Bob

Bob has to be seen to be believed. Could it be that behind this young 'talent' there's a fantastically pushy showbiz mum, determined to cultivate the next Andre Hazes?

Full bellies

Christmas Dinner 2005

Christmas Glamour

Joy to the World!

Santa spread a little of his Christmas magic yesterday by dropping a pile of glistening pasnips at THREE of the Albert Cuyp market stalls. My mission is now complete and I can die a happy woman. Who needs expensive gifts at Christmas eh?

The root-vegetable-induced celebrations didn't last for long however, as Peter has been called into work (some emergency technical failure) and I've just spent the last hour cleaning an old oven that we've retreived from the shed. After buying a huge fresh turkey I was dismayed to find that it's so fat there was no room left in its shiny new baking tray for the roast potatoes. As we've only got a little plug-in combi oven I was forced to scrape off the life-forms growing in the old one and use it as a reserve. I have a horrible feeling that the tatties will have a faint aroma of 'mouldy shed' about them, but I'm trying not to dwell on it.

The Annual Hunt for the Elusive Dutch Parsnip

As far as I can see, the Dutch are pretty-much into their root vegetables. Offer a Dutchman a nice turnip, carrot or beetroot and his face will light up with joy. So why can't a poor English girl find a few humble parsnips for her Christmas dinner? I traipsed round many-a market stall and shop last year but my search was fruitless (or should I say vegetable-less, ha ha).

Due to an extremely comprehensive English-Dutch dictionary I am armed with the superior parsnip-hunting knowledge this year. The Dutch call them 'pastinaak' apparently. If they have a word for them they must sell them somewhere, surely? Or has no one seen a parsnip in the Lowlands since the Middle Ages?

I certainly have been (unhappily) parsnip-less since moving here. According to a stall holder at my local market (the Albert Cuyp Markt) they have been known to sell them, but not at the moment. I tried to explain the importance of parsnip-eating for the English at this time of year, but she didn't seem too impressed.

The hunt for this elusive vegetable has become a bit of an obsessive mission for me. I have asked around at work. I have had several Dutch people phoning their mothers to make enquiries on my behalf. Still no joy, but I'm trying to remain optimistic, after all, it IS Christmas.

I'm Auntie Lucy!

My brave sis has made me an auntie! I'm so proud of her!

Little Oscar entered this world at some un-godly hour this morning, a few days ahead of his due date (Christmas Eve). He obviously wanted to be here in time to hang his little stocking by the fireplace. I'm very glad he's appeared early, because Christmas Eve is a crappy birthday to have! I think I must have been having (sympathy) kittens, because I didn't sleep a wink all night. Maybe it's a 'twin thing'. I'm just glad I din't get the labour pains...

Proud dad Neil called me this morning with the news. Mum and little one (obviously) exhausted but doing well. Can't wait to see the little nipper and spoil him rotten.

White Stuff

Thanks to the lovely people at Go-Go tours, Peter and I enjoyed a three days in the mountains last weekend. Yippeee.. a chance to try out my new gear on real slopes (Les Deux Alpes in France).

Going snowboarding on the first week of the season is a bit of a gamble. Peter was checking out the webcams a couple of weeks ago and was disgruntled to notice that it looked like a scene from 'The Sound of Music'. Luckily by the time we arrived it was winter-wonderland time, with snow as far as the eye could see.

After 18 hours on a bus we were ready to stretch our legs on the slopes, but the 100kph winds sweeping the pistes meant that all lifts (other than the nursery slope drags) were closed. Ah well, there was a chance to warm up on the baby runs and back to the hotel ('La Sherpa') to prop up the bar and thaw out. I was trying (with difficulty) to order in French, until someone pointed out that all the hotel staff were Dutch. I wondered why the barman raised and eyebrow when I ordered a 'chocolate chaud' instead of a 'warme chocolademelk'. There were further opportunities for my to speak my own (very bad) Dutch as I was the only 'non-Nederlander' in the place. Very good practice!

15 cm of fresh snow was dumped down on friday night (I couldn't help staring at the fat flakes falling outside the window as we sat down to some delicious alpine grub). By Saturday morning the outside world was muffled by piles of gorgeous powder and I couldn't wait to get out on the board. It was great to be up there at last!

On Sunday the snow conditions were nearly as good but the light was so flat it was difficult to see more than a few inches infront of your nose. I had a couple of moments of complete disorientation where I managed to perform a few impromptu acrobatic feats through the air, but luckily managed to make it down to the village without any broken bones. My new jacket kept me toastie warm despite the 'minus lots' temperatures and I was happy to discover that I'm not such a 'scaredy-cat' as last time I attempted boarding.

For pictures click HERE.

Nearly time for the mountains

We're off to the mountains tomorrow!! Looks like we're going to have to wrap up warm....

Weekend Weirdness

On Friday night I was woken around 2am by the sound of an angry mob rioting outside. My initial panic was soon over when I remembered that we received a letter informing us that the snackbar on the corner of our street was to become a temporary film set for the night. When I read the film summary of 'Nachtrit' (which translates as 'Night Ride') a few days before I didn't quite prepare for a sleepless night, but looking back I should have expected it. The film tells the story of a young taxi driver who falls into a life of crime, resulting in 'Oorlog in de straten', which (judging by the din outside) aptly translates as 'war in the streets'. I guess I was hoping that they would be filming the scene where the main character buys a frikadel in a quiet and orderly fashion. The rioting went on til 2am.

Despite lack of sleep, I was up bright and early on Saturday morning and off on my bike to the Amsterdam Dance Centre for their Open Day. Me and my friend Sarah went along to sample a few free classes and to try to remind our rusty bodies how to dance. The best class of the day was the Beginner's Tap Dance session. In reality we were actually doing more thudding than tapping because none of us had tap shoes (trainers don't have quite the same effect) but due to the enthusiasm of the lovely teacher we all had a great laugh. My memories of tap classes as a kid aren't that great (naff plastic hat and cane, dodgy lycra outfits, you know the thing..) but this experience was altogether more positive. I might even sign up for the course!

Last night me and Peter ate at Shiva, my favourite Indian restaurant in town. While we were there a group of people came in and sat down to eat at a long table. Their focus was on an Indian man sat at the head of the table, dressed in long white robes and saffron coloured scarves. He had long hair, a flowing beard, wore a distinctive Hindu caste mark on his forehead and looked every inch the 'spiritual guru'. We were just tucking in to our Chicken Tikka when suddenly the whole table broke out into a spontaneous round of 'ommmmm-ing'. Once the 'guru' man had got that out of his system he sparked up a Marlboro before digging into his curry. Now I'm not exactly knowledgeable in the area of the Hindu faith, but surely smoking a fag isn't the way to spiritual enlightenment?!

Another rich and varied weekend in Amsterdam draws to an end...

Museum Nacht 8

On 5th November (when all the Brits were busy burning things and gawping at airborne explosives) the Amsterdammers were busy indulging in a bit of museum hopping.

The 8th annual Museum Night was taking place. For the price of an all-in ticket of a few Euros participants get to visit practically every museum or institution in the City (42 in all) between 7pm and 2am. Each venue organises something special to lure visitors in and the city fills with cyclists, each zigzagging between their own chosen spots. The night takes on a party atmosphere and it's great to have a snoop round places that you wouln't normally think to visit. It's funny to see the 'hushed atmosphere' that you normally associate with these places being transformed into something much more alive.



I started my bike tour at the Verzetsmuseum- a really great little museum in the east of the City which documents the Dutch experience of World War II. As well as seeing the exhibitions I got to enjoy some live Gamelan music in the foyer and sample some rather lovely Indonesian corn patties.

Back on the bike, and a race to the Van Gogh Museum to meet friends Elin and Sandor, where we stood at the top of the building and got an aerial view of thousands of people swarming around the ground floor like ants. The security guards didn't look too happy about the amount of people getting drunk in the near vicinity of such priceless paintings.

Next stop was a the trendy Nederlands Instituut voor Mediakunst (Netherlands Institute for Media Arts for some strange video installations starring men in basques and stilletos playing football and a family eating dinner wearing rubber suits. More interesting were the bank of TV screens behind the entrance desk showing a variety of faces (all painted blue). The faces were morphing (playdough-like) into each other - I wanted to stare at it for hours.

Another short hop on the bikes took us to De Nieuwe Kerk (The New Church) on the Dam Square. This beautiful church was hosting an Indonesian market and was a great place to thaw out and enjoy a cup of tea and some spekkoek (Indonesian layered cake).

Last stop was the Stedelijk Museum, newly (and temporarily) relocated to the north of the City in an old Post Office sorting building. We stopped en route to watch a lazer display over the water outside before going in to see some really great portraits by Dutch photographer Rineke Dijkstra.

By this time it was 1.30am and I decided that I'd had enough culture for one night!

Not Quite as Quick as the Ethiopians

It has been marathon day in Amsterdam, with the annual race snaking through the City. The chance to run through the falling leaves on a crisp Autumn morning under a fabulous blue sky was certainly inviting, but I definitely didn't want to run 42km for the privilege. Luckily there were other options for mere mortals like myself - and I signed up for a nice little 10km, which meant I was home lying in a steaming bathtub by midday. It was worth the effort to finish in the Olympic Stadium (with the theme tune from 'Chariots of Fire' playing in my head) and I managed to drag myself over the finish line after 58 mins, which was better than expected.

Peter was braver and went for the 21km (half marathon) option in the afternoon. He did look funny as he left home - I made him an outfit out of a grey plastic bin bag (with holes for his head and arms) to keep him warm (he didn't want to queue to leave a bag of pre-race warm up clothes so the disposable outfit seemed sensible). He borrowed my bike because his has a flat tyre. Seeing him cycling off on a bike with a big sunflower on the front wearing a plastic dress was very amusing.

Later on, I proudly watched him from behind the crash barrier as he casually powered up the Stadshouderskade (bin bag now discarded and looking significantly cooler). It was hard to imagine that he'd already done around 18km. He finished in 1 hour 52 mins, an excellent result. There's no stopping him now, and I'm getting nervous that he'll start signing us up for marathons soon.

And just to stop us all from getting too pleased with ourselves....
The winner, Haile Gebrselassie of Ethiopia, ran the full 42km marathon in 2 hours and 6 mins at an average speed of over 20 kph. That's TWICE as fast as I ran (and I only did a quarter of the distance). Incredible!

Scary Belgian Giants

According to the web, there is a legend that the Belgian city of Antwerp gets its name from the Dutch for ‘Hand throwing’ (hand werpen).

The story goes that in years gone by a mean old giant controlled the bend in the river Scheldt where Antwerp lies. He demanded that all passing ships paid him a heavy toll. Those failing to pay would have their hands chopped off. A Roman soldier called Silvius Brabo decided that enough was enough, slayed the giant, chopped off his giant hand and chucked it in the river.


I wish I knew this story when we visited Antwerp last weekend. I could have impressed my fellow site-seers with my knowledge. Instead we all stood round the statue of a man with a squirty hand and wondered why someone had bothered putting it there.

We were given a tour of the city later in the day, but I gleaned minimal information from our tour guide because he spoke very fast and weird-sounding Dutch (I’m guessing he had a Belgian accent?). I was wondering why the man seemed to be overly-interested in stories about livestock until Peter told me he was talking about the city’s maritime history and it was ships not sheep to which he was referring.

Despite the confusion, it was great to check out this very pretty place – to crane our necks at the Cathedral (123 metres high, 169 years to build – thankyou web) and to wander through the beautiful old streets. Antwerp seems to borrow the French obsession with food along with the Dutch obsession with creating a lovely cozy ambience, and its countless restaurants and bars looked so inviting it was hard to walk past them.

Luckily we didn’t encounter any threatening giants, so we left Antwerp on Sunday morning with both hands intact, but we did have a bit of a hangover.

Damn tot Damn!

I'm walking again normally now.

For those of you who don't remember me going on about it the last time around, the Dam tot Damloop is an annual ten mile road race between Amsterdam and nearby Zaandam. However, 'nearby' isn't the word that springs to mind when you're running there. In fact, to a plod-along runner like me, it seems like an awful long way.

This year I was busy (not) training (enough) for the race. Hence the reason why I managed to complete eight minutes slower than the last time I did it in 2003. On a more positive note, I'm happy to be back (I had to drop out last year due to injury) and am full of ambitious training plans for next year. I swore blind that I would 'retire' gracefully after this one, but already I'm declaring my commitment to a series of gruelling early-morning workouts. I'm putting it down to post-race euphoria.

After all, the Damloop is a pretty special event. I don't particularly like the muscle soreness, but the atmosphere is addictive. Just when you start to get fed up with the pavement pounding, something distracts you from it - like one of the enthusiastic crowd members throwing a banana or giving a nonsensical commentary through a home-made loud-hailer. That, plus the fact that there's a fair share of guys with toned rear-views in lycra to focus on. The highlight for me was the start line. I waved at the amazing Paula Radcliffe, who was standing on a platform above us. As the music started to build and we began to surge forward to begin the race I definitely felt the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up. This must be the reason why 30,000 runners chose to take part this year!

Peter was also running this year, and did a fantastic job! I'd like to say that I ran alongside him, but I'm afraid he's much too fast for that.

This year I had the extra responsibility of organising all eighty of the runners from our work team. This involved a few months of preparation leading up to the big day. On sunday it was a case of showing up early at the start area and trying to fight the crowds so that everyone got to the right place at the right time, running the race, then throwing a big party at the end of it. I was fit to drop at the end of the day, but I was frightened to sit down for fear that it may not be possible to stand up again. Luckily I didn't have to sleep on the floor of the hospitality tent however, and I was safely tucked up in bed before long feeling very proud of myself and also a bit like I'd been hit by a truck.

Click HERE for all the photos...

Artis de Partis

Artis de Partis is the star of an advertising campaign for Artis - the City zoo of Amsterdam.

I'm his biggest fan. Peter came home very late the other night clutching a carrier bag. Imagine my joy when I discover he'd nipped into the zoo shop earlier and bought me my own personal ADP! Artis had been out clubbing with him that evening, but survived intact. He now sits on my bed, mournfully observing the world through his little button eyes.

New Lives Everywhere

Congratulations to Peter's sisters Madeleine and Esther on the arrival of their new babies! Madeleine and Dave's lovely baby daughter Lisa Zoe Van Pelt arrived on 6th September, shortly followed on the 11th by Esther and Ed's little cutie Kjell.

I'm going to have to work on my babysitting skills because something tells me I'm going to need them soon. My twin sister and her husband Neil are expecting at Christmas time and my good friend Alex and his wife Julia are due to deliver any day now.

New to this World in June this year were Vicki and Phil's little Laurence and Suzi and Richard's little Alexa Mia. I'm looking forward to meeting them next time I'm in the UK.

Sand Between My Toes

As I lie awake early in the mornings feeling the bed shake underneath me and watching the light-fitting swing to and fro above my head, I daydream about the beaches of Portugal. They're starting to build a block of apartments opposite us and the process of 6.30am pile-driving for the foundations isn't doing much to create a serene atmosphere at Govert Flinckstraat.

We've been back from sunny Portugal a week now and I'm starting to adjust back to Amsterdam noise levels. Friends Marielle and Salvador were tying the knot in a place called Setubal, just south of Lisbon, so we thought we'd make a week of it.

By observation, I learned several things about Portugal which I'll share with you now.

1. It's very warm and very lovely.
2. It's possible to get a tan there even if you're a pale English girl prone to burning.
3. There are (seemingly) no annoying 'Brits Abroad' north of the Algarve (apart from me).
4. There are about a zillion beaches and they're all great.
5. There are less mosquitoes there than in Amsterdam.
6. No one drives piles into the ground outside your bedroom window at 6 in the morning.
7. Ownership of a very tiny dog is compulsory.
8. Judging by the Portuguese people over thirty - the Mediterranean diet doesn't do much to keep you slim, but it does do much to keep you happy.
9. They barbeque the fish on the streets outside the restaurants.
10. It's not a good idea to stay in a hotel that has wooden floors, especially if there's a family of elephants in the room upstairs with a preference for high-heeled shoes.

All in all it was a lovely holiday and great to see Marielle and Salvador get hitched in such pleasant company and beautiful surroundings.

You can see photos of the holiday here. Enjoy!

Making a Splash

When we decided to book a work outing to the Wet 'n Wild water centre in Alphen aan de Rijn I didn't really think through the implications of being towed at high speed around a lake on the end of a bit of wire. It wasn't until we arrived and saw the previous group trying it out that I began to grow a little nervous. Wasn't that a little fast for beginners?!

The evening was pretty chilly and I didn't exactly relish the experience of climbing into an already-soggy wetsuit much. By the time we were lined up on the jetty I wasn't sure whether it was the cold or the nerves that was causing me to shiver, but I managed to pluck up the courage to pull on a pair of waterskis and crouch ready for take off.

Before I knew it I was up on my feet and (much to my amazement) I was waterskiing, just like that! Okay, I got dunked as soon as I reached the first corner, buy heh, it wasn't bad for a first attempt. On subsequent rounds I managed to learn to anticipate the changes in direction and on one final victorious circuit made it right the way round and back with a cheesy grin on my face.

Two days afterwards I felt like I'd been wrestling with a gorilla, but I'm definitely hooked.

Raining on Everyone's Parade

Bbrrrrrr.... August? What August?
Luckily the persistent rain and October-style temperatures that have hit Amsterdam recently didn't stop the annual Gay Pride canal parade taking place yesterday. We arrived early and reserved ourselves a canal-side view on the Prinsengracht, but by the time the parade started to float by our fingers and toes were numb and we'd been soaked twice. The guys on the float didn't seem to mind though, and our patience was rewarded with the usual dose of toned torsos, waxed and tanned in preparation for the party.

Bruised Soldiers

What's paintballing?
Well, you're sent out into the woods with a bunch of people dressed up in combat gear, to crawl around in the bushes and try to fire as many little hard pellets of paint out of a semi-automatic at each other as possible. On a recent works outing we got the chance to try it out. Yippeee! I was a little nervous to say the least, having been warned by numerous people in advance that the 'bullets' will cause 'searing pain' as they hit flesh. There then followed various poetic descriptions of past paintball disasters - loss of voice for a week (paintball to the throat), severe bruising (due to paintballing in a dress - I believe the guy was on his stag night), blah, blah....

Anyway, I live to see another day and the bruises only took a week or so to go.
The 'searing' bit may have been a bit of an exaggeration, but it definitely smarts a bit when those damn things hit. Bruising, fogged-up mask, mud and overly-trigger-happy colleagues aside it was definitely fun, but based on the amount of paint on my khakis and my inability to take-out the enemy I won't be running off to join the army at any point in the near future.

New Dutch Words

I've recently acquired some new Dutch vocabulary which I'm quite impressed with:

1. 'Potlood-Venter' - Flasher (literally - pencil salesman)
2. 'Stofzuiger' - Vacuum Cleaner (literally - dust sucker)
3. 'Houd je smoel' - 'Shut your Face' (literally - 'Hold your mug')

I'm not sure that these would be useful in an emergency situation, but I quite like them.
My Dutch is still pretty terrible, by the way, but I guess it's slightly less terrible than it was a year ago. Every week I cycle off to my Dutch lesson and my long-suffering teacher Paula patiently listens to my painfully-slow struggles to construct a sentence. I'm getting there, albeit at snail's pace. My main problem is that I work all day in English and then go home to my perfect-English-speaking Dutch boyfriend and watch BBC TV. I go shopping and attempt to order in Dutch, only to get a fluent English response. If anyone is interested in improving their English skills I suggest they move to Holland!

An Authentic Czech Knees-Up!

Take my advice, unless you actually LIKE the idea of walking like a cowboy for the first few days of your holiday, avoid knocking hot tea all over your lap during your outward flight. My lack of hand-eye co-ordination in a confined space is a recipe for disaster. Luckily this turned out to be a minor blip during an otherwise extremely pleasant week that we spent in the Czech Republic.

We landed in Prague on Monday 20th June and, despite slightly blistered thighs, had a great three days there exploring the city. We rented an apartment right in the centre of town - an incredible location which seemed to be five minutes walk from just about everywhere you'd want to visit. If you stood on a footstool and craned your neck slightly you could just about catch a glimpse of the skew-whiff gravestones of the Jewish cemetery between the neighbouring roofs. Not quite 'a room with a view' but very nice all the same. You could lie in bed and listen to the horses hooves on the cobbles outside as they carted Japanese tourists around the many photo-opportunity spots of this beautiful city.

Prague was drenched in sun for the whole time we were there, which made it ideal for a bit of hanging-about on terraces. The 'interesting' approach to customer service (the first waiter to break a smile - around day three I think - got a big fat tip!) didn't spoil the experience too much. I've never seen so many tourists in one place as on Charles Bridge. I had visions of them all spilling over the edge, along with the odd juggler, 'comedy' portrait artist jewelry salesman.

On the Thursday morning we collected a hire-car and along with fellow intrepid travellers, Cobi and Maaike, drove South-East across the country towards Zjnomo, near to the Austrian border. I had downloaded about a hundred different maps and route-plans from the internet for this purpose (it seemed to be a daunting task to tackle in a country where all the road signs make absolutely no sense whatsoever). However, my sense of direction is about as bad as my hand-eye co-ordination so it was very lucky that Maaike happens to be a whiz with maps. She managed to direct us smoothly and efficiently towards our hotel before I even worked out which way up I should hold the map.

Zjnomo didn't know what had hit it. Suddenly there seemed to be more Dutch than Czech citizens wandering around town in the lead up to the weekend. Everyone was gathering to see our friends, Ton and Alice, get married.

On the evening we arrived we all assembled for a wine-tasting evening (or, more accurately, a wine-drinking evening, as there was absolutely no sloshing and spitting going on). By the time we'd reached the 8th or 9th glass someone started singing and the songs (Czech, Dutch, English, Swedish..?!) continued into the night.

Peter and I had a lovely visit to the outdoor pool on the Friday, although we both came back red and sore as boiled lobsters - we were not a pretty sight the next day, even when we covered our burnt bits with posh wedding clothes.

Nonetheless, the wedding was a really great day. There are worse ways of spending a Saturday, being wined and dined in a castle overlooking some spectacular scenery. Ton and Alice have more than their fair-share of musically gifted friends, who seemed to relish in the opportunity to provide us all with some fantastic live music. I tasted my first authentic Czech roasted pig, fresh from the spit (the only thing in the place more sunburned than me and P) and downed a few too many Slivovich shots to toast the happy couple.

Here's to Ton and Alice - thanks for a great day!

Daddy Duck

A few weeks ago, a duck with seemingly limited parenting skills decided to make her nest in the central island of the ornamental ponds at the front of the building where Peter and I work. These ponds look pretty but aren't really designed to house wildlife. The problem is that they have a metal lip running round the edge which seem almost custom-built to prevent anything with little legs hopping in and out.

Peter spotted the nest when maintaining the ponds and decided to solve this problem by building a duck-friendly ramp leading down to the water. All he then had to do was sit tight and wait for the eggs to hatch.

Sure enough, a week ago the pond was suddenly filled with quacking. Ten little eggs had become ten little fluffy ducklings. All was going very well until mummy duck decided that it was time to leave their temporary home to go in search of food. The ramps were too slippery for the ducklings' little feet and no matter how high they tried to jump they couldn't get out.

The next day two of the strongest ducklings had managed to jump out but were then stranded outside waiting for the others to acquire the same skill. They were running all over the place and whenever they spotted a pair of human feet getting close they would panic. One even miraculously survived a dash across the taxi lane and a ten foot drop into the Ikea carpark, to be carefully scooped up by Peter and returned to its mother.

Peter then scrapped the ramps and built steps leading to the outside world, but the ducklings obviously had adopted their mother's low IQ and would run round and round the steps rather than up and down them.

All worked out well in the end though. Over the weekend the ducks had obviously worked out the whole step/ramp/jump thing and on monday morning Peter found them proudly swimming up and down the nearby canal with both parents. He was relieved (and perhaps just a little bit sad) to move on from his temporary position of daddy duck.

Queen's Day Children

Last Saturday was Queen's Day. There was all the usual madness taking place in Amsterdam - hordes of orange-clad people suddenly filled the city, looking for the opportunity to buy junk from a pavement store, drink copious biertjes or to wear a very silly inflatable crown. This year I found myself in Vondelpark having a lovely time amongst the Queen's Day Children.

I'm sure if you're six years old then Vondelpark can be a magical playground the whole year round, but on Queen's Day it excels itself. For one day a year, the children take over and show off their various skills for some small change. Proud parents stand by as little Henk or Anja screach away on the violin or perform the actions to 'I'm a Barbie Girl' for the amusement of the public. Some kids show great initiative with their chosen skill - one cute little boy managed to stand statue-still with his right arm in the air for 10 minutes at a time. Another little girl stood on her head until she nearly threw up her candyfloss. Some just choose to dress up or display elaborate face paintings. All seriously cute and a pleasant antidote to their not-so cute drunk adult friends outside the park walls.

Her Majesty's Haircut

I know that Queen's Day is coming up and that residents of the Netherlands are looking at ways of showing their patriotism, but trying to copy the Queen's haircut...

...isn't really what I had it mind.

After a disastrous visit to the hairdresser this week I ended up looking like this...

...All I need is a crown and I'd be laughing. Luckily it was just the way he decided to style it (and I use 'style' in the loosest of terms - he made me stick my head between my knees and blasted it with the hairdryer) so after a good hairwash I was back to my usual non-regal self.

Here Comes the Sun

We've been enjoying the first blissfully warm weekend of the year. At last, we can shed the ski jackets and woolly gloves in favour of short sleeves and sunglasses. The backdoor can stay open during the day to let a delicious warm breeze through the house (plus next door's plucky cat) and the garden is now an inviting place to sit with a book and a cup of tea. The bustling terraces of the Pijp have sprung into life once more. Yesterday we sat outside one of our new-found favourite cafes - the Soep Winkel (Soup Shop) watching the world go by and eating homemade sweet potato soup and cheese cake. Lekker! All over Amsterdam you see people sitting in upstair's window frames, reading a book or smoking a cigarette with their bare feet hanging out into the sunshine. In a city where so many people live high up it's the next best thing to a garden.

This afternoon we cycled to Vondelpark for a stroll. It seems that the rest of Amsterdam had the same idea. I've never seen the park so busy; we could hardly move amongst the other sun-seekers. The cyclists were forced to weave precariously amongst small children on roller skates, dogs, push chairs, frisbees, confused tourists and the odd strange-looking wino. A sea of bodies were sunbathing on every spare inch of green - a strange sight considering that there are still no leaves on the trees and that this time last week we were still wearing those ski jackets.

Geen Fietsen Plaatsen

I snapped this earlier this week at the Albert Cuyp market.

Translation: Place no bikes here please.

and then it just kept snowing....

Okay, so I was REALLY wrong about the snow...

Look at my garden this morning!

Okay, so I was wrong about the snow...

Look at how my garden looks this morning!



Perhaps they switched off the under-floor heating last night!

Winter in Amsterdam

I love snow. It must be a throwback to childhood or something, but as soon as I see a few white flakes drift by the window I'm compelled to sit with my nose pressed up against the glass for hours, just watching. Even better, I love the crunch of it under my feet.

Sadly, snow in Amsterdam just doesn't work like that. No matter how cold it gets and regardless of how many fat flakes fall, they seem to disappear the instant they touch the ground. It's like they've installed city-wide underfloor heating. All week we've been getting these big snow storms which promise to instantly transform the city into a winter paradise. If you walk away from the window for 2 minutes to get your camera you return to blue skies, green trees and dry grey pavement again. It's weird.

Regardless of the frustrating weather changes, you can ice skate outdoors in this city all through the winter. Museum Plein has it's own outdoor rink that everyone is welcome to use. It's great to watch little kids with strap-on ice skates slide around with the ice-skating equivalent of a zimmer frame to lean onto - a wooden chair.

Trying to be a Snowboard Dudette

Me and my colleague Lisa organised a long weekend trip to Valloire in the French Alps for 44 colleagues last month. Peter joined us, and as it was his first winter sports holiday he decided to prepare for the trip by tackling a long-overdue ambition - learning to snowboard. I (for my sins) decided to join him. Having always skied, I previously saw snowboarders as those annoying people who cut you up on the slopes, but was curious to find out more.

You may be wondering how one learns to snowboard in a country with no mountains. The Dutch have come up with the perfect solution - revolving carpet. Actually the term 'perfect' is a bit off the mark, because trying to stand up on a giant white (soaking wet) treadmill while both feet are strapped to a board isn't the standard interpretation of perfection. Once you manage it (we were told) then snow will be a piece of cake. Still, it gave us a taste for the real thing and before we knew it we were turning, gliding (and, of course) falling with ease.

After a course of six lessons we couldn't wait to see a mountain. The big weekend arrived and the only thing that stood between us and some deep fresh powder was the fact that it hadn't snowed over the Alps in a month and the sun was shining gloriously over the resort. Still, thanks to the snow cannons, the nursery slopes were white enough for us!

My word of warning to any first-time snowboarder - pack knee pads and wrist guards (and possibly a cushion to stuff down the back of your trousers). If your experiences are anything like mine, you'll love boarding but your knees/wrists/bum won't. I actually lay in the snow on my stomach at one point and pummelled the ground with my fists out of pure frustration (much to the amusement of the passing line of immaculately-controlled six year olds). After two days of falling over, however, things finally 'clicked' and I was off! Unfortunately by the time this happened we had to go back to Holland. Luckily we're going back to the Alps for a whole week next month (and perhaps the bruises will be healed by then).