical subject it is just that I am a social animal and I like to interact!
It can be frustrating not being able to read and understand instructions in Dutch as I have a natural inclination to check things and to follow instructions, most of the time. I have to rely on An for most of this and this includes when I am not happy with someone and I wish to make my feelings clear. When I want to complain, half of me thinks can I actually get my message across and the other half thinks what is the point? Of course the way to get round this is to learn Dutch, I only have around 32 years to go before I get fully proficient and even then one must remember that as a child I absorbed a lot more information that I am probably capable of doing so now!
The other thing about home is that I spend a lot less time with my UK friends which can be quite testing. I have been used to being able to more or less drop by but over the last 10 years or so I have been less able to visit people. When I go to London I often meet up with friends and family and it is like an injection of energy. Unfortunately I know quite a few people further afield and it is quite difficult to reach them at times.
Sometimes it is difficult to imagine that An must feel as familiar with the local areas as I do when I am at home. Although she has lived away from home before, we are living in her town of birth and so she is or rather should be completely at ease with where everything is. This makes for interesting conversations when in the car looking for our destination and not knowing where we are, especially when the satnav is playing up. An often ignores the satnav, which then has a mental breakdown and then refuses to cooperate, then An will admit to being lost because the roads have in fact changed or are blocked. Roads are blocked more often than you would think. It is not just An though, I have had this in the car with her dad too, who questions the satnav and then, eventually, realises we do not know where we are. I don't have the luxury of local knowledge and therefore I depend upon the satnav, which usually knows where it is going!
Back in the UK and the North East I almost always use my satnav too, but this is because I appreciate the speed and distance information it gives me and not necessarily the directions. You do become less dependent upon signs and it is quite interesting that I will still read the road signs and yet some people either don't or they do but it does not sink in. That is my way of explaining some erratic driving. Because I have been away from the North East for the best part of 18 years, the road systems keep changing so it is as well to keep your eyes open for signage and road markings.
When I compare my home in Gateshead to my home in Aarschot, well there is no direct comparison possible. Gateshead is more dangerous from a crime point of view but then better from the aspect of choice of shopping (of any kind). Even Leuven does not offer anywhere near the range of choice, but it is a more picturesque place to shop even given the risk of being run over by pretty female students on bikes. At least I would have a smile on my face as I feel the tyres bump over my head. There are too many cars in Gateshead and simply not enough room for them and there are precious few bikes, the girls are still pretty though even if a little under-dressed.
A trip home is always a good one though!
The feeling of being at home is special, there is nowhere quite as welcoming for me as the North East of England. The accent is special and it honestly feels like everyone is part of my family when I am out and about. I could sit and listen in a bar all day just absorbing that feeling of comfort. Here in Belgium it is not that I do not fit in or I do not feel welcome, I know some fantastic people here, both friends and family and I love them dearly.
I suppose one way to look at it is that I have spent 40 years learning to express myself, be able to read and write in English and I would like to think that I can hold a decent debate given the chance. Unfortunately I am starting out somewhat behind the curve in Dutch. I am very fortunate that the people I have met are just as good in English as they are in Dutch so I don't have to have the advanced skills I need to be able to hold a complex conversation. It is not that I want to chat deeply about politics or some other technical subject it is just that I am a social animal and I like to interact!
It can be frustrating not being able to read and understand instructions in Dutch as I have a natural inclination to check things and to follow instructions, most of the time. I have to rely on An for most of this and this includes when I am not happy with someone and I wish to make my feelings clear. When I want to complain, half of me thinks can I actually get my message across and the other half thinks what is the point? Of course the way to get round this is to learn Dutch, I only have around 32 years to go before I get fully proficient and even then one must remember that as a child I absorbed a lot more information that I am probably capable of doing so now!
The other thing about home is that I spend a lot less time with my UK friends which can be quite testing. I have been used to being able to more or less drop by but over the last 10 years or so I have been less able to visit people. When I go to London I often meet up with friends and family and it is like an injection of energy. Unfortunately I know quite a few people further afield and it is quite difficult to reach them at times.
Sometimes it is difficult to imagine that An must feel as familiar with the local areas as I do when I am at home. Although she has lived away from home before, we are living in her town of birth and so she is or rather should be completely at ease with where everything is. This makes for interesting conversations when in the car looking for our destination and not knowing where we are, especially when the satnav is playing up. An often ignores the satnav, which then has a mental breakdown and then refuses to cooperate, then An will admit to being lost because the roads have in fact changed or are blocked. Roads are blocked more often than you would think. It is not just An though, I have had this in the car with her dad too, who questions the satnav and then, eventually, realises we do not know where we are. I don't have the luxury of local knowledge and therefore I depend upon the satnav, which usually knows where it is going!
Back in the UK and the North East I almost always use my satnav too, but this is because I appreciate the speed and distance information it gives me and not necessarily the directions. You do become less dependent upon signs and it is quite interesting that I will still read the road signs and yet some people either don't or they do but it does not sink in. That is my way of explaining some erratic driving. Because I have been away from the North East for the best part of 18 years, the road systems keep changing so it is as well to keep your eyes open for signage and road markings.
When I compare my home in Gateshead to my home in Aarschot, well there is no direct comparison possible. Gateshead is more dangerous from a crime point of view but then better from the aspect of choice of shopping (of any kind). Even Leuven does not offer anywhere near the range of choice, but it is a more picturesque place to shop even given the risk of being run over by pretty female students on bikes. At least I would have a smile on my face as I feel the tyres bump over my head. There are too many cars in Gateshead and simply not enough room for them and there are precious few bikes, the girls are still pretty though even if a little under-dressed.
A trip home is always a good one though!
Sunday, 2 June 2013
The Cultural View
I was 16 when I first went to London with my grandfather, we travelled down by train and stayed at my Uncles' house in Streatham. There is no easy way to say this but I had never seen so many people of West Indian or African descent. In the North East of England there was at that time a sizeable Jewish population and to a lesser extent those of Indian and Pakistani descent. The Indians and Pakistanis ran most of the local convenience shops in our area. Naively, I thought I had grown up free from any exposure to racist behaviour, the reality was that I had not noticed and therefore thought it didn't exist.
London is how you would describe as cosmopolitan, it is a rich mix of ethnic groups, cultures and traditions. The reality is that in the UK the population composition has changed a great deal since the Second World War, we have people from all over the world coming from Commonwealth countries, what we used to call the British Empire before that term became a bit embarrassing. Since the UK joined the European Economic Community, the forerunner to the European Union, the UK has become even more diversified with citizens from all over Europe, former Eastern block countries and now asylum seekers from all sorts of countries. In essence the UK is a big mixing pot and our culture and identity is changing as a result. Now this is not meant to be a debate about politics, the rights and wrongs of taking in asylum seekers, border controls, the future membership of the European Union, no. My aim in starting this off was to explain why I think London is a much more dangerous place to drive and the people seem less friendly than back home in the North East. I put this down to a lack of understanding and uneven cultural attitudes to driving.
So what has this to do with Belgium then? Well I think that Belgium being in its central position in Europe and having its connections with former colonies has a similar mix of cultures, particularly in the big cities. Where it does differ is that the two predominant language groups of Flemish and Wallonian are very conscious of their identity. So even if there are three official languages in Belgium; Dutch, French and German, they do not really do a lot to help other non-natives out. If you buy some drugs at a pharmacy in Belgium you will get a leaflet out and the chances are the instructions will only be in either Dutch or French and if you are lucky German. In the UK if you buy some drugs then the leaflet will most likely be printed in about 8 or 9 languages. In the UK we seem to bend over backwards to cater for people who do not speak English, in particular in the cities.
I consider myself extremely fortunate that a lot of people in Belgium speak English very well, mainly I have to say this is on the Flemish side. In the Wallonian side they speak English to a lesser extent and this is probably due to the dominance of French speaking TV and radio. The Flemish TV has a great deal of programmes and films in English. These are dubbed in French in Wallonia. Do I think that they are losing their identity because of this, no, not at all. I know where I am and the locals are rightly proud of their heritage and they maintain it very well. You just have to visit one of the local towns when they have an event in the main square, they all have markets and festivals and there is usually a town Prince, which is an ornately dressed person I can best describe as similar in appearance to a Pearly King only more outlandish.
My original intent was to talk about queues and the different attitudes to them, somehow I got onto the composition of the population! Oh well, next time.
London is how you would describe as cosmopolitan, it is a rich mix of ethnic groups, cultures and traditions. The reality is that in the UK the population composition has changed a great deal since the Second World War, we have people from all over the world coming from Commonwealth countries, what we used to call the British Empire before that term became a bit embarrassing. Since the UK joined the European Economic Community, the forerunner to the European Union, the UK has become even more diversified with citizens from all over Europe, former Eastern block countries and now asylum seekers from all sorts of countries. In essence the UK is a big mixing pot and our culture and identity is changing as a result. Now this is not meant to be a debate about politics, the rights and wrongs of taking in asylum seekers, border controls, the future membership of the European Union, no. My aim in starting this off was to explain why I think London is a much more dangerous place to drive and the people seem less friendly than back home in the North East. I put this down to a lack of understanding and uneven cultural attitudes to driving.
So what has this to do with Belgium then? Well I think that Belgium being in its central position in Europe and having its connections with former colonies has a similar mix of cultures, particularly in the big cities. Where it does differ is that the two predominant language groups of Flemish and Wallonian are very conscious of their identity. So even if there are three official languages in Belgium; Dutch, French and German, they do not really do a lot to help other non-natives out. If you buy some drugs at a pharmacy in Belgium you will get a leaflet out and the chances are the instructions will only be in either Dutch or French and if you are lucky German. In the UK if you buy some drugs then the leaflet will most likely be printed in about 8 or 9 languages. In the UK we seem to bend over backwards to cater for people who do not speak English, in particular in the cities.
I consider myself extremely fortunate that a lot of people in Belgium speak English very well, mainly I have to say this is on the Flemish side. In the Wallonian side they speak English to a lesser extent and this is probably due to the dominance of French speaking TV and radio. The Flemish TV has a great deal of programmes and films in English. These are dubbed in French in Wallonia. Do I think that they are losing their identity because of this, no, not at all. I know where I am and the locals are rightly proud of their heritage and they maintain it very well. You just have to visit one of the local towns when they have an event in the main square, they all have markets and festivals and there is usually a town Prince, which is an ornately dressed person I can best describe as similar in appearance to a Pearly King only more outlandish.
My original intent was to talk about queues and the different attitudes to them, somehow I got onto the composition of the population! Oh well, next time.
The 'h' isn't silent in think!
Something that did not occur to me until I started learning Dutch is that there are some sounds in English that are just not replicated in other languages and I suppose the opposite holds true. In this case I often hear An fail to pronounce the 'th' sound when she speaks English. You have to form this sound by placing your tongue between your teeth and then expel out as you say the 'th' bit. It is hard to describe but then not having to think about it, you just know rather than have to explain. In An's case she 'tinks' about it and does not put her tongue between her 'teet'. She trows things, tanks people and is very 'toughtful', most of the time.
I can't think of the equivalent in Dutch but they do have the long ij in makkelijk (easy). In English this combination ij is not found, as far as I know, therefore we don't readily know how to pronounce this or even how to try. When I was learning I found out that it is essentially the same as saying 'air'. In this case you extend it out, there is the shorter version which is 'ei' as in eieren (eggs). As a general rule in Dutch when you have double vowels it means that the sound is longer, single vowels are pronounced shorter. It is here that I miss-pronounce my wife's name I actually say Aan but it is spelt An, it is meant to be abrupt, almost curt really. I say it with a longer 'a' sound.
It works both ways I remember going to the baker for my father-in-law's salt free bread, which had been pre-ordered. When I asked the lady behind the counter, 'u heeft een bestelt voor Rene, zout vrij brood?' she did not understand me, I probably said it a bit quietly and now I was beginning to question whether I was in the right shop or whether the order had been placed at all. I repeated several times and the thing is it was the name she did not understand. Eventually another one of the ladies came through and said who it was for, at which point the other lady did a fantastic impression of the waitress Yvette in Allo Allo as she growled out 'ah rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrennnnnnnneeeeeeeeee'. I should have rolled my 'r' and held it but then I would feel rather stupid saying that as though he were a long lost relative...
By the way if you have not heard of Allo Allo then catch this from Youtube at the link here.
I can't think of the equivalent in Dutch but they do have the long ij in makkelijk (easy). In English this combination ij is not found, as far as I know, therefore we don't readily know how to pronounce this or even how to try. When I was learning I found out that it is essentially the same as saying 'air'. In this case you extend it out, there is the shorter version which is 'ei' as in eieren (eggs). As a general rule in Dutch when you have double vowels it means that the sound is longer, single vowels are pronounced shorter. It is here that I miss-pronounce my wife's name I actually say Aan but it is spelt An, it is meant to be abrupt, almost curt really. I say it with a longer 'a' sound.
It works both ways I remember going to the baker for my father-in-law's salt free bread, which had been pre-ordered. When I asked the lady behind the counter, 'u heeft een bestelt voor Rene, zout vrij brood?' she did not understand me, I probably said it a bit quietly and now I was beginning to question whether I was in the right shop or whether the order had been placed at all. I repeated several times and the thing is it was the name she did not understand. Eventually another one of the ladies came through and said who it was for, at which point the other lady did a fantastic impression of the waitress Yvette in Allo Allo as she growled out 'ah rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrennnnnnnneeeeeeeeee'. I should have rolled my 'r' and held it but then I would feel rather stupid saying that as though he were a long lost relative...
By the way if you have not heard of Allo Allo then catch this from Youtube at the link here.
Tuesday, 28 May 2013
The New Roof
When we bought the house in October 2007 An and I had a long term aim to replace the flat roof with a pitched one and to also replace the windows in the entire house. No small measures here then, the two projects combined would be around 50,000 euros.
I do not really have much to compare this with when it comes to the UK. I once bought a set of UPVC double glazing back in 1995, that was 5 windows and 1 door and it cost £1500, the fitting and quality was poor and I paid up front for it. In Belgium we bought 7 aluminium windows, a garage door and a front door. One of those windows is a sliding door that is about 3 metres wide. The whole lot cost 16,000 euros and we paid something like four months after fitting, no deposit or any form of security. It was quite worrying not being asked for any money. They waited until the last few bits were complete before sending the bill. Mind you they did make their money. We also got tax back, it is part of the incentive to become more energy efficient.
The roof, however, was a far more taxing affair to deal with. We had to secure borrowing and to do that we needed to hire a solicitor and go through a broker, it was just like getting a mortgage. More importantly we had to get an architect in to do the plans and give us advice.
We held a meeting once we had identified a suitable architect, he was recommended although I am not sure why. During the meeting we discussed a number of crucial objectives such as: timing of how long it would take, planning permission, fees and overall cost of the project. All of our discussions were utterly pointless, whatever we said it was either ignored or agreed with and later ignored. As an example, I stated that the cost of the project should come in at no more than 25,000 euros and I asked if this was possible. What the architect should have said is no, what he did say was oh yes it will come in at around that price. The architect's fees eventually were about 4,000 euros, this is a ridiculous 20% of the cost of the project. We did not know this at the time and have learnt our lesson, but 9% is a more common figure. The legal costs were around 1500, but that related to the borrowing being arranged. I cannot remember how much the planning permission cost but this was another screw up by our architect.
When our plans were submitted the architect did not take pictures of the surrounding area or highlight that of the estate of around 100 houses, almost 25 had pitched roofs. So amazingly enough the planning authority in Leuven said we could not build our roof as it was not in keeping with the local area and in addition we could not have solar panels (something we were considering). Our neighbour directly across form us, less than 30 metres away has a pitched roof, so why were we being declined? The neighbour next to her had solar panels on her garage roof and the houses in the surrounding area had stacks of them, another strange decision. Anyway I ended up marking up each house on the estate with a pitched roof and then took it to the architect and said just show them that. This he did and we got our permission (still without the solar panels). I must add at this point that when we called into the town hall for advice, the quality would vary depending upon who you spoke to and indeed what time of day it was. It seems to be a common trait that you don't generally get the same answer twice and therefore my instinct is not to trust what I have been told. In fact the best thing to do is to get them to write it down and sign it off, they then backtrack and make sure they have it right!
The next phase was getting the quotes from the builders, again we held a raft of meetings with several builders to outline our requirements. Any quote takes two weeks to produce and bears no resemblance to any discussions that you may have held with the contractor. I have no idea if this is the case with UK builders. In my experience I have known people to be able to estimate there and then not to wait for two weeks. What inevitably happens is they forget what you have discussed and then have to go for another two weeks whilst they re-do the quote. There is a silver lining to this cloud, which I will get to. The quotes varied wildly between each builder and of course each was using the best quality and construction techniques. We discussed them with the architect and he advised us on the various offers. Eventually we chose one, which was around 19,000 euros but did not do everything that we wanted. In essence it would be a shell with no plasterboard or electrics installed. It also did not include the brickwork for the gable ends, we had to get a separate quote for that. More of that later.
The timing was all shot to bits, this was due to weather and workload of the builder as well as the delays with the plans having to be submitted again. The original timeline was for the work to take place in Jul but in the event it was late August. I had taken time off work to be there and for most of the construction I was not there, more delays. The work took around 3 weeks to complete and I had to harass the builder to turn up once the gable ends had gone up. It was like having two large unstable sails on the house and the flat roof had been compromised.
The gables ends took about a week to put up and I humped brick and blocks from the ground up a rather rickety lift and onto the roof, whilst our brickie did the work. We did not benefit financially from that, the price was fixed, something that has both advantages and disadvantages. The good thing is that it is never more unless you significantly change the requirement and even then it is reasonable. It can, however, end up far too much if it has been overestimated. This happened with the tiling in the bathroom which took around half as long as he expected, we got ripped off here and we made our displeasure known. It was an extremely hot August and toiling with these bricks in the sun was quite something. I have to say the view from the top was also quite impressive.
I had to go back to work for the next phase so I missed the joy of seeing it go up. The roof is made of a wooden construction with essentially 4 triangles running the length of the house. The first triangle is the one form the ridge of the roof to the sides of the house, the big one. Two are one each from each side going in maybe a metre. This way you have no supporting structures spanning the main space and getting in the way. The last one was along the ridge and connecting each side together. I have drawn a rather crude diagram below.
Now the thing that most people dread is when the builder starts to deny all knowledge that you had agreed to do a particular bit of work and that it was included in the price. In our case in involved the removal and disposal of the roofing felt and the installation of a floor. Thankfully we had a written and signed contract that included both of these things and they duly carried out the work without fuss. The architect earned some of his money by being on hand and carrying out inspections. I have to say in this respect he was very good. He made sure the floor was of a decent thickness and questioned and changed their construction when needed.
The things that needed to be changed were:
We ended up with a 5 x 7m space, my man cave. The loft was insulated but not fitted out for electrics or with plasterboard. I will do a separate blog on that one as it was some effort to do that. We had a loft with three windows and one hole in the floor for the stairs when they were installed, again another time with that one.
Once again the lessons from this are get a written and signed contract, get quotes (including more than one architect) and then make sure they do the work they have signed up for. The loft is a great space and it was not long before An was eyeing it up for alternative uses...
Photos to follow.
I do not really have much to compare this with when it comes to the UK. I once bought a set of UPVC double glazing back in 1995, that was 5 windows and 1 door and it cost £1500, the fitting and quality was poor and I paid up front for it. In Belgium we bought 7 aluminium windows, a garage door and a front door. One of those windows is a sliding door that is about 3 metres wide. The whole lot cost 16,000 euros and we paid something like four months after fitting, no deposit or any form of security. It was quite worrying not being asked for any money. They waited until the last few bits were complete before sending the bill. Mind you they did make their money. We also got tax back, it is part of the incentive to become more energy efficient.
The roof, however, was a far more taxing affair to deal with. We had to secure borrowing and to do that we needed to hire a solicitor and go through a broker, it was just like getting a mortgage. More importantly we had to get an architect in to do the plans and give us advice.
We held a meeting once we had identified a suitable architect, he was recommended although I am not sure why. During the meeting we discussed a number of crucial objectives such as: timing of how long it would take, planning permission, fees and overall cost of the project. All of our discussions were utterly pointless, whatever we said it was either ignored or agreed with and later ignored. As an example, I stated that the cost of the project should come in at no more than 25,000 euros and I asked if this was possible. What the architect should have said is no, what he did say was oh yes it will come in at around that price. The architect's fees eventually were about 4,000 euros, this is a ridiculous 20% of the cost of the project. We did not know this at the time and have learnt our lesson, but 9% is a more common figure. The legal costs were around 1500, but that related to the borrowing being arranged. I cannot remember how much the planning permission cost but this was another screw up by our architect.
When our plans were submitted the architect did not take pictures of the surrounding area or highlight that of the estate of around 100 houses, almost 25 had pitched roofs. So amazingly enough the planning authority in Leuven said we could not build our roof as it was not in keeping with the local area and in addition we could not have solar panels (something we were considering). Our neighbour directly across form us, less than 30 metres away has a pitched roof, so why were we being declined? The neighbour next to her had solar panels on her garage roof and the houses in the surrounding area had stacks of them, another strange decision. Anyway I ended up marking up each house on the estate with a pitched roof and then took it to the architect and said just show them that. This he did and we got our permission (still without the solar panels). I must add at this point that when we called into the town hall for advice, the quality would vary depending upon who you spoke to and indeed what time of day it was. It seems to be a common trait that you don't generally get the same answer twice and therefore my instinct is not to trust what I have been told. In fact the best thing to do is to get them to write it down and sign it off, they then backtrack and make sure they have it right!
The next phase was getting the quotes from the builders, again we held a raft of meetings with several builders to outline our requirements. Any quote takes two weeks to produce and bears no resemblance to any discussions that you may have held with the contractor. I have no idea if this is the case with UK builders. In my experience I have known people to be able to estimate there and then not to wait for two weeks. What inevitably happens is they forget what you have discussed and then have to go for another two weeks whilst they re-do the quote. There is a silver lining to this cloud, which I will get to. The quotes varied wildly between each builder and of course each was using the best quality and construction techniques. We discussed them with the architect and he advised us on the various offers. Eventually we chose one, which was around 19,000 euros but did not do everything that we wanted. In essence it would be a shell with no plasterboard or electrics installed. It also did not include the brickwork for the gable ends, we had to get a separate quote for that. More of that later.
The timing was all shot to bits, this was due to weather and workload of the builder as well as the delays with the plans having to be submitted again. The original timeline was for the work to take place in Jul but in the event it was late August. I had taken time off work to be there and for most of the construction I was not there, more delays. The work took around 3 weeks to complete and I had to harass the builder to turn up once the gable ends had gone up. It was like having two large unstable sails on the house and the flat roof had been compromised.
The gables ends took about a week to put up and I humped brick and blocks from the ground up a rather rickety lift and onto the roof, whilst our brickie did the work. We did not benefit financially from that, the price was fixed, something that has both advantages and disadvantages. The good thing is that it is never more unless you significantly change the requirement and even then it is reasonable. It can, however, end up far too much if it has been overestimated. This happened with the tiling in the bathroom which took around half as long as he expected, we got ripped off here and we made our displeasure known. It was an extremely hot August and toiling with these bricks in the sun was quite something. I have to say the view from the top was also quite impressive.
I had to go back to work for the next phase so I missed the joy of seeing it go up. The roof is made of a wooden construction with essentially 4 triangles running the length of the house. The first triangle is the one form the ridge of the roof to the sides of the house, the big one. Two are one each from each side going in maybe a metre. This way you have no supporting structures spanning the main space and getting in the way. The last one was along the ridge and connecting each side together. I have drawn a rather crude diagram below.
Now the thing that most people dread is when the builder starts to deny all knowledge that you had agreed to do a particular bit of work and that it was included in the price. In our case in involved the removal and disposal of the roofing felt and the installation of a floor. Thankfully we had a written and signed contract that included both of these things and they duly carried out the work without fuss. The architect earned some of his money by being on hand and carrying out inspections. I have to say in this respect he was very good. He made sure the floor was of a decent thickness and questioned and changed their construction when needed.
The things that needed to be changed were:
- Insulation in the gables, it needed to be thicker (more cost).
- The floor needed to be thickened up (more cost).
We ended up with a 5 x 7m space, my man cave. The loft was insulated but not fitted out for electrics or with plasterboard. I will do a separate blog on that one as it was some effort to do that. We had a loft with three windows and one hole in the floor for the stairs when they were installed, again another time with that one.
Once again the lessons from this are get a written and signed contract, get quotes (including more than one architect) and then make sure they do the work they have signed up for. The loft is a great space and it was not long before An was eyeing it up for alternative uses...
Photos to follow.
Sunday, 26 May 2013
The Wedding Anniversary
On Friday the 24th May An and I had been married for 5 years, we celebrated by heading to the restaurant where we got engaged and then later had our wedding reception. The Gelofte is a very special if small restaurant located in Aarschot. When I first started coming over to Belgium the price of a meal here was quite reasonable given the excellent quality of the food and service. Of all of the places I have eaten in Belgium, this has to be the best and it easily beats any food I have had in the UK.
With this sort of quality, however, you need to pay the price and now it is somewhat more expensive than it used to be, so much so that we really cannot afford to eat there as often as we would like.
This time round both An and I walked to the restaurant so we could both enjoy a drink. There was a fixed menu which was 45 euros per person, not including any drinks but I wanted to go for something on the main menu which meant paying a bit more. For starters An had a crab salad with apple, cucumber and radish. I had duck liver with pear balls and sauce. The description does not really do it justice. The duck liver was similar to foie gras, but with a consistency that was a little firmer and a lovely baked crust. It was, without any doubt, the best starter I have ever had. I cannot stress how exquisite this was. Our mains were rood baars, (I think this is red snapper but I am not sure) for An and lambs fillet with ratatouille and mustard sauce for me. Again this was very good. For dessert An had strawberries with a rhubarb sauce and special ice cream and I had a Dame Blanche. We had a glass of champagne each, some water and between us 5 glasses of red and white wine. In all it was an experience rather than just a meal out. The cost of the meal was 203 euros for the two of us. There were entrees as well before and after the starter. The first was something similar to prawn crackers but made from squid and quinoa with a mushroom mousse. The second was made with a St Jacobs escallop with beetroot and cauliflower.
The restaurant details can be found at the link here, along with details of the menu (although this has now changed since Friday!)
If ever you happen to be going by then I would strongly recommend you check it out.
With this sort of quality, however, you need to pay the price and now it is somewhat more expensive than it used to be, so much so that we really cannot afford to eat there as often as we would like.
This time round both An and I walked to the restaurant so we could both enjoy a drink. There was a fixed menu which was 45 euros per person, not including any drinks but I wanted to go for something on the main menu which meant paying a bit more. For starters An had a crab salad with apple, cucumber and radish. I had duck liver with pear balls and sauce. The description does not really do it justice. The duck liver was similar to foie gras, but with a consistency that was a little firmer and a lovely baked crust. It was, without any doubt, the best starter I have ever had. I cannot stress how exquisite this was. Our mains were rood baars, (I think this is red snapper but I am not sure) for An and lambs fillet with ratatouille and mustard sauce for me. Again this was very good. For dessert An had strawberries with a rhubarb sauce and special ice cream and I had a Dame Blanche. We had a glass of champagne each, some water and between us 5 glasses of red and white wine. In all it was an experience rather than just a meal out. The cost of the meal was 203 euros for the two of us. There were entrees as well before and after the starter. The first was something similar to prawn crackers but made from squid and quinoa with a mushroom mousse. The second was made with a St Jacobs escallop with beetroot and cauliflower.
The restaurant details can be found at the link here, along with details of the menu (although this has now changed since Friday!)
If ever you happen to be going by then I would strongly recommend you check it out.
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