Weekend

As the manager of team S. I faced my biggest challenge to date: a whole weekend without Mr S. mid sport season. As Friday evening approached I honestly started to doubt the whole undertaking. Would I honestly be able to pull it off?

In Switzerland, England or Italy I would have welcomed a husband free weekend of blissful uninterrupted book, or B-film filled evenings and idyllic day trip filled days. Back in the Netherlands however, our weekends are taken over by field hockey games and rowing practices.
Saturday morning  I wake up with a start. I have been ignoring an email from my children's scout leader - as a principal I never open any emails that pop up in my in-box adorned with infuriating red exclamation marks - which contains the packing list for the upcoming scout camp next weekend. I decide it is time to face the music.  My daughter doesn't mind so much any more to go away on an overnight camp, as long as she is able to prepare for every eventuality well in advance. She needs this list. Now!
The list actually isn't too bad. I only need to buy two sleeping mats, two high visibility vests and try to locate our camping gear and the children's sleeping bags that I made to disappear somewhere last summer after the move. The accompanying letter from the scout leader even manages to make me smile with its very stern warning against showing up for camp wearing 'UGGs, or any other fashion type boots' as 'a scout with cold, wet feet is a miserable scout'. Indeed.
As our village doesn't have a camping, or outdoorsy type shop, I decide that may be internet shopping is best. Or then again may be not. As it turns out the package and postage fee for two ('light weight!') sleeping mats is almost double the cost of the mats themselves. So we need to drive to Amsterdam to the sports emporium to go buy the darn mats ourselves. But when?
Later today I need to be at the rowing club for my practice session (from 1-2.30) and my son has a field hockey match scheduled for 2.30 for which he demands my in situ support. I need to help out with my daughter's rowing practice on Sunday from 1.00-2.30, which leaves us just enough time to quickly change before we need to take my son and his best mate to the cinema, because they happen to have two coupons that have almost run out.
My daughter by the way doesn't want us to miss the local market where we usually spend our Saturday mornings tasting olives, looking at interesting vegetables and buying cheap jewellery and I don't want us to eat fast food two nights in a row. Oh and did I mention my son's exam week starts on Monday?
It takes the three of us  about 45 minutes and six cups of tea each to come up with a military type operation (code name 'Anaconda') to fit it all in. It's almost ten 'o clock as the 11yo and I cycle to the market where we buy arms full of spring flowers for a ridiculously small amount of money and treat ourselves to hot chocolate and cappuccino in our favourite cafe.
Five minutes after we've come home I am back on my bike again. This time with the 12yo who will help me find high visibility vests. Three shops and many enquiries later it turns out we should have searched for them in a bike shop. Of course!
When we finally get home, I have exactly 8 minutes to change into my rowing clothes. My daughter, bless her, makes me two sandwiches  to devour whilst cycling to the rowing club. All by myself. Me time! Unfortunately it is spend rowing solo for the first time in months. Although I manage to stay afloat it takes me a couple of hours on dry land to get my shoulders down again and my breathing firmly under control.
From the rowing club I bike straight over to my son's field hockey club. It's lovely to watch him play. The weather is warm and sunny for a change so I can soak up some sun while I chat to the other parents. I am honestly having a really good time.
Too soon the match finishes. Time to go sleeping mat shopping. Other than the the fact that we get lost on our way to a shopping mall attached to a football stadium which you can probably see from Mars without a pair of binoculars, it is a very uneventful trip. The shop even has the sleeping mats in stock. While my son and I try to locate all the scout camp necessities, the 11yo will prepare dinner. Which she does. Yay!
By nine 'o clock that evening my children wake me from my sofa slumber and send me to bed. They will follow suit in a little while. Honestly. I am so tired, that - although by now I should know better -  I decide to trust them. They are definitely both in bed when I wake up the next morning, so at some point they must have actually gone to bed. That's good enough for me.
No leisurely cappuccino drinking and newspaper scrolling this Sunday morning however. Instead I get to ask my son silly questions like 'Is there a zoo near by?', 'Are you American?' or 'Is the swimming pool open?', which he translates more or less adequately into French. We have a bit of a giggle at his attempt to write 'qu'est-ce que c'est' (what is) and also at his uncanny ability to make all female words male and vice versa ('une chat', 'une chien', 'un addresse', 'un village').
After the French intermezzo,  he explains in great detail the feudal system, Charles the Great and Saint Boniface. I must admit that I secretly quite enjoy this reacquaintance with the secondary school history curriculum. As soon as we finish our history lesson though, I need to go rowing with my daughter and her team mates.
We set out in a wherry. Two girls row, one steers and I go along for the ride (and to make sure they don't get themselves (or another boat!) in trouble while they are out on the water). We amuse ourselves by coming up with silly names for the various water birds that we spot ('water chicken' and' 'black duckling number 25a' being my favourites by far).
After rowing practice we cycle home, get changed, ready to take the 12yo and his best mate to the cinema in Amsterdam. 'Fortunately' it's the warmest day in March since 1921, so the cinema is completely deserted. While the boys opt for the 'Lego Movie', my daughter insists we go see 'Frozen', (how appropriate) which turns out to be utterly enchanting.
Dinner consists of a tray of limp chips and rather sad chicken nuggets in a fast food restaurant. No matter what 'made from scratch' loveliness you usually prepare at home; fast food is what they secretly want. So much so that it is almost impossible to divide 20 nuggets between the three of them. It isn't until my son decides to forgo a seventh nugget if he can eat all my chips, that peace is being restored.
By nine 'o clock I have them in bed. More me time! A glass of wine and exactly twenty two minutes of staring at God knows what on the telly and I am ready to call it a night. Just as I am about to drift of, I give myself a huge pat on the back. I did pull it off after all. And even better, I really enjoyed this weekend. Time to seriously count my blessings:  three days at the office to recover and two days at home to prepare, before, just like Katie Perry 'We''ll do it all again!'.

How to watch the winter Olympics

I absolutely adore the winter Olympics as they invariably mean I get to watch hours and hours of guilt free daytime television. And all of that in the dreariest time of year. A week of diligent practice sees my watching skills honed and my pick of companions perfected.

  




Downhill, Giant slalom, Slalom, Super G, super Combined
Love, love, love to watch this in the company of my husband and father in law. Especially my father in law can tell you without hesitating once who won in 1958, '62 ,'68, '72 etc. The man is a living sport encyclopaedia and Mr S is not far behind. Flanked on either side by one of them ensures that I know what is happening metre to metre, or bend to bend. Marvellous!


Speed skating
No matter the weather, you need to find an old, wood clad Dutch pub with at least one big flat screen TV. Since the sun is finally out for the first time in days (weeks!) you better find a really dark pub, the kind that isn't famous for its view. Regardless of the time of day you order a beer and 'bitterballen' to wash it down. Feel the tension building as the first orange and black skate suits enter the ice rink. This is what we Dutch are famous for. So famous in fact that by now we have discouraged the rest of the world population to ever want to pick up speed skating. Tough.

Skeleton
You must be completely out of your mind to want to go face forward, nose tip ten centimetres from the ice, down an icy track at break neck speed. But since the English have Lizzy Yarnold who said she was going to win gold (and did) it has been great fun to watch. But I still can't imagine what training for such an event must be like...

Ice dancing
Who knew that you could do a quickstep, foxtrot or charleston on skates? The athletes competing in this event for sure, but I had no idea. How perfectly enchanting to watch. Especially when you really need to get back to work, but you allow yourself to let 'just a few minutes' in front of the telly, turn into a long afternoon filled with musical hits, sparkly outfits and synchronised skating. Absolute bliss.

Curling
First of all get your ironing pile out. Install your ironing board in front of the TV. Curling is so mind-numbingly dull that watching it provides a great opportunity to do equally boring jobs. Curling is best watched in solitude. At least in my case, because I really, really do not want anyone to explain the rules to me, as it would loose its meagre appeal altogether if I knew what they were doing with the silly brooms. It's definitely the guesswork that keeps me entertained. Oh and the Russian calendar girls of course.

Biathlon
The best sport to watch whilst you're munching your way trough a TV dinner. Nothing makes me more hungry than watching the exertion of the athletes involved. Biathlon is  a brutal sport where you have to hoist yourself around an endless track on two knitting needles, whilst every other 5 kilometres or so you have to try and hit a couple of milk caps with an air riffle. Dessert anyone?

Snowboard Cross
The drama and spectacle of this event is almost unsurpassed. When six snowboarders are let loose at an immensely difficult track full of jumps, twists and turns, everyone watching - including me! - is holding their breath. And boy do they fall and take each other out. 'It's as frantic as during a half price meat sale at Lidl', according to one of the commentators. I couldn't have put it any better.

Ice Hockey
I must admit that I really struggle to sit through an ice hockey game. If I have to watch it from my own sofa at least. Because when my wonderful Canadian friends H. and R. kindly invited me to a hockey game when we visited them in Toronto last Christmas, I thought the sport was absolutely wonderful. So with the right atmosphere and the knowledgeable commentary of my friends, I can be a great spectator sport. During the winter Olympics however hockey games are a great time to read the newspaper cover to cover.

Slope Style Snowboarding or Skiing 
 I love the grinding and jumping and the recklessness of the competitors, bust most of all I love the comments of my 12yo when he is joining me in front of the telly. Only one or two days into the competition and he was fluent in the lingo. Nowadays he spots a 'melon grab', 'truck driver', or 'Indy' a mile off. He is also very accurate when it comes to telling the difference between a flip, spin or cork and completely understands the abracadabra of the 180, 360, or 540 degree rotations the athletes display. Now all I have to to is thoroughly discourage him from trying any of those tricks himself when we next go skiing...

Which in fact we are, tomorrow! This Saturday it'll be the first time on ski's since we left Switzerland. Finally we'll be in the mountains again. The mountains where my 11yo daughter 'belongs' (her words) and my 12yo will have Mr S and me sit in endless snow parks, camera at the ready to capture his jumps (but hopefully not his 'spins', 'flips' or 'corks'. I for one am look forward to wall to wall sunshine (hopefully), long leisurely lunches (definitely) and trying to keep up with the rest of the clan. So hasta la vista everyone! I am off.

Hunters vs gatherers

Although in some ways our modern day society is millions of light years removed from the prehistoric hunter/gatherer way of doing things, in other ways it hasn't changed one bit.  Mr.S and the 12yo boy love to hunt (kill!); while the 11yo girl and me put up remarkably well with the gathering of food in the local supermarket, chatting all the time.

Nothing brings this home to me more than the mysterious computer game 'Clash of Clans' that both my men are completely addicted to. The objective of this game can easily be captured in the slogan  'to kill or be killed', which the male half of the family finds hugely appealing, whereas my daughter and I can't even be bothered to feign that we're interested. While we talk about lovely stuff to grow, cook, bake and eat, the boys have developed their own, personal lingo.
 'I am under attack', is something Mr S announces on a regular basis these days. 'Better rearm', answers the 12yo succinctly without for the time being taking his eyes of his own on screen battle. 'I don't know why I am taking these witches into battle with me, because each time that I do they are getting killed straight away'. This time, the 12yo decides to walk over to his father to look at the battle in progress. 'Use them as a support troop dad', he starts. 'Put them at the back, that way they can be very useful'.
And so it goes on and on and on. They talk gold mines, battle castles, goblins, elixir, sieges, cups and levels. High fives are exchanged when one of them has reached another level or wins more cups/gold/elixir.
Mr S., when he thinks no one is watching, even goes as far as watching football and playing 'Clash of Clans' at the same time. As long as the goals don't interfere with his digging for gold, or fortifying his virtual village, he is in heaven.
I of course am just as bad, when it comes to guilty online pleasures. But as a typical gatherer, who in prehistoric times needed to talk all the time, to scare of any lurking, scary animals, I use my online time to communicate. Preferebly while I am chopping vegetables, filling lunch boxes, pulling mouldy PE kits out of bags,  or doing something else that is useful at the same time.  I 'talk' with fellow blogsters, send messages to my friends, take a peek at facebook so that I can 'like' what everyone in my circle (clan?) is doing,  post some photo's myself, listen to a TED talk and scroll through instagram.
But lately I am wondering whether it wouldn't be much more relaxing to do some killing myself. It might be utterly liberating to rule the virtual world from within the walls of 'Mrs S' ville'. Instead of liking posts, chatting to friends, or digesting hundreds of blog posts, I might find that after some virtual war fare I feel so relaxed, I could tackle my admin, pair up thirty pairs of socks in various shades of black, or sort out the five or so miscellaneous drawers in our house, without actually killing one of my house mates in the process.
I let that thought sit with me for a couple of days in which I pay particular attention to the boys in my household. Killing other clans doesn't seem to particularly make them want to do anything useful afterwards. And for my son at least 'talking' to his mates is one of the main attractions of joining a clan. Because: 'When I am awake really early and check my clan, quite often N. is also playing 'Clash of Clans' and then we sometimes chat for an hour.' Mr S. on the other hand, prefers not to join a clan, as he loves to be in total control of his own virtual set up.
Mmm. As a typical female I never feel more in control, (or loved) than just after I have ran something by my friends and they wholeheartedly agreed with whatever I expressed. Communicating online for me really is very relaxing (and so much cheaper than my other vice: internet shopping). All in all I think it's best if I leave the virtual killing, as well as the admin, paring of socks and messy drawers, to the men in my life. Time to check whether my online friends agree...

Self Reflection

It does make life easier if you know who you are and what you are capable of. Both the children have up until now always attended schools where they were asked to reflect on their own work and as a consequence to come up with ways to better themselves. Culminating in handwritten pearls of wisdom that I will treasure forever.

Like the one the now 12yo wrote in his first year at his school in Switzerland. 'I will try and concentrate more in class and not to day dream so much. In order to do that I will stop sucking my thumb.' Still very much a work in progress of course. Just like the next one: 'I will try to participate in whole class discussions, even if I don't find the subject very interesting.'
Flicking through his folder the other day I came across a sheet he apparently had been asked to fill in just after he toured me around on the annual 'show-your-parents-what-you-have-done-in-school-so-far-this-year-day'. 'I think it was challenging to share the 'writing wall' with my mum, because she asked a lot of questions which were hard to answer.' Mmm, I can be a bit strict, especially when it comes to my children's spelling, or creative writing, as I am a bit of a language freak myself. My son must have really felt it that day.
My son's observations might by the way also explain my daughter's reluctance to show me any of her homework sheets. These days, when she can't stall me any longer, she'll just wave her work in front of my face. That way, I can't possibly read any of her writing. But even so, she has the habit of warning me that she is going 'to correct her work in school'. In other words: bugger off mum!
Let's see what she had to say about her work and attitude in class, when asked by her former international school teachers. 'I am proud of my work, because I put loads of detail', she has written down. And also: 'I am a thinker as I managed to answer all of the maths questions'. But also: 'I showed respect for my friend's religion'. I really like that.
She also showed some good insights in her weaker points. 'I could have tried to focus a bit more', she has written down at some point. She also promised various teachers to: 'listen to instructions the first time' and 'to hand in my homework more regularly'.
In the absence of reflection sheets in their new schools, we could may be reflect a little bit more at home. I for one should have written down: 'I will try and really listen to my children when they tell me very long stories about a goal they scored two years ago in some playground football match, or describe minute to minute a film that we watched together not even an week ago'. Or: 'I will play more board games with the children, even though I really, really want to lie down on the sofa and read my book.'
Who knows, it might be very therapeutic to put my goals in writing and keep them in a special folder. That way I could at least try to change some of my less attractive behaviours. Regularly updating those goals would ensure that I don't have to focus on the same shortcomings all the time. And may be, but only if I try very hard, I could reach that comfortable place, my 10yo seems to be in. These days she apparently completely accepts who she is, all flaws included.
At least that is how I interpret the lines she wrote down in her new Dutch spelling book. When asked to tick one of the two following boxes: 1. 'I do not understand this spelling rule and would like to practise it some more, or 2. 'I completely understand this spelling rule and I feel confident using it', my daughter has boldly ticked the second box. But then she added -  in barely legible, miniscule writing: 'I do forget to use it though'.

A brand new year: Yay!

If how you spend the second day in January is a reference of what to expect the rest of the year, we're in for a very (very!) grumpy 2014. A year in which we'll struggle to get out of bed, we'll struggle to do any grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, reading, or work, to have a single interesting conversation, to fulfil any potential, or even to be awake for more than three hours at a time.

Seldom have the 10 and 12yo been so devoid of all energy as this morning. The fact that I set my alarm for 8.30, but nonetheless woke up at 11.15 surely doesn't help matters. By the time I make it downstairs, the children have been playing minecraft on the computer for roughly 2 hours, 23 minutes and 41 seconds. They haven't made themselves any breakfast, haven't changed out of their pyjamas and certainly don't intend to so for the rest of the day.
As soon as I order them to make us a cup of tea, they start arguing. The 12yo accusing the 10yo of not answering when he asked her a simple question. The 10yo adamant that she hasn't heard her brother asking her something and so on and so forth. Within minutes they're both crying, which in the case of the 12yo is highly unusual these days.
Calm is temporarily  restored when I declare this day a pyjama-day and let the children stuff themselves with white toast, butter and chocolate sprinkles. Within minutes they're happily playing on the computer again. Which is great, because it means I can check all the social media sites that I am addicted to without any interruption whatsoever.
It isn't until it's almost lunchtime that I start to feel slightly restless and - dare I say it - guilty about not doing anything useful now that we have all the time in the world. So I order the 12yo to tidy his room and the 10yo to tidy her craft cupboard. Both children just sit and glare at me. But I stick to my guns this time. While the 12yo is stomping upstairs, probably sneaking his i-pod and phone with him, I find myself  'helping' the 10yo downstairs with the said cupboard.
We (well no, I) decide to take everything out and look at each item to see whether she'll want to keep it and if so, where she is going to keep it. We find: three feathers, six sticks varying in length, the Greek alphabet that my daughter wrote down several months ago, a piece of sandpaper, a variety of hair bobbles, several tattoo designs, some rock hard paint brushes and mostly empty paint bottles, three bowls filled with pieces of candle wax that she saved up and a plastic tub containing 'home-made' perfume. None of which she is ready to part with. To kid ourselves that we're making  progress, we're redistributing the priced possessions around the house, leaving the cupboard that we originally started working on, looking immaculate. Brilliant.
When I finally make it to the top floor around four in the afternoon, I find that the 12yo has transferred every item lying around on his bedroom floor to the laundry basket, just outside his room. I am too tired to argue with him, so instead, I just stuff everything into the washing machine.
Time for a long and well deserved shower. I decide that I can't be bothered to properly dry my hair, so instead I wait for an hour and a half, in which I check the aforementioned social media sites again, until I deem my hair dry enough to make my way to the supermarket.
There, it turns out, that my timing is awful. Not only is the supermarket heaving and are most of the necessities sold out, the place is filled with people that obviously went to work today and therefore have spend their time well, or at least much better than I did.
At least the guilt I feel now makes me hurry home, where I unpack the groceries, unload both the washing machine and the dishwasher in record time and start making some dinner. Not five minutes later  Mr. S. comes home from work. In a pathetic bid to account for my day I show him the tidied cupboard and well stocked fridge. He isn't fooled one bit (may be the still not quite dry hair gives me away, or the fact that the children are still in pyjamas glued to various screens, who knows), but to his credit he doesn't say anything.
That night we watch telly till way past our bedtime, allow ourselves chocolate as well as crisps and even some wine, although not even 24 hours earlier we did commit ourselves to a healthier lifestyle.
It isn't till the next morning that I know exactly what needs to be done. I will cook a nice meal tonight and open a bottle of champagne. We will toast the New Year once again and make a fresh start on the 4th of January. This way, if we fail again, we'll just need to buy some more champagne and repeat the process on a regular basis. At some point we'll surely get our tails in gear again. (And if we don't we'll always have champagne...)

Here's to a New and blissfully happy New Year

It's never easy to capture a year gone by in a few catchy phrases. This year being no exception. The mayor life transition I am going through will only let itself be properly analysed in a year or two.  But for all the people that have asked me (and also for those that will probably still ask me in 2014) 'how it feels to be back in the Netherlands?',  I will try and put some of my feelings in writing. So in no particular order:


UP:
HOT:

IN:


* Having Mr. S. come home most nights. It's so much nicer to talk face to face than through a stop-and-go Skype connection. Added bonus: I don't have to discipline the kids all by myself anymore. So some days I actually am a great mum again. On those days I happily leave all the shouting to Mr. S.

* My sons's secondary school, where he found some great mates that are just as silly, ball obsessed and i-pod depended as he is.

* Our renewed relationships with bikes, that we use nowadays for any trip under 5 miles, as well as for the weekly shop or a trip to the local DIY store.  I must admit though that after my last wood buying frenzy I had to call Mr. S. to hop in the car to come to my rescue.

* Ice skating. My daughter and I love it. It's such a great excuse to drink hot chocolate all the time.

* The fact that someone hired me to do something that I love doing. I found myself a proper job again and I can't wait to get started

* Rowing. Twice a week I get to go out on some ancient moats around a very pretty fortified little town in a rowing boat. It's absolutely brilliant. It might take some years to master the basics (e.g. not putting the oars the wrong way round, not forgetting to look over my shoulder to see where I am going, never arriving at the club again without at least one change of dry clothes in an emergency bag), but I'll be patient.

*My cleaning lady. May be I should put this at the top of the list! I feel absolutely elated every Wednesday afternoon when I come home to an immaculately tidied and spotlessly clean house! After years of doing the cleaning myself it feels like the greatest luxury in the world to have someone else push the hoover around.

* The good fortune to find my daughter and international scout troop close by, so she can speak her beloved English once a week.

* Having family and old friends close by, so that we can share more of your day-to-day life.

* Enrolling the 12yo in a field hockey club. He has two practice sessions and a proper game each week. The other four days he likes to go and see if there is someone that wants to practise some more. He always finds someone.

* Indonesian and Chinese food being readily available again. Yam! I must admit we also love having a local chip shop again.

* Being able to talk to the butcher, people at the bus stop, fellow passengers on the train, other shoppers in the queue at the supermarket. I am very chatty and always hated the fact that chatting in either Swiss German or Italian was so tricky. I would only ever come up with a great thing to say when there was absolutely no one around to say it to.



DOWN:
NOT SO HOT:
OUT:


* Rain, rain, wind, wind, rain, rain, wind, wind. How can it be Christmas if it is twelve degrees, wet and windy? It just doesn't feel right.

* No mountains on the horizon, so no skiing, mountain hiking, or even just gazing at distant peaks. It helps if I don't look at my Swiss friend's pictures on facebook too often.

* The fact that we're in rented accommodation and probably will have to move again this summer. If we find a place we want to buy (and can afford)  that is.

* Supermarkets that sell more varieties of milk and yoghurt, than fresh vegetables and where you can get almost everything you could ever want for dinner either pre-cut, pre-cooked or ready made.

* Lunch consisting of two limp cheese sandwiches that have been packed into a little plastic bag around day break.

* Missing my Italian, Australian, Canadian, Dutch, Irish and  English friends, scattered around the globe. I think about them all the time.

* My fast expanding waistline. I have a tendency  to console myself with chocolate and cake.

* Getting soaking wet on my bike at least three times a week. The novelty has definitely worn off.

* My 12yo wanting a Play Station, because every single one of his new Dutch friends has one. It's a catch 22 really. If we buy him the darn machine he is going to play on it the whole time, but if we don't he will be going over to one of his friends and play on it the whole time.

* No distant horizons to discover in our new habitat. No pouring over Lonely Planets and no inviting stacks of leaflets scattered all around our living room. Although we did visit the famous Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam and it really was quite splendid.

* My children becoming way more independent than they would have whilst living abroad. In the Netherlands they take their bikes and go pretty much where they want to. It's undoubtedly great for them, but it will take me a little while longer to get used to it.

* Knowing that we won't be living abroad in quite a while. I don't like the idea that the expat part of our life is over.



Have a great  2014!

Bliss

I seldom allow myself to sit down with a cup of coffee and a magazine. That's why I have come to cherish my daughter's guitar lessons.

Every Tuesday afternoon from quarter to six to a quarter past six I get to sit and do absolutely bugger all. Sometimes I don't even bring a magazine. I just sit and stare at the walls, being mindful, but without all the trouble of actually trying to stare at a flower whilst trying to breath deeply.
To just sit somewhere without the slightest opportunity to do something useful, is fast becoming the highlight of my week. And the timing couldn't be more perfect. Most weekdays I seem to go totally blank around quarter to six anyway. Dolefully looking in the fridge, figuring out a way to magically transform it's meagre contents into a nutritious meal without too much trouble. Some days I am moderately successful at this, but these are few and far between.
The fact that I get to sit down and relax at that fatal time just before dinner, really is a blessing for all that are living under my roof. Since my daughter started her guitar lessons, most Tuesdays dinner either consists of pizza, or something delicious that I planned at a time, when my thoughts concerning food are still more or less coherent, thus leading to an altogether more satisfying meal.
Despite it's decrepit paintwork, it's rather harsh lighting and uncomfortable chairs, I have really come to like the little coffee corner at our local music school. If you don't bring your own reading material, there's only a stash of yellowing leaflets on learning how to play the trombone, cello or flute. Since I have no inclination whatsoever to learn how to make music in the near future, there is absolutely no need to read any of the brochures, which is nice. (In equally depressing waiting rooms I always feel morally obliged (or is it my ocd?) to read all sorts of disgusting brochures on nail fungus, piles, or psoriasis.)
Back to the coffee corner, where by now I have got to  know my fellow inmates, like you get familiar with the commuters on your daily tube ride into work. There is the granddad who eagerly awaits his granddaughter to come out of one class and go into the next. In the meantime he feeds her sandwiches and provides her with a drink that he brings in a small blue thermos.
Before and after the meal the old man reads his football magazine with an enthusiasm that makes me think he has a nagging wife at home who never lets him have a moment's peace. But come to think of it, he might be the little girl's father, having traded in his wife for a younger model years ago and now making up for the fact that he was too busy with work to see his first children grow up, by giving this precious girl all his love and attention.
I will never know of course, like I will never know, nor understand, why the father in the left hand corner of the waiting area, reads through the same old tattered free newspapers that must have been left behind weeks, if not months ago. Although come to think of  it, it might proof to be utterly relaxing to read news that stopped being news a long time ago.
Not that I will ever ask him, because letting my imagination run wild is such fun. Has the mum that accompanies a blond boy and a very exotic looking girl adopted one of the children, or both, or is she just looking after her neighbour's kid? What will the stony-faced father of the only boy in the ballet class talk about on the way home? And is the guy at the far end of the room actually waiting for someone, or just looking for a place to while away the time? Over the weeks, I have come up with several plausible, or less plausible stories, all the while carefully avoiding actually talking to any of these people as I feel the truth will probably come as a bit of a disappointment.
Thirty minutes of me time every week do of course come at a price. For every five minutes of silence on Tuesday afternoons, I am made to listen to a thirty minute guitar improvisation by my daughter, who loves to 'compose' her own songs. On top of this she tells me that she is too young to learn how to tune her guitar by herself and so far, I haven't had the audacity to go ask her teacher if she is telling the truth.
Besides, I really want her to learn how to play the guitar, as I can totally see her around a campfire somewhere creating a wonderful atmosphere. Or traveling the world, guitar strapped to her backpack.
In the meantime I will just have to listen to my daughter not getting it quite right. Which is easier said than done, as she plays most days and once she has started, there is no stopping her. But I have found the perfect solution in the form of the extractor fan.
My daughter can strum away and sing as loudly as she pleases, while I hide under the extractor fan. This way most of the guitar music passes me by, while I am still physically close to my daughter, so that I can give her a big thumbs up every time she proudly looks up at me. As an added bonus, every practise session will end with a - hopefully- lovely meal.
Now all I have to do is come up with a really good reason why guitar concerts can best take place roughly half an hour before we sit down to eat. Ideas, anyone?