Waitrose

It was like walking into a western saloon wearing pink bottomless leather half-chaps, matching shirt with sequins and fluffy pink 10 gallon hat.  Gingerly stepping over the corpses of unwise cowboys who had squinted in the wrong direction, and been met with a hail of bullets from some unshaven Mexicans with a penchant for whiskey and a reputation for over-reacting. 

On reaching the bar and asking for an Earl Grey tea, no milk and a slice of ginger cake, the barman giving me that look that says, "Earl Grey, EARL GREY, EARL GOD DAMN GREY!!!!!" and then proceeding to shove the said t-bag through the hole in the bottomless half-chaps and depositing it where there would be some challenge adding the boiling water, not that that would deter him from trying to do so.

Maybe I go too far, well the bit about the Earl Grey and ginger cake was true, the Barman was a young disinterested girl and I also had a ham and cheese toastie all for £8.50.

This was my first time ever in Waitrose and for those who have never heard of this chain it is a step up from M&S but well short of Fortnum & Masons.  A premium supermarket chain that caters for the somewhat better off clientele in the UK.  A chain where you have to wear a shirt and tie (if you are male) to shop there and they almost carry out a number of background checks before allowing you to enter the premises.

In my defence I did intend to go to Asda following my rather late night out last night.  I was in need of food, both immediate for brunch and also for the following week.  As Asda hove into view I observed the lack of parking and had noted the Waitrose car park and so made the fateful decision to turn left and, although my car is in need of a clean, being a Jaguar enabled me to overcome the first line of Waitrose's defence and I pulled in.  The first thing I noticed was that the 'normal' car parking bay was to put it mildly, massive.  I could get my full length in the space with room to spare (take that how you will).  There was even room on either side to allow for doors to open.  I was impressed.

My first contact with an employee was actually as I proceeded to requisition a trolley.  I asked whether they were available upstairs in the shop or should I take it into the lift?  He sort of grunted that they were available and, thinking that the lift would be a regular size, I opted to delay my requisition.  I was surprised to find that you could play five a side in the lift and have room for a burger van too.

The shop is very smart as are the staff, in terms of dress at least.  I decided to have something to eat in the plush café but was worried that I may have to don a bow tie and jacket.  When I managed to catch the attention of the entirely underemployed member of staff, who was un-enthusiastically trying to ignore her only customer, I placed my order.  It would not become clear until much later on why she was reluctant to engage with me.  I did manage to get served and the quality of presentation and food was impressive, if not the service.  In fact I managed to spot a member of the team with some libellous message on her work clothing, it said "Customer Service".

The shop is overstaffed to the point where they have more than catered for the perceived loss of employment to be felt from the de-industrialisation of the UK after the decline of the coal, steel and shipbuilding industries. 

I was very impressed with the range and quality of the goods on offer and even noted how neat and articulate the signage was.  I had never seen so many independent types of cider on sale before.  Not even the Camra festival at Earls Court has such a wide range of ciders.

The moment of realisation for me came when I unfurled my shopping bag and it was then that I saw that I had in fact brought in an Asda bag.  I felt like I had smuggled cocaine into the country and was now surrounded by enthusiastic and slightly aggressive police officers.

The class of customer is somewhat more pretentious, but then also that comes with rather better manners than the average pyjama wearing family that shops en mass at Tescos.  The children looked genuinely bored as if to indicate that shopping in a supermarket is not intellectually challenging enough for them but that it should offer more stimulating experiences.

Although I may have embellished a little, I think their niche market is making the shopping more of a quality experience than a mad crush for the weekly provisions whilst trying to dodge the poorly planned and positioned trollies of the shelf stackers.  I now have to go back if only to listen to the customers and their outrageous comments, they are ever so civilised so much so that I cannot imagine having trolley rage.  I will also have to take An there so she can enhance her cultural experience of the British way of doing things.

Disneyland Paris

Disneyland sounds like a magical place where heros overcome villains, princesses are rescued by their prince charmings and everyone lives happily ever after.  Then you remember that you are in France and that this is a multi-million dollar business processing the meat that are customers through the sausage machine of hotels, attractions and merchandising shops to extract the last penny from you whilst smiling at you.  

A Press-Up Too Far

'It all started with a fitness session, which turned from a regular beasting to life threatening and I never saw it coming.  My reason for writing this is twofold: firstly to make people aware of the risks and secondly to come to terms myself with what happened.

I have 26 years of experience of hard physical training within the military, there is a mentality that you keep going and persevere.  It has never been a case of being macho or competition, well not for me, it shows character and endurance.

I have always hated circuits (multiple exercises in short bursts), because they are uncomfortable and painful.  It pains me to say this but I now have a grudging respect for the Physical Training branch, why?  Well because they know what they are doing, to me it always seemed mad, but there is a degree of balance and sense to the exercises that pushes but does not break the body.

The session last Monday took me over the safe limit for two reasons: firstly I pushed myself too far, to the point of exhaustion in fact and secondly the instructor did not balance out the session across different muscle groups.  It is important to point out that the damage in this case was to my upper body, this has always been a weak area of mine and so was particularly vulnerable to this session.  So what happened?

As far as I remember the exercise went something like this:

No warm up - the first part was regarded as a warm up but was already high intensity.

Sprinting on the spot interspersed with press-ups which counted down from 10 to 1 (I worked this out as 55 press-ups in around 3 or so minutes). We did this twice with maybe 90 seconds between rounds .  I may have got the details wrong but the key point is that by the end of this I could no longer support my body weight whilst in the press-up position and I was struggling well before the second round ended.  I should have stopped at that point.

The next part involved partnering up and doing more press-up related exercises whilst your partner ran to a point and returned.  I had already decided that I would do variations on sit ups as I simply could not do the required exercise.  I don't recall how many sprints we did but it was enough.

Unbeknown to me I had damaged the muscles in my upper body to the same degree that crush victims in earthquakes experience.  Whenever I have done these exercises in the past I have always experienced a degree of discomfort, most do if they truly push themselves.  This was different, by day three I still could not lift my arms above my head, that was not normal.  In addition my urine had turned a very dark brown and had been so for a few days.  At first I thought this was dehydration but it usually clears on day one.  I remember remarking that I had never experienced a circuit like that in terms of intensity, there is a good reason for that.  The military vary the muscle groups being worked upon and it avoids the risk of severe damage.  To exercise the same group repeatedly at high intensity increases the risk.  So what was it?  What was going on?

There is always a danger when resorting to 'Doctor Internet' that you find you are about to die and need to rush to accident and emergency.  I checked out my symptoms on Thursday and found a condition called Rhabdomyolysis.  Now stop reading this blog now and go to the link below, read all of the information and be aware, it may save your life or someone else's. http://www.healthline.com/health/rhabdomyolysis#Overview1

So I was now getting concerned and considered going to Accident and Emergency in the UK.  As it was I had been drinking between the exercise and my discovery of what it might be and I had to drive back to Belgium.  I should have gone straight to A&E, but I didn't.  Once home my wife and I had a tense discussion and decided against going to A&E, she did call the doctor who said I should make an appointment at the local clinic to get tested.  I was fortunate in that there was an appointment at 08.30.

First thing Friday morning and the doctor did a urine test and took some blood.  Apparently there was blood in my urine and this is more common than I thought.  She reassured me and said that I could call for the results on Monday and if there was a problem she would call me immediately.  I was reassured as the condition indicated that myoglobin would be present and not blood, however, both give the same result on the test.  I took the call late Friday afternoon.  Go immediately to A&E.

I was not scared or worried, although An was shocked.  For me it was a case of let's get going and get this sorted out.  I was concerned about damage to my kidneys or possible failure, so I was pretty focussed. The true impact of my experience would not hit me until I was discharged from the hospital four days later.

I was processed fairly quickly having explained several times what had happened.  I was told that I would be staying, blood was taken, urine was taken and I was out on a drip.  I was examined and asked about other symptoms.  For me there were no other danger signs, no vomiting, nausea or pains other than my sore muscles, which were recovering by that stage.  The doctors said I should look up crush victims to get an idea of what it was that I had, I didn't need to.  A not so tactful nurse made it abundantly clear what my condition was, almost blaming me for it.  It was self inflicted but I am no macho fitness freak.  I liken it to being blind and crossing a motorway, it is bloody dangerous but you just can't see the danger.  I had no idea that such exercise could pose a risk in this way and, having spread the word, no one else had come across it, apart from my medically trained friends.

Word quickly got out to the family that I was in hospital and so I was doing my best to reassure and inform them as I lay with the drip, in casualty.  My Apple Watch came into its own as I made calls through  my watch, it felt a bit like Star Trek.  My mother, An's mother and An to start with.  Then I put a message and photo on Facebook when I knew the danger had passed.  On Saturday morning I had the blood test back that said there was no damage to my kidneys but that a certain enzyme was at dangerously high levels and necessitated me being on 4 litres of IV fluid per day, this is exceptional and poses other risks.

Messages started to come through thick and fast from my friends asking me if I was okay and wishing me a speedy recovery.  It was warming to get such support, which was not lacking in any sense.  I felt a bit of a burden on An, both in time and causing stress.  I was happy with my book, in this case on the Battle of Culludon and the immediate history before and after, which I finished.

I was very lucky that there was no damage to my kidneys, it was now a case of flushing me out to unblock what had accumulated there.  My stay in hospital was an experience, I had four blood tests taken and the drip was changed from my right to my left arm at one point.  Now anyone who really knows me will be aware of my phobic reaction to having my blood taken.  Experiences vary from going into shock to coping well enough.  It is ironic that bravery is really defined as facing up to your greatest fears and overcoming them.  In this case this was the equivalent of vertigo, going over the top in the trenches, facing off spiders, wild dogs, bears, snakes etc.  I cannot understate how much of a trauma it can be even though I know that it is not life threatening and that there is no rational reason to shut down.  I wish I could get over it but there it is.  When changing the drip one of the nurses had problems spearing my vein and I could feel the needle squelching in and out as she tried to find it, I felt like a kebab but tried to keep my mind off it by examining the details of the room to the enth degree.  Often resorting to humour to deal with my nerves.

One funny moment was when An said she would do anything I wanted whilst I was in hospital, at last this was the opportunity that I had been waiting for!  The look on her face as I laughed about this was one of 'well sacrifices must be made'.  I reassured her that I would not ask her to do anything she did not want to do but we did laugh about the possibilities.

Also whilst in hospital I got a better appreciation of the nursing and medical staff and made good use of my Dutch language skills, which they kept making me use.  One of my fellow patients was told to use Dutch with me when he was heard speaking English.  I am grateful and I learned a lot and was complimented on my knowledge and skills.

One of the risks with IV fluids is pulmonary edema, in essence water on the lungs.  The doctors did not tell me that they were monitoring for this but it became apparent eventually.  My hands became swollen and I had put on around 5 kilos, mostly fluids.  I was not moving about a lot and was effectively confined to my bed, it was not helping.  Eventually I was reduced to 2 litres of IV per day which eased the burden.

Eventually I met the senior consultant who said that he was happy for me to go home, this was four days later.  I asked for the consultation in English so that I did not miss anything important, I asked in Dutch!  He confirmed that there was no permanent damage and no long term effects.  I could do exercise again in two weeks time but clearly not overdo it.  There was no need to follow up or be administered medicine.  At that point he confirmed that it was myoglobin in the urine and not blood.  No one had actually confirmed the condition to me at any point, but it became obvious.

Whilst waiting to be discharged the heavens opened and it poured with rain, with the odd rumble of thunder thrown in.  I reflected that I had no jacket and only shorts and t-shirts.  I would be catching the bus as An was unable to collect me.  I am certain had I called friends then I would have had a lift back but I wanted time to reflect.  As I cleared my things I felt slightly down, I was dressed in my black Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt, hiking shorts, desert boots and socks.  I had a small blue rucksack, laptop bag and cloth bag for my laundry.  I looked like a clean homeless person and with the various puncture marks on my arm, I could have been mistaken for a drug addict too.

The bus took over an hour to get from the hospital to the home town,  I almost welled up on the bus as I reflected on what I had been through and the risks.  I then watched the people getting on and off, oblivious to the experience I had had.  When I arrived it was raining but it did not matter, it was not important.  I slowly trudged home in the pleasantly warm rain.

Upon my return the first thing I did was let An know I was back and then I was welcomed by the cats.  I could not feel much when in hospital but now my body was telling me that it was a bit worn out.  Maybe it was just having the relief of being home and out of danger and now I was more sensitive to the normal aches and noises of my body.

I was acutely aware of being overly dramatic about the risk but no matter how I think about it the risk of kidney failure was very real and it has now changed my outlook and made me appreciate things a bit more.

It's Only A Key Ring

For some time now I have been putting up with my bunch of keys and the laws of gravity being applied to them.  In particular my car key which has, with some frustration on my part, crashed to the floor too many times now and has been broken.

The cause of my annoyance is that the main ring or clip has been used all too often and is now in a semi open state.  It is my fault of course, whenever I want to go for a run I do not want my bunch of keys rattling away in my very small key pocket nor do I wish to carry the said keys for 13 or so kilometres.  I do waffle, but I am coming to my point.  I needed a solution in the form of a particular key ring to defy the gravitational forces and meet my demanding requirements.

Cue the search for a solution, I thought maybe something like the image below or even better the one below that.

Normally I would go to the internet and find one on Amazon and just order it, but no!  I thought I would go to the local economy and do my bit.  It is then that my quest to defeat gravity turned into an altogether more formidable challenge.

What, I hear you ask, can be more challenging than defeating one the laws of physics?  Simply this, finding and coordinating my somewhat empty schedule with the opening hours of the local cobbler, really.

I first took a combined visit to the supermarket more than a week ago (on a Friday).  As I dropped by the supermarket I took the astronomically slight chance that the cobbler might be open and paid a visit.  My next challenge was to communicate my requirement in Dutch, which was not really necessary but I do like to practice where I can and the cobbler paid me the compliment of playing along, up to a point.  It became rapidly apparent that, although the planets had aligned in terms of opening hours, they were not quite in alignment in terms of having the said key holder in stock.  "Not to worry" he said, in English by now, "I will order one if they are still available and you can come in next Friday to collect it.  Don't worry if you don't as I will just sell it to some other customer."  I should have noted the cautionary 'if they are still available' but I am an optimist at heart.

I duly departed and went on to buy the weekly groceries.  I had been to the bank where, on my second visit, I had collected a new bank card that took two weeks to produce as it had to travel across the Sahara desert on a lame camel.

I waited, excitedly for the week and, the following Friday I joyfully drove into town to go and pick up my treasure.  First slight hiccup, he was closed for lunch.  I decided that the 1/2 hour or so was too long to wait and I resolved to pick it up the next time I was passing.  I noted the opening hours, but to my eternal shame I paid no attention, particularly to the mythical opening hours that require tarot cards and a crystal ball to see.

The next occasion I was in town was the following Monday.  As I approached I saw that the lights were not on and, if I am honest with you, I did swear just a little bit.  I acknowledged that this was the usual weekly closing day in place of having to endure a hectic trading on the Saturday, he must have been overwhelmed.  I sulked off and did my grocery shopping again.

As it happens I had failed to successfully complete the grocery shopping on Monday, despite taking a photograph of the items I needed to get.  I blame my petulant mood for my missing to procure the mayonnaise and cocktail sauce.  I am on first name terms with the Delhaize staff, although they don't know it.  I think they may be offended when I refer to them as: Dopey, Grumpy, Sneezy, Bashful, Sleepy, Doc and Happy (when I am in a good mood) or Irritable, Ignorant, Tetchy, Violent, Careless, Useless and Vacant (when my mood is off).  Anyway, I felt obliged to go back into town if only to ensure that the staff of Delhaize did not somehow forget who I was.

I made my way from the car park, having displayed my blue card (with the time on it), across the bridge (minding out for trolls and angry ducks) and then up to the main square and round the corner.  To my devastation I observed the lack of electric lighting in the window of the cobblers, was he unable to pay his bills, was he somehow now lying in darkness unable to call for help?  No.  A curt message in the neat form of a white Dymo label declared that the shop was closed, exceptionally I presume so that he could attend the lodge meeting of the Absent Cobblers Guild of Belgium.  Either that or some other customer had ambushed him with loose keys, and even now the police were investigating how much force is required to embed a Yale key into the forehead of someone and noting the slightly less force required to embed a broken car key into his rectal passage.  Defeated I walked off swearing at anyone within 30 feet, much to their surprise.

Today I had a Dutch lesson and, near the end I briefly explained my frustration with the opening hours of the cobbler.  Directly, I proceeded from my lesson to the said shop.  As fanfares blared and fireworks blasted off all around me (in my head) I burst forth into the shop.  I was slightly perturbed that the Grand Master of the Absent Cobblers Guild failed to recognise me without my usual clowns costume and donkey ears.  I needed to remind him of my mission and I did so in Dutch.  It was then that he confirmed my worst fears, "they don't do them any more".  Now for most people I would imagine that you think the shop became a scene of horrifying murder and obscene key assault, it didn't.  By now I simply said thank you and left, thinking that this is why the shops are closing down around Aarschot.  My protest, frustration or other entreaty would be fruitless when compared to the power that is the combined force of opening hours and availability of stock.

Needless to say I shall be ordering the item from Amazon today as I should have done from the outset.

Working

It has been a while since I last posted, so much is going on that it is difficult to know what to start with or where to comment.  I have now been in my current job for 5 months and I seem to have little time for other things.  Typically I rise at 06.00 and I am on a train by 07.07 for the short commute into Brussels.  Usually I arrive at work between 08.00-08.30 and finish up anywhere between 17.30-19.00, with a leaning towards 19.00.  The novelty of having a new job has worn off and now I know the train times and platforms by heart, I see the same faces on my walk as I migrate with the herd on my daily journey.  I started wrapped up in the cold of February and now I appreciate the daylight and greenery of the summer.  I have acquired a dislike of the impersonal shop assistants in the main station in Brussels Central, although the waffle and coffee kiosk is always friendly, even last night when I dropped a 1 cent coin both the assistant and a nearby train conductor went out of their way to make sure I got it back.

I am surprised at how many times I have been asked to help with directions and train times by people of all nationalities.  It is rather handy having the iPad with the NMBS app on it. I have discovered that everyone in Belgium blows their noses like trumpets in an orchestra and I am irked by those who seem to smoke everywhere I go.  My entertainment, apart from people watching, is usually a good book, radio 4 podcast or watching a film on the iPad.  The latter has its risks as I recently discovered.  NMBS has the habit of throwing in surprises to the journey, like re-routing trains that don't stop where you expect them to and this is whilst you are on them too, you need to keep listening out for changes.

I don't generally speak to others on the journey but when I do they are very friendly.  I can only recall maybe one incident of a commuter that seemed impatient to get on or off the train.  They also do seem to block off spare seats or refuse to slip sideways into the seats by the windows, preferring to see you awkwardly balance your way between unsympathetic knees before plonking into the seemingly insufficient space that they have grudgingly removed their bag from.

I have paid for the privilege of using the station toilets, 50 cents and no toilet seat.  I wonder, as I carefully lay down paper on the rim, why and how anyone can steel a toilet seat and past the assistant who collects the money.  I sympathise with the toilet attendant for having such a job, it seems degrading but then someone has to do it.

Banks and Vagabonds

I have not written anything for a while as I have been a tad busy of late.  I started doing contract work for a bank in February and the days are quite long.  I must say from the outset that it is not my intention to offend anyone with this blog nor do I wish to dismiss the plight of those who find themselves on the streets.  I just want to say how I feel and what I think as I go to and from work each day.

Banks, with justification or not, have a somewhat tarnished reputation.  One can name a range of scandals such as LIBOR rigging, Foreign exchange fraud, the poor handling of risk that led to the financial crisis of 2008, tax avoidance, PPI  and mortgage mis-selling.  And it would appear that those responsible are not being held to account.  I know from my limited time that there is a great deal of work being done to ensure that such things do not, or at least are less likely, to happen again.  The changes being applied to the financial services industry can be felt in the changing attitude to how risk is handled and the lower return on capital that can now be achieved.  In essence banks are being asked to hold sufficient liquid assets to be able to meet their obligations (with limits applied).  In simple terms to you or I it means having money in the bank to pay the bills but not necessarily enough to cover all of them, as they should never be called in at the same time.  Imagine if the bank said you must pay back your mortgage, credit card and personal loans all at once, you would effectively go bust unless you had sufficient savings or investments to cover the debt and you had quick enough access.  Net effect for banks is that they must hold more money, which is inefficient and therefore investors will go elsewhere to get a higher return, this will then lead to some aspects of the business being sold off or discontinued and banks will seek profit elsewhere such as so called free banking.  This is a simplistic example and not really the purpose of my blog!

Every morning I am delivered to the railway station by An to await my direct train into Brussels.  I buy a 3 month ticket, which is only valid on the Aarschot to Brussels route, for 399 euros.  It is good value for money and for a half hour trip into Brussels, it beats the car hands down.  When I get off at Brussels Central I have a short walk to work, it is on this short walk that I meet a moral challenge.

Upon leaving the train I go up one level to the very busy concourse, going right out of the station when I have gone up the wide stone steps with the main information board at the top.  When I first started commuting I would often go out of a different exit, the disadvantage with that is that it does not lead to a shopping arcade that provides a degree of shelter against the weather and you need to cross more roads to get on.  As I go up the steps towards the information board I cut across diagonally, which must annoy those wishing to go straight up the steps.  At the top I go right, past the coffee and waffle kiosk and under the road (which also leads to the Metro) there I  see my first moral challenge.

I am not sure what the best term is, there are so many and they all invoke an image: vagabond, tramp, hobo, urchin, beggar, homeless person.  Think about those terms and what comes to mind are people who are unwashed, unshaven, dressed in dirty and worn out clothes, people who have nothing and nothing to be happy about, people who are thin.  I am sure you can think of more, but, as I shall describe, the ones I meet have only one thing in common and that is they are all asking, begging, for money.  There are usually two people I see before I ascend the steps of the subway, the first is a young man who is clean shaven, smartly dressed in casual clothes and wearing what look like designer shoes.  He has a smart back pack and is holding a cardboard sign with French writing on it. He does not say anything but just stands and holds his sign and paper collection cup.  It is not a challenge to ignore him.  Further on, sitting on the steps is another older man, maybe in his 50s, not quite as smart but certainly not badly dressed.  He smiles and greets people as they pass, he seems much less serious about the situation.  Again I don't give anything.

There is now a longer walk before I get to the next person.  I go up the steps and then cross the road into the shopping arcade, sometimes you see some people taking shelter there but they tend to be sitting at the tables of the cafes.  The arcade is one of those places built maybe in the 30's and was probably quite grand in its time, it has long since lost it's appeal.  I climb the large curving staircase at the end, this staircase rises from both sides to meet in the middle and provide a balcony before continuing up to the road at the top.  Across the road there is a double stone staircase, very grand.  On the left hand set of steps there is another beggar, on the right it is clear.  Sometimes I consciously climb the right, he is always on the left. This man is more like the kind of stereotype that you would expect and is my greatest challenge, he looks beaten, unclean and in need.  He is, or appears to be, aggressive when he talks to you.  Also the food and other things he has been given he as used then dumped the remains around him, burger rolls, wrapping, plastic, whatever.  Again I do not give anything. Also on the same steps is a Gypsy accordion player, he never smiles and I always think of the Spanish train incident where An got upset by another accordion player.  I sometimes recognise the music but never leave anything, but at least he is providing some consideration for the change that is given.

I cross the road at the top and then make my way through the park and over the main road past the embassies, the Royal Palace and the Prime Minister's house.  The last leg is to walk the length of the street where the office is.  I meet my last person here and one day I arrived as he arrived for work, so to speak.  He is again very smartly dressed and has good hiking boots on.  He holds a sign written in French and he kneels with a travel bag in front of him.  Recently I noticed that he puts cardboard beneath his knees.  He doesn't say anything but he is clearly aiming for a certain clientele.

So I have this conversation on my way to and from work almost everyday.  Should I give anything, why and what if I do?  Will it help?  Am I the only one that feels guilty and should I feel guilty?  My brother, unfortunately, spent a bit of time on the streets and has a different perspective to me, he shares the common experience, but whilst he transited the area he was in these people seem to be permanent fixtures.  I think about if I give anything then there will be an expectation that I will always give something. Sometimes I want to stop and chat to find out why they are where they are and what they are doing about it.  I never see them when I am going home from work, so they are only working in the commuting hours in the morning.  Sometimes on my way home I do see gypsy women with children and babies in the main railway station, but their plight was slightly undermined when one of them started tapping away on a smart phone whilst holding her cup out,baby in arms.  Maybe I am cold hearted, unforgiving or dismissive of their situation?

I think of the job I am doing and I think of these people who are asking for money on the street.  I don't think I have ever given anything to a person just begging.  I have given to a street performer before.  Maybe I will change, maybe not.  In the morning I am usually too intent on getting to work on time, sometimes I feel like stopping to buy them something but then what?  What they need is work to be able to support themselves but they have to take the initiative too.

I will continue to go through the moral self examination for some time I think.

A New Start

Just over a week ago I started a new job as a contractor with a not so well known global bank.  I have joined a team of 5 who are managing a project to oversee the strengthening of Client Asset Protection in the Belgian market.  In essence this is strengthening the safeguards and controls in place following the banking crisis of 2008 and subsequent scandals that have emerged.

Had someone said to me that at the beginning of 2015 you would be working in Brussels and have set up your own company I would have said the odds were definitely not in favour.  I had viewed my lack of in depth language skills as a significant disadvantage and therefore set my sights on moving to London where I thought I could fit in better.  That was until I was presented with this opportunity in late January.