Eyes wide shut

Eyes like saucers and mouth open wide with my lower jaw practically reaching my knees. That must have pretty much been how I looked hours after returning to my flat in Ecully. Before elaborating on my complete astonishment and the reasons for it, I should probably set some things right. Three weeks in I had already accused some of my colleagues of merely tolerating me rather than liking as such. Ever since coming back however and showing my face at work, I almost start thinking the opposite. Everyone is very friendly, I do not know why but perhaps I will find out one day. Maybe I changed after four days on my own in the country. Maybe things here changed. Whatever it is, people wait for me before going off for lunch or otherwise drag me with them by my hair, they say hi really quite enthusiastically and one of them came to see me on Wednesday evening.

Karmen is her name and she was in the training group with me. Apparently she had spent a large chunk of the weekend by herself which made me feel a bit sorry for her because it can get quite lonely then. So she came over to check if I was back. Coming in she announced to be in a bad mood due to some issues whilst buying chocolate. As she had perhaps been a little alone over the weekend and moody I figured my marbled teabread, tea and chocolate Easter eggs were the way forward.

Over tea and chocolate she updated me on the latest developments at work involving another of our colleagues and some of the interns. Her story resulted in the huge eyes and overall totally unintelligent look on my face. Astonishment and sheer disbelief took hold of me. I will explain. As it happens the youngest colleague we have has not been very well for the last weeks. Nausea and throwing up. Now if that takes a day, food poisoning is a logic explanation. Bit longer…some kind of odd virus, infection, whatever. But longer and being a girl, that makes people think. As she too was in our training group we had fairly soon inquired whether pregnancy was a possibility. Technically yes was the answer. Since Wednesday, the technically is no more. The girl in question was sent home by our boss and told to think about it very very carefully. Overall impression amongst new colleagues about this approach.

Strangely though, where older women tend to wait sharing this kind of news until the third month, a 17-year-old, or perhaps just this one, managed to have everyone on the floor know within hours. To say some of the reactions are rather surprising is an understatement I suppose. Most of the female interns were very enthusiastic, one even started crying apparently. I now wonder whether me and the two other girls that are not over the moon about it are the odd ones out. Does not anyone of them grasp the implications of this? That the girl is 17, going on 18? That she has no certificates whatsoever? That she has no fixed job either as this is seasonal work? That in her behaviour she is still fairly young? Does none of them see all this? Or do I have to conclude now that there is a serious age difference here? That the older you get, the more you worry and the less impulsive you get? Or is this what they call ‘experience’?

It is a somewhat strange sensation though to know that someone who is a lot younger, is pregnant. Next week she comes back and I will look at her and think that when she has reached 26, she’ll have a nine-year-old, abortion not being an option to her. I will look and wonder how she’s going to cope. Taking care of herself is a major challenge as it is. How is she going to take care of a baby? Luckily her parents are very enthusiastic too. I don’t understand but perhaps this child then is wanted by some if not entirely by its mother at the moment. I will look at her and realise that despite being nine years older, I am nowhere near ready to have a child and not because I cannot take care of it, financial issues being left out of consideration. The mean reason is that a child means huge responsibilities and living to your child’s clock and needs. Baby first, self second, or that is how my parents told me it should be. At seventeen, I doubt she can do it. At twenty-six, I do not want to do it, but then, I have the luxury of thought.

La tranquillité de la campagne

Four days in the country. Nice and quiet, don’t need to talk to anyone. Walk through the garden, see how everything grows. Hours stretching out before you. Or at least, that is what I thought when leaving Limonest. Somehow life in the countryside is a lot busier than one thinks. In my enthusiasm I had taken my language courses Arabic and Italian with me. After all, in four days there is plenty of time to work on those. However, as things turned out, not really.

All right, I did sleep a lot. And spent quite some time cooking and baking. I like doing that and the oven here is terrific so I figured I’d take the opportunity and try out some new stuff. In addition however there are always things to do. Like taking pictures of everything that grows here. The parents like being informed about how their fruit trees, berry bushes and other new plants with names I have long since forgotten do. Now prune, apple and pear trees are fairly easy to spot. They are about as tall as I am, I know where they are, can’t really miss them. However, at some time when I was not here, the parents have also planted rather obscure little things here and there. Somewhere around the edges of the garden where the grass grows tall. All right, the grass grows tall everywhere now due to a broken lawn mower but even with a mower in working order I think finding these twigs would have been a serious challenge. “They have been marked with silver foil papers”, I was informed over the phone. Please check on them, there’s five. So there I was, walking through our garden like a boy scout with a camera, looking for tiny twigs with silver foil on them. If you have never been a scout that is not easy. Eventually I found three out of five, all doing very well indeed.

Apart from checking the growth of new plants and trees and taking pictures of them considerable time is spend paying social visits to the neighbours. A little way up the road is the farm of an elderly French couple who thought it very nice of me to come and pay them a visit. As they keep an eye on the house whenever no one is here they had already spotted me arriving, although when you are driving around in a car as green as an apple, literally, I doubt it is hard not to see. Although I went for half an hour, I think I ended up chatting to François and Odette for an hour and a half.

Tuesday was delivery day. Tiles previously ordered at Gédimat were being delivered on a pallet. The delivery people do not put them inside and so I saw myself forced to carry them in box after box. Muscle ache in my arms and back being the result of this carrying tiles. Later during the afternoon I went to see acquaintances of my parents who run a campsite nearby close to a village called St. Bonnet de Vieille Vigne. It’s an odd 10-12 kilometres away. Having first considered going to see them on Wednesday, my leaving day, I was glad I didn’t. When going to see them it is wise to take some time for that as they love chatting. Their daughter was there as well and is quite interested in doing the same job as me next summer. She now works on camp sites and in hotels but compared to that, this is luxury with two compulsory days off per week, at least eleven hours between each shift and paid overtime.

All in all my four quiet days in the countryside became rather filled up days. Very nicely filled days though and when being away from work and home even, very quickly it feels like you have been away for a very long time. A phone call from a colleague therefore becomes a reminder that it is only a few days and that after a long weekend, it is time to go home and back to work.

Sanctuary

Everyone should have one. You know, a place to go and spend some time alone or if you must with people you will never tire off. Mine has become my parents’ fermette in the French countryside. After working and spending the weekend with colleagues as well, I think it was a very good idea to come here. All right, I am on my own here, no one to talk to, to laugh with but no one to get on my nerves either. It is not that I want to spend my time complaining, but whenever I spend a lot of time with my compatriots I feel different.

Compared to other seasonal employees and interns, I am by far the eldest. Difference with them varies from two to nine years. Especially the latter is a huge difference and it feels that way too. I felt that way when starting university a couple of years ago when I was surrounded by people just leaving home and now I feel the same. For a couple it is apparently not easy living on their own in the sense that everything seems to have been easy for them. Never met any real obstructions in their life and now that they have to take care of things themselves they spend a lot of time complaining. About everything. They also spend a lot of time ventilating a rather strong opinion. Also about everything. To say I am uncomfortable with that is an understatement.

Then there is a few that is even younger not by age but by behaviour. Still stuck in puberty and thinking they know everything whereas they do not have a clue. One of them thinks she might be pregnant at 17. This does not prevent her from obviously flirting with one of the interns, desperation dripping off. I have decided it best not to say much about it because I find it so wrong I can hardly watch it. A number of the female interns turn out to spend a lot of their time gossiping about others which is hardly surprising with a disproportionate number of women together. One of my colleagues kindly directed me to one of them if I wanted to find out what is being said about me. I told her I am not in the least bit interested in hearing what people that do not know me at all think about me, whilst internally laughing at the relative naivety of sharing this information with me.

Luckily there are not only girls and once again I have to conclude that I get along much better with men. If they don’t like you, they just don’t talk to you or say it out loud. No gossiping behind your back as soon as you’re out of ear-shot, no female envy, no big opinions about your behaviour and/or looks. They tease you though, but I can put up with that. And some like talking about themselves. A lot. Still, annoying as that can be, I prefer it to having the creepy feeling that whatever I do or say is disapproved of and that I am merely tolerated rather than liked.

Constantly feeling different and watched does get on ones nerves though and after spending twelve days with the same people it is time to spend some time alone. Not having to behave, not having to be friendly and flexible, not having to ignore minor nuisances. Whenever you feel like that, there should be a sanctuary. A far-away or a close-by place to go to. To be safe at. To be alone at.

First impressions

Coming Friday it will be three weeks already. Three weeks since I arrived here. Three weeks in my new home and in my new job. Although I have to admit that I have not yet done much work in those three weeks. Everyone is started off by three weeks of training during which you see a lot of insurance policies, learn to work with the computer systems and take a look underneath the hood of a car. Very interesting stuff. With three weeks almost over though I have to say I do want to start the real thing. Familiarity you only get by doing the same thing again and again and again. Most insurance policies you will have to check anyway and I learnt how to look things up and then to use the relevant information a while ago. Still, I am not the only one.

As it happens, the other three people doing the training with me are pretty much fresh out of secondary school and sometimes seem to find it rather challenging to listen all day long to someone explaining things and to deal with a lot of information. Then again, these are not the only tasks they find challenging. Being relatively far away from everything is difficult, having to take the bus to work every day is annoying and not having internet access for a day which prevents them from chatting to their friends is a life-threatening situation. Apart from the bus-issue which is a problem of course, I find it rather challenging to work up some understanding every day. I don’t know if it is me, but I just want to put them in the ‘spoiled brats’ file and tell them to go and try living in Bradford. Try sharing a flat or worse, a room, with other people for seven years. One of them was surprised to find out today that this is the first time in my life that I have my own kitchen block and bathroom. I am surprised they don’t have a clue. The guy seems to think my mum’s Little Green Micra runs on horse manure, one of the girls that having to walk to everything for at least 20 minutes is a big deal.

In the meantime I try and remain friendly. When appropriate I give a hint, although writing a book “Halls for Dummies” might be a better idea. For people like this, such an insight in house sharing might be an eye-opening affair and consequently an excellent gift for when they leave the nest. No the fridge does not fill itself, yes going shopping takes a lot of time, yes you are completely dependent on public transport and your own feet and no there is not internet everywhere. And that is only the start of it. About half-way through the book people should find out that walking to the supermarket is a laugh compared to challenges ranging from filth in various categories to deranged flatmates, also in various categories. Where a book is concerned though, it is particularly the filth and the deranged flatmates that result in interesting, moving, funny and disgusting stories. Especially where the latter is concerned, it is pretty much a never ending story as I found out virtually upon arrival.

Despite the enormous fun one has with these stories on birthday parties and the like, this does not want me to spend more years in flatshare though. Quite the contrary. It is unknown luxury to be able to enjoy having your very own kitchen and bathroom. I can leave the door unlocked when showering, I can put nice desserts in the fridge without them getting stolen and I can put my stuff everywhere without feeling guilty for taking up a lot of space. I do not care about having only two electric plates. They’re mine and that is all that counts. The dirty dishes in the sink are mine too as are the three towels in the bathroom. I like it all so much that I’m a little worried I’ll get used to it. That I will forget what it was like to share and that wherever I go next that is exactly what I will have to do. Again. And yet, I am here now and I am here for the next four months at least. Better enjoy it while it lasts. I should know by now that four months flies by and that before you know it, you’re back in the cold and the rain.

Two down, two more to go

Two down, two more to go. Two what though, that's the question. Two weeks. Two weeks have passed in which I packed my things, bought more china I didn't need, did my shopping and started saying goodbye to people. After five months at home, the time has finally come to leave again. Once more to France, only this time, not to Paris. This time round, I will get to know Lyon a little bit.

As usual I'm taking far more things then I will probably need. However, having your very own kitchenette ought to be celebrated. As does having your own bathroom. No other hairs in the drain than my own. It's still disgusting, but not nearly as disgusting as someone else's. For the first time since leaving the nest, I can put chocolate in my fridge. And it'll stay there. As do the nice desserts.

Despite having lived toward these final two days at home for weeks now, suddenly I start to get a little scared. Worried that it will not be great. I don't even dare to hope for a good time. For nice colleagues and hopefully new friends. Theoretically I'll find those. As it is seasonal work helping holiday-makers if they get into trouble in the sense of problems with their cars and caravans, there will be more people like me there. Hired for a few months. New in town. Usually that makes people stick together as no one knows anyone.

It will be summer so the weather will hopefully do its bit for a good time. Otherwise the shops will. Once in a while, one should make an effort to live in France. Not least to expand the contents of one's wardrobe according to the latest fashion. And there is a home in the countryside to go to, especially during hot days. To do nothing but relax, tan, pick cherries and maybe do some baking.

So what can go wrong you wonder? Not much, I agree. Then what is there to be scared off? Coming to think of it, I don't know. Perhaps I'm scared to be lonely there. That I will not be arriving together with other new people but have to start alone among employees that have been there forever. Perhaps it won't be so easy making new friends then. Yet, I have never lived somewhere and not had any friend at all. So statistically, we should assume that things look rather well and that there is no real need to worry and only need to enjoy.

To take or to leave, that's the question

Suddenly you wake up. What started as an ordinary visit to an old friend suddenly might be more than that. Suddenly you become aware of how he makes you feel. Safe. Secure. You can trust him with your life. He will never go away. You wonder what it all means. That perhaps you have overlooked a good deal for years? Or that you have become desperate and that security and familiarity is all you want. Because it's safe. It's quiet.

A dilemma needs to be faced: whether or not to settle down for good, for safe and for quiet, or whether not to keep looking. For great, for excitement and for life. I think I have chosen the latter. O it is certainly good to have a quiet life. But I do not think that I want to fall in love with how someone makes me feel. I'd much rather fall in love with the person himself.

As I thought things over and imagined what it would be like, there were issues. Big issues. Like seeing up a little to seeing him. That's not good. Like probably never feeling proud of him. Impressed. Or having the will to make an effort, let alone being prepared to do anything for him. Never. After all, it would be a quiet life.

Not that I would have to do anything. No, there wouldn't be any need for that. He would happily pull the cart by himself. Alone. Whilst I continue living my life as I have always done. Taking up a job in Cairo. He'll come with. Should he have second thoughts, I'll threaten him: 'take it or leave it', without ever really worrying he'll leave it. Of course I would be upset if it'd ever end. No doubt about that. I will cry when he leaves. But also have the certainty to get over it. There would not be devastation afterwards.

What worries me most though is that one day I have to wake him up. One day I have to tell. One day I have to go. Smash the dream, say that I hoped it would work, that I have done my best but that I want my freedom back. The worst of this being that I know it now. That we'll make it for a year, maybe two. Maybe even longer, who knows. But I think I will always worry. Worry that I am found out. That I went for the safety, the security, the familiarity, but not for him. That I will just fall in love with someone else. Really fall in love without rationally choosing to if you even can. Then what? Then I leave for great? Or do I stay out of loyalty?

I don't think I want to answer any of these questions much less see a dream turn into a nightmare. I do not want to think about a boyfriend in terms of 'having to deal with him for a weekend.' But I would. And suddenly you wake up. This is not what I want. It is not what I am looking for. I may not be someone who likes conquering a guy, but I do not need one that would give it all to me on a silver plate either. I do not want to have to fight for my feelings. I choose not to choose but to let events take their course instead.

Meet and Greet

Home again after attending an informative event for graduates and young professionals interested in working for the EU. Two days ago, the competitions for general administrators started. The Dutch government (or what's left of it) wants to export more Dutchies into the EU bureaucratic apparatus. An exciting start of the selection procedure, specifically aimed at people standing at the beginning of their careers, was considered the way forward.

The way forward it was with a good turn-out. I must admit I was rather impressed. Similarly to going to the careers fair earlier this year, I have trouble becoming enthusiastic about these things. Somehow I have some difficulty motivating myself and finding a proper reason to go. Because let's be honest: the provided information is not exclusive. It is also available online in full detail. So you find yourself going somewhere for something that you can also get by just remaining where you are: in front of the computer. So, if not for the info, what do we go for?

To put the enthusiastic title meet&greet into practice? Fair enough, by staying at home, one does not meet new people. The title failed to specify who we're meeting and greeting though. The experts, speakers, information and recruitment officers? If you have an urgent and personal question, you can call or email them. No need to spend €7,20 on a trainticket for that. However, this is a competition we're talking about. And what do we do in competitions? That's right: compete. With competitors. Meet and greet the competition. Watch them. Listen to them. Crossquestion them. The loners are the easiest. They're craving for a chat, you see it in their eyes. In their smiles. A little insecure perhaps. So if someone seems interested, they'll take the bait.

It is difficult though isn't it. Starting a chat with a complete stranger. As I floated around, watching, observing, I suddenly realised that whenever we do talk to a stranger, we often have a topic to talk about. A question to ask perhaps. Or, if we are very lucky, something in common. During such an event however, one should think that every person present has something in common with everyone else. Everyone shares an interest in working for the EU. And the loners have a second common feature: they are all alone. So why didn't I take one step closer to the girl that friendly smiled back at me, quite clearly looking for someone to talk to. Not to be alone anymore. All that would have been needed was a simple: "You're here by yourself as well? It's always a bit awkward in the beginning isn't it." That's it. Chatting we'd have made our way to the auditorium, laughing a little about the buzzer announcing the event is about to start.

But I didn't. Because I didn't know what to say. Not then. Then you think. So hard. And it's empty. At home again, safely in front of the computer screen where no one can see your own insecurity is where you realise how easy it is. That going alone is not an obstacle during a meet and greet, but an advantage. Meet and greet. Being there with old friends perhaps takes away the interest in making new ones. No need to meet anyone, much less greet anyone. The other loners though. Together in their being alone. Easy to talk to. They are also the ones using the event what it was intended for: meeting and greeting.

Spear

Two weeks ago I was on holiday. In France. I go a lot to France these days. The fact that my parents bought a fermette in Bourgogne might have something to do with it. So far I have found myself there with my parents however this last time was special as my sister joined as well. And during this week I realised once more that I really should spend some time with my sister once in a while. That it is during these prolonged periods of time that she tells me things. That we share the most private aspects of our lives. Including men. I have to admit that my sister's doing most of the sharing, not least because my love life tends to be a short story. Which is why it is important to listen and to learn.

After a couple of years of dating well-chosen and less well-chosen boyfriends, my sister realised that there is type of guy that she tends to like after all. Or rather, a type that provides the certainty you are with a man. You know, a real one. According to my sister, nortern men are real men. Not such vain, forever whining, self-important sissies who still have their mum doing their laundry. After quietly bringing up that I'm not really into blonde hair and blue eyes, I am assured it has nothing to do with that. Physical features including hair and eye-colour are mere trivials.

No, what matters is whether he's a little rough or not. The way to figure this out apparently is to imagine one's target with a spear. If the guy in question would look good with a spear, you know you're on the right track. Now, although always having had a feeling that one should stay away from guys with a relatively high-pitched voice, this is a revolutionary approach to testing the suitability of one's potential partner.

Despite sisterly assurance about certain features being completely unimportant, I am still not sure that I go for this northerly, rough, manly type. Only just out of the bearskin and probably rather hairy too. After having been told about spears and manliness I am left feeling slightly awkward before whispering that I'm still not that interested in the northerners. That I tend to be more attracted to southern types. Not particularly for lack of spear or a appropriately low voice, much less for lurking presence of mother. I just like dark hair and eyes better and well...southern guys you can kindly ask to get rid of the chesthair. But let's face it...imagine a well-groomed Italian with a spear. See what I mean? By the same token, my sister's own boyfriend, a decent Belgian from West-Flanders of average hight with broad shoulders, would not look good with a spear either. He's more of a club-type.

So is it really all about a spear? Or is it in fact about a weapon in general? Can we make an adequate guess about a guy by imagining what type of weapon would suit him best? Or does the choice of weapon actually tell us a lot more about ourselves? Perhaps my sister is a spear-girl. She likes spears but is dating a club-guy. As for me? I've always had a soft spot for a bow-and-arrow. Somehow I find it sexy. And yet...I wouldn't be surprised to end up with a sword-guy.

Veg

It has been ten years already since I decided to stop eating meat. Save for one weddingparty I have not had meat in my mouth since. As long as you live at home and your mother cooks your food, this is a fairly simple decision to make. After all, in the end, you're not the one dealing with sudden practical problems. Even after moving away from my parents however I have not once found being vegetarian an issue or a challenge. Not in the sense that I might miss meat nor in the preparation of food.

As the years went by however I find I have become increasingly interested in cooking (not so much in eating the meals) and from the pasta with instant sauce I have moved on to making my own soup, apple crumble and curry. An immense improvement if I might say so.

Recently my interest in cooking and the will to make everything myself has taken flight. Not because I am suddenly incredibly hungry but rather as in two weeks time I will finally, for the first time in my life, have my very own kitchenblock. Despite it only having two electric plates, a small counter and a fridge, I am on cloud nine. It's the best I've ever had. No one to share with, no dirty dishes in the sink that do not belong to me and no disappearing dessers from the fridge. All that will hopefully belong to the past for good.

I intend to celebrate this by cooking, as one should. Consequently I have found myself going through my mum's collection of cooking books like a greedy caterpillar in addition to browsing the internet, always on the look-out for something tasty. Apart from quite an international collection of recipes, this collecting-mania has resulted in some reflection on non-meat food, or veg for friends and family.

Somehow there is something the matter with 'veg' in particular. There is some sort of a midly alternative air about it. Veg is close to biological. For reasons beyond my comprehension putting 'vegetarian' in cooking websites' searchengines results in nuts and very creative but slightly odd recipies. Is it me, or is this strange? Are most vegetarians mildy alternative types in knitted clothes on sandals after all? Or are these recipes added by prejudged meat-eating folk?

It has been ten years since I stopped eating meat and not once have I been inclined to add nuts to my food and cook them. Perhaps the nut-obsession is born out of a fear among meateaters that vegetarians lack essential minerals. That meat is an absolutely essential part of our diet and therefore it has to be replaced. With nuts, randomly added mushrooms and odd cheese-filled bakes. I just doubt there is any need for that. Of course, that the minerals in meat need to be replaced is beyond any doubt. A Bolognese sauce with mushrooms will do though. But there is no need to become obsessed. After all, having a piece of meat every evening, internationally and historically speaking, is more exception than rule.

Sherlock Holmes

It had been a while and the options were reasonably good so Saturday afternoon was an excellent time to make the journey to the cinema. After some deliberation Sherlock Holmes was eventually chosen as entertainment.

Now I had read about Sherlock Holmes The Movie. The review in my parents' newspaper was not enthusiastic at all. Slightly panicking I had gone to find out what Empire's opinion was. As I generally agree with Empire, I consider them a reliable source. Empire was not overly enthusiastic either with three stars out of five. As the price of cinema tickets steadily increases, one starts wondering whether a three-star rated film is worth the 8,80€.

Unfortunately there is little else to do but to go and see for yourself. Completely in accordance with the two reviews, the new Sherlock was rather violent. He was acceptable although beside my review-based warning, this might also be due to the fact that this was my first Sherlock Holmes experience. Portrayed eccentrically he is definately entertaining especially in combination with his medical side-kick Dr. Watson.

Where Sherlock and Watson succeed, Lord Blackwood regrettably fails. Initially surrounded by mystery and sinister plans, his credibility quickly evaporates and eventually completely disappears as the audience is left with an 'is that all' - feeling. In his freefall from high expectations and excitement to disappointment, Lord Blackwood does not go alone.

He takes with him the entire storyline which is probably not beneficial for the film as a whole. Surprise takes us as what seems like a short trip through London's sewers brings us to Tower Bridge, still in the process of being constructed. Now, in a film by a British director I had hoped more realism. The Houses of Parliament really are pretty far from Tower Bridge and therefore an illusion of considerable time spent in London's waste water would have been appropriate. In the film it is as if one just walks over in five minutes or so.

After this very curious and completely unrealistic moment and aha-Erlebnis-affected action the plot is revealed in all its plain simplicity. As the curtain falls we are left alone with 'is that all' and the question whether we have come to a stage at which it is almost impossible for directors to come up with new ideas to make the action more inventive and exciting. How often would Guy Ritchie have watched Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End or The Mask of Zorro?

Although his creativity in action is somewhat redoubtable, it is not in scenery. It is a real pleasure to see his 19th century London with known and less known streets and places. As it comes across as realistic it is almost like looking back in time. In the end the fun, Sherlocks eccentricity, wonderful scenery and a good soundtrack make the 8,80€ visit to the cinema definately worthwhile.

At the mercy of the bureaucrats part III: benefits

One of the more problematic aspects of being unemployed is of course that one does not have any income which under normal circumstances very quickly leads to financial restraints. So after a few months and staring at a negative bank balance, I have put up with the fact that I might have to apply for some benefits from the government. As was to be expected, that is easier said than done.

The first obstacle has to do with the kind of benefits, no surprises there. Even the employees of the institution in charge are uncertain, due to the fact that I have worked abroad. Of course. After four different people and as many versions to the application process, there is finally some clarity. If you have worked in Britain but have a Dutch passport, you are eligible for the benefits for people who have lost their jobs. That is good news as these tend to be slightly higher than the standard ones for people that have not worked. A job abroad does complicate matters however as information is not registered automatically with government institutions.

After initial registration one therefore receives a letter kindly asking for photocopies of contracts, a number of forms including an end of the year certificate and all pay slips covering the entire period. Attached to the letter is a questionnaire containing the most interesting sort of questions including about one's housing situation, number of visits to the Netherlands whilst working abroad and, surprisingly, the intensity and manner of contact with family and friends at home. I am rather clueless as to why the government wants to know how often and in what way I talked to my family but actually think it is not really their business.

At the mercy of bureaucrats as one is in these matters however, there is little else to do than to obediently fill out the forms, gather all required information and send it off. Then I will once more resort to waiting as you do when dealing with bureaucracy. At least this time I am waiting with a smile about upcoming difficulties. Regarding my end of the year certificate for example. In Britain the tax year runs from April to April. In the Netherlands it's the calender year. That is not the same. That is a problem. O yes I am waiting. Waiting with a smile. For bureaucrats to look at me with big uncomprehending eyes whilst they open their mouth to start explaining the problem...as they do.

The Foreign Affairs Face

Hello World this is Europe calling. Europe's phone number has been unknown for decades as Henry Kissinger famously pointed out years ago. Consequently Europe calls the world. Since yesterday there is at least clarity as to who will be doing the calling. Baroness Catherine Ashton. Appointed High Representative of Foreign Affairs at the beginning of December 2009. A month down the line however she seems still unsure what to call for.

Human rights in China? "[...] human rights sometimes require different approaches." Iran's nucleair programme? "[It is] regrettable that Tehran did not accept the agreement under the IAEA." Gas suplies from Russia? "We need to have a strong relationship with Russia". Israel's dirty politics in East Jerusalem? "The next step in the region is to go where we think we can do more and pull together appropriate solutions." Or worse: the frequently heard "I don't have a solution for this problem at the moment". And these statements are the words of Europe's top-diplomat for foreign affairs. Someone Europe's citizens pay for leading on the EU's foreign policies.

What if there is an urgent international crisis, say, crazy scenario, Taliban succeed in toppling the Pakistani government and want to make a point so they send a few nucleair missiles to various places including Israel and their beloved eastern neighbour. This is your correspondent reporting from Brussels to hear Europe's approach in this extremely difficult situation, Lady Ashton what will be the EU's course of action? "I don't have a solution for this problem at the moment" Hello World, this is Europe calling...now in a position to play a "stronger, more credible role in the world", as the baroness pointed out herself.

If the practical reality of that role is "I don't have a solution for this problem at the moment" I sincerely doubt Europe's credibility. Perhaps there may not be so many phone numbers anymore however when calling, countries are likely to be put on hold whilst Europe's face in foreign policy is filled in on a solution to the problem. In that case it might just be quicker to drop Sarko or Mrs. Merkel a line directly.

A euro-cynic or a political realist would say this was the idea all along as the Member States are not keen on handing over their sovereignty in foreign matters to the EU. If that is indeed the case, we should not be surprised when we find ourselves on the sideline as new emerging powers claim their place in international affairs. The political and economic weight of the individual member states might soon not be likely to convince Brazil, China or India. Hello World this is Europe calling...

I spy with my little eye

I spy with my little eye something starting with N. Nothing starts with N. So does Naked. Like in those new fancy Nacktscanner as the Germans call them. Heard of them? We used to be against them in Europe. We used to be really against them in the United States. Until the Nigerian and the Powder. I'm sure you've heard that story. You know, the one in which there was a Nigerian who taped powder to his legs to blow up an aeroplane just before landing in Detroit.

Thanks to his powder he now has, quite understandably, half of the western hemisphere in an uproar. Him, and the organisation he represented. Al Qaida. I don't think the latter will be happy with him now. They provided professional powder, however the execution of the task at hand was amateurish. Or would the Al Qaida leadership have some reason to feast on an entire sheep after all? Despite failing to kill hundreds of innocent civilians including no doubt a fair amount of children, perhaps our friend with the powder did bring his mission to a reasonably succesful end in the eyes of his superiors.

Al Qaida's executive tool lost his own life. As planned. All right he is not dead, but he is in prison. Arguably that would qualify exactly as 'neutralised' as death would. Hundreds of civilians are still alive. I imagine the Al Qaida brain behind the operatoin is not very happy about that, although quite frankly, I am not entirely sure how much they actually care. After all, even without disaster, Europe and America are in shock and absolutely terrified. So it would seem that the mission has had the desired effect. Because let us not forget that fear and the deregulation of society are terrorism's ultimate goals. Exactly for that reason governments do not negotiate with terrorist organisations as the latter should under no circumstances be influencing political decisions and thereby reaching its goals. When it comes to suicide bombers however, we jump through the hoop by allowing them to limit the civil liberties we are so proud of.

In the face of a risk on death and destruction on aeroplanes due to terrorism, our political leadership has decided that the way forward in a brand new decade is making naked images of people. The problem is, some people tend not to appreciate being seen au naturel. That is private. Especially religious people are very fond of their privacy. And what about children? I used to think it was illegal to make naked images of children. For security however, we are willing to stretch privacy laws somewhat. Anything for safety. Put into percentages however, how much smaller would the chance be that I am blown up on a flight? The Powder-guy might have been arrested before boarding his flight. However, had he used a liquid explosive, that is rather questionable as liquids cannot be detected by the Nacktscanner. I am convinced the Al Qaida bomb-builders know that too.

They are also aware of perhaps an even greater pitfall that is ineffective cooperation and miscommunication between all parties and organisations involved in combatting terrorism. Our Nigerian friend with the powder almost succeeded because vital information was not passed on. His own father warned the authorities that his son should be investigated. Unfortunately no one saw any reason to communicate this information to airlanes and airports. So do I now conclude we are being lulled into a false sense of safety by are own politicians who have to take visible action to calm people down whilst being all too aware of greater and more dangerous problems within the information-sharing apparatus we call 'intelligence'? Is it then correct to state that in the end, civilians are making an offer for an idea of security that is in fact no more than an illusion? Or is it worse than that?

Europe has long been waiting to adopt policies about the use of the bodyscans. However it was prevented from doing so by a pro-privacy lobby. Do European government now grasp the occasion with both hands to go through with the implementation of their plans as fear makes people very willing to give up some freedom for security. If having a computer look through my clothes keeps me alive, fine. If having a computer scan to my phone calls keeps me alive, no problem. If having a computer monitor my internet use keeps me alive, it's all good. I just wonder how far we are willing to go for security. What are we willing to give up? And what do we actually give it up for? Although we like to think of our political systems as democratic and stable, I do think it is essential that we keep reflecting on new 'emergency' policies. Let us not forget that the state of emergency has been abused in the past to repress civil liberties.

So whilst governments play Big Brother and Bin Laden & Co (assuming they are still alive), piss themselves in their caves, millions of people remain at risk of being blown up despite allowing authorities to see what is underneath their clothes. I spy with my little eye something beginning with D. For Danger. The danger of out of fear almost blindly giving up our civil liberties without questioning the need for it.

Happy New Year...

After the afore mentioned New Year's vacuum taking place at 00:05 on January first, an even bigger desillusion takes hold during the rest of that day. Slightly hung over we drag ourselves to the breakfast table to sip coffee. On telly the most traditional orchestra in the world treats us to Strauss and more Strauss during its annual New Year's Concert. They are a conservative bunch as almost the entire orchestra consists of men. Austrian men. Need I say more?

As we slowly feel life entering our bodies we crawl to the shower to make sure we don't miss the ski jumping broadcasted from Southern Germany. I am always amazed about the participating Japanese skiers. Where would they practice I wonder. As the amazement and entertainment is shortlived, after all, they all do the same trick, internet makes it possible to find out what happened in other places in the world during New Year's Eve.

The firework displays in Sydney, Hongkong, London and New York were very pretty. Really very nice. However, the euphoric feeling taking hold on New Year's Eve evaporates quickly when reading the other headlines. Some people in the Netherlands got firecrackers put in their letterbox, they caught fire and their house burned down to the ground. They too wished one another a happy New Year. Dozens more have lost their cars to fire. As in Dutchland fireworks are for sale and people can light them themselves, every year there are children and teenagers who lose eyes and hands. Some partygoers lose their lives.

The first twelve hours of the New Year hardly seem to give reason to be happy. Nevertheless people cross the country to visit family to wish them a happy New Year knowing that for others 2010 has a horrific start. In the course of the day the festive atmosphere disappears completely as things go from bad to worse, or perhaps, return to normal. Ninety-three people are blown up in Pakistan during a volleyball match.

And then, on January second, Happy New Year is no more than an illustion, a dream we briefly had for the last six hours of 2009. Europe's newspapers speak of the attempt to kill the Danish cartoonist Kurt Westergaard, the death of three girls in France due to a fire, a landslide in Brazil killing 53 and the Somali pirates striking again, this time capturing a British ship with an Eastern European crew.

Not much Happy New Year if you ask me. Perhaps we shouldn't think too much about these tragic events, especially not during the first days of the New Year. I just cannot escape the idea that all these people and their relatives said Happy New Year to each other. They too had expectations and hopes for the New Year. Expectations and hopes that came crashing down hours or even minutes after they were shared with close friends and family members. Sometimes that is unavoidable I know. Not everyone has reason to celebrate because people are sick, poor, living in a warzone, mourning, you name it. But what if it can be avoided.

Would it be possible to at least not hurt each other? No random killing, destruction of property or deprivation of lives, resources, freedom or rights for a few days every year. Would it be possible not to destroy each other's hopes and expectations for the New Year so that Happy New Year becomes at least one real day rather than one imaginary hour.