Category Archives: Humour

What about Eve?

‘Where the hell is Eve?!’ Burt shouted, after stumbling downstairs, still sleepdrunk.
He had heard an unusual noise from the backyard. Which had made him decide to walk towards the sound. Which had now resulted in him seeing what it was that made that sound.
It was one of those moments, that simply only ever happened when Eve was to be found somewhere.
Why on earth he would request for her presence was beyond knowledge though, as it wouldn’t help a thing. It wouldn’t help anything, except it being slightly more logical that there appeared to be a cow lying in the backyard, just in front of the sandbox Burt had put there only days ago, to please his son Sammy, who was nearly two years of age.

‘Eve, I think…’Mary-Ann, his wife, wanted to fill Burt in, who was raging with fury by now. His neck had a nice red color. Though Mary-Ann wasn’t nearly as happy with Burt’s rage, she had to admit she liked the particular color that had formed in Burts’ neck.

If it had been a shade in a fabric, she’d most definitely want to wear it.

‘I don’t care!’ Burt shouted. Mary-Ann could have known that. The question of the whereabouts of her daughter, were rhetorical, merely a byproduct of what was important now: how to get rid of this particular cow?
‘It’s just that in moments like this, she feels even less like my daughter’, Burt explained, though it was quite hurtfull.
‘Oh you bastard!’ Mary-Ann cried. That was to be expected.
‘Go take a hike with your ‘she’s not my daughter’!’ she said, “I am going to put the kettle on”.
Now there was a good idea, even Burt thought.
The cow wouldn’t just disappear. It made a rather awful noise, yes, but nothing they could do about it or that, right now.
‘Where’s Thomas and Sammy?’ Burt asked surprisedly, when they sat down to actually drink their tea. He could barely hear himself think with all that mooing. It was like being interrupted by his toddler.
‘I suppose they are still asleep’, Mary-Ann replied, like nothing was different at all just now.
‘How can they be asleep when there’s a massive cow mooing all the way through the neighbourhood?!’ Burt replied, almost disgusted.
Mary-Ann noted a hint of envy.
‘Dearest, just because you awoke from that noise and woke me up, doesn’t change the fact one can shoot a cannonball next to their beds when they’re asleep. You know very well your lovely sons don’t wake up unless it’s time to play’.
Burt just looked stunned. A bit jealous, even. That his boys could sleep and not him.
‘I think we should phone the vet’, Mary-Ann said, as she took the cordless and started dialing for information. It took Burt about five minutes to reply, as he was gazing outside the glass backdoor that seperated them from the stoned backyard, which had the moaning cow in it. Neighbours were starting to become curious and gather at the gates of the garden.
Burt tried smiling to them, until he realized they were laughing at him, rather than being polite.

They knew, too, it was Eve’s presence.

He decided not to go out, as he heard Mary-Ann talking to the vet.
‘Ah yes, good idea’, he finally said.
‘…you could be here within the hour? Oh, that would be great!’ she said. Burt just took a sip from his tea. Staring at the cow, and Mrs Johnson, who just climbed over the fence as to comfort the cow.
‘Haha, species finding species’, Burt laughed.
He thought he was allowed a rather offensive joke as the neighbours were so clearly making fun of him and his misery.
‘Come, now we go outside’, Mary-Ann said to Burt. He hadn’t even noticed she’d ended the phonecall.
‘Why, it’s there?’ Burt said, wondering why they should have to go outside while it was very obvious the cow wouldn’t move one bit.
‘Yes, but the vet says we have to keep the cow warm’, Mary-Ann said, picking up a woolen blanket from the couch.
Thomas and Sammy usually played with it and as such, it was never clean. It seemed perfect for this occasion.
‘Well, join Mrs Johnson, who seems to be singing lullaby after lullaby for that cow’, Burt said. He wasn’t lying. Mrs Johnson had a voice like a volcano, and unfortunately not a very pleasant one. Mary-Ann politely joined Mrs Johnson’s presence, holding the blanket. At that point she noticed how windy it was, outside. It had to be, ofcourse. How else would a cow end up in a backyard that wasn’t even close to any farm where there were cows to be found?

‘What’s happening?’ Burt heard Thomas coming down the stairs. This made Burt slightly agitaded again.
‘What woke you up?’ he asked, highly sarcastically surprised.
‘Well, Mrs Johsons’ singing’, Thomas said. He walked passed his stunned father, in his red pyjama with helicopters on it.
‘There’s a cow in our garden!’ Thomas exclaimed on a tone as if they’d just won the lottery.
‘Why is there a cow in our garden? Can we keep it? Can we call it MooMoo?’ he asked Burt. It always amazed Burt how quickly Thomas could get to the point of asking something.
‘Well, that’s a good couple of questions’, Burt said. He had no idea what to tell his son. He just took a sip of his tea, wishing it were whiskey or something else involving a lot of alcohol. That way it should be so much easier to forget about all of this.
‘Sammy!’ Thomas yelled, ‘Sammy, come! There’s a cow in our backyard! Mommy has gone out to sing with Mrs Johnson’, he was very exited to tell his little brother this news. Sammy, all of 2 years old and a bit territorial-driven, only said:
‘Not in my sandbox! Not with my new shovel!’. Then Sammy tilted his head up.
‘Can I have a peanutbutter and jelly sandwich?’ he asked politely.
Burt was quite surprised over the request of his 2-year-old, but he gave into it anyway. It was easier to distract himself with something as silly as a peanutbutter and jelly sandwich than anything else at the moment. Thomas wanted to run outside in his PJ’s.
‘No way, Thomas, at least put on a robe, or a coat, and your feet are bare’, Burt said. That was the moment Mary-Ann stepped inside again.
‘Mrs Johnson woke me up with her singing’, Thomas whined.
‘Dearest, there is a cow in the backyard crying, and you woke up by the sound of Mrs Johnson??’ she sounded surprised.
‘Yes, you have weird children’, Burt said, making a peanutbutter-jelly sandwich for his youngest.
‘What are you doing?’ Mary-Ann asked, ‘It’s not a Sunday, you’re not supposed to have a peanutbutter-jelly sandwich now!’ Burt rolled his eyes.
‘There’s a cow in our backyard, which has been moaning all night, there’s a woman singing lullaby’s for it, which woke up our lovely boys, who weren’t woken up by the sounds of that massive cow landing up in our backyard, and you are fuzzing about the fact that it’s not Sunday enough to make a bloody peanutbutter-jelly sandwich?!’
Sammy had found his way to the cupboard and just managed to get the jelly jar out there. The jar was too big and way to slippery. It fell on the kitchenfloor and broke. Sammy started crying as he saw Burt’s face, which was bright red as he was still annoyed with the nonlogic of this morning. The same red Mary-Ann also liked so much on the wall in the diningroom. Though it might be a bit agressive there.
‘I want peanutbutter-jelly!’ Sammy cried.
‘Come here love’, Mary-Ann said, taking their toddler in her arms. Sammy came to cuddle, and at that moment, Eve stepped downstairs.
‘Eeeeeeeeve!’ Thomas screamed while running happily into her arms.
‘I knew you were here!’ Thomas said, cuddling her.
‘Oh? Why? What happened?’ she asked surprised, looking at her mother and stepdad.
‘Don’t tell me you didn’t hear…’
‘…that!’ her mother finished her sentence.
‘Oh, THAT! I had my music on all night, with my noise cancelling headphones. A plane could come fly by and I wouldn’t hear a thing! But errrm…yeah, well…that’s….ooooh is that tea??’ she walked into the kitchen, as if the kettle had some sort of huge magnet in it, but genuinely distracted.
‘When did you come home?’ Mary-Ann asked her eldest.
‘Not too long ago, actually’, she admitted.
‘About an hour or two, three ago, by any chance?’ Burt asked.
‘Dude, what’s with the sarcasm? Don’t think I don’t hear it!’ Eve said, slightly offended. Then she looked at the clock.
‘Well, I think…’, she watched her clock, ‘well, yeah. That might be right?’
‘Right’, Burt said, looking at Mary-Ann with a stern face.

‘What did you do?’ Eve asked, when Burt had passed them to go shower.
‘Oh nothing, I produced you, is all. Go and have breakfast dear, all will be well, soon’

And so the day started.


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Vakantieflirt/ Summer flirt

Ik was op vakantie bij (een) Vriendin. Dat wil zeggen: zij werkte in Frankrijk op een camping (ze deed het entertainment en sporten voor de kinderen) en had een caravan waar ik ook nog wel bij in paste.

Na een klotsende busrit van ruim tien uur, spoedde ik me naar het toilet waar ik mijn record ‘plassen-na-een-lange-rit’ verbrak: vijf minuten aan een stuk torpedeerde ik het witte porselein. Een orgastische fontein, mag ik wel zeggen.
De camping lag aan een schattig meertje dat na mijn actie uit z’n oevers dreigde te treden (ja, overdrijven is ook een vak..)

Maar: ik was er!

In de stralende zon.
Vriendin was ‘s ochtends aan het douchen voordat ze aan het werk moest, en ik ging eens lekker languit op m’n gat zitten. Had ik nog niet gedaan in die bus. Ik had vrijwel rechtop moeten zitten, omdat m’n benen nogal lang zijn. Opgevouwen als een harmonica, dat werk.
In bikini, Gewapend met een boek, pak koekjes en een glas water (ik kon altijd nog doen of het wodka was, had ik besloten), nam ik plaats op een van de stoeltjes voor de caravan. Alwaar ik al gauw werd begroet door een stoppelige en vriendelijk glimlachende jongeman die zich introduceerde als Olivier. Hij kuste mijn beide wangen en nam plaats op de andere stoel. Begon een heel verhaal.
Ik verstond geen ruk van Olivier. Mijn Frans is nooit zo goed geweest. Ik glimlachte dus maar gewoon vriendelijk. Dat had hij door. Zodoende wachtte hij tot Vriendin was teruggekeerd.
Vriendin stelde ons aan elkaar voor, vertelde dat Olivier een van haar collega’s van de camping was. Olivier bleek de lifeguard bij het meertje te zijn.
Ik zag Olivier elke ochtend terug, nam aan dat dit zijn werkroutine was. Mij op de wangen kussen, Vriendin ophalen en dan samen naar het zwembad lopen.
Nadat enkele dagen, lag ik op een middag ook aan dat meertje. Prima toeven. Olivier kwam af en toe langs, ik leerde nog wat andere mensen kennen, ik vermaakte me wel. Op een goed moment meldde Vriendin me weliswaar dat ze het vermoeden had dat Olivier me leuk vond, maar ik hoorde het niet. Ik luisterde net naar m’n walkman. Dan krijg je dat.

Ik had mijn handen bovendien vol aan een andere fransoos, die mij en Vriendin op een middag zó hebberig had bekeken dat ik in lachen was uitgebarsten. Ik had weleens gelezen -in een of ander stoffig boekje over lichaamstaal dat ik ooit op een tweedehandsboekafdeling had ingekeken- dat mannen, als hanen, hun veren gladstrijken. Meestal met gel. In dit exemplaar zag ik meteen zo’n haan. Vandaar die snotterlach. Oeps.
Enfin. Terwijl Vriendin en Olivier enorm aan het werk waren overdag, vond ik deze flirt weer terug. Het flirten ging lekker, dus waarom stoppen?
Vriendin organiseerde een rugby spelletje, waarbij heel wat geïmproviseerd diende te worden, want nauwelijks materiaal aanwezig.
‘Kom je ook kijken?’ vroeg ze.
Eigenlijk had ik geen zin. Het was echter schuin tegenover de caravan waarin we verbleven. Geen ontkomen aan.
Ook Olivier schoof aan. Het spel was nog niet zo lang bezig, toen Vriendin over me heen kwam hangen van achteren. Prettig visueel vermaak, kennelijk. Vriendin grinnikte toen ze erop werd gewezen door een ander, vertaalde het voor me.
‘He wat?’ vroeg ik onder haar borsten door. Leuk, oorwarmers in juli.
‘We komen spelers tekort, doe je ook mee?’ vroeg ze, haar kin op mijn hoofd rustend.
‘He, nee! Ik ken helemaal geen rugby! Laat staan dat ik het kan!’ riep ik verschrikt uit.
‘Kom op, ik doe ook mee’, spoorde ze aan. Olivier keek ons vragend aan. Vriendin vroeg hem ook maar meteen. Olivier was ogenblikkelijk te porren. Ik zuchtte, stond op. Ik wist wanneer protesteren geen zin meer had
Het zal zo’n tien minuten in het spel zijn geweest, toen Vriendin zei:
‘Jemig, ik zweet me te pletter!’
“Ik ook’, gaf ik toe.
‘Ik wil eigenlijk m’n shirt uittrekken, maar er staan hier bijna alleen maar mannen, dat wordt dan, denk ik, toch verkeerd uitgelegd’, zei ze toen.
‘Niet als we het tegelijkertijd doen’, stelde ik voor. Ik had het ook snikheet.
Dus hop, allebei shirt uit. Bikini’s die tevoorschijn kwamen. Gefluit van de zijkanten. Vriendin en ik die hen daarop keihard uitlachten.
Toen vervolgens Olivier de ene na de andere wilde manoeuvre maakte, waardoor eerst een stapel kleine jochies (tussen de 8 en 10 jaar) als een rij dominosteentjes omvielen en even later ik en Olivier zelf, werd het helemaal een dolle bende.
Toen ik opkeek, zag ik m’n flirt ineens tussen de struiken staan. Ik was meteen afgeleid, maar ook gedrevener. Ging meer in het spel op. Toen er een bal uitgenomen moest worden, keek hij me zo doordringend aan, dat ik hem het liefst terplekke een tent/ caravan /zwembad /douchehok in had gesleurd.
Helaas. Het spel was nog niet teneinde. Het werd steeds gezelliger -waarschijnlijk had het feit dat Vriendin en ik gedeeltelijk in onze zwembikini’s stonden te spelen, de ronde gedaan door de camping, zo zwart stond het ineens van de mensen aan de zijlijn. Ik voelde me, in tegenstelling tot wat ik vooraf had gedacht, in m’n element. Olivier kneep een waterfles leeg in m’n gezicht, wat met luid geloei en geschater werd ontvangen door de rest van de menigte. Olivier was wel zo vriendelijk me weer op de been te helpen, m’n hoofd over zijn schouder. Ik keek daarop recht in de ogen van m’n flirt. Grijnzend en wel. Ik beantwoordde de blik.

Mijn flirt en ik belandden, in een fors beschonken bui, (na een spelletje pétanque) in het zwembad. Hint: nooit klotsen met dat water als je al misselijk bent. Het was prima voor een vakantieliefde.

En toen was daar nog de rel met Olivier.
Twee dagen voordat ik vertrok had hij geregeld dat we naar Castellane konden, met zijn motor. Ik moest een lange broek aan (de enige die ik bij me had) en goede schoenen. Ik denk niet dat Olivier had gerekend op een chick met legerlaarzen, maar tadaa… Dus wij op de motor, terwijl Vriendin nog moest werken. Ze wist wel dat we er even uit gingen, maar wist niet waarheen, of hoe laat we weer terug zouden zijn. Ik ook niet.

Castellane was prachtig. Een schattig bergdorpje, zo leek het, met overal kaarslichtjes en gezang, sprookjesachtig mooi gewoon. Kerst in de zomer. Brandende lampionnetjes in spelonken en de liefste en zoetste trappetjes die naar prachtige kasteelachtige torentjes leidden. Ik kocht hier en daar wat kleine dingetjes (portemonneetjes, pennen, sleutelhangers, alles voor de thuisblijvers) en genoot van het prachtige zicht.
Het zal een uur of tien, elf, zijn geweest toen we op de camping arriveerden. Ik ging terug naar de caravan die ik met Vriendin had, na een braaf kusje op m’n wang van Olivier. Ik bedankte hem vriendelijk, zoals je dat gewoonlijk doet als iemand sympathiek voor je is geweest.
Bij de caravan aangekomen trof ik een boze Vriendin.
Die was bezorgd geweest in mijn afwezigheid, maar ook boos. Overtuigd dat ik met Olivier in bed lag. Ziet u, hij gold als de plaatselijke schoonheid. Dat zag ik dan weer niet. Slank, vrolijk, een dagenbaardje, vrijwel altijd een glimlach op z’n gezicht, en altijd even vriendelijk. Zo zag ik hem. Mijn reactie was dusdanig dat Vriendin wel meteen overtuigd was dat er toch niks gebeurd was. Bovendien wist ze dat de route naar Castellane inderdaad lang genoeg was om er lang over te doen. Zelfs per motor.
‘Weet je dat hij, voordat jij kwam, me alleen af en toe kwam halen om naar het werk te gaan? Het is pas sinds jij hier bent, dat hij dat elke dag doet’, zei ze.
‘Oh. Nee, dat wist ik niet’. Ik voelde me lullig dat Vriendin zich genaaid voelde. Ik was echt zo naïef dat ik dacht dat Olivier me mee had genomen om aardig te zijn.

De volgende ochtend bleek pas dat er nogal wat tumult was ontstaan na ons vertrek. Olivier had niemand op voorhand willen vertellen waar hij heen ging. Er waren in onze afwezigheid weddenschappen afgesloten dat we met elkaar in bed lagen.Hij was zelfs door de baas op het matje geroepen: wat hij met me uitgevogeld had?!

Ik moet eerlijk zeggen: ik heb me kapot gelachen toen ik dat hoorde. Een hele camping in oproer, en ik had geen flauw benul!


I was on a holiday with (a) Girlfriend of mine. She was actually working at a camping in France (entertainment and sports for the children), but had a caravan to her own in which I could fit aswell without a problem.

After a challenging busride of ten hours I ran to the toilet at the said camping and broke my own record of urinating-after-keeping-it-up-during-trip and torpedoed the white porcelain for a full five minutes. A quite orgastic fountain, it has to be said. The camping was situated next to a cute lake, to which I have undoubtedly contributed. Yes, exaggerting is a profession at times….

But: I was there!

In the radiating sun.
While Girlfriend was taking a shower before work, I was gonna sit down on my arse and do nothing much special for a while, thank you. I hadn’t done so in that bus, as my legs are quite tall and I had been forced to sit folded like a harmonica due to this.
In my bikini. I had found my way to a book, a package of cookies specially reserved for this moment and a glass of water, which I could easily pretend to be vodka, I’d figured. I sat down on one of the plastic lawn chairs in front of the caravan, and was soon greated by a bristly and friendly looking young man, who introduced himself as Oliver. He kissed me on the cheeks as a greet, sat down on the other chair, started a whole story. I didn’t understand a word. My French has never been too good. Oliver noticed. He waited. I had noticed he mentioned Girlfriend, so I figured she would know what to do with him.

Girlfriend introduced us to one another, told me Oliver was one of her colleagues; the lifeguard at the small lake and swimmingpool.

Oliver came to the caravan every morning, which made me assume this was his work routine. Kiss me on the cheeks, wait for Girlfriend, walk to work. 

After a few days I found myself at this lake aswell. Proper spot. I met some nice people and every now and then, Oliver came to check in. I was having quite a good time. At some point Girlfriend mentioned to me she suspected Oliver was developing feelings for me, but I didn’t hear it. I was listening to my walkman. It happens.
Besides, I had my hands full with another Frenchman who I had discovered in the days before even attending the beach. This man had been looking at both me and my Girlfriend in such a way that it had made me snort with laughter. I’d read -in a second hand book of bodylanguage I once happened to gaze into in a second hand shop- that men who intend to lure or seduce a girl/woman, literally make the gesture of ‘preening feathers’. He had done just that. I think even snot came out of my nose. Very charming…oops.
Anyway, when Friend and Oliver were at work during the day, I found back my flirt. Woohoo. We still seemed to enjoy that little game, so why stop now?
Friend organised a rugby game, which demanded quite a bit of improvisation, because there was hardly any material to begin with.
‘You’re gonna come and watch?’ she asked me.
I actually didn’t want to, but the playfield was diagonally opposite our caravan. No real way to escape.
Oliver also joined the sideline. The game hadn’t been played for that long when Friend hung over my shoulders from my back. A pleasant visual image, apparently. Friend giggled when she was informed about this, translated it for me.
‘Eh, what now?’ I asked from underneath her breasts. Nice, earmuffs in July.
‘We’re in short stock of players, are you joining?’ she asked.
‘What?? No! I don’t even know the game!’ I protested in shock.
‘Come on, I’m joining in myself’, she said. Oliver looked at us curiously, so Friend asked him to join aswell. He was in for it immediately. I sighed and caved. I knew when protesting no longer had any point.
After a little while, Friend mentioned:
‘Blimey, I’m sweating like a bastard! I actually wanna take off my shirt, but it’s only men along the sidelines. I’m afraid it will give the wrong message if I do so….’ and I told her:
‘Not if we both do it, I’m sweating like a bastard myself, come on!’ and at ‘three!’ we both removed our shirts. Whistles and clapping from the sidelines. We just laughed right into their faces.
Then Oliver proceeded to make wild manoevre after wild manoevre, leading to a lineup of boys (aged about 7 to 9) fell down like a domino play and short after, Oliver and myself, it became quite a wicked mess.
When I looked up, I suddenly saw my flirt. I was immediately distracted, but somehow also more focused into the game, wanted to show off. A ball had to be thrown in somehow, and during this happening, he looked so straight into my eyes that I really had a hard time not to yank him into the nearest tent/toilet/caravan/ shower cabin.
Unfortunately, the game hadn’t ended yet. The game was becoming more sociable -most likely due to the fact that word got round that Friend and me were playing in our bikinis- it got so very crowded at the sidelines. I got to feel more and more in my element, far more than I expected on first hand. Oliver then proceeded to squeeze a whole bottle of water into my face, which led to the crowd around us cheering and clapping. Oliver was friendly enough to pull me up again. My head over his shoulder, I looked right into the eyes of my flirt. Who was all smiles at me. I answered the smile with my smile.

My flirt and me eventually ended up in the swimmingpool, after some stiff drinks. Note to self: don’t do sloshing if you’re already feeling a bit sick….for a summerlove, it was absolutely fine, however. 

And then there was this small riot around Oliver.
Two days before I was going to leave, Oliver wanted to show me how much he liked me, by taking me on a special trip to Castellane. He had told me to wear long trousers (the only one I actually had with me) and some proper boots. I don’t think he was considering a chick with army boots, but there you had it anyway. Tadaa!
While Friend had to work, Oliver and I went away on his motorcycle. Friend didn’t know where we were going, but I didn’t know either. He hadn’t told me before we went.

The part of Castellane he showed me was incredibly beautiful. A very cute village on a hill, with small stairways and cute little chapels everywhere, lights being shone from every direction by lanterns, small tokens for stupid foreigners like me to buy (my wallet got emptied there from all the gifts I bought for people at home), it was truly amazing. We walked a bit, watched the stars, I enjoyed the beauty of this place so very much.
It must have been about eleven or twelve, when we arrived back at the camping. Oliver gave me a sympathetic peck on the cheek and I thanked him for all of his trouble and showing me a beautiful place. I returned to the caravan.
To find a heavily upset Friend. She had been worried sick and was angry  with me. She had had no idea where we went and had been convinced, by 10 PM ‘you were sleeping with him’. You see, Oliver was locally known as a ‘pretty boy’, the kind of guy that’s so pretty, everyone wants him. To me he was just a friendly, bristly guy. Sure, he was tall and slender, had a good figure and was always friendly, but the thought of looking at him like that hadn’t even crossed my mind! My response to her anger was in such a way that Friend was immediately convinced absolutely nothing had happened. When she heard we went to Castellane, she understood why I had been away for so long.
‘You know, before you arrived, he only came by every now and then to pick me up to go to work’, she told me. I was sorry Friend had been so worried, but I simply was that naive to think Oliver had just taken me on a trip to be nice. I’d seen no other signs.

The next morning it appeared there had been quite a stir after we had left. Oliver had denied anyone information as to where he was taking me. So when we left, people had been betting we were sleeping together. Even the big boss of the camping had called Oliver into his office upon our return, to ask what the hell he had done with me?!

I laughed so hard when I heard that, to be fair. A whole campingside alerted, and I had absolutely no idea! 

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Posted by on December 31, 2016 in Daily life, Humour


Schilderen /Painting

Ik ben mijn tante aan het helpen om het huis van haar ex-vriend en ex-buurman te schilderen (om de verkoop te bevorderen) en dat levert af en toe wat ongebruikelijke momenten op. Zo is hij het grootste deel van de tijd aanwezig om nog door z’n eigen spulletjes heen te neuzen, die her en der verspreid over een tafel, zijn studeerkamer en slaapkamer liggen.
Zij is verpleegster en hij heeft Parkinson, het grootste deel van zijn spullen staat inmiddels in zijn nieuwe onderkomen: een verzorgingshuis.
Zodra hij opstaat, kan zij het al niet meer laten om niet voor hem klaar te staan.
Een reflex die ze niet doorheeft en derhalve ergert ze zich eerder aan zijn aanwezigheid dan aan die ‘reflex’.
‘Mar, ik geloof dat het elastiek van m’n broek is geknapt, kun jij even kijken?’
‘Ja hoor’. Ze is al van d’r ladder af gekomen, loopt op hem af en schudt wat aan z’n broek.
‘Heb je geen riem?’
‘Ehh nee’, hij twijfelt een beetje. De chaos die in z’n huis heerst, is niet veel beter in z’n hoofd, momenteel. Daarop duikt mijn tante dus gewoon zijn kast in. Je weet maar nooit.
‘Hmm een stropdas. Dat is niet zo handig. Oh hier, ook een riem’. Ze wurmt de riem door z’n broek. Toch een beetje alsof je een tandenstoker aankleed, zo.
Gaat een poosje goed. Dan, na een kwartier à half uur.
‘Mar? Het zit toch nog steeds vreemd, ik zal m’n zus eens bellen’
‘Goed hoor, moet ik het nummer even draaien?’
‘Ja graag’
*hij belt een half uur met z’n zus over van alles en nog wat, schuift de telefoon door naar m’n tante, die krijgt instructies hoe die broek weer gerepareerd moet worden, ze probeert het*
‘Het voelt toch nog steeds raar’ zegt hij alleen maar. Dan ineens:
‘Oh wacht, misschien is het m’n ONDERbroek’…..
Dat blijkt te kloppen.
Hij draagt het soort broeken waar een walvis in past -en heeft zelf het formaat van een garnaal-  en ergens bij z’n enkels hangt z’n onderbroek. Die tante er weer uit opdiept. En ja, waar laat je een onderbroek waar het elastiek van is geknapt? Tante draait er zolang maar een knoop in.
‘Misschien moet je aan je zus vragen of ze het elastiek weer vastzet’, suggereert ze.
‘Ja. Want zo zit het toch niet erg lekker’.
‘Heb je hier nog een reserve onderbroek liggen?’ vraagt tante. Maar daar blijkt geen sprake van te zijn. Handdoeken en stropdassen, daar is overvloed van. Oh, en lakens.
‘Kun je als een Romein rondlopen’, suggereer ik nog. Maar dresscode ‘Romein’ is not done in een chic grachtengordelbuurt.
Gelukkig schiet het schilderwerk op, en kan hij gauw naar z’n nieuwe onderkomen voor een schone onderbroek.
‘Het is ook elke keer wat’, zucht tante.
Ik grinnik.
Het huis was snel verkocht.


I’m helping my aunt to prepare the house of her ex-boyfriend and ex-neighbour by painting it (to make sure it will sell well) and this is going along with some unusual moments at times. If only because he is present most of the time, to go through some of his stuff in his livingroom, study or kitchen.
She is a nurse, he has Parkinsons. Most of his stuff is, by now, in his new home. A carehome.
As soon as he gets up, she can’t help herself for wanting to assist him.
A reflex I’m not sure she’s aware of, and so she is more agitated by his presence than her own reflex.
‘Mar? I think the elastic in my trousers just busted, can you have a look please?’
‘Yeah, sure’, she’d already descended the ladder, approached him.
‘You don’t have a belt?’
‘Errr no’, he hestitates a bit. The chaos in his house and in his mind are not that different at the moment. So my auntie goes and has a look herself. One never knows.
‘Hm, a tie. Not exactly handy. Oh here, a belt also’. She puts it in his trousers. Much like dressing a toothpick, to be fair.
Then it’s OK for a while. Until about fifteen minutes later.
‘Mar? It’s still not right. I shall ring my sister’.
‘Alright, shall I do it for you?’
‘Yes, please’
*he phones with his sister about half an hour about lots and lots of things, including handing my aunt the phone who gets instructions of possibilities for how to fix his trousers, which she tries*
‘It still feels funny’, he states. Then, suddenly:
‘Oh, wait. Maybe it’s my underpants!’
This turns out to be right.
He’s wearing the kind of underpants that could fit a whale -being size shrimp himself- and somewhere around his ankles is where his underpants is now situated. Which aunt takes out of there. But what do you do with a pair of underpants that has no elastic in it? Tie a knot in it? This happens to be how auntie solves it.
‘Maybe you can ask your sister if she can repair the elastic’, she suggests.
‘Yes, because this isn’t very comfortable’. he sighs.
‘Do you have any extra underpants here?’ she asks him. But no. Ties and towels, yes. And bedsheets.
‘Well, you could go Romanian style?’ I suggest. But that’s not done in a posh neighbourhood amongst the canals.
Thankfully, the painting is going smoothly and the ex-boyfriend returns quite quickly to his new home for a new pair of knickers.
‘Every single time there’s something?!’ auntie sighs.
I giggle.
The house got sold in no time. 

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Posted by on August 2, 2016 in Daily life, Humour


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Him: ‘blimey, I haven’t seen you in ages! How are you?’
Her: ‘yes, it has been a while. I’m fine thanks!’
Him: ‘so why haven’t we met for so long?’
Her: ‘probably because the last time we met, you kissed me’
Him: ‘did I?? I don’t recall?’
Her: ‘it still happened’
Him: ‘do you have any evidence of this statement?’ *smiles*
Her: ‘well, there’s witnesses…’
Him: ‘we weren’t alone?? This could be nasty…’
Her: ‘nope, my father was right behind you…and my mother was left in front of you. Looking very jealous, I might add..’
Him:’what?! Where was my wife? If your parents were present…’ *nervous giggle*
Her: ‘she was right next to you…’
Him: ‘any case this all happened when I was hammered?’
Her: ‘yup, that’s what my husband said. He was next to me, he saw the kiss coming and ducked. I was too late for that’.
Him: ‘right, so errrr…see you later when I manage to forget we ever had this conversation to clear up my memory?’
Her: ‘it’s a good plan!’

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Posted by on August 2, 2016 in Daily life, Humour


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Fame and expression

This is tough business.

If you’re famous, literally every word, every sentence that comes out of your mouth can be jotted down, by anyone. Without the context it belongs in, this can be very dangerous. Or just really annoying. Press companies know this, they live by it. After all, you can sell loads of papers and magazines by even the assumption alone that someone who is regarded highly, has said something hurtfull or stupid.
Goodbye reputation etc. We see it happening all day long to Lindsay Lohan, Hillary Clinton, Beyonce Knowles, Kanye West etc. It’s also usually the kind of things that people don’t really care about, since the topics are not usually that interesting for people not in the same business.

Most celebrities have an agency or a spokesperson, who is properly trained to address the press in times of a scoop or whatever. They know how to avoid answering the actual question, or give a brief statement. Given that it prevents celebrities from having the pressure of coming up with a story -because it’s not just one journalist asking a question, it’s tons of ‘m- this is excellent. Just tell your agent what story you want to be circulating and tadaa: job done. Your reputation doesn’t get ruined by responding to one of the microphones being pushed up your nose like a free piercing up there.

Given the comments I see some of these celebrities make, also about other media, I do wonder: are they aware of the impact their words have, outside their mouths? With some I’m sure that they don’t. Even though for some there is ‘no such thing as bad press’, as press means attention and attention means prolonging of the celebrity status. For someone like Kim Kardashian this is important, given that she’s nothing but a pornstar, just like Katie Price. No taste or talent whatsoever.
But then there’s people like Christine Teigen, Jim Carrey, Kirstie Alley. People who actually try to be taken seriously. Well, at times. I do know they also make a point taking the piss out of someone. Anyway.

I make a sport of it not to trust anything that’s not printed more than once. If someone says something important, it will get printed in/on several news sources, as no big newspaper can afford to be without the scoops. Not just now, this was simply always the case.

I’ve seen several celebrities responding to certain subjects that were close to their hearts. Jim Carrey thought it’d be wise to tell people not to vaccinate their children (whilst he has NO medical background whatsoever, just an ex-girlfriend whose son is autistic and though this usually doesn’t come out until after a few years, a doctor found a way to blame the vaccine), Kirstie Alley backed Jim up there and so it HAD to be true, because two non-doctors who never finished school with that kind of background, said so.

And this is where I come to my point: some of these celebrities don’t really seem to have an idea how their words travel over the world.
Recently, in the Netherlands, we had a woman, Sylvana Simons, who decided she wanted to be part of a political party.
More people do so, not so special. But. She wants to fight racism and discrimination in our country. Finds herself the person to do this, because she feels she’s been a victim of this herself. She found herself sitting in a bar and not knowing what to do with herself. She then bumped into a Turkish Dutchman, part of a very right political party, who asked her:
‘Why don’t you join out political party?’
This woman gained fame by presenting video’s on a music channel.
Of course, one can start out in this way and appear to have far more going for them. Then again, not so much in her case. Not to me anyway. I’ve seen her partly stunned and speechless on several occasions, because others were better prepared than she was. On television. For a bookclub, for instance, or opinion panels. A bit awkward, really. Again, this can happen.

Her point in politics is to make EVERYONE equally important.To everyone. But. She has, since then, only spoken out when a certain race was mistreated. While this happens more often. And, indeed, to everyone.
Then I read how she had taken place on a political show, since she was going to be part of a political party. She was asked to bring along items that bothered her, more or less. Things she thought ‘went just too far’. When I read what she had objected to, I got scared. Because at least one item was made by a cartoonist. A properly settled one at it. His work has been in De Parool for years. A man who knows when to stop, as far as I’m concerned.
Sylvana Simons wants the ‘freedom of opinion’ to be retained. Because she feels some things are just ‘too hurtfull’, and done so on purpose.

I’m not here to deny anyones feelings, first and for all. Everyone has their own feeling. You can’t tell a person they can’t feel a certain thing. You’re not inside their body or their mind. It’s not your call, period. The other person feels what s/he feels and that’s simply it.

I understood she said a cartoon of Joep Bertrams had ‘gone too far’. Because she had been depicted as a lapdog of Erdogan, licking his face. I guess ‘being Erdogan’s bitch’ is taking it too far in text, but that’s what it had come down to. Sylvana Simons was highly offended by that. If it’s up to her, persons like Bertrams don’t get the freedom to put just anything they want into print.
To be honest, that’s exactly what got into print. Erdogan doesn’t want people to say or express how they feel, nor does Ms Simons. In both their cases, it’s because they feel like they’ve been hurt personally.
I think: when you go into politics, that’s what you become: a public figure. You become the subject of cartoonists. If you suggest something that is outrageous, there will be “making fun of you”. That’s pretty much their job!?

Maybe I’m just a different person. When someone has the ability to make me feel extremely angry, happy or sad, I start thinking why that is. I once had enough of the world, was angry and sad with so many people. I fell out with most of them too. Got so incredibly sad and angry, didn’t understand why everyone was deserting me and so on. Then even my best friend told me ‘I’m sorry, I just don’t find you pleasant anymore, I am done with you’, and it finally hit me: it’s ME that has a problem, not the world around me.
Everyone has their own moment and a different person to give them the slap in the face they need. It mght be more subtle or more heavy for others, but if it’s meant to be, the message will get across. Apparently Joep Bertrams didn’t do it for Sylvana Simons, as she chose to be offended and not to understand what it meant. What it showed.

Cartoonists have a great purpose in our lives. They make that we can put in a perspective what’s happening in the world around us, they make fun of politicians, reflect on the news in general, make fun of it. That’s what they’re (severely under)paid for. And people love it. We live by it, as it makes life just a wee bit more bearable. But for the people cartoonists make fun of, it can be like a reflecting mirror they don’t like the look of. You could ask: ‘should that be the burden of the cartoonist, or the one who is sending out that message?’ And I think we can all agree here, that you shouldn’t blame the messenger, but the one who got the message out in the first place.
That’s not the cartoonist. The one making the cartoon just got inspired by what someone said. Someone who might be unaware of the message they send out. In that case you need training. What do things mean? What does it mean to be a politician? What is it that you say that tickles others to respond to you agressively or politely?

When a settled cartoonist depicts you in a way you don’t like, I would think: wait, is this how my message is getting across? I would be angry at myself. I would think: oh wow, that’s SO not how I meant that?!
I would think about the consequences of my words. I’d think that maybe I’d chosen the wrong words. That I’d need to rephrase, to analyse the probem. I’d want to get my message across properly.
I’d hire a spokesman.
And I’d contact the cartoonist personally. Thanking him for opening my eyes.


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Posted by on July 31, 2016 in Daily life, Humour, Opinion


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Toen kwam Jan tersprake. Pas geleden is Jan getrouwd.
Die bruiloft begon al zoals alleen Jan dat kan: ruim drie kwartier te laat aankomen. Weliswaar hadden ze zich mobiel gemeld met deze mededeling, maar met de woorden ‘we zijn wat later’, denk je eerder aan een minuut of 5 tot 10, 15 hooguit. Terwijl we als bruiloftsgangers de hoogst ongebruikelijke inrichting van de trouwzaal vast keurden (ook zo wat: die bleek ontworpen te zijn door iemand die het huwelijk maar onzin vond; waarom ontwerpt zo iemand in vredesnaam een trouwzaal, en waarom trouwen mensen in zo’n zaal??), maakten we als gasten vast kennis met elkaar.
De meest gestelde vraag: ‘waar ken(nen) jij/jullie het bruidspaar van?’
Op zichzelf geen ongebruikelijke vraag bij een dergelijke gebeurtenis. De antwoorden, dat was een heel ander verhaal.
Op een bruiloft verwacht je dat er toch een goed aantal mensen zeggen (bijvoorbeeld):
‘Ik heb nog bij Peter/Piet/Klaas/Jan/Hein op school gezeten, we waren de beste maatjes, we trokken elkaars schoenen aan, maakten elkaars zinnen af'”, of iets in die contreien.
Bij deze bruiloft bleek vrijwel iedereen, behalve de directe familieleden, de bruidegom ‘via via’ te kennen.
Net zoals hij ineens ter sprake kwam tijdens het tafelen, eigenlijk. Ineens daar.
Op de bruiloft zelf was het eerst gênant  geweest om te zeggen ‘tja, we kennen hem via onze vrienden, we hebben ‘m ongeveer 3 of 4 keer op een verjaardag gezien. Geweldige jongen, leuk om mee te babbelen en gezellig om mee te drinken’.
Dat is meer een tekst die bij een vage kennis hoort, niet bij iemand op wiens bruiloft je rondloopt. En toch kwam het daar op neer, eigenlijk.
Haar familie en vrienden kenden de bruid wel degelijk door en door. Liefdevolle gedichten werden opgedragen, men was van heinde en verre op komen draven, tranen werden gelaten etcetera.
Jan bleek meer iemand die gekend was door zijn ICT-achtergrond en lollige vriendelijkheid. Daardoor overal werd uitgenodigd om zijn specialiteit uit te voeren (lees: de computer repareren), uit te leggen wat hij gedaan had (waar je geen ruk van begreep), en daarna bevriend te blijven omdat hij zo aardig en grappig is dat je hem graag nog eens uitnodigt om te eten.
Want ook onze gastvrouw van deze avond (waar hij terloops ter sprake was gekomen) bleek hem ‘via via’ te hebben leren kennen.
Ze was ceremoniemeester op de dag zelf. Via vrienden, die wij ook weer vaag kenden.
En dan toch nog zo’n wonderbaarlijk geweldige bruiloft hebben, is toch knap. En vooral heel leuk.

And then Paul was mentioned. Paul just got married.
The wedding started in the way only Paul can do it: by turning up 45 minutes late. True, they had warned us by mobile, but when someone says ‘I am running a bit late’ you think of 5 or 10 minutes, 15 at the latest. While we, the guests, were examining the highly unusual wedding hall (another thing: it turned out to be designed by someone who hated marriage, or at the very least didn’t believe in it. Why design a wedding hall with such a mind, and why get married in a hall like that??) we also got to know each other just a bit.
The most frequently asked question: ‘how do you know the happy couple?’
In itself, not an unusual question for the occasion. The answers were more of a surprise.

Just like how he got mentioned now. As a Jack-in-a-box.
Whoppa! There.
When attending a wedding you expect  that at least about a dozen people will tell you:

‘I was in Paul/Peter/Jack/Hugh’s class, we were best buds, we put each others clothes on, finished each others sentences’, or god knows what else.
At this wedding, however, everybody, except for direct family, appeared to know the groom ‘via via’.
The same way he got mentioned now, I might add.
At the wedding it was a bit embarrassing, at first, to say ‘actually we know him through our friends, we’ve seen him about 3 or 4 times. Very nice chap, lovely to share a drink with, laugh with’. That’s more of a thing to say about a vague acquaintance, not someone you’re attending the wedding of. And still, that was the case. Then, after several likewise stories, it became the joke of the day.

Her family and friends did know the bride through and through. Lovely poems were written and spoken, people came from every spot possible and so on.
Paul appeared to be the nice ICT-guy who was known for his friendly and funny behavior. Which got him to be invited everywhere to provide his profession (read: fix the computer), to explain what he did (you understood balls of it) and then to stay in touch because he was just so pleasant to have around.
Something like that.
Because even our guesthost of the evening (where he got mentioned at the table) seemed to know Paul ‘via via’.
She had been the master of ceremony on the Big Day. She knew Paul through friends.

It’s amazing how you can have a lovely and good wedding like this then, in my opinion. And a very funny one, I might add.

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Posted by on May 3, 2016 in Daily life, Humour


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Praten & kinderen/Conversation& kids

Praten met een kind erbij:

Man tegen vrouw: ‘Heb jij gelezen dat…’
Kind tegen man: ‘Breipi heef een grijze auto!’
Man tegen vrouw: ‘ wel 50 verschillende…’
Kind tegen man: ‘Breipi heef een grijze auto!’
Man tegen vrouw: ‘..manieren..’
Kind tegen man: ‘Breipi heef een grijze auto!’
Vrouw tegen kind: ‘lieverd, hou eens op! Wat zei je?’
Man tegen vrouw: ‘nou, dat er…’
Kind tegen man: ‘Breipi heef een grijze auto!’
Vrouw tegen kind: ‘he, tetter er eens niet zo doorheen, ja, Breipi heeft een grijze auto’,
Man: ‘nou, ik lees hier…’
kind: ‘Breipi heeft wielen!’
Vrouw: *zucht*
Man tegen kind: ‘is het zo?’
kind, doodserieus: ‘ja!’
Man tegen vrouw: ‘Ik lees hier dat er wel 50 manieren zijn…’
kind: ‘en de wielen draaien!’
Vrouw: ‘Christeneziele, nu weet ik het nóg niet, en nu heb ik wel dat liedje van ‘De Wielen van de Bus in m’n hoofd, fijn!’
Kind: *begint Wielen van de Bus te zingen*
Vrouw: *doet poging tot ander nieuwsartikel voor te lezen, vermoedend dat dat het artikel is waar man op probeerde te duiden*
kind: *is inmiddels naar vrouw toegesprongen en zingt nu IN haar gezicht*
Vrouw: *zingt mee* daarna is kind eindelijk stil.
Vrouw tegen man: ‘Wat wilde je…’
Man: ‘Heb je dat…’
Kind: ‘opaoma hebben zarte auto!’
Vrouw: *knijpt ogen toe om man beter te verstaan* (wie heeft toch bedacht dat dat helpt?!)
Man: ‘laat maar, komt straks wel….’
Vrouw tegen kind: ‘het is je gelukt, schat, praten is onmogelijk bij jou’ *enigszins uit humeur*
Kind: ‘pappa heeft een piemel!’
Man: ‘Fijn dat we dat ook weten..’


Conversation with a child present:

Man to woman: ‘Have you read that…’
Kid to man: ‘Jane has a grey car!’
Man to woman: ”…there’s like 50 ways…’
kid to man: ‘Jane has a grey car!’
Man to woman: ‘…to…’
kid to man: ‘Jane has a grey car!’
Woman to kid: ‘stop screaming through everything! Yes, Jane has a grey car’
Man: ‘well, I just read…’
kid: ‘Jane has wheels!’
Woman: *sighs*
Man to kid: ‘is that really true?’
kid, very serious: ‘yes!’
Man to woman: ‘I read here that there’s 50 ways to…’
kid: ‘and the wheels turn around!’
Woman: ‘oh for crying out loud, now I still don’t know AND I’m stuck with an earworm of Wheels on the Bus, great!’
kid: *starts singing Wheels of the Bus*
Woman: *tries to read out a news article, thinking it’s the one the man meant to read in the first place*
kid: *has by now bounced to woman and is now singing in HER face*
Woman: *sings along* afterwards the kid is finally quiet.
Woman to man: ‘what did you want…’
Man:’have you…’
kid: ‘grandmagrandad have a blah car!’
Woman: *squeezes eyes to hear better* (yes, indeed, in what universe does that help?!)
Man: ‘forget about it, I’ll tell you later’
Woman to kid: ‘you succeeded, sweetie, talking is impossible around you’ *somewhat moody now*
Kid: ‘daddy has a willy!’
Man: ‘Good that we know that…’

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Posted by on March 26, 2016 in Daily life, Humour, Uncategorized


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