Debbie Does London

Trophy 16 - fruit flies like a banana

2012-01-22T23:20:00.005Z

I'd expected her to be late – like your average parasite – but her timing was impeccable. The second surprise was that she'd actually followed my advice and tried to take more direct action. According to her form, she'd posted her CV on monsterboard, sent her portfolio to a casting agency and went into the Old Bond Street Prada store to apply for a role as store manager.

“Do you have any management experience?” I asked.

“That's what they wanted to know.” She shook her head. “But in my defence: the staff doesn't have to know that. I can pretend, you know, that's what I do.”

I gave her the old eyebrow, she copied the gesture innocently, and before I knew it, I was laughing. For customer care, laughing at a jobseeker is about as bad laughing at Madonna's manager is for a stage manager at the O2. I tried to stop, pinched my nose, coughed and excused myself, but when I looked up to her face again, she only needed to lift one eyebrow to make me crack again. I just couldn't help it. Two weeks worth of nerves forced their way out in the most inconvenient way possible. I was well aware that this was applying for a seat at the other side of my desk, but couldn't stop tee-hee-heeing. After a while, I didn't even remember what had set me off. People at the nearest free phones and vacancy machines were looking over their shoulders to see what was going on, and even the security guard noticed.

When I finally caught my breath, I managed to give the worst advice in Job Centre history: “Ever thought of stand-up comedy?”

But Elaine didn't seem to mind. She just smiled. “It's a shame the rest of the world doesn't share your sense of humour,” she said, “otherwise I certainly would.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, “that was very unprofessional. I don't know what's gotten into me.”

She looked at my hands, emphasising how I was fumbling the golden band around my ring finger again, and asked: “So you're married now?”

“I... er... this?”

“I didn't even know that was possible for people like you. Or have you chosen a side now?”

Trophy 15 - fruit flies like a banana

2011-12-11T23:41:00.006Z

It's been two weeks since Elaine signed up for the dole.

I've been intending to keep this diary, as mum suggested, but was too embarrassed to actually write anything. Every time I sat down to do so, all I could think about was Elaine Johnson.

How long will it take her to get a job (meaning: will I see her again)? Did she recognize me? Does she even remember me? What does she think about what happened in primary school? Does she ever speak about it with her mother? Will she let me know if she recognises me? According to the staff handbook, I'm not meant to be looking after people I know personally - does Elaine know this, and would she ask for another customer service advisor if she did? Do I know Elaine Johnson personally?

I don't even know why I care about these things. None of it matters. Not to me. My life is what it is, hers is unrelated. That's why I didn't write, even though I sat down with pen and notebook almost every day. These pages are not meant to be filled with notes about Elaine. They are meant to be about Terry. This is my diary.

Trophy 14 - Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you'll never see him again.

2011-11-07T23:24:00.000Z

“I'd like to slap him with a large trout,” says Gary when the waiter is gone. “So this fish cake you were talking about, what's her name again?”

“Elaine.”

“Beautiful name. As you were saying – you haven't had her yet, so she's on your to do list. Am I right?”

“Whatever.” I can't hold it against him that Gary's not a good listener. That's why we're such good friends. Maybe I'll get through to him some day, but not today. I don't even know what I was gonna say about Elaine. “Yeah. Top of the list.”

“That's why it hasn't happened yet, man. Never prioritise women. They're like dogs, they can smell it when you're desperate. They run a mile from you when they know how badly you want it.”

“Right.”

Trophy 13 - Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you'll never see him again.

2011-11-06T23:22:00.000Z

“As if you were that much older!”

“At least I was old enough to know what a condom is.”

We're drifting off and I don't like where the current of this conversation is taking us. He's meant to find out who I am, but instead I'm wrapping myself in lies like rice in seaweed. Gary pops his sushi – wasabi and all – in his mouth while I close my eyes, preparing myself to break the tide.

“No man,” I say, “you're right. I'm more of a virgin than Holy Mary was when she gave birth to baby Jesus. My word.”

When I open my eyes again, Gary's eyes and mouth are wide open in disbelief.

“Oh come on,” I say, “don't be like that.”

But he's having none of it; he drops his chopsticks in the saucer of soy sauce and starts banging on his own chest in a rather apesque manner. He even rips open the collar and top buttons of his chequered shirt, baring a bit of chest hair. He's demonstrating his virility as if my virginity is contagious, to make sure no one mistakes us for two virgins.

“You like wasabi, sir?” The waiter is smiling like a frog while putting a glass of water in front of Gary. “You like wasabi very much?”

Trophy 12 - Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you'll never see him again.

2011-11-01T18:17:00.003Z

"Did I ever tell you about Elaine?" I ask.

With a chop stick, Gary tries to push a piece of cucumber out of his rice roll. "Is she a friend of your mum?"

The cucumber slides out, leaving a square hole. I steal it off his plate. They take all-you-can-eat very literally over here, and charge extra for every item you order and don't eat. Knowing Gary, pushing a piece of cucumber out of his sushi is a way of pushing the rules. He just wants to know whether they'll charge him 5p if he leaves it on his plate. I hate it when he does that.

Gary smiles at me and asks "How do you like my rice donut?"

"Gorgeous," I say and watch how he starts filling the hole with wasabi so that it looks exactly the way it did before.

"Elaine and I used to go to the same primary school."

"Damn, were you that young when she popped your cherry?"

Trophy 11 - Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you'll never see him again.

2011-10-28T00:06:00.003+01:00

“The words of a man who hasn't had a girlfriend for... how long?”

I overdo it on the wasabi to hide that my cheeks are turning a bright shade of lobster. “Oh, I don't know.”

Gary stares at me with big blank eyes that remind me off... well, you get the gist. This is the moment that he'll learn more about me than he has done over the past fourteen years. We've been inseparable like fish and chips since we were twelve, up to the point that teachers wouldn't know for sure which one of us was Terry and which was Gary. He used to do most of the talking, though. I'm an expert when it comes to his flings. I know everything about them, from the way they shave their seaweed to the crazy things they moan during intercourse. Sometimes I think I know more about his love life than he does. In fact, he seems to have the memory of a gold fish when it comes to women. One time, when we were in Fabric and there was this girl – off her face on fuck knows what – that kept following him around, until he told me “I think she fancies me, whaddaya think?” and I had to remind him he'd been there already – she was the one that put her fingers up his bum when she was about to come. "Are you sure?" he asked. "Sounds rank. Did I like it?"

This is the moment that my best friend will finally dive into the deep, intimate details my life, instead of wading through superficialities of employment and housing.

“You're not a virgin, are you?”

Trophy 10 - Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you'll never see him again.

2011-10-24T10:00:00.001+01:00

Though I've never seen Gary with a rod, I would in every respect describe him as a fisherman. It's not just the bragging about size that does it. For Gary, there's always other fish in the sea. And somehow, they all fall hook line and sinker for him. We're at this all you can eat sushi bar in Soho, filling ourselves to the gills, when I look for a way to broach the subject that has been bugging me for the last few days.

“This is how I learned to go down on girls,” Gary says, “got to eat sushi before you eat pussy.”

I raise one eyebrow while dipping my ocean fresh sashimi in soy sauce.

“It's the smell,” he says, “raw fish kinda prepares you for it.”

“What are you carping about, man?” I say, “giving head is a privilege, you should be grateful you're welcome down there.”

Trophy 9 - Christmas is when you get homesick. Even when you're home.

2011-10-23T16:05:00.003+01:00

Well, and maybe Santa's. He's stretched out on the carpet, eyeing up a life size statue that resembles Milo's Venus. The great difference is that this figure is not wearing a cloth round its hips, thus revealing the genitals one would expect on a naked Cupid: small, perfect and male.

Santa doesn't seem to be disturbed by my androgynous statue, but I'm not to keen on a second opinion. While I wait for my desktop to start up, I stroke Santa's ears.

“Hey buddy,” I say. “Did I ever tell you about Elaine?”

Trophy 8 - Christmas is when you get homesick. Even when you're home.

2011-10-18T23:53:00.002+01:00

Santa watches me clean up the mess with a big sponge and some carpet shampoo. When I'm done, he nudges me.

“You feeling sorry, little one?” I ask.

I don't want to hop to any conclusions, but he seems pretty sorry because he follows me into the bathroom, where I empty the bucket in the sink. He's been moulting a lot recently, so that when when I pick him up by the scruff of his neck, he turns my tailored jacket into an angora jumper. The loose hairs tickle my eyes and nose when I kiss his ears.

“Don't worry about it,” I say, “accidents happen.”

Still hugging the rabbit, I open the fridge with one hand and inspect the contents for a snack. Apart from blue cheese and carrots, there's nothing that doesn't need preparation. I don't fancy either of them so I close the door again and leave the kitchen.

What do other people do on a night like this, I wonder. They might go to the shop for a bottle of wine. Watch some telly. Go to the pub. Catch up on their administration. Make love to their other halves. Check their children's homework. Fuck knows. Those things are not me. I take Santa into my atelier with me – a double bedroom with an easel instead of a bed – and I paint, sculpt or edit videos. Nothing pretentious - I'm only a hobbyist. Unlike my dad, who is a proper artist and only ever attended the school of life, I did fine arts in uni and think it's a waste not to use any of my skills any more now that I've got a day job. But my work is not meant to be seen by any other pair of eyes than my own.

Trophy 7 - Christmas is when you get homesick. Even when you're home.

2011-10-17T23:06:00.001+01:00

When I get home, Santa has peed all over the carpet. I find out when taking off my shoes and feeling my socks turn wet. Santa is sort of litter trained and normally prefers the newspapers in the kitchen, but today he must have been feeling rebellious. If I'd known I'd end up keeping a pet rabbit, I would never have chosen a deep pile carpet.

I didn't really choose Santa – which is not the same as saying that I didn't buy him. I bought him from a farm on December the 23^rd last year. Christmas Eve would be the reunion with my dad, whom I hadn't seen since he left my mother soon after my first suicide attempt. He would come up from Newport on Christmas Eve and spend the day with me. I was so nervous – both scared we would have nothing to talk about, and terrified that there would be too many hurtful things to say. I bought the rabbit because one of the few happy memories I have of my dad is when he took me outside one Christmas day and showed me how to kill a rabbit, take off the head and feet and strip it of its skin.

I've never been inclined to use this particular skill, but I bought the white Flemish Giant because it would give us something to do. At noon, we sat opposite each other in the living room, anticipating the doorbell. Me: dressed up in my pinstriped suit, clean faced, hair combed back with gel. The bunny: in a cardboard box on the table, wide eyed and shaking with fear.

At one, the rabbit yawned and tried to lie down. The box was too small for him. I was still sitting on the edge of my chair, watching him and said: “Don't worry, they'll be here any minute now.”

By two, I'd let him out of the box so that at least he could stretch out on the carpet.

At three, I was starting to get hungry and went up to the fridge. “Can I offer you anything?” I asked my only guest. I heated up two mince pies and offered the bunny a Brussels sprout. And another one.

By nine o'clock, I sat down to a vegetarian Christmas dinner on the floor of my living room, because the main ingredient was eating it with me. The 10lb rabbit turned out to have a great appetite and finished the plate of carrot tops and raw Brussels sprouts I made him.

My father didn't have a mobile phone and I was way too proud to call my mother and tell her my dad hadn't showed up. She'd had trouble hiding her disappointment when I told her I would be spending Christmas with my father, and had made a big song and dance of making different arrangements.

Santa's been living in my two bedroom flat ever since. I never got round to buying a hutch, and don't think he would accept it if I bought him one now, after all these months. Apart from pissing on the carpet, he's a lot less messy than the blokes I used to share my student house with anyway.

Trophy 6 - The Job Centre is never greener on the other side.

2011-10-16T22:50:00.002+01:00

When mum and I reach her house, she asks me to unpack the shopping bags while she gets something from upstairs. I inspect the content of her fridge and notice that she's put cling film over the plate of cauliflower cheese that I didn't finish yesterday. I wonder why – it wasn't that great. The bottle of wine that was still half full when I left is nowhere to be seen. For some reason, I check the bin and find the box of Magnum Minis that I'd brought as a treat. She catches me with the box in my hands.

There's an awkward silence as we stare at each other. I turn my gaze to the content of the box to find that it's not empty – there are four melted ice creams in there – and put it back in the bin.

“I've got a present for you,” she says. “I should have done this long ago, but it wasn't finished yet. As a matter of fact, I think I've got to add one more line.”

She opens a ring binder to the last page, licks her ballpoint and writes a short message. Then she hands the binder to me and explains that over the last couple of years, she's collected random facts, quotes and other fragments of wisdom for me.

“One at the top of each page. But there's a pack of blank sheets to go with it, so you can insert as many as you like between the headed pages.”

“What's it for?”

“It's like a diary,” she says, “or you can use it to write letters to me, your father or even Elaine. Letters that you don't have to send. To clear your head.”

I breath in sharply and squint like a stoner.

“Sometimes it helps to write down how you feel,” she says. “Sometimes it works better than talking to other people. Because you don't have to worry that you might hurt them.”

“You mean you don't ever want to have a meaningful conversation with me again?”

“I just think it's good for you if you can straighten yourself out on your own. It's helped me a lot, you know. A lot more than therapy.”

Technically, this is cheating. All throughout my secondary school and college, we've separately been seeing the same therapist. When I changed primary schools, social services got involved and they decided that I needed counselling. There's no denying that I was a difficult child, and I told my mother that I would only go if she did too because she needed it as much as I did.

I accept the album and start flicking through it. By the looks of things, she's cut bits out of magazines and letters. On the first page, she has written “The Job Centre is never greener on the other side.” with a fountain pen. Trust mum to give me a diary and use it to force her opinions upon me. I want to make a remark about it, but she puts her hand on mine and says: “Don't read them all at once. Deal with them when it's their turn, let them inspire you when you try to express your feelings.”

-----

Go to the opening scene of Trophy.

Trophy 5 - The Job Centre is never greener on the other side.

2011-10-15T22:00:00.002+01:00

She wasn't always like this. My mother, who didn't want to know the baby's sex when she was expecting me, “because it doesn't matter. I'll love the child either way.” My mother, who had to tell her friends and parents the same thing after I was born. She didn't see my ambiguous genitals as a disorder and she didn't blame herself for enjoying almost every drug under the sun before she found out she was two months pregnant. No, to her, I was a miraculous gift from Mother Nature. A perfect, mythical being. A true hermaphrodite.

Of course, the doctor who did the delivery didn't quite see it that way. The diagnosis was a severe case of clitomegaly with a misplaced urethral opening. Which is why, according to my passport, I'm a woman. An hour after giving birth, with the blood still on her thighs, wearing nothing but my father's trench coat and a pair of slippers, my mother abducted her baby from the hospital. Because the doctor, sitting on the edge of the bed, had kindly suggested plastic surgery to remove superfluous tissue.

She never used to avoid the subject, though. She was proud of her decision and even told my teachers about it when I went to primary school, even though it was none of their business. I was a tomboy, but I wouldn't be the first girl with a bowl cut that liked to climb trees and play football. After mum told them, we received a letter from the headmaster that said it would be better for me and the other children if I were to be treated the same as the other girls.

I was seated next to Elaine because she was the most girlish girl of all, and our teacher hoped we would even each other out. For two and a half years, we did. We took our Barbies with us when breaking into scrap yards and put lipstick on before playing football. Until halfway third grade, when I was over at her place, and her mother walked in on me whilst I was in the bathroom and saw me wee like a boy. Natasha Johnson was infuriated that nobody had told her that her little princess was playing with a boy. She grabbed me by the collar, pushed me into her car and drove me home without saying a word. After that, she called our teacher to complain. The teacher tried to soothe her by saying that I was both a girl and a boy, which infuriated Elaine's mother even more.

“How dare you seat my daughter next to a freak!” she shouted. When my mother rang to ask why I'd come home crying, she replied that she was a bad mother because she hadn't opted for surgery.

The next day, I had to swap chairs with Diane, who used to sit alone in the back row, and Elaine ignored me during the break. When I tried to join other girls, they bluntly said they didn't play with boys, and when I asked the boys whether I could play football with them, they asked whether I was a boy or a girl.

“What does it matter?” I said.

“If you don't answer you can't play with us.”

“Why, are you too stupid to see for yourself what I am?”

“You're so stupid that you don't even know whether you're a boy or a girl!”

I stared at them and for the first time in my life I experienced that words wouldn't come. I didn't understand why this had suddenly become an issue and didn't know how to deal with the bullying. One afternoon after school, I greeted Elaine's mother who was waiting in the school yard. She gave me a look of contempt and said: “You need help.”

When I jumped off the roof of the school, half a year after the bullying had began, I shattered my left ankle, lost consciousness and woke up in hospital with a concussion. Because my mother feared doctors would want to perform female circumcision on me, I'd never been to a hospital before. They kept me for ten days, three of which I spent in the psychiatric ward. The other seven they supposedly took care of my injuries, but they also discovered that I wasn't just suffering from an interesting form of epispadias that made it possible for me to piss through the top of my massive clit. A MRI-scan showed that I had a fully formed womb with an ovary to the right and an undescended testicle to the left.

When I got home from the hospital, my mother asked me whether I wanted to be a boy or a girl. I said I was a boy. The next day, she asked me whether I would rather get married in a suit or a wedding gown. I said suit. The day after that, she asked me to choose between pig tails and a shaved head. I said 'shave it all off, I'm a boy.”

As far as I understood, I had lost my best friend because someone thought I was a boy. If I were to make new friends, I didn't want the same thing to happen, so I decided I would be better off being a boy all together.

To my mother, this was a relief because Natasha Johnson had warned her that I would grow up to be a bearded lady. This was when my mother learned to hide her thoughts and feelings, because she didn't want me to know how Natasha's remark had made her worry. She forgot to consider that I might develop voluptuous bosoms like herself. Life as boy would be rather odd with double DD.

Luckily, I take after my father's family, where the women are almost as flat chested as the men. All it takes to hide my cup A or B is an hour a day in the gym, two sports bras and a loose fitting suit or hoodie.

-----

Go to the opening scene of Trophy.

Trophy 4 - The Job Centre is never greener on the other side.

2011-10-14T21:41:00.001+01:00

We walk to her house together and she doesn't ask. Instead, she says: “We'll need to stop at Tesco's to get some more cider. And maybe another packet of bacon. I'm thinking of penne with leek and bacon, but I had two rashers for breakfast already this morning.”

This is why we haven't had a serious conversation since I did my GCSE's. Mum's made an art of avoiding the subject. As if she can sense what's on my mind, her defence mechanisms automatically switch on. Suddenly, I feel I've been waiting for this talk for five years and I'm running out of patience.

She chatters on about five-a-days and how she's gone off Delia Smith lately, when I finally lose my patience at the booze isle.

“You'll never guess who was at my desk today.”

“Who?”

“Elaine Johnson.”

She sighs. “Can we talk about this when we get home?”

“You don't even know what I want to say yet.”

She puts a bottle of Strongbow into her basket and says: “Let's get the groceries first and discuss this over supper, okay?”

I know she'll give me “not whilst I'm cooking” and “can we do this after dinner? It's giving me indigestion” later, but I shrug and shut up anyway. There's no point in making a scene in the supermarket. I don't even know what I want to say, let alone what I want to hear from her.

-----

Go to the opening scene of Trophy.

Trophy 3 - The Job Centre is never greener on the other side.

2011-10-13T22:00:00.001+01:00

At five thirty, I go up to the first floor to pick mum up.

“You're mother is a very lucky woman,” Inga says when she sees me, “I'd be happy if I saw my boy once a month.”

Jeanette, who is a foot taller than Inga but no more than half Inga's bodyweight, winks at me. “I'd go insane if I had to see my children every day.”

“So would they, trust me,” says my mum.

“You don't mind if I join you for dinner tonight, do you?” I ask. Her eyebrows twitch, but other than that, she manages to hide her surprise perfectly well from her colleagues. I normally eat with her on Mondays and Wednesdays, but today's meeting with Elaine has been messing with my head. I'm not sure whether I want to talk to someone, but I know for a fact that I don't want to be alone.

-----

Go to the opening scene of Trophy.

Trophy 2 - The Job Centre is never greener on the other side.

2011-10-12T22:20:00.008+01:00

She crosses her legs when sitting down at my desk, stuffs her hands between them and hangs her head. According to her CV, she's an actress. She isn't very good at the role of eager jobseeker, though.

“I really tried to find work, but there isn't much out there, you know. Especially not in my line of work.” Her voice is whiny and apologetic, but not genuinely so. She seems to think she has to beg for allowance, as if we're paying her for the show. I'm very conscious of her eyes, which are fixed on the name tag on my lapel, but she shows no sign of recognition. Playing with my father's wedding ring, I pretend to read what she's done to get a job.

“I'm sorry,” I say, “I can't read what it says here.”

She takes the form from me and reads out: “I emailed Christian Bale.”

I raise one eyebrow and brush the hair out of my face.

“I met him two years ago at a party in Shoreditch,” she explains, “and we had a lot to talk about, both being Welsh and such. So he gave me his private email address.”

“And why is that on your list?”

“It's called networking.”

“So your next step would be...”

“Wait till he gets back to me.”

“I see.”

She crosses her arms and says: “You have to be very careful when it comes to approaching famous people, you know. You don't want to ruin your chances by making it too obvious that you want to use them. But I'm working on it. Trust me.”

“Of course, but next time, perhaps you could include some more direct actions.”

She nods, I sign her card and that's it.

“I'll see you in two weeks from now, miss Johnson. Would Thursday morning suit you again, 11 o'clock?”

“That's fine.” She looks up from my name tag and says: “I'll see you then, Terry.”

-----

Go to the opening scene of Trophy.

Trophy 1 - The Job Centre is never greener on the other side.

2011-10-11T23:22:00.001+01:00

Elaine Johnson is one of the people I hoped never to see again after I jumped off the roof of my first primary school, aged nine and encouraged to do so by half of my classmates. Sixteen years later, at the wrong side of a Job Centre desk, Elaine looks nowhere near as intimidating. She's wearing leggings and a long blazer in a colour that reminds me of winter skies; a fortune's worth of make up to create a natural look and a straggly blonde ponytail on the top of her head. Though she's been waiting for over twenty minutes already, she doesn't sit down and seems to be hugging herself, as if she's trying to keep out the artificial cheerfulness of this utterly depressing place.

According to my mum, who got me this job in customer care as soon as I graduated, there are three types of people claiming JSA: the ones that want a job, the ones that don't care, and the ones that don't want to work. “The first,” she explained, “are just like us. They're working people, except they happen to be unemployed. They'll try hard to find and keep a job, and usually succeed sooner than they expected. Members of the second category will occasionally find work, but they often lose their jobs and come back to us. They're the ones that sometimes 'forget' to cancel their claim when they've found something temporary. They're also the regulars you'll end up bonding with, because they're much more agreeable than the parasites that don't want to work. Parasites are lazy, arrogant and they look down on us, even though they've got nothing to be proud of. Like your father – who rejected one job because he couldn't use his creativity and the next because it would drain his creativity. They're full of lies and damn hard to get rid off.”

It's obvious that Elaine has grown up to be a member of the last group. Her file is next in my tray and I'm running behind on schedule already because I tried to stretch the interview with one of the regulars. I've had twenty minutes to prepare myself for the confrontation but I'm still not ready. The name Elaine has been on my lips while waking up from nightmares for sixteen years but now that she's here, in my territory, I'm not even sure whether she remembers me.

Illustrate my stories & WIN!

2011-07-21T12:03:00.007+01:00

"Most people think there are only seven Canarian Islands,” says the old fisherman, “but they are wrong. There are eight.”

That's how The Ghost Island starts, one of the stories I wrote for Fly Thomas Cook Kids Club. I'm well chuffed about being published by Thomas Cook, and guess what - they're running a drawing competition to promote them!

Let one of my travel stories inspire you, upload your artwork onto your own blog and post a link to it on Red Ted's Art Blog and who knows, your illustration might be published alongside my story!

Apart from world fame, you can also win a Kid’s Travel Kit including a VTech Kidizoom Plus Multimedia Digital Camera, a Trunki Tiger suitcase, Kidz Gear Wired Headphones for Kids, a quality doodle book, Crayola shark fin case, sunscreen and goggles!

Here's my attempt to draw one of the crucial scenes from The Magic Mirror. Don't worry - I won't quit my day job ;)

Terms & Conditions

1) Open to UK entrants only

2) All entrants must link to their post on http://www.redtedart.com/2011/07/11/get-crafty-and-win/ by Thursday 28th July, 8pm British Summer Time

3) All blog posts must include information about the Thomas Cook site and the competition, as well as a craft relating to one of the Thomas Cook Stories

4) The reserves the right to select a winner and their decision is final

5) Thomas Cook reserves to right to use any images of your crafts or drawings in their promotional materials (even if you did not win)- should your craft or drawing be selected your child’s name and age will be credited.

GOOD LUCK!

Kit Killroy Returns - part 1

2011-03-22T15:27:00.001Z

Chased from my studio by the taunting idleness of brushes, by cans of unmixed paint stacked neatly on shelves on walls that no longer keep out the cold, by chaste canvasses, so frigid an unwilling that the pores from which I used to sweat creativity seem to have shrivelled and closed up for good...

Repulsed by what was once the warm womb of my imagination and a temple for the Great Kit Killroy...

Rejected, I roam the snowy streets of Soho with no intent of ever returning to a life of art. Correction: with no hope ever being allowed back in.

I enter a pub and buy a Jaegermeister to warm my cockles, but the burning sensation in my gullet doesn't spread through my body like it used to do. Throughout the years of creative block, I have absorbed so much wintriness that the alcoholic fire is soon smothered. I slump down on the pavement with my back against the gate around Soho Square, and stare at my hands in my lap.

These hands have brought me so much in life, so much more than I ever expected or even wished for. The smooth skin and hard nails are real life advertisement for Herôme hand cream, which I started rubbing into them twice a day when the Muse left me. She didn't leave me because I was turning into a snob – I started taking care of myself when there was no inspiration to deal with anymore.

Imitating the Buddha, I close my eyes and put my hands on my knees, the palms facing upwards in a gesture of receiving. She keeps me waiting for over an hour. I know this, because I hear church bells announce first ten a'clock and then eleven. My bum goes stiff with cold and by eleven I can't even feel my legs ache anymore. Though I'm sick of waiting, I have nowhere else to go, nothing else to do, so I stay put.

When finally a slight breath of warm air brushes over my left hand, I don't even dare to open my eyes. Is it really Her? I can hardly believe it. Warm wet flesh drags over my chilled palm. A trace of moist remains on my skin as She moves over to my right hand. Has She really come back? This time more real, more tangible than ever before? Is She no longer an abstract idea of which I am vaguely aware, but now a warm woman with body heat and fluids, willing to rub her humid antifreeze onto my hands, and melt my inner block of artists' ice? A shiver runs through my body when She licks me again. Starting from my right hand, it spreads in every direction and switches on every body part it passes on its way. It makes my stomach churn, sparks a swallowing reflex, tugs at the crotch of my Savile Row suit trousers and snaps open my eyelids almost simultaneously.

But what I see looming over me is not Her. It's an ordinary girl in a camel coloured duffel coat and matching pilot hat. A combination based on colour, not on style. Years ago, I would have been infuriated by her decision to finish the whole fashion crime off with cognac coloured cowboy boots. But not now. I hardly even register her footwear. Because it is not this girl that the Muse has sent me. It is her puppy.
“Come on, Roxy,” she says. Without even acknowledging me, she tries to drag the Golden Retriever pup away from me. Something I cannot allow her to do. This is my miracle, my first breath of air, true inspiration, after years of suffocation. The soft snout, the shiny black eyes, the floppy ears and the oversized paws are so beautiful it hurts. I have to examine this gift of the Muse. I stretch my hand out to stroke its head while the girl pulls its leash.

The moment my fingers touch the silken fur, images flash into vision so bright the night around me disappears. I see the puppy in my studio. I am stroking its soft belly and turn it onto its back. It playfully tries to bite and lick my arm, but the moment its tongue appears, I grab hold of the thin strip of flesh, press both my thumbs into it as hard as I can, and pull. If I ever wish to paint again, I need to consume the antifreeze that the Muse has brought to me. Fry it to a crisp like bacon, roast it in the oven or put it in a stew. It doesn't matter how, as long as I ingest this stretch of heavenly inspirational skin.
With my foot on the dog's chest, I pull and pull while the puppy screams in shocked agony and tries to bite off its own tongue because it hurts too much in the back of its throat. Its agony and terror settle in my soul, clashing together with the dark tidal wave of guilt that rises up when the flesh gives way under predator teeth. I take my foot off its chest and the pup turns to its stomach, whining and spilling blood out of its mouth all over the wooden floor in my studio. A blood offering in my temple will bring back to life the God, and deep, disturbing inspiration will last as long as the brushes I will make of its fur and the paint I will mix with its ground bones...

The visionary bloodshed makes me shudder as the night around me returns. The puppy follows the girl but looks around to see me, its own tail, or both. I scramble to my knees, not minding my expensive suit, because my only saviour is walking away from me, wagging its tail.

“Wait,” I call out to the girl.
She halts and looks over her shoulder.
“I'm Kit Killroy.” I brush the snow off my cold buttocks and gesture towards the spot where Roxy had found me. “This was an artistic experiment, but I couldn't let you walk by like that. Let me offer you a drink.”
She looks at my suit and the white scarf that I'm wearing, and I can tell she knows I'm not a bum. Can it be that she hasn't heard of me? Perhaps she's too young, or not into art?
“You mean The Kit Killroy?” she asks. She's got a thick Polish accent but I can still hear disbelief in her voice. “Of Flying Daisies and Mask 101?”
“That's me.” I'm suddenly proud again, though it is over twelve years ago that I finished the Mask series, and Flying Daisies was from even before that. “So how about a drink? My treat, of course.”
“Sorry,” she bends her head towards Roxy, “they won't let me take her into any pubs, I think.”
“That's all right, I've got an excellent bottle of Merlot at my studio, only five minutes from here.”

Why I gained weight after I graduated...

2011-03-13T20:43:00.004Z

£0.45 Loaf of Tesco's cheapest bread
£1.00 Jar of peanut butter or chocolate paste
£2.00 20 packets of Tesco's ultra cheap noodles or 2kg of spuds
£2.55 vegetables and fruit from the market
£1.00 milk

When I was still in uni, my food budget was about £7.00 a week. Occasionally, I would treat myself to 33 pence roll of Tesco Value chocolate digestives, and of course there were nights in the pub when I spent four times the amount I was allowed to spend in a week in a couple of hours without buying any food.

I didn't expect my food budget to grow as a full time author. But I had a fennel-and-sage-risotto for dinner yesterday and this was not a special occasion. Thai yellow curry, home-made lasagne, gnocchi with butternut squash and blue cheese or a vegetarian Sunday roast are all on the weekly menu these days. How is this possible? Because I'm not only writing a new novel, but also engage in a spot of copywriting on the side (see sidebar on the right).

One of the companies I work for is ebuzzing.co.uk. They pay me for each sponsored post and believe me, if I were still in uni, just one post a month would have allowed me to live in luxury! Anyone with a blog can join ebuzzing, even free blogs through WordPress or Blogger (like mine) are fine, as long as the blog is updated regularly.

Of course it is controversial to pay bloggers for their posts. However, ebuzzing is very careful when it comes to integrity. Bloggers always need to mention that it's a Sponsored Post and only use no-follow-links so that Google doesn't classify ebuzzing as a link-farm. And most importantly, bloggers are free to express their own opinions as long as they incorporate all elements of the brief. In the Code of Conduct, they emphasize that they “will not censor content nor pass judgement on the quality of an article you’re publishing on your blog”. I put them to the test and found that I was allowed to explain to my readers why I didn't like Barclay's 56 Sage Street game.

There are many big brands in the UK on the ebuzzing platform, such as Lloyds TSB, PayPal, Levis, FHM and the Mirror. I'm looking forward to the day they manage to add Nutella or 'Tesco Value' to the list. I would write about life as a vegetarian chocoholic, which isn't as easy as one would expect. I recently discovered that the Nutella produced in the UK contains whey powder that is produced with non-vegetarian rennet. I was shocked by this, as I have been a strict vegetarian for over fourteen years and always read the labels of everything I buy to make sure it doesn't contain gelatin etc. Unfortunately, I have occasionally consumed Nutella because the information on the label isn't clear about the origin of its ingredients. The worst bit is that it's utterly unnecessary. For example, the Nutella sold in Germany, France and Israel doesn't contain whey powder so that it's suitable for people with a vegetarian or kosher diet, and the Tesco Value Chocolate Spread sold in the UK is produced with whey powder that is suitable for vegetarians. In a sponsored post about chocolate spread, I would urge readers of my blog to join the Facebook Group "make Nutella vegetarian".

Some people argue that advertisement is polluting the creative space, but I don't see it that way. If anything, brands are giving artists the opportunity to do their thing by supporting them financially. Perhaps my recent blogposts aren't exactly artistic, but they are writing exercises and the pay allows me to write my next novel. And what to think of bands that became famous because they were used in a commercial? In Holland, Gabriel Rios' Broad Day Light became a hit because it featured in a fruit juice ad and I still think James Blunt wouldn't have been as big if his songs hadn't been used to announce the new season of Gilmore Girls fifty times a day. I hope the same thing will happen to indie band Tall Ships now that their music is used for an ad for the new Label Lab menswear collection, which has been launched exclusively at selected House of Fraser stores and online. The video suits both the band and the new collection because the colour scheme contains mainly black, different shades of grey and other neutral colours, and there's something edgy and macabre to it.

Red Nose Day has nothing to do with the nation's alcohol problem

2011-02-25T12:25:00.004Z

The slogan for this blog used to be "Borah's cultural learnings of London for Make Benefit Glorious Novel of Sex and Horror". Since I moved to Cardiff, I've changed my blog title to "Debbie Does Britain" and my new novel might not contain as much sex and horror as Bek dicht en dooreten! But I would still like to use this platform to share some of my 'cultural learnings'.

If I wanted to tell you about the British sense of humour, I would either bore you with clichés or have to come up with some really good examples. I don't intend to do the first, and if you're interested in the second I recommend you read my novels. But one thing I would like to tell you about the matter, is that it's one of the few things of which the British are unabashedly proud. They even have a national "do a good deed, be funny"-day. Or, as they call it, Red Nose Day. The whole nation is trying to use their sense of humour to raise money for charity before on Friday 18th March. Many high street fashion stores are selling Red Nose Day T-shirts, Walkers has offered comedians the opportunity to create their very own flavour of crisps in an attempt to raise over £1 million (resulting in Stephen Fry's Stephen Fry Up, Jimmy Carr's Jimmy Con Carrne, Al Murray's Steak and Al Pie and Frank Skinner's Frank Roast Dinner), and even British Airways are joining forces with Comic Relief to transform the lives of disadvantaged children at home and abroad. As part of BA's Flying Start campaign, Dara O'Briain, Jack Whitehall and Jon Richardson will be setting the world record for the 'Highest Stand-Up Comedy Gig in the World' at 35 000 feet.

With this sponsored post, I would like to draw your attention to the fact that you could be one of the 75 lucky people flying over the UK enjoying two-and-a-half hours of stand-up comedy for charity, free champagne and refreshments! All you need to do is text 'Fly1' to 70300 or visit www.facebook.com/britishairways to enter the competition. Full terms and conditions are available from the Facebook page.

Dreaming of a white Christmas present

2011-01-24T11:53:00.008Z

When we were in Brunel, it only used to snow when Freddie had so much coursework due that he had to make all nighters in the library. He practically looked as pale as the streets and didn't seem to enjoy the weather at all. However, the first time Cardiff was covered in snow this winter, he texted me: “Come out and play!”
Thinking of all the snowball fights we've had and the snowmen we've built, I'm convinced he loves the snow to bits. It must have been torture for him not to have the time to play with it during previous years!

Since he loves the snow so much, it wasn't difficult for me to think of a Christmas present this year. I took him to the Snow Centre in Hemel Hempstead for his first ski lesson ever....

As you can see in the video, he's a natural born skier. He didn't fall once, but soon started helping others get up and racing up the button lift to use his time on the slope to the max! His instructor said he has never experienced a student picking up on it this quickly: after one hour, he was ready to go on the main slope!

It's going to be hard to top this Christmas present in 2011!

PS. This video is my first attempt at video editing. My notebook runs on Ubuntu and I used Kino. It's not a very elaborate software package, so editing took about as much time as it took me to upload it on youtube. Bloody hell, about 70 minutes! If you've got any video editing tips for Linux users or any advice on how to make uploading video's onto youtube quicker, I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Let's not fight this Christmas, just Shut Up and Eat!

2010-12-23T13:57:00.005Z

Scene 1 #De_InNoWriMo

2010-12-05T20:36:00.000Z

She's still there, isn't she? I can feel her presence in my word choice, in the emptiness of my dreams and the bleakness of the world around me. Descriptions aren't exactly her speciality, are they? Let me give her a hand. I wouldn't want to be found dead in a badly written story.
I'm in the old library of my grandma's house – it's a big old mansion by the seaside, with creaking floorboards, exceptionally high ceilings full of cobwebs and the mixed smells of oriental incense and dust. After I broke up with Joel, I gave grandma a call and asked if I could stay with her for the summer. She was surprised as I hadn't seen her for, like two years, but I was more than welcome to. I promised I would paint all the woodwork in return. It's about ten o'clock p.m., and from the library window, I can see the setting sun colouring the sky pink and orange. There, that's what I call setting. Now let's move on with this story so that this girl in her pyjamas can leave me alone. What can I do to satisfy her? I know – get back together with Joel. I'll give him a call and ask if he wants to come up. I'm sure he will – he loves the sea.

Prologue #De_InNoWriMo

2010-12-03T13:53:00.003Z

This is going to be one of those “they were meant to be together” novels. I tell you what: I don't like that dumb bitch that has taken' it into her empty skull to write about me one bit. The way she sits behind her netbook in her silky pyjama bottoms and oversized purple hoodie, with a cup of warm chocolate milk and a pack of digestives within reach, makes me want to vomit right out of the webcam into her face.

So Joel and I have been together for as long as I can remember. We went to the same nursery school, where we played “I'll show you mine if you show me yours” like most other boys and girls. But we went to the same primary school as well, and stayed together. He has seen every stage of the development of my tits, he was the first to know when I had my first period – everyone assumed we were gonna get married when we grew up, but now we've broken up and that doesn't mean we're gonna get back together. We've split up in order to have mindblowing sex with loads of other people, and we will. End of story.

What part exactly of “go the fuck away” does she not understand? Stop following me!

*De_InNoWriMo stands for December, International Novella Writing Month. The fact that I came up with it doesn't make it any more likely that I'll succeed than my participation to NaNoWriMo would. I only came up with it because I didn't have a title yet.

Road Trip!

2010-10-29T08:40:00.002+01:00

I'm signing up for the Great British Banger Challenge...

...and I'm not giving up my vegetarian lifestyle! I enjoyed driving a van so much, that I'm seriously contemplating buying a car! And this facebook group is probably going to be the deciding factor.

So what's this Great British Banger Challenge about? If you enter the Challenge, you need to buy a car for less than £250 (I couldn't even afford a more expensive one if I wanted to), drag it home, fix it, decorate it, make sure it has valid tax, MOT and car insurance, and take it around Britain in 5 days. They say it's not a race – the challenge is to get there at all. Entry fee is £165, which will be used to arrange camping and the rest will be donated to charity (though it doesn't say what charity...)

The route will be:

Day 1 Cardiff to Carlisle
Day 2 Carlisle to Scarborough via Edingburgh
Day 3 Scarborough to SouthEnd-on-Sea
Day 4 SouthEnd-on-Sea to Weymouth (avoiding London)
Day 5 Weymouth to Cardiff

My budget for this hobby isn't particularly big, so I'll have to compare car insurance quotes to find the cheapest policy on the market. I might even have to exchange my Dutch drivers licence for a British one since having a foreign licence pushes up the quotes dramatically. The only thing I'm not sure about is whether my 4 years of experience will still be acknowledged if I switch. It wouldn't be very nice if I 'lost' those. Especially not if I can't 'get them back' if I change back to the Dutch licence again in the future! Anyone got experience with this?

(It took a while before I understood the song is about sat navs, haha, but isn't it a fantastic singalong? Got to love the Lancashire Hotpots!)

Money money money...

2010-10-27T13:38:00.006+01:00

Time for another Sponsored Post. As you may remember, it was nigh impossible for me to open a British bank account because most banks would only accept bank statements and council tax or phone bills as proof of address – though obviously, I wouldn't need a new current account if I already had one and I wouldn't have been able to pay those bills without a bank account! One of the banks that didn't want to give me a basic current account, even after I showed them the contract for my new job, was Barclays.

I don't bear as much grudge against Barclays as I do against Santander – they made me go through the signing up process THREE times, promised to get in touch as soon as they knew whether I was accepted or declined every time, and never called. What's more, they couldn't even tell me what had happened to my previous request when I returned to the branch and made me sign up again. Very frustrating.

I actually think Barclays has done a very good job investing in the Cycle Hire Scheme in London. Though I think the sticker activists are witty and do have a point, I like the idea of being able to hop on a bike to get to the other side of the city centre quickly. It's like a capitalist version (aka a version that might work) of the Provo's Witte Fietsenplan. I've almost forgiven Barclays for not allowing me to open a current account because of the Cycle Hire Scheme.In fact, if they hadn't launched an ~~utterly stupid~~ online game, I wouldn't have given it a second thought. The game is called 56 Sage Street, and contrary to the Barclays bicycles, it's free. That is, if you don't believe that time is money because, in their own words, it's "an addictive free game in which players roam a vast city finding work, or places to stay, meeting new challenges and picking up contacts to help players make it to the top." Sounds like they expect their younger audience to invest a lot of time in the game.

I've had a little play around and I reckon the objectives are to educate players so that they won't fall for scams, encourage them to take any job even if it is to carry coffins into a council estate (!) and to make them think Barclays is the only trustworthy bank. It's ~~supposed to be~~ cool because you can save your achievements to your Facebook account – though, to be honest, I don't expect my friends to think I'm subzero for posting ads for a bank on my wall ~~without getting paid for it~~.

I admit that I've got a soft spot for the accent of the voice over but ~~honestly, that's the only thing I like about this campaign~~ fortunately, I don't see why the game is addictive. Do you think I'm not doing the game justice? Go ahead, try it out for yourself at http://www.56sagestreet.co.uk/ and tell me what you think.

Gossip about Deborah Klaassen's Secret Affair

2010-10-26T10:22:00.005+01:00

29^th September 2010, I was one of the first to use Hewlett Packard's cool app to have a sneak preview of what my life will be like as a Famous Author. I found out about HP- Be A Star because it was created by my talented ex-colleagues at Arena Quantum. And I have to say, I think mine works very well:

And now, eBuzzing.com has offered me the opportunity to write a Sponsored Post about it.

You can like the Facebook fanpage http://www.facebook.com/HPUK, but if you really like the app, why not create your own at http://www.hp.com/uk/star? If you think stardom suits you better than me, create your own video to prove it and share the bit.ly link in a comment. Why? Because I'm in a competition with other bloggers – the one who's accumulated the most bit.ly links wins a new HP Laptop to help make the video come true. So do me a favour and share your bit.ly links with me!

Interview with a guilty blogger

2010-10-21T10:24:00.005+01:00

You have been neglecting debbiedoesbritain again. What is your excuse this time?

I have been very busy indulging in my new found fame. My book has hit the shelves last Tuesday, you see.

All the more reason to blog about your experiences, no?

Of course, my blog should have been the first medium to distribute the news. But I've got a proper website too now, www.deborahklaassen.com, and I have been updating that one.

So what's it like to be a published author? Are you enjoying it?

I was interviewed by the Mare (the newspaper of Leiden University) last week. I spent an afternoon taking pictures of myself because I didn't have any suitable photos. They also printed an especially saucy fragment from my book with it. [see text box] It's weird. I know that, if I were back home, this would be huge but because I'm still in Cardiff, the only results I see are a couple of tweets and emails. It's probably more real for my mum. She said she couldn't sleep because of the explicit fragment they'd reprinted.

Isn't she proud?

I may hope she is! But I understand. I wouldn't like to read erotic stories either if she were the author. And she was worried about what my teachers would think of it.

Aren't you?

I was very nervous to learn what Matt Thorne and Fay Weldon thought of Shut Up and Eat!. But I know now that they think it's creative, original, fresh, truly disturbing and darkly comic. The same way I don't expect Matt and Fay to be swept off their feet by my dissertation on Walter Benjamin's translation theory, I don't expect my philosophy teachers to be impressed with Bek Dicht en Dooreten!. It's a novel, not a work of philosophy. And chick noir might not be their taste in literature.

What's the most important lesson you learned at Brunel?

Ouch, that's a difficult question. One of the most helpful tricks they taught me was to construct a plot and write an outline before you start the novel. But I think their lectures on publicity are also very useful now that my book is available. I'm still awaiting the first reviews, but I'm sure Celia Brayfield's advice on how to deal with nasty reviews will soon be on the very-important-lessons-list too.

Why are you interviewing yourself?

Because it makes me feel important.

Deep Blue Connection

2010-10-04T16:24:00.001+01:00

“There's a connection between us, I can feel it.”
The girl looks as Londonish as she sounds, which surprises me. I've been travelling by tube for over 10 years, and this is the first time a stranger addresses me. She meets my gaze, which quickly makes me look away. What to do in a case like this? Perhaps if I pretend I didn't hear her, she'll pretend she didn't say anything.
“Don't you feel it?” She's starting to sound belligerent now. “For starters, we're breathing the same air, even though there isn't much of it down here.”
I look around to see if she could be talking to someone else. Though luck. There are more people waiting for the tube, but she's standing very close to me, as if we belong together.
“We're waiting for the same train. Are you going to Shoreditch too?”
I am. Surprise surprise. I don't want to nod because I don't want her to be right. Perhaps I should wait for the next train to get rid of her.
“Just look at you. You're all resistance. Fighting everything that tries to come near you. What's wrong with you?”
“What's wrong with you?” I didn't mean to say that. I didn't mean to talk to her at all. But she knew what buttons to push.
She folds her arms and starts checking when the next train will arrive.
“Well?” I repeat. “Oh, that's great, so now you're ignoring me.”
She was. Totally. As if I wasn't there. As if she'd hadn't been talking to me in the first place. As if I'm the crazy one that start talking to strangers.
While the train rolls into the station, I fold my arms too and turn my back to her. This is too awkward. I'll wait for the next train.
The last passengers are leaving the platform when I notice she's still here. Fuck.
“How bizarre was that!”
I sigh. “What?”
“We both decided not to look at each other and wait for the next train, and now we're the only ones here!”
“You're joking.” My voice sounds as humorous as a thirsty vacuum cleaner.
“Am not. I told you...” She spreads her hands in front of her flowery skirt – my flowery skirt! The skirt I made myself! It's meant to be unique - I used grandma's curtains for it! I look down at my lap to confirm that I am wearing this specific skirt today. I am. And so is she! “I told you, we've got something in common.”

Little George

2010-09-21T13:45:00.009+01:00

One Thursday evening, a homely scene of emptied plates on the floor and lovers embracing on the sofa.
F: “All right, you can have a pet if you want.”
D: “But you'd want to kill and eat it.”
F: “No, I mean it, you can have a pet and I won't kill it.”
D: “Really?! Are you sure?”
F: “Yes.”
D: “Where did that come from?”
F: “It's a part of you to and it's mean of me to deny you that.”
D: “But wouldn't you mind having a pet?”
F: “No, I think I would quite like it, actually.”
D – jumps up from the sofa and starts hopping through the room like an excited child - “Whoop Whoop! Hurah! I can have a pet! We're going to have a pet! Thank you Freddie! Thank you so much!”

A couple of weeks later, I'm proud to announce that we've got a bunny. George is five years old and brought to us by the RSPCA after being rescued from a cruel home. Isn't he just the cutest thing in the world? I fell in love with his picture immediately, but the RSPCA had to disappoint me because I need a letter of confirmation from my landlord that I can have a pet.

Now, our contract says we're not allowed to keep pets, but upon signing it Freddie asked whether it was okay to have a small pet like a hamster or a rabbit in a cage.
“Yes,” the estate agent replied, “that's fine. No cats, dogs or chicken, but a rabbit is fine.” Unfortunately, they couldn't write a letter to the RSPCA to confirm this, though, because it would contradict the contract and cause legal problems. When I explained the situation, the estate agent said: “Can't you just get a bunny from a pet shop instead?”

But I wanted to do a good deed, help a mature animal looking for a good home instead of buying a new baby that wouldn't have any problem whatsoever finding a family. We almost got two guinea pigs from the Guinea Pig Rescue, but changed our minds when it was pissing down with rain and I couldn't figure out which bus we would have to take to get there. The prospect of carrying two guinea pigs and a cage through the rain was, to say the least, unnerving. Also, the guinea pigs we had our eye on were called Einstein and Darwin - which didn't feel right because one of my previous guinea pigs was called Darwin. I know Schopenhauer didn't have any problem whatsoever in calling his new poodle Atma after the first poodle Atma died, but I'm not Schopenhauer.

When I saw the new Honey Waffles ad, I even contemplated getting myself a Honey Monster. The ad is the new production of Garth Jennings, who also directed the endearing children's film Son of Rambow and the hilarious Shaun of the Dead. I almost went to Tesco's to get myself one, when I realized that I didn't want to have to fight over my cereals with my pet. Also, Freddie doesn't want serious competition when it comes to being my biggest-mess-maker.

I kept checking gumtree, but had almost abandoned the whole idea of getting a pet when I got a call from the RSPCA. Whether I was still interested in George. Hell yes! Was he still there? Yes, he was. Instead of asking for a letter, they offered to call the estate agent. This time, a verbal confirmation was good enough. Last Thursday, they visited my place to see whether it's suitable for keeping a bunny and today, he's moving in. I hope he'll be as happy with Freddie and me as we are with him!

May you stay forever young...

2010-09-20T13:19:00.006+01:00

What I love most about London are the freebees. I think I've mentioned the free champagne, free cocktails and free cider before but I'm not completely obsessed with alcohol. I happen to know that the city offers lots of free entertainment that's suitable for the entire family as well. For example, I went back to London last weekend and visited the Natural History Museum with two friends.

It's amazing how a couple of dinosaur skeletons, distorting mirrors, a lot of interesting information and enormous baby dolls can bring out the inner child in anyone. Almost as effective as a can of K! The reason why I took a picture of the following creature is because I thought it looked like a Pokemon...

...and I don't think it was very mature to take the following pictures either. (The faces have been blotted out to protect the innocent.)
It's a shame being in touch with your inner child doesn't count in restaurants, though, because otherwise we could have enjoyed a free meal at the Pizza Hut as well, since their Kids Eat Free offer has been extended until January 9, 2011. Every child accompanying an adult that purchases a main course or lunchtime buffet can choose from either a free 2 course kids meal with a drink or a free kids lunchtime buffet including pizza, pasta and salad. Find more details about the offer at http://bit.ly/a1DhgJ (Well spotted, this is another sponsored post.)

Although, saying that, we did enjoy a couple of excellent bottles of red wine in Notting Hill before, during and after our supper, which wouldn't have been possible if we would've counted as kids, just because we were behaving that way. I think the great thing about London is that you can be as childish as you like, and still be treated as an adult. And actually, that comes down to the same thing as the first remark of this post, because you know you're growing up when you start to pay for things yourself.

Outline: she found a passport in a pub...

2010-09-09T14:45:00.002+01:00

There was only one feature her two identities had in common: they both seemed to be amused by something the rest of the world didn't know. They both seemed to laugh at a secret understanding of how the world worked.

At boarding school, her teachers mistook this for intelligence and loved the quiet Anne Pritchard for it. It was the same air of mystery that made Luke W., her 26 year-old boyfriend, fall for Jacky. But two months after they'd started seeing each other, it drove him mad too.

Whenever the fourteen year old schoolgirl sneaked out to spend the night clubbing with Luke, she slathered herself in make up and hairspray and put on heels that were longer than her skirt. Luke assumed that she was 21 because the bouncers of clubs never rejected her. In reality, she was only fourteen years old and using a passport she had found in the bathroom of a pub two years earlier. Jacqueline Dupont, to whom the passport belonged, was six inches taller than Anne – hence the heels – and had much fuller lips and bigger cheekbones. But they were both blonde with blue eyes and make-up can work wonders.

Luke and Jacky used to meet up two or three nights a week. However, when Anne's new room-mate Fiona S. caught her preparing cheating notes before a test, Anne got in trouble. Fiona made Anne do her chores for her in exchange for her silence, but when one of the teacher discovered that Fiona wasn't doing her own chores, the story came out anyway. She had to be extra careful hiding her second life now that the teachers were watching her, and had to stand Luke up twice in a row.

Luke assumed Jacky was cheating on him and punched her in the stomach when they met again. She was floored in one blow, but just gave him that secretive smile that seemed to say: “you've got it all wrong, boy, you've got it all wrong.” They made up in the playground in Holland Park, snorted cocaine and had a ball of a time.

The next week, however, she texted him twice to cancel their appointment again. This time, Luke started wondering why she had never asked him round her place. Instead of losing his temper again, he asked whether they could spend the night at hers for a change. When she just said no without explaining why, he decided to follow her home when she left his house at four o'clock in the morning.

At first, he didn't understand what he saw. Was she a teacher at a girls school? But why was she giong in this early? And why was she climbing through a hole in the fence instead of taking the main entrance. Why had she never...

“Jacky!” He got out of his car and ran after her, just able to grab her ankle through the gate.

“Sssh!” She put her finger to her lips.

“What are you doing?”

She poked her head back through the gate.

“I live here. Now leave me alone.”

“You... what? You never told me you...”

She gave him that mocking grin and winked at him.

He knew she'd been hiding something, but this... Anger flared up inside him and he didn't know what he was doing when he punched her in the face as hard as he could.

She ran in – leaving him at the gate – hid her clothes, washed her face, put on her pyjama and woke up Fiona with a smack in the face. Her room mate woke up fighting back.

When they had to explain to the head of the school what they were fighting about, both girls claimed the other attacked her out of the blue. They both had to stay in all weekend to write an essay on the political situation in Israel – but at least Anne didn't have to explain how she got that blue eye.

When Luke realized there was a word for what he had been doing – paedophilia – he almost killed himself. He wanted to apologize to her parents, he wanted to shout and swear at her, he wanted to stop thinking and caring and he snorted all of his cocaine in one go. When she called, he didn't answer. When she rang his doorbell, he didn't answer. When she let herself in through the back door, she found him crying on the sofa.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he asked

“How did you find out?” she asked.

“I can't see you again,” he said

“Don't say that, or I'll have to tell my parents about you.”

“What?”

“I'll tell them you knew all along and gave me a false passport so that I could go clubbing with you.”

“But that's not true!”

“And I'll tell them about the cocaine too.”

The next morning, Anne was reported missing. Two days later, Luke read in the newspaper what Jacky's real name was. Five days later, a neighbour told the police he'd seen the missing girl break into his garden. Her body was found in Luke's cellar, wrapped in a carpet.

I’m worth £350342 more than Madonna

2010-08-31T22:17:00.005+01:00

Much as I admire Madonna for her creativity, her courage, her endless capacity to reinvent herself, her determination and all her talents, I was shocked to see the results of her strict fitness regime in the Daily Mail. I suddenly understood why the dress H&M designed for her in 2006 wasn’t sleeveless.
Some call it willpower or self-discipline, but to me it seems like she’s lost control over her fear of getting fat. Personally, I’m proud I can say no to my daily exercise when I don’t feel like it and yes to breakfast, lunch, snacks, dinner and even dessert.

But how does that make me worth £350342 more than Madonna?

According to a widget developed by my former colleagues in London, that’s what our price difference would be if we were both worth our weight in gold. In my favour.
If you want to find out your value in gold, enter your details in the widget or go the Postgoldforcash website.

Of course, the developers intended the widget as a playful way to make potential customers aware of the rising gold price, in order to convince them that it’s very lucrative to sell broken jewellery or unwanted gold coins to the gold buying company.

But by focussing on bodyweight and valuing skinny people less than healthy people, I think they offer a helping hand in the battle against eating disorders, which means a lot to me. And perhaps it’s not even entirely coincidental. After all, the face of Postgoldforcash is Anne Diamond, whose problems with her weight have been widely covered by the British media. My conclusion is: Postgoldforcash might just be a commercial company with a hidden, humanitarian agenda.

Backyard tragedy

2010-08-25T15:12:00.011+01:00

Once upon a time, in the damp, dark soil underneath Cardiff Castle, a slender slug called Sulyen shed slimy tears.

“Sulyen,” said his lover Llewellyn, “why art thou crying?” His strong, stripy torso slid through the moist earth towards his sad friend.

“It is for thee that I cry,” replied Sulyen. “My internal organs are twisting with desire to bear you a child. But how can we rear a baby slug under these conditions?”

“Thou art right,” said Llewellyn, quickly retracting his tentacles at this revelation. “It is raining so much, yet there are hardly any fresh leaves or vegetables around. We end up getting wasted every night, and this is only summer! Autumn is yet to come! Much as I am attracted to you, Sulyen, it would be irresponsible to curl our private parts together with a view to laying eggs.”

“Oh Llewellyn, I wish I could control my feelings as well as thou can contain thine,” sighed Sulyen, sliding his slim mantle towards his large, muscular friend.

“Hold off!” said Llewellyn, “What part of 'no' don't thou understand?”

“It's the rain,” sniffed Sulyen, “I love thee dearly and do respect thy opinion... but I've had a bit too much to drink...”

Llewellyn curled his bulging body and pushed against the black, rain-soaked soil to get away from his broody buddy. But, despite his stout constitution, he couldn't escape Sulyen, who was more flexible and fuelled with desire.

“Why don't we leave the Castle and find ourselves a nice garden?” Sulyen asked his fleeing friend. “I hear vegetable growing is very popular these days...”

“But I love the Castle,” protested Llewellyn. “I enjoy getting drunk every night, and all my comrades live here!”

“We can have home-grown cabbage and lettuce ...” Sulyen's sensory tentacles tickled his mate's tail. “Is it not thy dream to sandwich an immature tomato plant with me?”

“I do love thee, Sulyen, but...”

“Then let us get out of here!”

“That's what I'm trying to do...” Llewellyn was panting already. “Promise not to touch me until we've found a good home for our children and I shall give thee all the offspring thou want.”

That night, when the heavenly shower was left on again, two slimy silhouettes crawled along the curbs of Cardiff – a stringy, stressed shape first, with a slim, sensual shadow following it's slime trail. Though slugs aren't known for their speed, they soon reached my back garden.

Llewellyn mounted the first pepper plant and hoped Sulyen would forget about their reproduction plans for the night now that they had reached such an abundance of food. Alas, Sulyen had no eye for the fresh green leaves, and only climbed the thin stem to ravish his friend.
When Llewellyn reached the top of the plant, he realized there was nowhere to go. He bit down hard in the green leaves when he felt Sulyen's silky schlong stroke his pneumostone, and knew he would never be able to enjoy the taste of pepper plant again. It seemed to take all night, and when Sulyen was finally done, it was starting to get light already. Llewellyn tried to seek shelter under an old handbag which, for some reason, had been left in the garden. But Sulyen still wouldn't leave him alone.

“Can I have some space, please,” Llewellyn begged, “I can't sleep like this.”

“I'm not done with thee yet,” said Sulyen. “I've given thee mine, but thou haven't given me thine yet. We are hermaphrodites after all.”

That morning, I was shocked to see how my plants had been abused. I made Freddie an omelet for breakfast, crushed the eggshells and spread them around my plants so that the slugs couldn't reach them again.

“We are in serious trouble now,” said Llewellyn. “A few days from now, I'll be giving birth to thirty little eggs. I'm starving already and now we can't even reach the fresh vegetables any more.”

“Don't worry, my love,” said Sulyen, “We shall go to the neighbours, I'm sure there will be plenty of food there. Follow me, big one.”

Poor Llewellyn felt like he had no choice, and followed the slender slug that had impregnated him.

“Come on, slow poke,” shouted Sulyen over his mantle. He had reached an opening in the wall to the next garden already and poked his head through it. “I think they even have a lawn, and flowers... paradise is this way!”

When Llewellyn finally reached the hole in the wall, half an hour later, all he saw was Sulyen's shiny body at the the end of the tunnel. “What's wrong?” he asked.

“I cannot move,” moaned Sulyen. “I was so hungry after yesterday's activity... I just took a bite of the first thing I saw... it must have been poisoned... I knew it smelled suspicious, but I was so hungry... I think I'm paralysed.”

Startled, Llewellyn began to crawl backwards.

“Don't leave me here!” shouted Sulyen. “It's thy fault I'm here in the first place! Thou made me do all the hard work, and didn't leave any of that pepper plant for me! Greedy cow!”

Though he could feel the sun on his mantle already, Llewellyn crossed my garden as quickly as he could, avoiding the sight of the scraggy pepper plant. He heard Sulyen sling a good deal of further insults at him, and didn't want to be there at noon, when the sun would start to blister his paralysed back.

Llewellyn wanted to go back to Castle, but he was heavy with pregnancy and grief. Though it had taken the two slugs no more than one night to reach my garden, two days later, Llewellyn still hadn't reached his home. He was hungry and thirsty and leaned against a courgette plant to catch his breath, when suddenly, he smelled something that made all of his glands ooze with delight. It was a slightly bitter, refreshing smell, so good that a mere whiff of it made him forget his sorrow.

The saucer of ale attracted the pregnant, dehydrated slug like a magnet. Llewellyn had no say in the matter and didn't even know what was happening to him when he slid head first into the liquid gold. He absorbed it like a sponge, drank more than he'd ever drank before, poisoning his parasitic eggs with alcohol. The next day, a woman with marigold gloves fished Llewellyn's inflated corpse out of the saucer and chucked him in a dustbin.

The other slugs at the castle thought Llewellyn and Sulyen never returned because they'd found themselves a lush garden and had started a happy family.

My first time in a British van

2010-08-23T09:15:00.005+01:00

So, I've had my drivers licence since December 2006 and I moved to the UK in September 2008, but until I moved to Cardiff (August 2010), I'd never driven a car on the left side of the road. (Except for that one time I went back to Holland for a couple of days and ended up facing the back of the traffic lights, but I'd rather not talk about that.)

Last time Freddie and I moved (from our lovely mansion in Uxbridge to the House of Horrors in Harrow) we hired a man with a van. This time, we decided not to bring the wardrobe, bed, cooker and all those other big pieces of furniture; a mate helped us get the motorbike and a chest of drawers full of undies, socks and shirts up here; but we still needed to rent a van for the rest of our clothing, bicycles, duvet, Freddie's weights, cookery stuff, tomato and pepper seedlings... you get the gist.

I decided to rent an old Ford Transit for the weekend via selfdrivevanhirelondon.co.uk because it was the cheapest option. Their insurance, however, was shit – basically I would have to pay for any damage under £700 and I couldn't get any extra cover. Don't get me wrong – I'm not an irresponsible driver and I respect the road, but I'd never driven in Britain before, and I'm used to small cars like my mum's Peugeot 206cc – not vans with the steering wheel at the right side of the car! So I was bricking it just thinking of driving without any useful insurance.

Several sleepless hours later, I gave my credit card details to insuremyvanhire.com, an innovative website that sells full AXA Car Insurance cover for the duration of your car rental. I was happy as Larry with this find - and still am, even though I didn't add a scratch to the ramshackle old Transit, because it made me feel so much more confident.

I found staying on the left side of the road the easiest thing in the world (of course I did have lots of practice on my bicycle). Still, Freddie said the first twenty minutes were possibly the most frightening moments of his life. I blame this on the gear stick, which was knackered and made it virtually impossible to shift gears fluently. Also, I kept asking him to look out of the left window and tell me whether I was getting too close to the curb/cars/cyclists, which must have given him the impression I had no idea what I was doing. Though I didn't commit any serious offences, I certainly upset a lot of other drivers by not being quick enough. But after I left Central London, I was starting to get the hang of it and I soon didn't even have to mouth apologies at other drivers any more! We left London Saturday night at midnight and because I had to hand in the van on Monday morning, I decided to leave the house in Cardiff at 4 am Monday morning - about a day after we arrived.

The drive home as much fun - radio on full blast, pedal to the metal and a bottle of Boost on my lap - as getting stuck in traffic round the corner from the rental company was aggravating. I think I spent more time in the city than on the M4! What made it even worse was that I thought I had to pay for congestion charge before entering the zone, which made me leave the motorway prematurely. This time, I fully understood why drivers had been shouting at me when I was driving too slowly or making it impossible for them to overtake earlier. I have to admit I was quite tempted to make some impolite gestures at clumsy drivers myself. But if they're not doing it on purpose, what's the point in making them feel bad? Road rage will only increase your own stress levels, and it's not like it's going to make you get to your destination any quicker. So instead of shouting at other drivers, I sang along with Metallica and the Offspring to let off steam and behaved like a decent driver. Hell, I even wore a seatbelt at all times – unlike this dude Kevin, who appeared on Cab Cam, a campaign against road rage.

You may have noticed this is a Sponsored Post. Since I quit my full time job in order to write my second novel, I'm happy to make some extra money with my blog. That doesn't mean I've lost my integrity or autonomy, though. I'll choose my sponsors carefully. I was planning to write about my first experience with driving in Britain anyway and I did take out that AXA van insurance. And I do think AXA Respect On The Road campaign is worth a like on Facebook – because it's funny and it shows what a silly thing road rage is:

Fresh soil

2010-08-18T10:38:00.004+01:00

From crazy Halloween house parties in Notting Hill to sipping free champagne at Proud Camden's second birthday party; from shopping for second hand silk at Bricklane Market to drinking free cocktails at the Paramount bar on the top floor of Centre Point; from camping in Epping forest when it was snowing in January to indulging in free drinks on the roof terrace of club Aqua; from writing a novel in a pub on Portobello road to working full time as a copywriter on Tottenham Court Road – yes, over the last two years, I've seen many different sides of London (and had a fortune worth of free drinks). I didn't always have the time to blog about my experiences, but I can assure you: Debbie Did London.

London was fabulous, but it's time for fresh soil. I quit my job and moved to Cardiff last Saturday, to write my second novel. And yes, I've seen a lot of sheep and mountains already (drove up to the Brecon Beacons twice), but I've also spotted lots of students, cool clubs, fancy restaurants, cosy pubs and art centrers. I'm sure there will be plenty of interesting people, places and parties to write about. That's why I updated the header of my blog: Debbie Does Britain!

The first interesting place I would like to introduce to you is, of course, my new house. My garden, to be precise. Perhaps you remember that my mansion in Uxbridge had a lush lawn, a massive fig tree and tomatoes growing out of the cracks in pavement. I was a bit disappointed when I found out that my garden in Harrow mainly consisted of brambles and nettles overgrowing slabs of concrete, but Freddie and I found one spot that seemed suitable for growing vegetables, and worked hard to prepare it for our tomato and pepper seedlings. I even remember some crazy night gardening...
I don't know why, but the first batch of toms that I planted out there didn't survive. I watered them often enough, but the soil only seemed suitable for nettles. Because I didn't want to kill all my other seedlings, I planted them in beer cans, yoghurt pots and butter tubs and started giving them away to friends. I even left two pepper plants in the office in Central London!

When Freddie and I took most of our things to Wales with the van (I'll write about driving in Britain some other time), there were only a few tomato and pepper plants left. They'd been in their beer cans for way too long and most of the poor things didn't have enough root space to start growing fruits, but they were alive and, with some extra care and Welsh rain, there's still hope for them. In my new garden, I've got a huge pear tree and a lot of space for barbecuing or playing football, but there are no patches of soil suitable for growing vegetables. So I went to the local gardening centre to buy two sacks of compost and found myself some bigger plant pots...

Where I come from 6: It makes me wonder

2010-08-15T15:06:00.002+01:00

Would you be surprised, Freddie, if this were my last letter to you about Led Zeppelin? Relieved perhaps? After exactly two minutes, the song ain't nowhere near over.

I'm quite sure I could say something relevant with regards to “it's whispered that soon if we all call the tune / Then the piper will lead us to reason”. And though I'm not so sure I could make something of the “bustle in your hedgerow” and the “spring clean for the May queen”, I don't think I have to. If I stood any chance of opening up an insight towards philosophy, this is where it should happen:

“Ooh... it makes me wonder.”

You probably know that in one of Plato's later dialogues, Socrates says that all philosophy originates in wonder. And though I would love to give Charlie the benefit of the doubt, he didn't seem to question anything. He wasn't baffled, surprised or taken aback by anything. Nothing made him wonder – because he kept piling up fairy tales and far fetched explanations instead. His attitude is the exact opposite of wonder, of not understanding and not knowing a way out of it.

I hope I've showed that it does happen in the first two minutes of Stairway to Heaven. Plant has touched on the pragmatic and the semantic theory of language and finds himself not able to ignore the musical aspect of language. And that makes him wonder.

He doesn't articulate “it makes me wonder what language is”, he doesn't say “it makes me wonder about language” - but that doesn't take away that admits he doesn't have a clue, doesn't know, isn't sure – and wonders. Unlike the lady who knows all that glitters is gold; unlike Charlie, who is convinced that God spoke to him when he was in prison and that Jesus joined the Hells Angels in Essex soon afterwards.

And in case you're still wondering what I did those six years in uni: I learned to focus on a text and suspend judgement; to admit that I don't understand something, that I don't know what's going on, without covering it up and without turning away from it either. By not waffling my way out of every tight spot, I try to give a wide berth, try to allow something relevant to reveal itself.

Deborah

Where I come from 5: Dead end routes

2010-08-08T11:00:00.006+01:00

Dear Freddie,

More than a month ago, I poked at the first words of Stairway to Heaven and found that the opening paragraph told me a lot less than it seemed to do at first glance, and definitions of the words wouldn't help me reveal what has kept this song alive for over half a century. I was left wondering about the line “with a word she can get what she came for”. This line seemed to favour a pragmatic approach to words over a semantic one, focussing on the relation between signs and their effects rather than the relation between signs and the things to which they refer. Interestingly, the second verse continues where the first left off.

There's a sign on the wall, but she wants to be sure

'Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings.

In a tree by the brook, there's a songbird who sings,

Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.

This paragraph is crowded with language-related words: sign, words, meanings, songbird, sings, thoughts.

A sign on the wall

To avoid going down the mystical route, I will not elaborate on the biblical origin of the expression “sign on the wall” (Daniel 5, in case you've given up on our quest for philosophy). Instead, I will focus on the words that are so significant throughout these lyrics.

Is it an unconditional statement that there is a sign on the wall, or are these words part of a construction that started in the previous paragraph? The latter interpretation says that the lady knows that, when she gets to heaven, there will be a sign on the wall. In her book In the houses of the Holy: Led Zeppelin and the power of rock music, Susan Fast is surprised that Plant begins a new stanza of poetry with this phrase, despite the fact that the instrumental part continues with the fourth phrase of the music. “In other words, the text seems to begin anew but the music does not.”(Oxford University Press US, 2001, p. 61) To me, this is a clear sign that Plant doesn't start a new sentence.

Either way, whether there's a sign to tell her the directions when she is buying the stairway to heaven, or whether she knows that there will be a sign on the wall when she gets to there – after having been certain about so many falsehoods, she is unsure now, despite the sign. Why? Because “you know, sometimes words have two meanings”.

According to the semantic theory, words are signs referring to designata (e.g. meaning, definition or objects to which words refer). Traditionally, 'sign' and 'meaning' are two words that go together like neighbouring jigsaw puzzle pieces – mentioning the one is asking for the other. It's no surprise they show up together in this song.

This is the first time in the song that the lady is not sure about something. Though I'm supposed to know sometimes words have several meanings, personally, I find it incredibly difficult to grasp how exactly a sign can even have one meaning. Does the word 'tree' have something in common with a plane tree in Hyde Park? Do they resemble each other? Or is the link quite random, a convention? But then why can't we simply replace it with the Dutch word 'boom'? Buy some space on the front page of the Metro to let everyone know that from now on we will only refer to trees with the word 'boom' and abandon the word 'tree' completely. Do you think it would be a smooth transition? I expect that no root-killer will be strong enough to exterminate the word 'tree'.

It's just as mind boggling as the question what connects the spoken word 'tree' to the written version. In what way are they the same? And when two people say the word 'tree', what is it that connects the first sound to the second?

You may think the last question is obvious, because “they sound the same”. But what is that sameness? How can we recognize two sounds as the same word, even when one is pronounced with a lovely Dutch “trrrr” and the other with a west-London twang?

“The written and the spoken word have the same meaning”, you say? But again: what is 'meaning' and in what way is it 'the same'?

Especially when a word is supposed to refer to a mental concept or idea, it completely eludes me what is going on. What are concepts, ideas, definitions, other than the words themselves? What is 'the semantic theory', without the words that are supposedly 'used' to 'express' it? Talking about the semantic theory doesn't clarify anything about words.

A songbird who sings

But I digress. Back to the song. For now, all I know is that the lady finds it problematic to pinpoint definitions of words. The next phrase doesn't seem to have much to do with the beginning of the story: “In a tree by the brook (what brook) is a songbird who sings...”

But as I noticed earlier, this line contains two language-related words, so it's not completely out of the blue: songbird and sings. While 'sign' and 'meaning' brought me to the semantic theory of language, this phrase points in a different direction: language as music. I don't have a definition or logically sound theory ready to explain what this entails – but if I did, that would defeat the whole point, don't you think? It would close the route Plant pointed out even before I embarked on it, and it would send me right back to the theoretical, unmusical way of thinking ABOUT language, rather than allowing musical language to happen.

Which is exactly what's happening in Stairway to Heaven. Not only because it's a musical masterpiece. But perhaps you remember how in my previous letter, it emerged that Plant isn't consciously choosing words because of their definition, but accepts them as they come – as they are given.

Perhaps you think I'm reading a bit too much into “there's a songbird who sings”?

I don't. The next line says it all: “Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.”

I won't go on about the fact that, grammatically, it could be a line that the bird is singing, because that would be rather silly.

What this line says is that we don't choose our own words; they are given to us. And sometimes, all of our words are mis-given. All that glitters is gold. The routes of thinking that we are forced down by words such as 'sign' and 'meaning' might be erroneous, dead end trails. No matter how many people have tread them happily and without noticing throughout the ages.

Where I come from 4: Words that pay the bills

2010-06-16T19:00:00.008+01:00

There's a lady who's sure
All that glitters is gold
And she’s buying a stairway to heaven
When she gets there, she knows,
If the stores are all closed
With a word she can get what she came for
Ooh, ooh, and she’s buying a stairway to heaven

Dear Freddie,

The words came to Robert Plant while he stood and listened to the other Led Zeppelin members who were trying to compose Stairway to Heaven – this contrast between how the music and the lyrics came about is relevant, by the way.

The first words that came to Plant still open the song and describe a woman in the third person. Plant calls her a lady, which means she's not just any woman, but a woman of superior social position. She is certain about something: namely that all that glitters is gold. This conviction makes this lady seem like a bit of a fool: everybody knows all that glitters is NOT gold! Even water, a slug or a fresh dog turd can glitter in the sun shine. (I wonder whether the social status of this woman has anything to do with the way she perceives valuable things.)

While the lady is sure about this falsehood, my first uncertainty crops up. What is the grammatical status of the next line, “and she's buying a stairway to heaven”? Is she sure that she's 'buying' this interesting stairway (just like she is sure about all glittery things being gold) or does Plant say that she's actually buying it?
Putting it like that brings forward another aspect of the word buying. When one teenager tells another how she lied to her parents about her nocturnal whereabouts so that she could stay out longer, it’s not unusual for the other party to ask: “Did they buy it?” to which the answer usually is: “Hell yeah, they bought every word of it!” When you buy a lie, it means you've fallen for it, you believe it. The lady, who is sure that all that comes across as valuable actually is valuable, is buying a “stairway to heaven”. She’s falling for this trickery too.

Only now, it occurs to me that Plant doesn’t describe what this woman looks like, nor what she does; he purely describes what we usually call her ‘mental state’. She is sure about something, she’s buying trickery, and in the next line she knows something. What does she know? That when she gets to heaven – whatever that may be – she can get what she came for with a word if the stores are all closed.

The first question I would like to ask is: what about if the stores are opened? But that would be a silly thing to ask. First of all: I don’t know what heaven is, nor whether there ARE shops there. What’s more: Plant doesn’t claim either that heaven exists, nor that there are shops there. Plant is only telling me, from a distance, that this lady ‘knows’ something. There’s no point in pretending to believe that there are shops in a place called heaven in order to investigate the imaginary opening hours, especially not when I don’t even know what they’re supposed to sell. For now, this line is a dead end street.

The second question I could ask is: what does ‘to know’ entail? During my first year of philosophy, I learned that knowledge is ‘justified, true belief’. This definition can lead to quite a lot of interesting debates – but I shouldn’t allow those distractions to lead me away from the lyrics. Plant says she knows that, WHEN she gets there, she can get what she came for. Even if Plant subscribes the aforementioned definition of knowledge, it’s not logically impossible that this woman knows she can get what she came for if she gets there, but also knows she’ll never get there because the place doesn’t exist. Plant doesn’t claim nor deny the existence of heaven and its local shops. Trying to determine which definition of ‘to know’ he had in mind would merely distract from the song – the more so because Plant didn’t cunningly compose the text, picking words because of their definitions. We don’t choose words because of their definitions – they just roll out of our mouth or fingers, present themselves. It often feels as if I don’t have much to do with which words I utter at all.

What I’m trying to do is trace the way the words presented themselves to Plant, in order to catch a glimpse of where they come from, what made them come forward, and hopefully learn something about my relationship with these words.

Now, the last thing I’d like to mention about this first paragraph is that – although I don’t know what she’s after – the woman knows she can get it with a word. She sees words as an economic currency with which she can pay, even when the stores are closed. This line has fascinated me ever since I first heard it, though I don’t know why exactly yet. It’s not a deep insight: of course words are a currency. Every toddler knows he has to say “please” if he want a sweet, and with the years we learn that other words can get us other things. (e.g. “you look lovely today”, “I’m so stressed!” or “your food smells delicious. What is it?”). It doesn’t matter what the words mean; we use them to get a specific reaction in return. Hopefully, the rest of the lyrics will make things more clear.

Best, Deborah

Where I come from 3: The Words, the Wonderful Words

2010-05-11T18:03:00.004+01:00

Dear Freddie,

I think John Paul Jones, the Led Zeppelin bassist, describes the origin of Stairway to Heaven very poetically: “Page and Plant would come back from the Welsh mountains with the guitar intro and verse. I literally heard it in front of a roaring fire in a country manor house.”

The story goes that the song was conceived in Bron-Yr-Aur, an 18th century cottage in South Snowdonia. It was the year 1970 and guitarist Jimmy Page was trying to join together a number of acoustic and electric sections. Page remembers how he was instructions the rest of the band while Robert Plant, the lead singer, was leaning against the wall, listening and writing. “And all of a sudden he got up and started singing in, along with another run-through, and he must have had 80% of the words there.”

It all adds to the myth that Plant described what came over him as “my hand was writing out the words, 'There's a lady who’s sure, all that glitters is gold, and she's buying a stairway to heaven'. I just sat there and looked at them and almost leapt out of my seat.”

No doubt this origin story helped the song to its legendary status. But if I want to be able to take the song seriously, the image of Page and Plant returning from the Welsh mountains like Zarathustra, bringing Stairway to Heaven to the people... well.... it just makes me laugh. I can’t learn anything while being overwhelmed with pathetic, mystical obscurity.

It seems like quite a challenge to avoid being dazzled like that when a song is called “Stairway to Heaven”. What on earth is heaven? I don’t believe there’s a place above the clouds where good folks go when they die to sit by champagne fountains for the rest of eternity. Nor do I think interpreting the word ‘heaven’ as that imaginary place will help me understand the song.

I know that ‘buying a stairway into heaven’ is a standing expression for being generous only in order to achieve salvation. But come on, I don’t know what salvation is either. So rather than pretend I know what Plant means, I should accept that I don’t know what he’s trying to say. Instead, I will have to stick to the words in the song and look for clues that might tell me more.

The title alone tells me heaven is a destination. When looking closely at these three words, I notice that Plant doesn’t tell me whether this destination can be reached, has been reached or even exists. I don’t know whether it’s a place I should try to reach, or that I should try to postpone finding it. For now, I only know Plant mentions that there is a stairway that leads towards heaven, whatever it is. So, all I know is that, from where Plant was standing, he’d have to ascend or descend in order to get there. No more and no less.

Next time, I’ll try to find out more by looking closely at the first lyrics.

Yours,

Deborah

---

Read the previous posts in this series:

Where I come from 1: Pub Talk Philosophy and Where I come from 2: MA in Pedantry.

Where I come from 2: MA in Pedantry

2010-04-24T23:12:00.004+01:00

Oh Freddie, what have I got myself into? Why did I have to put the first installment of my attempt to let philosophy emerge on my blog? It has been a pain in the arse ever since I uploaded it, knowing that, now that it was public, I could not back out of it again. I felt the urge to write and upload numerous other stories, but wouldn’t allow myself to follow up the first installment of my English attempt at philosophy with the review of a cocktail bar. So I actually started exploring other platforms to post my writings. Why was I trying to avoid getting on with it and writing installment number two? I’m afraid that right now, even trying to find an answer to that question would be avoidance behaviour, but hopefully it will become clear on the way.

Charlie was right about one thing: academic performance is irrelevant.

Charlie’s ideologies reminded me of the last story in Chuck Palahniuk’s Haunted, but when I asked him whether he’d heard of Palahniuk, he said he found reading extremely difficult and wasn’t well read. Now, as a writer, I would say that a writer who doesn’t read shows lack of interest in his own trade and since he doesn’t know what his competitors are doing he probably won’t be able to match them.

Philosophy, however, is not a trade, and though a philosopher is not immune to ‘petty’ issues such as competition, a real philosopher won’t just indulge in intellectual contests and win, but rather experience that he is compelled to do so and wonder why it is that he cannot resist.

Now, universities are full of people who show off their mental capacities without thinking, always have been. Especially Philosophy MA’s & PhD’s are a breeding ground for top notch brain wrestlers. But Charlie was right: having read a vast amount of philosophical works, knowing everything there is to know about Schleiermacher, Hegel and Gadamer and being able to refute the works of Kant, Descartes and Plato doesn’t make them philosophers.

I can’t tell you what philosophy is, Freddie, nor what makes a philosopher. But I can tell you that academic high performance isn’t it. All those academics who, despite their success, never wrote or said a relevant word are not philosophers. I honestly can’t see why and how anyone could stick the same tag on them and the people whose work they study: Socrates, Plato, Descartes, Heidegger.

Again, I can’t tell you what philosophy is, but I’ve got a suspicion it’s something that takes place in the words of those philosophers. And every time I listen to Stairway to Heaven, I can’t help but think it happens there too. But if I fail to show you what happens in that song, I won’t know whether that is because

a) I am not sensitive enough to see something taking place in an English text

b) Nothing philosophical takes place in Led Zeppelin’s words

c) I’m rubbish at pointing out to you what’s taking place

d) You aren’t sensitive enough to see it.

Scientifically speaking it’s a useless experiment. That being said, let’s shut up and listen to the song.

Deborah

---

Continue readingWhere I come from 3: The Words, The Wonderful Word.

Or go back and read Where I come from 1: Pub Talk Philosophy.

Where I come from 1: Pub Talk Philosophy

2010-04-04T21:00:00.005+01:00

Dear Freddie,

The first time we talked about philosophy, we had a big fat fight. We’d been together for over a year, and so far I’d managed to escape serious conversations that had anything to do with philosophy. I’d told you from the start that I left Holland in order to get away from philosophy and that I’d chosen Great Britain because, as far as I knew, the language didn’t allow any fallbacks. That was fine with you because you didn’t enjoy talking about matters that were beyond your capability to change and put to good use anyway – aka philosophical conversations did your nut in.

But a couple of weeks ago, you introduced me to Charlie in the Portobello Gold. “Charlie’s writing a book,” you said. It turned out to be a book about how God spoke to Charlie when he was in prison, about how he saw Jesus when he got out, about Americans coming to London to look for Jesus, who would be ‘amongst Angels on Earth’, and about two skinned bears that were found in the snow in London in the winter of 1983 without any blood or footprints around it. I was being playfully cynical, asking questions such as “are you sure those voices you heard had nothing to do with the brain injury you just mentioned?” , “and you think Jesus dumped those bears there?”, “oh, now I get it, you think Jesus is Bigfoot!”

When you told me, later that night, that Charlie used to be the head of the Essex Chapter of the Hells Angels, I said I felt like an idiot for being so cheeky towards possibly one of England’s most dangerous men.

"But at the same time, I know I would have felt just as foolish if I would have agreed with him. I mean, come on, it was a big load of bollocks.”

"It wasn’t all nonsense,” you said, “I think his philosophy was quite interesting.”

And that’s how it started. I said as far as I could tell his book in the making was very interesting, but not philosophical. You demanded a definition of philosophy.

“I can’t give you one, but I can assure you I didn’t spend six years in university studying pub talk and the ramblings of a retired Hells Angel with a brain injury. Thank you very much.”

“Very impressive, you spent six years in university studying something and you can’t even tell me what. At least Charlie’s trying to improve the world.”

“Yes, he is trying to make the world a better place, but that doesn’t make him a philosopher. So are you, but you’re an aerospace engineer. If anything, the fact that he’s trying to manipulate the world shows that he’s NOT a philosopher.”

“Well, then tell me what a philosopher does.”

I tried to explain that philosophers try to find words or truths that they can’t deny, and wonder why. But, as was to be expected, I failed to make you understand. I argued that I couldn’t show you what it’s like to discover a philosophical necessity in a language that wasn’t my mother tongue – because it’s all about finding nuances of words as they come naturally - not artificially (the way I learned it in school). When speaking English, I get it wrong all the time. Without making myself incomprehensible, I disobey the rules of British English all the time, in ways that are actually impossible for a native like you. You couldn’t make my mistakes, even if you tried.

That’s because you’re hardwired with the language, whilst I am not. I said I was hardwired with a language that was possibly more suitable for the deeper insights as well. But by neglecting Dutch, I was turning myself away from all that. So I didn’t want to talk about it.

You didn’t take my inability – interpreted as unwillingness – to explain what philosophy is well. We had a serious argument the other day, and you brought it up again. You called me a philosopher for being argumentative, for arguing for the sake of arguing – which I was, but that doesn’t make me a philosopher.

“Bloody philosophy,” you said, “it’s a waste of time. Doesn’t have a point.”

“It is,” I said, “it is useless. But that doesn’t make everything that’s useless philosophical.”

“I only said that to wind you up. It’s not useless.”

“NOW you’re winding me up. It bloody is.”

“I’ve asked a girl at Phoebe’s party for a definition of philosophy, and she agreed with me. And she was pretty smart too.”

“Was she English?”

“That’s beside the point. But yes, she was English, and she was doing a degree in Philosophy.”

“If some clever bird wants to do a degree in pub talk, that’s fine with me. Though personally, I think that subject is much more enjoyable with a pint in a local. Without having to write an essay about it afterwards.”

But I love you and I don’t want you to think that I’m being selfish and just don’t want to share my background with you. So I promised to give it a go: I’ll attempt to write something that might give you a glimpse of what I’ve been doing in university for six years. I can’t promise I’ll manage. I never had any guarantee ‘philosophy would happen’ while I was in uni either. And even if, for a moment, I think my text opens up an insight, I can’t promise you’ll be capable of seeing it. I can’t do that for you. But I’ll do my best to show you that philosophy is taking place in Stairway to Heaven. If it is.

Deborah

---

Continue readingWhere I come from 2: MA in Pedantry.

Debs Loves The Garden

2010-03-23T17:31:00.007Z

“I know it’s not bunny ears or a naughty book,” he said, “but I really thought you were going to be over the moon when I carried that sack of earth home for you.”

We give each other presents, Freddie and I. We forget about each other’s birthday, Christmas and all that Jazz, but on random weekdays I like to come home and give him a cookbook like Natural Harvest. Because it’s a laugh, because it reminded me of him when I first saw it or because I couldn’t justify buying it for myself. Judging by the surprises he comes home with: you reap what you sow.

But in this case, even the fact that he gave me a present eluded me completely! I saw him fumbling with it when I came in, glanced at it, and thought nothing of it. We started talking about work, not knowing what to wear, dinner... all in all, it took three hours before he finally told me it was FOR ME that he’d dragged ten kilo’s of garden soil home with a broken middle finger.
“WOAH!” – that was me waking up all the neighbours – “That’s such an amazing present! I can’t believe how sweet you are!”

My excitement was genuine. He was right: this was no kinky costume or game console. This was better. I’ve been saving sprouting garlic cloves and seeds from peppers, cherry tomatoes and even raspberries (it’s not impossible, but you have to suck them clean) ever since we moved to Harrow. Because we’ve got a garden.

Unlike the garden of the Beeches, which was gorgeous and spacious and had an incredible lawn, a fig tree and toms crawling out the cracks in the pavement... sigh... unlike my previous garden, the garden in Harrow needs some work.

Some serious work. In December, we’ve been cutting back brambles in the snow. Freddie bought us gardening gloves (a great present!) and we’ve been cutting blackberries out of the frozen ground, stabbing at their roots with massive knives. Yeah, if you’re contemplating moving in with your partner, I can seriously recommend gardening as a way of dealing with the murderous inclinations you’ll both build up!

With all the weeds and rubbish gone, we’re still not quite ready for lawn care. There’s still broken slabs of concrete, unruly living things (roses ?) grow in the middle of the only spot that might suitable for a lawn) and my neighbours seem to think this is a private dump. In all honesty, I just don’t know where to start.

But Freddie does. He tells me not to worry, and wants to use the concrete to make raised beds for veg. That’s why he bought me the soil or compost or whatever it is. So we can start sowing the seeds indoors in April, so that we’ll have seedling plants ready for planting outside at the end of May. Because with tomatoes, it’s all about timing.

So, all inspired by my new present, I visited www.guerrillagardening.org again. It’s like plant graffiti! But perhaps I should first try and turn that patch behind my own house into a place that’s suitable for sunbathing.
On www.lovethegarden.com there's Gardening Forecast (! Next time I’m putting on my gardening gloves, I’ll make sure it’s not snowing!) and… this is really exciting… a Vegetable Planner! Love their advice:

“Don’t forget flowers! Marigolds planted in amongst vegetables will help ward off pests and attract beneficial insects, while nasturtiums will make your plants look attractive and you can eat the flowers in salads.”

Boost your creativity with the basics of living abroad

2010-03-15T11:25:00.012Z

Apparently, the best way to train your creativity is to live abroad for a while, because you’re forced to find new ways to solve problems. That’s a great consolation. At least I gain some personal development from having to fight for things that come naturally in the Netherlands.

Battles I’ve won so far include:

• Housing – I live close to a tube station, the room is cheap, and my landlord pays all electricity bills and council taxes.

• Being allowed to vote in the UK.

• Work – I’ve got a National Insurance Number and a brilliant job.

Still pending: opening a basic bank account. I’ve tried every high street bank, to no avail. It’s not that I’m very demanding. I don’t even need a credit card – though I’d like one – all I’m asking is a current account. But I need an electricity bill with my name on it as proof of address. How am I supposed to pay those bills, if I don’t have a bank account? And how am I supposed to pay them, if my employer can’t pay my salary into a bank account? Really, it’s not just me, other Dutchies in London have similar experiences. Fortunately, I have enough savings to support myself until I’ve sorted things out.

Not everything is problematic, though. The National Health Service is a delightful example of something I didn’t have to fight for at all. They provide free medical treatment for everyone that needs it: foreigners, criminals, people without proof of address... you name it. In the Netherlands, it’s a legal requirement to have a private health insurance. Being used to that system, I thought it might be wise to check out what’s on offer in England. Considering the theme of my novel, this might come as a surprise but I really care a lot about my teeth. I want to look good when I smile, and I want that sparkle to be my own. Dental treatment can be very costly, even on the NHS. So, as soon as I’ve got a current account, I’ll apply for a dental insurance. I can’t wait!

Start your new job with a Holiday!

2010-03-09T17:19:00.004Z

Start your new job with a Holiday!
My first two days as a copywriter, I have done nothing but pondering the holidays. And my boss will be happy to hear it. Still, it’s not what you’d call a flying start, but only because it’s all about nostalgic, nationalistic and environmentally friendly holidays: aka not going abroad. I’ve been writing Google Ads for... well, you’ll find out what company. No need to mention them even more – I need to sort of sound objective, right?
The tricks I’ve tried to use:

1. Putting in a pun, such as:
Great British Breaks with kids – Haven Holidays from £99 per family
Egg-cellent Holiday Deals – Easter weekend breaks from £194

2. Referring to the time of the year:
Have Hot Cross Buns at a Haven Park – Book Now! Last Minute Offers!
The Easter Bunny goes to Haven – Why don’t you? From £194 per family!
Join our Easter Egg Hunt – Now! Haven weekend breaks from £194!

3. My rhyming skills:
Beautiful British Beaches – Splendid Summer 2010 Deals!
Great Getaway in the UK

4. Creating an emotional bond:
Get away with the kids in 2010 – Haven Holidays from £99 per family
Enjoy Easter with the whole family – Now £194 at Haven Holiday Parks!
Chill while the kids let off steam – Guaranteed Best UK Holiday Deals

5. Mentioning Money:
Best summer breaks with kids – Active Holidays from £99 per family
UK Number 1 Holiday Parks – Book now for 2010 and save £20!

6. Making it personal:
You deserve a weekend break – Free and Easy Online Booking
Catch a Tan in UK Top Holiday Park – £20 off Sunny Break in Haven Park

Personally, I think the funniest thing is that I’m advertising for You Know Who without a Google partnership. But hey, the greatest investment I can make is... (dramatic pause)... my time. Compared to that, the fact that I’m also spending some blog space on the matter is irrelevant (^_~)

Which pen name sounds best?

2010-02-05T14:17:00.003Z

Now that I’m actually launching my career as a writer – not just by writing, reading, blogging and fantasizing, but by actually offering my manuscript to agents and publishers – it’s time to put some serious thought in a pen name.
When I started publishing my Dutch short stories on De Verhalensite and Eindelijk.Schemering.nl, I used the pseudonym Guirlande F. because I thought it sounded elegant and mysterious and that was how I wanted to write.
When I took my development as a writer to a new level and signed up for an MA in Creative Writing, it was only natural that I should use my own name, Deborah Klaassen. But when the assistant at the NHS misheard my surname as Clarkson and was unpleasantly confused when I started spelling my for her, it dawned on me that my ultimately Dutch name wouldn’t do very well on the cover of English books.
Perhaps it would be better if I spelled my name phonetically in English. Good Anglifications would be Deborah Clarkson, Debs Clarkson or Debbie Clarkson. Though I think Debbie would kill my career in The Netherlands because that abbreviation is strictly for the lower class.
Speaking of class…. That could be a derivation of my family name. Deborah Class. Sounds classy, no?
The other day, someone in the office called me Bella by mistake. It happens to be my mum’s first name, and I actually think “Bella Clarkson” sounds better than Deborah Clarkson, because of the repeated L. That’s what they call alliteration.
But technically, Bella is not my name. I do have a second and a third name, though: Martha Elizabeth. Now, Lizzy has an L in it, and Lizzy Clarkson sounds pretty good too.
Or perhaps I could use my mother’s maiden name, as family ties are more authentic than phonetical similarity. What about Deborah Mendes or Lizzy Mendes?
I’ve lost it… I honestly don’t know what to choose… So what do you think sounds best? I’m also open for new suggestions!

Good times!

2010-01-29T10:20:00.006Z

Hurah! I've got a job! In March I'll start as a copywriter at BLM Quantum!

Last year, they spotted my blog and thought it was great. In reply to their request to cooperate with them, I sent them my CV, and the next day I was invited to visit their office on Tottenham Court Road!

Over Christmas, I had to write three articles to prove that I could do the job - about Flights to Antayla, office supplies and car insurances. (I bet you all know what my next post will be about...)

They were pleased with what I wrote, and last Tuesday they offered me the job! I want to finish my internship at Elwin Street before I start at BLM, though.

Also, I got great news about Shut Up and Eat... a major Dutch publishing house has let me know they were very pleased to read it, and I'm going to Holland in a couple of weeks to discuss the practical details with them!

Optimize your efficiency while working from home

2010-01-23T18:20:00.003Z

Offices seem to have a magical atmosphere in which working seven hours a day comes naturally to all those present. While the regular office hours are suitable for early risers, people with a natural preference for evenings are forced to work when they're not performing their best. Working at home allows employees to schedule their day according to their biorhythms and plan their breaks around their personal concentration span. A lot of efficiency can be gained this way.

However, contemporary explorers who have left the office in order to work from home have to navigate between the Scylla and Charibdys of slacking and overworking themselves. The only way to pass these dangers is by planning your time carefully and sticking to your plan. The hardest part of working from home is getting your work-life-balance right. In order to allow the ideal middle way to emerge, your home will have to undergo a metamorphosis, whether you're setting up your own business at home or telecommuting for an employer.

If you've got a family, you'll have to communicate clearly to them when you'll be available for shopping, small talk and other distractions, and when they're not allowed to disturb you. Especially if you’ve got young children this might be difficult. One way of dealing with this is setting up your office in a separate room which is to be used for business purposes only. If a family member wants to ask you something, (s)he’ll have to wait until you come out of your room.

Being able to shut a door behind you (both when you enter and when you leave your home office) will also help you recreate that special office atmosphere that helps employees focus for hours on end. Some may argue that this defeats the whole purpose of working from home - a more flexible mixture of private and working life - but it's a fact that having a separate work space improves your concentration.

If you don't believe in ergonomics, working from the sofa might seem appealing. But where will you sit when you want to relax and watch TV? You'll start to feel as if you're always at work and can never really take a break. It will get harder and harder to motivate yourself if you're slouching on the sofa all day long, which will eventually lead to stress that you can’t even forget about in your spare time. Making a habit of working in your living room is a one way ticket to the burn-out clinic.

Regardless of whether you're reserving an entire room for your home office or just a desk in the corner of your bedroom, it's crucial to have a comfortable work space with daylight or indirect light which is bright enough but doesn't glare in your eyes. This may mean investing in some office furniture. If you're working for an employer, keep in mind that you're saving him a fortune because he doesn't have to rent office space for you. Therefore, it's not unreasonable to ask for financial support in order to buy a solid desk and a straight but comfortable chair. Getting the right office supplies will help you avoid distractions and get on with your work, so your employer will benefit from furnishing you with the right equipment.

Even if you're starting up your own business from your ensuite flat and your office consists of your laptop on the dinner table, you can turn your home into a proper work space with no more than a desk lamp, a printer and a good stationery set. Professional writing paper, a sharp hole punch, a good supply of staples and paper clips, binders, laminators, writing utensils and post-its will give you the feeling that what you're doing is important. That's what working from home is all about: allowing people to work under the conditions that work best for them.

Topsy-Turkey

2010-01-08T07:04:00.003Z

The new year is so cold, that I can't help but think back to my summer holiday in Antayla, the fourth largest city in Turkey. It's the greatest city at the Turquoise Coasts of the Mediterranean and features a picturesque historic city centre that curves down to a Roman harbour, amazing archeological treasures, beautiful beaches, haute cuisine from all over the world and overwhelming views of the sea and mountains.The mere memory of it warms my cockles.

Our hotel was on a sweeping shingle beach called Konyaalti, where I bumped into a group of warm locals who were there enjoy the sunset. They took me to a terrace bar in a five-star hotel, where we had some brilliant cocktails, fresh seafood and a whale of a time on the dance floor. The next morning (aka 12 o'clock), I indulged in what a doner kebab ought to be like: fresh, tasty, big and ridiculously cheap. After that I felt for a swim, so I went to Aqualand, a nearby water park with spectacular slides. Apparently, there's an even better park near Lara Plaji, which even has dolphin shows, but I never managed to fit it into my busy holiday.

That night, I met up with my new friends and went for a pint down at the harbour front in Kaleici, the historic centre where the night life takes place. We ended up dancing and drinking the night away in Club Arma (Kaleiçi Yacht Marina).

The next morning, my mates went to the Bridge Canyon National Park for a hike. I decided to go with them, but what I didn't know was that they were planning to go white-water rafting. I had no intend of going home on crutches, and regretted coming along. Fortunately, one of the guys offered to show me the overwhelming Mediterranean scenery. We visited the Temple of Zeus and explored the ruins of the city walls. Raoul and I got to know each other a lot better while he showed me the classical clock tower, the triumphant Hadrian's Gate and the famous Kesik Minare Camii, a 5th century Byzantine church that was ruined and later converted to a mosque. That night he took me out for dinner by candlelight in a secret garden at the Gizli Bahçe (Selçuk Mahallesi).

The next morning we all met up again and took a bus to the golden beaches of Phaselis, an ancient port in a national park. It was absolutely gorgeous, but I started to realize that my holiday was almost over and I hadn't even explored Antayla properly yet. I decided to rise early the next morning and make up for that. The hill in Kaleici is very steep and the narrow streets are lined with restored Roman and Ottoman mansions which now serve as houses, designer boutiques, jewellers, cheap fashion shops, carpet emporia, inns and restaurants. I bought so many nice things that I had to book in an extra suitcase on my way back!

On my last day, Raoul and his friends took me on a day excursion to Olimpos. I remember the magical mix of forests, secluded beach resorts and ancient ruins clearly. It was almost like walking through a fairy tale. That night, he wanted to take me out for dinner again but, because it was my last night in Antayla, I insisted that we all went to Ally's (a club on 40-46 Selçuk Mah) together.

"Do you like ballet and opera?" Raoul asked. It was getting light already when he took me back to my hotel on Konyaalti beach, and I was afraid I'd still be drunk on the plane back to England. "If you do, you should come back next year in June or July," he said. "There's a festival in the Aspendos Roman theatre every year. Please come back next year."
Raoul and I haven't been in touch since but I'm starting to warm up to the idea of going back for some ballet. Flights to Antayla are extremely popular that time of the year, though, so I'll have to book my ticket early.

Ordering in - part 3

2009-12-21T20:13:00.005Z

No batteries in it? What was that supposed to mean?
She reached into the pocket of her coat, murmering something about nicking the batteries from the fire alarm of her previous house, and brought out two AA penlights.
"Wait..." He tried to stop her, but she was quick.
Damn, she was quick!
He lunged forward, trying to grab her wrist, but before he knew it, the batteries clicked into the empty heart of the Pocahontas clock. He closed his eyes and lost his balance, falling forward with his stretched out hand onto her soft chest. She caught him, lovingly, with strong hands, and didn't seem to mind.
Tick-tick tick-tick-tick
It was not the homely sound of the clock - it was not the sound his daughter used to sleep to.
It was not his heart, beating in his throat or ears.
Wat was it, that made the house tremble and the central heating tick?
It was her warmth, her heartbeat, the stroking of her hand. She wanted to share her life with him. To live with him. She wanted to bring him back to life.
He couldn't accept it. Of course he couldn't. He couldn't let go of what once was his - and now belonged to the land of the dead.
He was the only thing that connected them to the world where they belonged - because he was living the life of the dead. He couldn't give in to her warmth. This was not why he had invited her in.
tick-tick
it was the sound of his tears dripping on the doorstep. She tried to wipe his face with her thumb.

"No," he said. His thoughts echoed. No - no - no!

He pulled himself away from her, grabbed the clock and smashed it through the window. She shrieked, jumped up in surprise and backed away.

"Get away from me!"
"You get away from me!"

They screamed at each other until she ran down the stairs, grabbing her coat to leave the house.

Once the echo of the slamming door had died away, he took his computer and his laptop and carried them up the stairs. They were heavy and dug deep furrows into his arms - there was no need for him to take them both at the same time - it's not as if he was trying to save time. If anything, he was trying to kill it. For these machines, he had realised, were the last clocks in his house that kept him hooked to the real world, that kept pulling him away from his beloved wife and children. He carried the computers up the stairs in order to chuck them out of the broken window - to see them crash on the pavement.

With them gone, he would soon not be able to pay his bills any more, not be able to order in any more food or company... he would soon be forced to join them in eternity.

Ordering in (part 2)

2009-11-27T14:36:00.001Z

Five meals later, the doorbell rang.

“I'm sorry I'm a bit early,” the girl on the doorstep said. She had big Afro hair that would have made him hide behind the curtain if he would have seen her from Steph's room.

“I'm Calypso,” she said. “I'm here to view the room.”

“Fuck, I completely forgot you were coming.” He showed her in and hurried to the kitchen where he was folding Little Danny's clothes. “Please don't look at the mess, things are a bit hectic today. I'm afraid nobody's home at the moment. I really ought to have given you a call to make a different appointment.”

“Don't worry.” She glanced around the cosy kitchen while taking of her coat. “I happened to be in the area, and I can always come back to meet the rest of the family.” She was short and slender and her skin reminded him oak wood, richly bronzed and natural.

“Of course,” he said, “you'll have to come back. Would you like a cup of tea? Did you have lunch yet? I've got home-baked scones.”

“No thanks,” she said, “but a cuppa would be lovely. For how long would the room be available again?”

“As long as you'll want to live here, darling,” he said. He put the kettle on, picked up the folded laundry and held the door open for her. “Let me show you the room first.”

As she preceded him up the stairs, he checked how her Levi's squeezed her bum tight. A full but firm bottom, just the way he liked it. Above the waistband, her top bulged up a little. But she was so young still, only nineteen, that he quickly decided he didn't mind a midriff of puppy fat. Besides, she seemed muscular enough underneath, with shapely legs and strong shoulders.

“Do you have any hobbies?” he asked, “Do you do any sports?”

“I like climbing, kite surfing, snowboarding, that sort of thing,” she hesitated “and pole-dancing.”

“In a club?” He pictured this tiny girl with her big bum and Afro hair offering her service to greedy seedy men in a red lit bar.

“No, in a gym. It's a proper sport, you know, very intense on the muscles to keep your body up like that.”

“You're an unusual girl,” he said, coaxing her into Step's room. “I like that. Now this would be your room. Obviously, there's still a lot of stuff from the previous lodger in there, but that will all be out when you move in.”

She stepped into the little girl's room,touched the light flick and sat down on the chest of toys. “Looks good,” she said. “So when would it be available?”

“The other girl will move out the first of December,” he said. It was bizarre to see another girl here. For a moment, he realised that Steph would have been roughly the same age by now, if only...

“Wow, is it that late already?” She pointed at the Pocahontas clock, which said it was ten past ten.

It was getting dark already, and Paul realised he had no explanation for his wife's absence. He helplessly looked at his watch, which told him it was five to three. Not much help either.

“Is that clock even running?” she asked, and took it off the wall.

“No,” Paul said, “don't touch that, please, I mean, it's okay. It's not running.”

“Of course it's not,” she smiled “there's no batteries in there.”

Ordering in (part 1)

2009-11-16T17:01:00.002Z

Dating websites were the greatest disappointment the internet had to offer.

On the 17th of November, tomorrow exactly five years ago, Paul Putney's life ended. He quit his job as a senior director with one simple email and apart from the funeral of his wife and three children, seven days later, he hasn't left the house once. He couldn't bare going to the mall or the pub because his neighbours and former friends would remind him of the tragedy, so everything he needed he ordered on the internet. Sainsbury's delivery service, Amazon and e-bay never let him down.

The first day after the accident, he removed all batteries from the clocks and watches in the house. They were all frozen at different hours of the day, and wandering through the bedrooms, the corridors, the drawing room, the kitchen, Paul used to glance at them and pretend that time was moving on. The past five years had been like one disturbingly long day that wouldn't end until Clara came home with the kids.

At times, he'd take a nap in Little Danny's bed, wear Clara's dresses or masturbate on her knickers, so that he'd have to do the laundry before they got home. But the day was endless, and Paul was prone to boredom. There were plenty of porn websites, of course, but soon the mechanic movements of waxed and lubricated bodies somehow emphasized how cold and lonely he was. The chat rooms were better, they were filled with ordinary people that were up for dirty talk. But ButterFlyGrrl ruined it for him when he asked her whether she was alone. “Nope,” she answered, “I'm @ the school computer.” He logged out and suppressed the thought that he might have been chatting up Steph, his thirteen-year-old daughter.

Paul stared at the clock in the kitchen, and saw that it was only eleven in the morning. He had a whole day of loneliness ahead of him. There was no laundry to be done, the fridge was filled with vegetarian burgers for Johnny, fat-free desserts for his wife and healthy foods for the whole family. There were no chores left to do. He'd been a good houseman. It wouldn't hurt anyone if he'd go online and look for a friend, a female friend, to help him waste his time. It would only be until Clara came home. She'd always said he was free to do whatever he wanted, as long as she didn't have to know about it. He was only human, and it had been such a long time since she'd last touched him, rubbed her naked body against his, let him smell and lick her. It was unbearable how much he missed her.

So Paul got out his credit card and opened accounts at Skipdinner, Dating Direct and Adult Friend Finder. He uploaded a picture Clara had taken on St. Monica beach, during their honeymoon. Not because he took pleasure in using their souvenir to arrange adultery, but because it was the happiest and sexiest photograph he could find of himself. Clara wouldn't mind. If anything, he'd be doing her a favour, because he wouldn't be pestering her for sex all the time when she got home. It made him sad to remember how she'd sent him to his room as if he were one of her children, the day before the accident, because he'd tried to touch her up in the kitchen while Steph, Danny and Johnny were watching television in the drawing room.

He was disappointed to find that most women on Dating Direct insisted on meeting in a public place. In order not to appear dodgy by refusing to buy them dinner, he made appointments, but never showed up.

The Skipdinner population was more willing to drop by, but after giving them his address, he often pretended not to be at home. With horror, he'd sit on Steph's window sill on the second floor and watch an antique Fiat 500 park on his flowerbeds or a blonde tart in a leopard fur coat locking her moped to his fence. Those who came by bus or taxi, he let into his lair. He offered them vintage wine and joked that they were supposed to skip dinner. He made them laugh and take of their clothes. He did what they came for, but felt all the more empty when they left.

“I'm hungry now, so I have to ask you to leave before dinner,” he said to one particularly affectionate lady. He had hoped her visit would make time pass quicker, that she would bring him closer to Clara's return, but while he gave her the grand tour of the mansion (“I'm a widower, but I've only just come to terms with it.”) the clocks seemed to move backwards sooner than forwards.

Yes, dating websites were the greatest disappointment the internet had to offer. Paul made himself a spinach lasagne and had a fat free yoghurt for dessert, before he cancelled his dating accounts.

It was Google Ads that gave him the idea. It wasn't sex that made time pass – he'd timed it when he just started going out with Clara, and even in their good days the deed hardly ever took longer than half an hour. You couldn't fill a life time with sex. It was the hunt that made the world go round. Everything he did in this household – laundry, ironing, ordering the groceries, vacuum cleaning, cooking and washing up – he did in order to seduce Clara. That's why those thirty minutes a week could fill his life. In order to make time speed up, he didn't need a sex partner, he needed to convince someone that wasn't up for it into opening up for him. Opening up wide, so that he could... Paul ran up the stairs to his bedroom and selected a silken nightie that would soon need to be washed.

Lobster or The Meaning of Life

2009-11-09T17:25:00.006Z

She knew only one way to fence off male attention, a daunting method indeed, and she was not a fan of bringing it into practice. But over the past forty-five years, Donna McLaren had not lost her feminine charm, and members of the other sex still persisted in courting her.

Like most other women, Donna was unaware of the secret of her magnetic power. Like many of her peers had pointed out, she wasn’t particularly beautiful. Her chin was too plump for her thin neck, and her blonde hair was fizzy on the top. Her chest was relatively flat and her arms were remarkably long. But her admirers didn’t notice any of this, because there is something irresistibly ladylike about having something more important on your mind than men.

All Donna wanted was some time to write down her musings on the meaning of life. Not because she thought she had an answer or even a precise question – she knew better than anyone that she was nowhere near catching a glimpse of what she was looking for. But she felt that, while writing, her thoughts became more concentrated, and her writings were like a map back to where she had left off when she had to attend another date.
Because declining offers politely, Donna had found, was a time consuming business. More often than not, she reluctantly agreed to listen to their small talk and compliments over free dinner in a restaurant where she’d been with over seventy different men before. When she was younger, older gentlemen used to take her here, and they felt like they were showing her something new in the world. Soon, her own generation started fancying French cuisine. By now, she was asked out by boys who could have been her own son, if she wouldn’t have rejected her first dates.

The waiting staff made a show of informing her on the specialties of the house and which wines to chose, though they knew she’d invariably choose for lobster. Not because she liked it – it was an acquired taste – but because she was allowed to eat it with her hands. Throughout the meal, Donna would take off veil after veil of elegance, wiping her hands on the table cloth and drinking the expensive wine as if it were ale in a pub, Pepsi from a bottle, water from a through.

Most men wouldn’t even buy her dessert after this performance, but they usually tipped the waiter generously so that he wouldn’t spread the gossip. They’d pay for her taxi, but walk home themselves. Donna didn’t mind all this. She just wondered why they’d bothered in the first place. It was the same old question that kept popping up and pestering her, as soon as her writings seemed to get her anywhere.

Finances when studying abroad...

2009-10-27T11:00:00.000Z

Before I left, I applied for a lot of grants, so that I didn’t have to get a job in London. I was sponsored by the IB-Groep, the Van Haersoltefonds (LUF), the Curatorenfondsen, The Outbound Study Grant and I got the Study Abroad Award from the Leiden University Faculty of Philosophy.

I made a calculation of how much I could spend in a day on average. In England, I have always asked for a receipt, and written every purchase down in a little notebook. Sometimes, I couldn’t help but overspend my daily allowance, for example during my work placement in Central London. But by keeping track of how much I’d spent and on what I’d spent it, it was easy to compensate the next week.

Life is expensive in London. For example, to get from the Brunel Campus in Uxbridge to Central London and back by tube costs seven pounds. There are corner shops everywhere, but they are terribly expensive. Everyone told me Tesco’s was the cheapest supermarket, but this was anything but true. Sainsbury’s sells more expensive brands, but also has a range of ridiculously cheap products called “Sainsbury’s basics”. The slogan on their bath soap (20 pence for a litre) is “less bubbles, still a good soak”.

I saved a lot of money by getting a bicycle (yes, the flash Bianchi on the left!). I didn’t always have to take the tube anymore, and I found out that I could get fresh, cheap fruit and vegetables on the markets in Ealing and Acton, which are boroughs between Central London and the Brunel Campus.

One thing I never had to cut back on was my cultural nourishment: there are over 240 museums in London, and most of them offer free entrance!

Mission Impossible?

2009-10-26T11:00:00.000Z

The Course
Some people say it´s impossible to learn how to write fiction. Either you´re talented, or you´re not. At least, that´s what they say. Frankly, I didn´t give a shit about whether it was possible. I just wanted to have a great year of experimenting and writing a lot. And that´s exactly what this MA offered me.

During this MA, I have experienced it to be very rewarding to discuss work-in-progress with peers, who helped me discover that I’ve got a talent for writing horror and dialogues. I’ve learned how to compose a novel or novella, to raise an idea so that it will be fit to sustain a full-length novel, to manage fictional time, to develop characters, to write towards a good plot or denouement, to develop a style that fits the products of my pen and how to approach a literary agent and prepare a submission package. My teachers arranged a two-week work placement at literary publishing house Bloomsbury for me, which was a useful way of getting into the thriving literary scene of London.
I’m very proud of my dissertation, which is a horror novella. My tutor, the famous author Matt Thorne, was very helpful and taught me a lot about how to write a book.

Writing in a second language
The network of international students at Brunel University is vibrant and fun, but it’s not beneficial for acquiring a British accent and authentic vocabulary to limit your circle of friends to Turkish, Indian, Russian and French students. Therefore, I made sure to get to know as many native English students as possible. Also, I often sat in pubs eavesdropping and jotting down other people’s conversations to practice writing British dialogues.
Before I went to London, I got a band score 8 in the IELTS exam. At that time, my German was a lot better than my English because my specialty was continental philosophy (Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Heidegger, etc.), but I’ve learned a lot in a year’s time. It would be interesting to take the test again and find out my new IELTS score.
Though many people told me in advance that it’s impossible to write fiction in a second language, I’ve experienced it as a challenge and an enormous inducement for creativity and originality. I believe I have proved these pessimists wrong, because I got good results on my tests. I had three B’s and one A. (An A is the highest you can get at Brunel, they don’t give A+ or A++.) I don’t know what grade I got for my dissertation yet, but a lot of people have read it already, and they’re all very enthusiastic.

source image of Toby Litt and Matt Thorne: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2008/apr/01/whereareourliterarysalons

Why I went to London

2009-10-25T10:33:00.006Z

While working on a story inspired by "Camp Hulen - Eating Gifted Children", I'm also writing reports for all the different sponsors that made it possible for me to go to London for a year and do the MA Creative Writing.

For the next couple of days, I´ll be posting bits and tips from these reports, because they might be interesting or even useful.

So... why I went to London...
From the moment I could read, I felt a strong desire to produce the thing that gave me greatest pleasure, a good book. Ever since, I have been writing stories, articles, poems and diaries.
I decided to study Philosophy at Leiden University, with a view to place my stories in a context of truthfulness. Moreover, I aspired to attain profound knowledge and proficiency in contemplating human existence, in order to introduce multiple layers of meaning, and thus enhance the significance of my narratives.
In addition to Philosophy, I took several courses in Literature Studies. Also, I completed the minor programme in Journalism & New Media, to further practice my writing.
I wrote a large number of articles on various themes for Thauma, the periodical published by the Faculty of Philosophy, and in 2003, I was chosen as the editor-in-chief. Thanks to my internship at the editorial department of literary publishing house Prometheus/Bert Bakker, I got well acquainted with the Dutch publishing industry.
My wish to become a writer has been a leading theme throughout my life, and I was absolutely thrilled when I found out that I could do a master in Creative Writing in addition to my master Philosophy of a Specific Discipline.

There are many universities in the UK that offer different masters in Creative Writing. Before applying, I made a list of things that I thought of as important, such as famous teachers, fees and a substantial amount of contact hours. After extensive research, I decided to apply to The University of Manchester, Newcastle University and Brunel University of West London. I got a place offered at all three of them and chose Brunel because I’m a fan of Fay Weldon, one of their staff members.

Camp Hulen presents... Eating Gifted Children

2009-10-15T13:40:00.006+01:00

I'd like to ask your attention for a promising new band, Camp Hulen, and their debut album, Eating Gifted Children.

I came across the following meme on Facebook:

1 - Go to "wikipedia." Hit “random”or click http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:RandomThe first random wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.

2 - Go to "Random quotations"or click http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3The last four or five words of the very last quote of the page is the title of your first album.

3 - Go to flickr and click on “explore the last seven days”or click http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7daysThird picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

4 - Use photoshop or similar to put it all together.

5 - Post it with this text in the "caption" and TAG the friends you want to join in.

Okay, I cheated a little. The album title is only three words (it's from Lewis B. Frumkes' book title How to Raise you I.Q. by Eating Gifted Children"). But it's fun!

I'm well impressed by mine. Randomness can actually make it seem as if someone put a lot of thought into things.

Try it too and show me your result!

Sabbing

2009-10-06T21:03:00.004+01:00

There's a beautiful verb in Dutch, which I find hard to translate: soggen. Sog is short for Studie Ontwijkend Gedrag, literally Study Avoiding Behaviour. But sabbing is not just any type of ducking your responsibilities, it's not picking your belly button. To explain what I mean with, I'll explain what I've been up to lately.

Upcoming Thursday, I'll have to defend my philosophy thesis. This requires an extensive preparation, especially since I've written this dissertation before I went to England, a year ago, and haven't looked back at it since.

So, ideally, I would lock myself up in the library, reread all texts I used and my notes, memorise key passages of my dissertation and do some more research into both translation theory and the philosophy of Walter Benjamin.

But... I couldn't resist surfing the web for interesting job vacancies; read In de mist van het schimmenrijk” by W.F. Hermans; arrange interviews with several important people in The Netherlands; write the synopsis of my novel so that I can send it to an agent; read Ruth Rendell's The Monster in The Box and write a review for www.OpSpraak.net (conclusion: it's a thriller in the tradition if-you've-got-a-lion-in-a-cage, someone has to forget to close the cage. Unfortunately, some emotional lions remained caged, while plot-technical lions escaped from cages I hadn't seen before.); organise my graduation party and surf the discussions on LinkedIn. Someone posted the question “Do you play games with language in your wrintings, or do you stick to the 'rules'? And, either way, why do you do so?” and I even posted a reply.

Whenever I start to think up word games, this is a sign I'm distracted from the story I'm trying to tell.

Either because the story is boring - in which case I should stop - or because I'm approaching a very sensitive, difficult scene - in which case I should definitely not start playing games, but should focus on the storytelling!

Sometimes I change words while editing because they are funnier, because of etymological reasons or because they add an extra layer of meaning to the whole story. But that's what editing is for.

While writing, I'm not managing the words. The words choose me. I mean, I usually don't know which words I'm going to write down before they're there. Just like when I'm speaking.

And if I do know which words I'm going to use (e.g. when I'm playing with words), people often tell me that that passage doesn't sound right. The words are in charge, not me.”

In short, I've been promoting my novel, thinking about my career and organising my graduation party. It's all very interesting and important. But I've been doing anything but cramming for my defence appeal. Which is what I should have been doing.

I wonder why there is no good English word for soggen, so that I have to invent sabbing (which actually has to do with spontaneous abortion – how appropriate!). Is it typically a problem for Dutch students, that there are so many important things to take care of that don't involve studying?

Shut Up and Eat!

2009-09-24T18:45:00.006+01:00

Hurah! I've finished my novella! I handed it in yesterday and had champagne with Fay Weldon afterwards (oh how I love name dropping!).

Leave a comment or send me an email if you want a little preview of Shut Up And Eat.

Thanks everyone!

I've published a book (and it's not my novel)

2009-09-11T18:49:00.005+01:00

It's my Dutch dissertation on Benjamin's translation theory!

You can all buy De Windharp in de Taalarcade through Lulu, though I don't expect rocketing sales with this masterpiece LoL

I'll be defending it 8th of October in Leiden, which will be quite a ceremony for a book launch!

I need help with my novel!

2009-08-31T11:59:00.003+01:00

I know I don't deserve it because I've abandoned you all for so long, but now that I'm almost done with my dissertation, I could really do with some help on the first paragraph. Which version is better?

"The prospect of glamorous London made it very appealing to leave behind everything I knew and loved. Especially since all my friends said they would come and visit me and my parents promised to pay my return at Christmas or whenever I got homesick. Homesick, I thought, are you kidding? Once I'm in London, I won't have time to think about some dull city in Holland that no one's ever heard of, let alone miss it!"

or

"The prospect of glamorous London made it very appealing to leave behind everything I knew and loved. Especially since there's Skype to keep in touch with everyone and mum promised to pay my return at Christmas or whenever I got homesick. Homesick, are you kidding? Once I'm in London, I won't have time to think about fun's hibernation cave, let alone miss it!"

Or, in addition to the second version, should it be: "Once I'm in London, I won't have time to think about the place where fun goes to sleep, let alone miss it!"

Later on the first page it will become clear that she's Dutch anyway, so the DRY-principle would justify the second version...

I'd love to hear from you! E-mails are welcome too!

Blogliday

2009-08-11T23:51:00.007+01:00

I admire all those bloggers who can resist the once in a lifetime opportunity to sunbathe in London without being on acid. Real life, these days, is too good to pause and blog about it. The only excuse I have to stop getting high on real city smog, is my dissertation.

A short summary, then, as an apology.

The course: I got an A for my essay on blogging for authors! Thanks, everyone!

The dissertation: I finished my first draft!

Real life: From night swimming in Wales to getting scouted for a Dove commercial to seeing my friends from Bloomsbury again at the blook launch of BabyBarista and successfully pitching my novel to an agent!

I'll be back with short stories when the summer and my dissertation are over, I promise!

the best bloody writer of our age

2009-07-09T03:15:00.004+01:00

mark, man, I'm bragging to my classmate right now that I know you. you're fucking brillant and I love you!

he's honoured to know you through me.

Summer Solstice at Stonehenge

2009-07-01T09:12:00.006+01:00

It's already more than a week ago (21st of July), and with the heatwave it feels like a year... but I hitched to Stonehenge for the Solstice this year!

I filmed a part of the ceremony while I sat on Freddie's shoulders. Me trying to get a shot of his head almost made us fall over (got saved by this huge stone right behind us - I'm glad we didn't knock it over!), hence the interesting camera work.

In all honesty, it was one of the least spiritual nights of my stay in the UK (and one of the most spontaneous and amusing ones too), though I did spot some people that seemed to connect with the stones and the stars and whatnot. Took some pictures of them too.

Like Question, Like Answer

2009-06-27T12:47:00.001+01:00

I got beaten up by twelve-year-olds this morning, and I deserved it.
I was on my way to the corner shop for some milk and squinted my eyes against the sun, when someone called for my attention.
“Excuse me, miss!” A girl came running towards me, about twelve years old, blond and twiggy. Her podgy friend came two meters behind her, a boy of the same age, you know the type: miniature hooligan.
“Yes?”
“Could you buy us some cigarettes?”
I looked them up and classified them as bullies. “Yes, of course. Which brand do you prefer?”
“Marlboro, miss,” said the boy, and he handed me a fiver. “The red ones.”
I accepted his fiver and bought my milk. When I came back out, they were still there waiting for me.
“Sorry kids,” I said, “buying cigarettes for teenagers is illegal.”
“Can we have our money back?”
“What money?” That will teach them, I thought. “I would never accept money to buy cigarettes for someone else.”
Before I knew it the miniature hooligan slashed a knife at me. In a reflex, I swung my plastic bag at him. Milk sprayed out of it, all over the pavement. I tried to locate the knife, but the girl grabbed my arm and kneed me in the stomach. Gasping for air, I bent in half and landed with my face in the fist the boy had waiting for me.
With a little bell, the door of the corner shop opened behind me. The girl let go of my arm and dropped me on the pavement.
That was all it took to chase the kids away. No one went after them. I deserved it, after all.

Stand by your book

2009-06-19T08:59:00.004+01:00

Sometimes it's hard to be a writer
Giving all your love to just one book
You'll have bad times
Killing your darlings
When people tell you they are shit

You have to trust them,
And forgive them
Even though it's hard to understand
It 's for the better
And still be proud of it
'Cause after all it's just a draft

Stand by your draft
Give it more time to ripen
Spend all your time on writing
When nights are cold and lonely

Stand by your draft
And show the world you love it
Keep giving all your love, and craft
Stand by your draft

Stand by your book
And show the world you love it
Keep giving it a second look
Stand by your book!

Birthday Body Paint - part 1

2009-05-29T11:14:00.001+01:00

I've got her right hand. It's the hand she paints with, she makes deals with when someone falls in love with her art, the hand with which she wanks Robert off, and probably it's the hand with which she wipes her arse too. This hand says it all. And I'm supposed to decorate it, to body paint the picture. That's what the official invite said, after I informally confirmed that I would be coming to her party.

“Dear Ginny,
For my 30th birthday, I'm asking you, as one of my closest friends, to body paint a picture of one of my body parts. It can express the way you see me, or the way you think you've influenced me. Please bring your picture to Sunshine Manor, the 30th of May, at four o'clock. Love, Shania.”

Sweet Shania, my sweet Shania O'Sullivan. This is my chance to put a ring on her finger. A thin silver band with a tiny pearl on her elegant finger. Would she mind if I decided to provide her with jewellery, rather than body paint her skin? She will be studying the end result closely, after all the guests have handed in their piece of artwork, gotten smashed or Shania's new collection of cocktails, stayed the night in her atelier, enjoyed Robert's builders breakfast in the green garden of Sunshine Manor, and returned to their own dull lives. She will analyse every brush stroke I did and didn't leave on her lovely right hand. A ring would be a blatant declaration of love – and a declaration of war with Robert. A war he's already won before it even started, since Shania is the prize, and she chose for him after a one-week-relationship with me, four and a half years ago. I've always said that we were meant to be friends, and our intercourse, inevitable and overwhelming as it may have seemed at the time, didn't do our relationship justice. I was happy to stay in touch with a woman as wonderful as Shania O'Sullivan. No hard feelings. I promise.

Honesty and intimacy, that's what she asked for. I'll take the veils of friendship from my true feelings and present her my heart as I've been carrying it since we met. She'll understand at once when she sees that silver snake clenching her elegant finger, reflecting the desperation with which I've held on to every phone call, every lunch date, every opportunity to hear her cheerful voice and see her sparkling eyes. A sliver snake it is, with tiny pearls as eyes.

Hip Hip Hurrah!

2009-05-19T17:45:00.006+01:00

My birthdays tend to coincide with special events.

On my 21^st birthday I won €250 worth in book vouchers in the short story competition Write Now; on my 23^rd birthday I received a beautiful bouquet with the message that I was chosen for the Dutch National Think Tank, and today, on my 25^th birthday, I got a letter congratulating me with the fact that Toby Turd and The Pile of Poo was short listed for the competition of the Academy of Children's Writers (over 2,000 entries). I'm not a winner, but it's a start!

To celebrate my birthday, I went to The Book Club Boutique with Cara last night, where we discovered the wonderful creature called Salena Godden. She's a singer, a poet and a writer; she's got an amazing voice and an even better sense of humour; she's beautiful and very macho... she's the type of woman that makes me think: oh yes, I almost forgot, life is fun!

I hear y'all asking: what do I want as a birthday present? From you, dear blog-readers, I want book tips! Tell me what books I should definitely read this year!

To give you an impression of my taste, I've answered the Book Quiz for Bookies.

Feel free to scroll straight ahead to the comments-section, though. Much fun as I had recollecting the books I read this year, I can imagine it's quite boring to read.

1) What author do you own the most books by?
Plato, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Heidegger, Dostojevski, Terry Pratchett and Ronald Giphart...

2) What book do you own the most copies of?
I own two copies of Also Sprach Zarathustra (Nietzsche), Echte Filosofie (Oudemans) and Embers (Sandor Marai), and several of copies of Voortplanting en Waarheidsverloochening (Sex and Lies, my dissertation on Schopenhauer).

3) Did it bother you that both those questions ended with prepositions?
Should it?

4) What fictional character are you secretly in love with?
Jonathan Strange. But don't tell anyone!

5) What book have you read the most times in your life?
Een onaangename geschiedenis (an unfortunate history) by Dostojevski. I read it about 18 times.

6) What was your favourite book when you were ten years old?
Anything by R.L. Stine I could lay my eyes on.

7) What is the worst book you've read in the past year?
In the last three weeks alone I hated Belle de Jour,The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl and Een Tafel Vol Vlinders, by Tim Krabbé equally, and I couldn't appreciate Dot in The Universe by Lucy Ellman either. I don't even want to think back further.

8) What is the best book you've read in the past year?
I just finished Piercing, by Ryu Murakami, and I loved it. I fondly think back of rereading George's Marvellous Medicine (Roald Dahl) a couple of months ago. But actually, I think Hunger by Knut Hamsun was the best book I read this year.

9) If you could force everyone you tagged to read one book, what would it be?
The Raw Shark Texts, by Steven Hall

10) Who deserves to win the next Nobel Prize for Literature?
I can't say

11) What book would you most like to see made into a movie?
Love of Seven Dolls by Paul Gallico

12) What book would you least like to see made into a movie?
The Writers' and Artists' yearbook. Or actually, I would like to see that!

13) Describe your weirdest dream involving a writer, book, or literary character.
I remember I dreamt about 'a famous writer' a couple of weeks ago. Even in the dream, the identity of the writer was not further specified than that he was famous, and I looked up to him. It was quite a pervy dream, a nightmare, but I don't remember what happened.

14) What is the most lowbrow book you've read as an adult?
Teena Thyme, by Jennifer Jane Pope

15) What is the most difficult book you’ve ever read?
The Fragments of Parmenides (I read them in Coxon's collection), and Heidegger's lingering around these fragments.

16) What is the most obscure Shakespeare play you've seen?
I don't think King Lear is very obscure...

17) Do you prefer the French or the Russians?
Russians

18) Roth or Updike? 19) David Sedaris or Dave Eggers? 20) Shakespeare, Milton, or Chaucer? 21) Austen or Eliot? 22) What is the biggest or most embarrassing gap in your reading?
Emphasised by question 18 to 21

23) What is your favourite novel?
Perhaps A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess. Or The Coma by Alex Garland. Or La Nausee by Sartre.

24) Play?
Bakchai by Euripides

25) Poem?
Haelfte des Lebens by Hölderlin

26) Essay?
Der Erzähler by Walter Benjamin

27) Short Story?
Taste by Roald Dahl

28) Work of nonfiction?
I couldn't move to London without Die Technik und die Kehre, by Heidegger.

29) Who is your favourite author?
Dostojevski.

30) Who is the most overrated writer alive today?
How about Martin Amis?

31) What is your desert island book?
Nietzsche's Nachlass. When can I go?

32) And... what are you reading right now?
Stephen King, The Green Mile (Cara's birthday present!).

Thicker than Blood (podcast)

2009-05-17T15:31:00.005+01:00

I'm having too much fun reading out stories!

If my voice got on your nerves but you're curious what happens to Hubba, Cissy and Plastic Man, you can also download the pdf version, with a theoretical reflection on the tragedy.

Female wisdom

2009-05-09T23:48:00.005+01:00

They've got fridge poetry at Bloomsbury too, and I can't help but see naughty combinations... Hence the reason why I've returned to twitter magnets and uttered all my inspiration there.

(blush and smile like a girl, or
speak and laugh like a woman,
but live like a harlot - be free.)

A Table Full of Butterflies

2009-05-07T11:25:00.002+01:00

“Hey, that’s Dutch! I can read that!”
Tuesday, my first day at Bloomsbury, and I already felt at home enough to shout and attract everyone’s attention. I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing.
“What does it say?” asked the editor on who’s desk I had spotted the word ‘vlinders’.
“A table full of butterflies,” I said. Odd, isn’t it, that Tim Krabbé has to be the first since my arrival in London to make me proud of my origin. In a publishing house, of all places.
“Do we have anything Dutch we can ask her to read?”asked another editor.
“You can read this for us,” the first said, “if you like. But we do need the book back afterwards. It’s our only copy.”

So I took Een Tafel Vol Vlinders back home and forced myself to read it instead of Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets, which I also happen to be reading. I took a bit of a detour, getting off at Liverpool Street to exchange my second copy of Mother’s Milk for a book of which I now don’t even remember author or title. I felt that was the least I could do, considering that, if it weren’t my first day at Bloomsbury, I would have been volunteering for Choose What You Read. I remember I preferred to read the CWYR book over Krabbé, though, because in the first paragraph the main character read in the newspaper that his dad had died. He hadn’t been informed personally because he had his mobile off all day, due to an important meeting, but he hoped his dad had suffered.

The next morning when I got to the office, I told the editor over coffee what I thought of A Table Full Of Butterflies. I can tell you the plot here, ‘cause if it’s up to me it won’t be translated any way.

Plot
Fred is middle-aged, blasé and has ‘sort of’ failed in his ambitions: to be an explorer and a novelist. He now earns his money as a travel-journalist. In the opening of the book he is climbing a beautiful volcano. But Fred is not impressed; Fred is annoyed with his fellow travellers and is inclined to give up several metres before he reaches the top. When his wife calls him on his mobile and tells him to call her as soon as he gets back to his hotel, he is convinced that his stepson, Bram, is dead. He starts imagining the funeral and reminiscing their life together.
His real father committed suicide when Bram was only three weeks old. Fred started dating his mother, Nicolien, soon after, and became Bram’s dad. When Nicolien got married to another man, John, Fred adopted Bram. He wanted his stepson to be special, to be the writer and adventurer that he failed to be. Bram tried to live up to these expectations and hitch hiked to New-Zealand when he was eighteen. He came back to Holland after that, but just to earn some money before leaving off again. When Bram drives Fred to the airport to go to his volcano-trip, he tells him he’s in love. Fred is unsympathetic and warns him not to grow too attached: men are meant to be great, women are meant to keep them small.
The second part is a first person narrative and takes off when, Bram, the new main character, meets his first true love: Emma. For the first time in his life he doesn’t feel lonely. But he experiences her as a “dil-emma”: his past (the ambitions Fred has superimposed on him) on the one hand, and his future (being happy with Emma) on the other. He takes Fred’s last words very seriously, and agrees that Emma is holding him down. With this insight, his love for her starts to fade, but his ambition to explore the world doesn’t revive. And that’s why he decides to take after his real dad and do himself in.

Opinion
Because the book takes off with an unsatisfied, complaining old man, I was inclined to put the book down after the first 10 pages. The atmosphere is depressing, and I can’t feel any sympathy for someone who is suddenly convinced that his son is dead when there is no real reason to assume so.
It gets better when the focus shifts to Bram. However, when he starts to see Emma as a burden, I got the impression Krabbé was just being plain sexist. That’s when I realised that all women in the book are unfaithful (while all the men are reliable), and when I stopped caring whether Bram would actually be dead, as Fred predicted in the beginning, or not.
I guess most readers finished it because they got it given for free, because there was a lot of media coverage (there always is a lot of media coverage for the National Book Week Present), because Tim Krabbé is famous in Holland, and because it was really short.
Stripped from one (or more) of these advantages, I think the book loses all appeal.

Let the nude poet be quiet and bitter!

2009-05-04T08:09:00.005+01:00

I keep trying, don't I?
I blame Golublog for pointing Twitter Magnets out to me.

(Though, actually, I don't think the site works properly... I entered my twitter account details, but it doesn't publish my poem. I wonder if they're going to do nasty things with my account now...)

Top 5 Inspiration Triggers

2009-05-02T20:00:00.001+01:00

1) Think up the story behind a picture on www.Rotten.com. This is my favourite, because it inspired me for my novel “Tale of the Fairy Teeth”, which I'm currently writing as my dissertation.

2) Ask someone you know which superhero he wanted to be when he was a kid, and imagine that he actually is this super hero. Imagine what his day must look like, being the person he is and having to hide his duties and powers.

3) Check http://google.com/trends and see which of top 10 Hot Trends of the moment you find most interesting. Then write a haiku about it (a poem of three lines. The first line has five syllables, the second seven and the last five again.)

I checked Google Trends and had a go. It's not always easy to come up with something, and this time it's so lousy that I had to write an article about Inspiration Triggers around it to justify posting it.

What the * is "Stick it"?
Oh My God I Need To See
Missy Peregrym

But they're not all bad... I'm still mightily proud of my Gastroenteritis-haiku, and the not so happy love-poems.

4) Browse a list of fetishisms (e.g. on wikipedia) and imagine you've got one. Choose a genre (romance, comedy, horror, historical, fantasy, lad lit, psychological suspence etc.) you normally don't write in and write 1000 words about living with your fetish in that genre.

5) Start writing with a very bold statement about a very broad subject and write non-stop for fifteen minutes.
A bold statement could be “Love is a luxury, a needy pet that feeds on spare time and dies when it is neglected.”
After writing for fifteen minutes you can look back and edit it. If you like you may strike even the bold statement, but if it sounds right, you can leave it in. It's up to you.

Death of a needy pet

2009-04-26T17:24:00.019+01:00

My first podcast: Death of a needy pet!

Yes, we do have to thank mr. Bananas for this, and
no, honestly, I didn't call it love just to please an absent audience!

Let me know if it works for you!

* as someone pointed out by e-mail, it might not be a bad idea to also provide you with the possibility to download Death of a needy pet as a pdf.

What we really want...

2009-04-22T10:09:00.006+01:00

And there I was, all smug and self-satisfied that I turned out to have a talent for writing horror.
All I had to do, I thought, was please my audience more by improving my website. The new layout temporarily worked wonders, so my hopes were high when I decided to increase the interactivity options of my blog.

1) A little widget showing who's following my website quickly filled up with... yes! Seven followers!

2) Little buttons underneath each post which people can click if they don't feel like thinking up a comment, but still wish to show their appreciation.

Because I promised to be funny once in a while,the first button is rofl (Rolling On The Floor Laughing).

With my talent for horror I had to add a button pukealicious, which pretty much speaks for itself.

And last but not least, the button to tell me I really need to try harder: dilligaf? (Do I Look Like I Give A ....)

3) Promoting every new post on Twitter and Facebook.

4) And yes... the poll. Turns out my readers don't want explicit sex and horror. You want well-crafted pieces of literature, beautiful sentences and deeper meanings! And if I refuse to live up to that (I thought I took a sabbatical: no philosophy this year!), you'd much prefer some nice characters and witty dialogues over my real talent.

This surprised me, for people always told me 'sex sells'. But I suppose it would be a really stupid idea of mine, trying to compete with www.tube8.com. Even if I were willing to post some interesting author pics.

But, according to BlogPulse's trendwatch, sex isn't really what's on blogger's minds anyway. Money is about four times as interesting as sex. What we really want, apparently, is love.

A different country in the World of Books

2009-04-21T14:13:00.003+01:00

About three years ago, on a sunny afternoon like today, I sat in a garden in the centre of Amsterdam and studied the slush pile of publishing house Prometheus/Bert Bakker. I was an editorial assistant at the time, and no manuscript ended up on the rejection pile after being judged by me alone.

After I had studied it, I would tell pass it on to one of the two editors who would read it as well and bear my opinion in mind.

One can honestly say that publishers take their slush pile very seriously in The Netherlands. But then again, the Dutch book industry is so different from the British one! I was on the London Book Fair yesterday, where a Dutch editor told me that there's exactly one literary agency in Holland!

Knowing that the Dutch editors actually read all unsolicited manuscripts, I suppose there's no real need for aspiring authors in Holland to send their manuscripts to Sebes & Van Gelderen Literair Agentschap.

Or do you think it's just a matter of time before the Dutch market changes as well?

Staying over

2009-04-17T11:21:00.003+01:00

"Push your hair back," Dominique said to Freddie, "so I can see your face when I'm talking to you."
Freddie and I were doing the dishes when his uncle, Dominique, came into the kitchen to say good night and explain his morning-ritual so that we wouldn't get in his way the next day.
It was the first time I met his uncle. He didn't seem like a bad guy, though he had been a bit grumpy most of the evening. Or, as Freddie put it, 'he just needs a shag'.
"Good night," Dominique said. And then: "why do I have to stand on my toes to kiss my little nephew good night?"
I smiled. "Because otherwise you would be kissing his nipples."

Happy Easter Haiku

2009-04-13T08:23:00.003+01:00

The rest of the year
He was a Happy Tree Fan
No more easter eggs

Blogofesto

2009-04-10T13:09:00.006+01:00

I realise I have been a bad bloggerette, recently. True, according to Google Ana lytics the number of visitors, their pageviews and average time on my site has steadily increased since I traded in the gruesome Scribe-template for a light-footed layout. But the response ratio has dropped dramatically over the last three weeks.

So, in order to avoid ending up in the BlogBog: my Third Term Resolutions!

1) Be a bloggernaut – experiment wildly, visit other blogs, link to them and return the favour when someone leaves a comment.

2) Be funny – even though I have been traumatized by numerous ex-boyfriends telling me I’ve got no sense of humour. To all of you out there, wherever you are: Sod you all!

3) Avoid bloggarrhoea – don’t post every day, it’s not bloody twitter!

4) Use pictures – I bet you’re all pretty glad I only came up with this one after my Sick Haiku!

5) Keep it short - one of the keywords people used to find my site was ‘debra stinks of poo’ (bounce rate 100%). Visitors have to be able to read the whole post while holding their breath.

Btw: I handed in my coursework for Planning A Novel last night! I put a lot of effort in presentation this time, it has been proofread by four natives and I used a lovely lay-out. I’m not allowed to post it online until it’s been assessed, but if you’re interested: just leave a comment and I’ll email you the PDF.

Needless to say, I'm craving for your advice on how to capture your attention. As the Dutch say:

"U vraagt, wij draaien!"

Back to Bath (Part 3 of 3)

2009-04-09T15:08:00.000+01:00

Twenty minutes later they skulked through the walkway on the twenty-sixth floor of the Trellick Tower. They didn't touch, didn't speak, didn't even look at each other, as if they were afraid that any sound, any intimacy would set off alarms and wake all inhabitants.
At Iris' door they stood still. Billy carefully collected his keyring from his pocket, searched for the right key, looked at Caithlin.
“Are we really gonna do this?” he asked.
She nodded.
With his free hand, Billy knocked on the door tree times.
“What are you doing?” Caithlin grabbed his arm to make him stop, and looked at him with large, anxious eyes. “Are you mad?”
“Well, if she's in, we'd better find out here, innit?”
“But what are you gonna say?”
“I don't think she's in,” he said. “It's Saturday evening; she's probably clubbing.”
Caithlin stared at the door. “I suppose you're right. If she were in, she would've opened it by now, right?”
“Right,” Billy replied, and he put the key in the lock. He turned it round once. “She's out,” he whispered. Quietly he pushed open the door and walked in. Caithlin followed him and shut the door behind them.
“Well well,” Billy said when he got to the living room. “She's hardly changed anything since I moved out.”
Caithlin headed straight for the window. “This is awesome,” she sighed.
“I know.” His eye fell on a letter that was left open on the table. He picked it up and read the first alinea. “Seems like she's an agent these days, a literary agent.”
“Big surprise,” Caithlin answered. “Those who can, do; those who can't, promote.”
Billy looked around the room and scratched his chin. “Perhaps I should get back in touch with her.”
“Why, are you still planning on writing that novel?” Caithlin turned around and giggled.
“Why is that so funny? I'm only twenty-eight, it's perfectly normal not to have written anything important yet. Kant only started writing when he was over fifty.”
“Kant was a philosopher, not a novelist. Look at this!” Caithlin walked towards a huge pile of paper next to the telly. “These must be the manuscripts!”
“And those too,” Billy pointed at cupboard that was loaded with big envelopes. “I reckon that's the slush pile; she hasn't even opened them yet.”
“The Ill Bird's Nest,” Caithlin read the title of the manuscript on top of the pile. “That doesn't sound too bad. Our feathered friends often foretell great novels: One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest, To Kill a Mocking Bird... I'm gonna read this in bed.”
“Gosh,” Billy said to himself when she had left the room, “this is depressing.” He turned his back to the slush pile and faced the window. “But hello London!”
He was just about to open the window, when he heard someone speaking in the corridor.
“Caithlin!” he whispered on the top of his voice. He rushed into the bedroom and dragged her out of bed. “She's here!”
Caithlin's eyes almost popped out of her blushing face. She put both of her hands over her mouth very tightly and dropped the manuscript. The leafs fluttered all over the bedroom floor.
“We've got one chance,” Billy said. He started collecting the manuscript and pushed her to the door at the same time. “The bathroom. If she's drunk, she won't brush her teeth. Otherwise, we're fucked.” The key clicked in the lock, Billy shoved the last sheets under the bed and hurried after Caithlin into the bathroom.
“He's taking after dad,” he heard Iris say. “But he knows how to deal with his feelings. He seemed so mature.”
There was no reply. Billy wondered to whom she was talking.
“He's an interior decorator now. Just the job for him: he can use his creativity and he loves to work with people. Yeah, I'm glad things are finally working out for him.” She stood still next to the bathroom door and made a rustling sound, perhaps by taking off clothing. Billy held his breath, put his finger over his lips and gave Caithlin a warning glance. She sat with her back against the heater and looked as if she had been holding her breath since she left the bedroom. Please, Billy thought, don't break down now.
“I can't believe I've been avoiding him for almost two years.” Her bare feet made a soft sucking sound on the wooden floor when she walked into the living room. Billy signalled Caithlin to softly breath out. “After all, he's still my little brother. And you know what?” Iris paused and waited for a reply.
“What?” A dark male voice came from the direction of the entrance.
“I think I shouldn't have been so hard on er, what's her name.”
“You mean Caithlin.” Caithlin swallowed with her eyes closed when the dark voice passed the bathroom door. When she opened them again, Billy gave her an inquiring look. She shrugged. “That's what I always thought. Of course I don't know her, but from what I've heard, she didn't steal your boyfriends, but went for your leftovers.”
“That's a very kind way way to put it.” Iris laughed a tired laugh.
“And if she did steal them, I'm glad she did.”
“I suppose I should say the same thing now, shouldn't I? Anyway, I figure, if Ian loves her, she can't be that bad.”
The bathroom floor was hard and cold, and Billy felt his buttocks go numb. When he imagined the embrace in the living room he shifted carefully.
“What was that?” Iris broke the silence.
Billy could have slept his own face, if only that wouldn't have made more noise. Caithlin's accusing eyes were almost worse than his fear to be discovered. To prevent himself from going mad, he counted how many times he blinked. He was very nervous and got to seven.
“Let's go to the bedroom.” Billy had never thought it could feel so good to hear these words in a seductive male voice. Iris gave in and shut the door behind them.
In the bathroom, Billy and Caithlin looked each other in the eye. Billy focussed on his breathing, trying not to make a sound. Iris and her lover had ceased their conversation but were not completely quiet yet. When Billy inhaled for the sixty-sixth time, Iris started cooing like a mourning dove. He remembered the intense look she had on her face when she made this sound, and knew that the coming minute, she wouldn't notice if a Boeing would fly into the service tower. He gestured at the door. Caithlin put her index finger on her lips, like he had done earlier, but nodded. It took them eight more breaths before they were in the walkway again.
“I need to wee,” Caithlin said when he softly closed the front door behind them. He laughed and decided to take her home for the second time that night.

The next morning Iris woke up to the Crazy Frog. She had a sour taste in her mouth and rubbed her face.
“Baby, have you changed your ringtone again?” she asked. Then she heard the shower running; Gareth was out of bed already. All right, she thought, I'll get it. She crawled to his side of the bed and grabbed his Nokia. With her sleepy eyes she gazed at the display for a second, until she realised it was not the source of the ring-ding-ding. She sat up straight and listened. The sound came from her side of the room. She got out and checked the bedside table, the floor and even the chair in the corner. Finally the Frog shut up, but Iris was wide awake now and she wanted to find the unknown phone. She got to her knees and peered under the bed. At first she didn't see anything, but when she moved some shoe-boxes, a flickering light under the headboard caught her eye. It was a metallic pink Motorola. A very girlish phone. When she reached for it, it started to vibrate. She read her brother's name on the display and picked up before the ringtone started again.
“Ian?” she said.
“Oh, Iris. I'm sorry, I must have dialled the wrong number.”
“I don't think so. Who are you trying to reach?”
“Caithlin.”
“Goddamnit.” Iris punched her pillow as hard as she could. In the bathroom she could still hear the shower running.
“What?”
“It took her a while, but apparently your chick got to Gareth too.”
Ian's breath trembled in the microphone. He didn't say a word.
“Why else would her phone be under my bed?”
“If her mobile is under your bed,” Ian started, “then where is Caithlin? She didn't come home last night.”
“Ian, I can't stay here. Before I find her bra too...” Her voice sounded flat, defeated.
“No worries.” In Camden Ian grabbed his car keys and wallet. “Where can I pick you up?”
“I'll have breakfast at The Ladbroke Arms.”
“I'm on my way.”
“Thanks. And er, Ian...” Iris hesitated.
“Yeah?”
“I would appreciate it if you could stay in Bath with me for a while.”
“Thanks.” Ian coughed. “I wouldn't know where else to go.”

Back to Bath (Part 2 of 3)

2009-04-08T11:34:00.000+01:00

Billy had recently moved into a bedsit in North Kensington and was still exploring the pubs in the area, when his new neighbour took him to The Ladbroke Arms.
“If you're looking for a local,” the old man had said, “look no further! This is an old fashioned place with kind costumers, great service, and fabulous food. You'll love it.”
Halfway his first cider, Billy knew his neighbour was right. In the back, there was a trendy restaurant which seemed a little too expensive for his taste, but the front part was a standard pub, loaded with locals. The wooden interior created an intimate atmosphere and he felt perfectly at home. He finished his first pint, talked some more to his neighbour and decided to introduce himself to a curvy blonde who was inspecting her make-up in one of the mirrors. With his hands in his pockets he walked up to her, leaned against the wall and asked if he could get her anything.
Her reflection winked at him, and she said: “Maybe some Botox injections in my lips, to plump them up a bit. What do you think?”
“Caithlin!” he exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here?”
They embraced as if they hadn't seen each other for years. Which was almost true. They had seen each other in the tube occasionally, but they'd never had time for a word. She had no choice now, he told her, and bought her a Snake Bite. The rest of the evening they sat outside in the patio, reminiscing their crazy crush.
“Do you remember that time we got high and we went to the KFC?” she asked.
“Oh my, and we bought this monstrous bucket of fried chicken! And we ate it all!”
“Ugh, I'm getting nauseous just thinking about it!”
“You know that bones kept turning up in my room? I even found one behind the heater when I was moving my stuff out, last month.” An image of Caithlin came back to him, stark naked and covered in greasy chicken. That's when he started calling her Sticky Chicky.
“We spend the whole weekend lying in our own dirt,” she said, “and I was so happy in your boxers and your T-shirt.”
I know that line, he thought. But he couldn't place it. His thoughts swam in a sea of cider. She smiled and got up.
“The same?” she asked, and pointed at his glass, drawing a little circle in the air.
“I'd rather have a lager this time. Just give me what they've got on draught.” She drank a lot faster than him and insisted on buying refills when he wasn't even finished yet. Billy didn't really have too much money on him, the drinks were quite expensive, and they had so much to say to each other that he forgot to resist. When she returned with their fifth drink he had picked a red flower from one of the hanging baskets. She put it in her hair with a little clip.
At eleven fifteen, when they were walking arm in arm down Ladbroke Grove, the flower started sagging.
“Are you all right?” he asked. He had his arm around her waist and felt her leaning heavier on him with every step. “You've had five pints, right?”
“Five pints,” she repeated, “five pints and a couple of shots. You know, tequila. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila. You know... I don't know.”
Billy halted, took hold of both of her shoulders and tried to make eye-contact. Her eyelids drooped and her pupils lolled from one side to another. She really didn't look this drunk when he decided to take her home. He steadied her against the railing of a garden and looked at his watch.
“What are we going to do next?” she asked. Her voice was slow and almost sexy, but a little too wobbly. With his left hand Billy wiped her fringe out of her face and smiled at her. She hadn't changed a bit since they broke up. Well, she finally had her degree in journalism and she was working as a script-writer for the BBC now, but she was still the same blond bird with big boobs, broad hips and a very slim waistline between all that luxury. She was hanging against the fence so nonchalantly, that he understood how he could have overlooked the state she was in earlier.
“I'm going to bring you home, babe,” he said.
“Nooo,” she said, “it's not even three yet! I'm not going home before three! You have to take me to a party!”
“But there is no party. None that I am invited to, anyway.”
“Back to The Ladbroke Arms, then?” she proposed.
“It's eleven thirty, babe,” Billy said. “The pub's closed.”
“Then you have to take me to your place.” She tried to give him a seductive smile and leaned forward to make sure he wouldn't miss it, holding on to one pole with both hands.
“I would, you know,” he began, but didn't finish his sentence. He found that drunk girls tended to be very promiscuous. In fact, there was no stopping them unless he was wasted himself. But they always regretted it the next morning, and they always blamed him for taking advantage. So he had promised himself to never let a drunk woman into his bedsit again. But there's no way he could explain this to Caithlin tonight. Or any other night, for that matter.
“But what?” She was still holding on to the railing and had deep wrinkles in her forehead from looking up at him now.
“But I can't. Some other night, Caithlin. Not today, you're too special. Let me take you to your home instead.”
“No!” She pulled herself up and looked very determined. He laughed and stroked her cheek again. She was so cute, he thought, and he couldn't remember why they ever broke up.
“Tell me, where do you live nowadays?”
“Way too far off, anyway,” she confessed. “I live with my boyfriend, in Camden...”
“Christ,” he said. “You've got a boyfriend?”
She bent her head and hid her face behind her fringe.
“Caithlin...” Billy sighed. “You're getting yourself and me in loads of trouble. Let's get you to the tube quickly.”
“I'd rather take a cab,” she said, “but first I want to do something, like climb a tree, or... or... or a roof!”
“You're potty!” He laughed and put his arm around her waist again. “Fair enough, we'll go for a walk, and who knows what we'll find to climb. What were you doing all the way down here on your own, any way?”
“Can I tell you something?” she asked. He felt her arm around his shoulders clasp him tighter. “I mean, something I haven't told anyone before. Something really personal. And bad.”
With his free hand Billy wiped her fringe out of her face again. “Of course you can.”
“I shouldn't be telling you this, but he... He loves me very much, and he's very sweet. He's a great guy, really dependable, and I do care about him a lot.”
“But?”
“Things aren't...” She paused and frowned, as if she had trouble reading the autocue. “Things aren't like they were with you.”
“What do you mean?” Billy didn't dare to look at her and counted his steps until she replied. They walked slowly because of their embrace. He got to nine.
“It's like he's not really a person.” Her voice was quiet now, but less insecure. As if she was getting sober, Billy thought. “He never tells me what he wants, what he needs, what he feels. He always agrees with me.”
Billy softly breathed out and pulled her shoulder a little tighter into his armpit.
“In comparison to you he seems so...” She searched for a friendly word. “Boring.”
He sniggered. The cynical little laughter had escaped before he knew it. He regretted it immediately and glanced sideways to see if it had bothered her too, but she just smiled.
“You're just so much more fun. You've got thoughts of your own, and you can get really enthusiastic over things. I really like that, you know, your energy cheers me up.”
“Ditto, my dear,” Billy said. He felt like kissing her on both cheeks, running up and down Ladbroke Grove, laughing like the evil character in a cartoon, picking her up like a doll and taking her home with him.
“This really is a problem,” she said and looked at his smirk. “He wants to marry me.”
“He wants to what?”
“To marry me.”
“You can't do that!” He felt his repressed laughter turn to anger. “What did you say?”
“I didn't tell him yet. But if I can stay with you tonight, I figure he'll get the message, no?”
“Do you see that building?” Captivated by an idea, he hadn't even heard her question. He let go of her waist and pointed down the road.
“You mean the Trellick Tower?” She looked puzzled.
“Exactly. Did you ever go up there? I don't think we can get up the roof, but the view will be great! And it will be as close as we get to climbing a tree, tonight.”
“Is that where you live?”
“Nope. But I do have the keys to Iris' place! You remember, when we were in uni, before I started dating you, I had practically moved in with her. Maybe she was hoping we would get back together, I don't know. Anyway, she never asked her keys back. So, if she's not there, we can go in.”
“Are you sure Iris still lives there?” Caithin asked.
“Well, let's find out!”
They laughed hysterically until they covered each other's mouth with their hands, in order not to attract too much attention.

Back to Bath (Part 1 of 3)

2009-04-08T00:17:00.002+01:00

“I don't care about her will,” Iris said as soon as the solicitor left the mansion. “This house belongs to you as much as it does to me.”
“I don't know.” Ian leaned against the front door and rubbed his scalp. Tiny flakes of skin floated onto his black polo neck. Iris studied her brother's posture, a mix of nonchalance and solemnity. He had aged since the last time she saw him, almost two years ago. He had lost weight in a healthy way; she could tell he took care of himself. But he wasn't her little brother any more, the shabby student who only took off his jogging bottoms to shit, shag or have a shower. None of which she ever witnessed, to her great relief.
“Believe me,” she said and gently pushed him into the corridor. “She only sold me the house for a symbolic price to avoid death duties.”
“I just... I can't believe I didn't even know about this. It's not like I didn't visit her every other week.”
“I know,” said Iris. Every other week, she thought. She tried to remember the last time she saw her mother, and realised it must have been Christmas. But then again, Ian had a car. “Mom told me on the phone. So how are you and... Are you still seeing Caithlin?”
“Yes, we're fine.” Ian rested his hand on the copper doorknob of their mother's bedroom. “More than fine, actually. We're thinking about getting married.”
“You've proposed?” Iris' eyes widened. She never liked Caithlin. They went to university together and got to know each other when Caithlin ran off with Iris' boyfriend, Alessandro. At first, Iris blamed his Italian nature and swore to never date a foreigner again. But her next boyfriend, Billy, was as British as the Royal Mail and he too left her for Caithlin. After she graduated, Iris met Gareth, her current partner, and she made sure he never met her rival. When Ian told her he had started dating Caithlin, Iris said he was lucky their father was dead. “That woman is literally trying to take over every man in my life. She would ditch you for dad, if he were still around!” That was the last time they saw each other, until the message of their mother's death called them both back to Bath.
“Sort of. I know it doesn't really make a great story, but we've kind of discussed the advantages of marriage.”
“So things are really serious then. Well, I'm happy for you. And,” Iris nudged him, “if you're really thinking about starting a family, you might need the house. Or your share of what it's worth, if we're selling it.” Together they walked into the bedroom. The summer afternoon tumbled in through the sash window. They could hear children play hide and seek and hopscotch. Same place, same games, same sounds; it was almost like, outside of this house, the world hadn't changed since their childhood, and they could hear themselves playing. A soft breeze stirred the sheer curtains; the fluttering voile filtered the sunlight and spread a soft glow through the Victorian bedroom. This is where the neighbours found her, Iris thought, when they went looking for her because they hadn't seen her for days.
“This is where we used to have breakfast in bed,” Ian said, “on Sunday mornings, when we were still kids.” He sat down in the rocking chair next to the window. The last months, his mother could sit in it and look at the sky for hours, just rocking back and forth, back and forth. “Like the Lord giving and taking,” she'd once said, “resistance is futile.” Her faith grew with her forgetfulness. When she called driving “the nearest thing to heaven”, Ian had asked her to sell the car. Too often he'd had to pick her up after she just went along with the flow of traffic, trusting the road and the Lord, until she'd ran out of fuel. “All roads lead to Rome,” she'd muttered when the highest bidder drove off in her Rover. And that was it, she'd never mentioned driving again.
Ian caressed the walnut arm and leaned back. The high ceiling was recently redecorated and painted in a peaceful white. He smiled. “I would love to move back in. But Caithlin would never leave London. She would wither like a poppy.”
“Just think about it.” Iris put her iPhone on top of the secretaire and flicked through the documents she had laid out earlier.
“Take a look at this,” she said after a while, and waved with a contract. Her brother got up from the rocker and looked at it, posing like Michelangelo's David. He had never been particularly interested in legal business and really couldn't focus on it right now. Mindlessly he stroked the sideboard of the writing desk. His fingers lingered at scratches on the surface.
“Do you remember these?” he asked. Iris read their names on the side of the heirloom. The three jagged letters of her brother's name were carved with great force, her own name was written more elegantly, a little above it.
“You were six and had just taught me how to write my name,” Ian said. “And then you told me I had to engrave it in mom's desk, so that I would never forget.”
“It worked, didn't it?” They both giggled. “I can't remember she ever got angry over it, though.”
“She didn't. She once told me, when I asked her about it, that she loved the future more than she loved the past.”
“She was a very special woman,” Iris said. “This desk could have been worth four to eight grand, if we hadn't ruined it.”
“She was a very special woman, indeed.” Ian put down the contract he had been pretending to read and walked to the cupboard with the stereo in it. “I'm gonna miss her like hell.” He switched on the device and pressed play. While he walked back to the rocking chair, tender violin strokes filled the room. The last music his mother had heard was the divine Air of Bach.
The rest of the afternoon they spent packing clothing for Oxfam. They ordered a large Pizza Diavolo and tipped the delivery guy fifty per cent. For old times' sake, because Ian had once worked for the same pizzeria. At nine thirty they locked the front door behind them and ambled to Ian's van on the opposite side of Longfellow Avenue.
“I'll give you a ride, sis,” said Ian.
They stood still and gazed at the roof pediment. The clear sky behind it coloured pink. An occasional far-off plane drew a line of clouds on it, which slowly evaporated. Apart from the screaming seagulls, Bath was completely quiet. The silence stirred memories of their childhood, welling up like blood from a skinned knee.
“I think she knew,” Iris said.
“Knew what?”
“Knew her death would bring us back together.” Iris stared at the arched portico and the leaded glass in the front door. She didn't want to go. More than anything, she longed to go back in, find her mother still alive, spend another night and have one more Sunday morning breakfast on the Victorian bed.
“I reckon that's why she gave the house to you. She knew you'd do the right thing.”
Side by side they watched the sky go orange.
“It's okay to cry,” Iris said.
“I know. But I was hoping you would cry first.”
“Tough.” They laughed until they had to hide their tears on each other’s shoulders. And then they hugged and wept without shame.
“You're so thin,” Ian remarked when the street lights flicked on.
“And you've been working out.”
“I know I have. Now get in the car and I'll drive you back to London.”
“I'll give Gareth a call,” she said, “I'll ask him if he can pick me up at your place.”

Sick Haiku

2009-04-06T10:59:00.002+01:00

What shocked even Chuck
Woke me up five times last night
Green Apple Splatters

Book Launch: Albertopolis Disparu

2009-04-04T14:42:00.009+01:00

There is something enticing about closing time. Even the most ordinary supermarket, post-office or call-centre turns into a magical place when the doors are shut and the alarm system is turned on. Everyone who has read Matt Thorne’s Eight Minutes Idle knows what I mean. Everyone who has ever worked in a bar knows too that the staff-after-parties are much cooler than the parties the costumers have during opening hours. It’s hard to imagine what the Science Museum is like after six, so you can picture how excited Bronagh, Anneka and I were Monday night, during the launch of a new Science Museum Booklet: Albertopolis Disparu by Tony White.

The presentation took place in front of the Listening Post, and as long as copies are available, they will be handed out for free on the same spot. This spot was chosen because this enchanting machine, which projects live messages from internet chat rooms onto a giant grid of small screens, was the inspiration for the short story.

As the writer in residence at the Science Museum, White says he came across the preface to a lost work by author James Colvin. The structure of a main story embedded within several narratives is similar to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and typical for the Steampunk tradition this work is placed within. I don't want to spoil it for you, so I'll tell you no more, except that it made me laugh.

Now, if you’re in the vicinity of London, I suggest you hurry to South Kensington and pick up this wicked little piece of art. Apparently, the green cabman’s shelter opposite the V&A has resumed the tradition of educating taxi drivers by handing out free copies of this Science Museum Booklet. But for ordinary human beings the booklet is available at the Waterstone’s in the Science Museum and next to the Listening Post in the museum. And if you’re not in London, I suggest you download the PDF.

How to win short story competitions

2009-03-26T12:52:00.002Z

“The submission should not be obscene, racist, boring or present ideas in the fields of Political or Religious Correctness.”
-Paul Amphlett, editor of Peer Poetry International

Don't write especially for the contest, write when you think of a story, so that you've got a nicely filled portfolio to chose from.
Come up with a clever, original and relevant title.
Keep to the maximum length (preferably 30 words less).
When rereading your story, think of the Greek unities: time, place and theme.
There has to be a conflict and it has to be clear from the outset.
Entertain. The jury has to read a lot of stories. In order to keep their attention, your story should be more action driven than revolving around description and characterization.
Make a logical, satisfying ending and don't rely on surprise endings. If your story is good enough, they'll read it several times and the surprise effect will wear off.
Handing it in by snail mail is less likely to go wrong then on-line submission.
If there is a set theme, stick to it and make it the main thing in your story, not background, and be imaginative in doing so. If you can't come up with a story about the theme, don't submit to that contest.
If there is no set theme, research the jury's preferences. Read their own work, hobbies, previous jury reports, etc. and adapt your submission to it. Rules of thumb:
1. Your theme must appeal to the judge (even think of gender);
2. Steer well clear of X-rated language and Adults Only themes;
3. Be careful with political or religious themes;
4. Avoid drug abuse, accounts of college or student activities, adolescents coming to grips with peer pressure, vengeful wives who get back at an unfaithful or abusive husband and eagerly anticipated excursions that went terribly wrong;
5. Avoid being too topical, news items will soon be forgotten;
6. Don't plagiarise or copy the style of your idol;
7. Don't re-work famous stories, plays and folk tales.
Be C L E A R !!

So far for growing up

2009-03-20T15:55:00.003Z

The latest post of Mr. Gorilla Bananas sent me right back to reminiscing my 20th birthday. It was the nineteenth of May, the year 2004, when the great Richard Dawkins came down to the Netherlands to give the first Tinbergen Memorial Lecture at the Pieterskerk in my home town Leiden. My joy was great, for as a student in Philosophy I could not imagine a better way to celebrate my growing up than by attending this reading.
The irony, that such a reading should be held in a church! The first thing he remarked, was a praise for priests, who had learned how to give sermons under the current acoustic circumstances. I'll spare you all the details of the rest of his lecture, for I assume you've already read all the important books in life, and if not, I urge you to get to work without further ado.
After the reading, Mr. Dawkins sold and signed copies of The Blind Watchmaker, but being the poor student I was (and still am) I could not afford to line up. Instead, I waited with my tattered copy of The Selfish Gene until he was about to leave the cathedral. When I finally dared to approach him, I stumbled over the inscriptions of the graves we were walking on. Still blushing and trembling, I asked the surprised scientist if he would be so kind as to put his autograph in my book.
“Of course,” he said. “What's your name?”
“Deborah,” I said. And then, out of the blue: “Could you tell me, what's your favourite passage?”
He leafed through the book and saw how much I had underlined and read some of my notes.
“That would be the bit about the lumbering robots,” he said, “because that's the most creative part.”
“Could you write in front which page that is?” I asked. I had never thought of asking these questions, but standing there at that moment, I felt like I had to ask him just a little bit more than his autograph. And unfortunately, I couldn't think of anything intelligent to say.
“Certainly.” He took his pen and started to write. He had no table, so he just held the book in his other hand, and wrote sort of in the air. I stood by and felt very awkward.
“Today's a very special day for me,” I said. “It's my birthday.”
“Congratulations,” he said, “I hope you enjoyed the lecture. Have a good evening.” He gave me back my book, shook my hand and left the church. And left me trembling, blushing, contemplating what a fool I had made out of myself in front of my idol. I felt like a bloody Backstreet Boys fan. So far for growing up!

@ Sharon: I am interesting too!

2009-03-19T18:36:00.001Z

When I got back from the hospital (hurrah, I've got no cartilage damage, just lax joints) a girl in a green 'save Africa' jacket approached me. Under her arm she had a writing board on which she probably wanted to write my name down, in case I would decide to support the project. I was very cheerful, so I beamed a happy smile back at her, even though I was pretty there's not much I can do for Africa right now. I need all my money to save myself.
She asked what I had been up to, where I was going and whether I had a job.
'No, I can't, I'm an international student and I don't have a national insurance number yet.'
She asked where I was from, where I went to uni, what course I was on, and eventually how old I was. Twenty-four.
'Really?' she said. She looked genuinely surprised. Apparently the save-Africa-project is for people younger people only. 'You look very young, do you know that? Do a lot of people say that to you?'
'A couple,' I replied. 'But usually they are boys.'
'Well, there you have it, a compliment from another girl.' We laughed and talked about some general stuff. The type of thing you could read on someone's facebook profile, mainly. And then, without mentioning Africa, she wished me good luck, we shook hands and I proceeded home.

Peculiar, I thought at first. A very curious conversation. But then again, we do this a lot on the internet, so why not in real life? I don't hold back on profiling myself on linkedin, facebook, flickr, gmail, twitter, and I even try to integrate the whole lot of them with twitfeed and friendfeed, so why would I not have a little friendly chat with a random stranger in London?

Roots - outline for a novel

2009-03-17T14:37:00.003Z

For Benjamin

Opening:

Laura de Winter is a twenty-year-old girl from Leiden, a small city in Holland. She cocked up her first year in uni because she was not really interested in philosophy, her subject, and she went to too many parties, spending way too much time on numerous boyfriends. She has now taken the year off to think about what she wants in life.

Call to Adventure and Response:

Krystina Goldman, an old friend of her mother, happens to be in Holland in the summer and offers Laura a job as an au pair in London. Laura is very impulsive and says yes immediately. The next month, she moves to Mrs. Goldman's penthouse on Old Marylebone Road to take care of Rafi Goldman, the two-year-old son.

The Guide:

The Goldmans are a Jewish family, and every Friday night they have a big dinner with all the family members who happen to be in the neighbourhood. As their au pair, Laura is invited too. This is how she meets David, Rafi's eighteen-year-old cousin. He's handsome, cheerful and in his last year of college.

Although Laura is two years older than David, Mrs. Goldman encourages him to take her out and show her the city. They share a great sense of humour and fall in love, but they both know it's not meant to be. Laura will move back to Holland after her gap year, and what's more: she's a shiksa, a non-Jewish girl David can only date until he is ready to get married to a Jewish woman. They laugh over it, but secretly, David's jokes about her being a goy do make her a bit insecure.

David is very fond of the soft parts of her body and touches them whenever he gets the chance. He even squeezes her legs under the table during the family dinner parties. She likes his attention, but she can't help but think she is the fattest girl he has ever been attracted to. She decides to lose weight by exercising and banning sugar from her tea.

The Threshold Guardian:

That's when she starts to hear voices. Every time she drinks her tea, she hears a very thin voice complaining in Dutch that there's no sugar in it. At first she thinks she is imagining it.

The Void:

David says in a joking manner that one would almost think she was Jewish because of her voluptuous body. She is very unhappy about this and decides to cut back on food more drastically. The voice starts protesting louder and she discovers it comes from her second upper molar tooth.

She doesn't dare to tell anyone about it, for she fears they will think she is a nut case, but she doesn't doubt the voice is real. He is asking for sweet food continuously, up to the level that she often can't hear what people are saying when they are talking to her.

Trials and Helpers:

The only way to shut the tooth up is by eating something sweet. She's afraid other people, like David, will hear the voice too and starts carrying around sugar free chewing gums to satisfy her tooth in case of emergency. At first, these seem to do the job, but soon she can't trick the molar any more. She has to seek refuge to real sweets.

Laura visits a dentist and tells him the molar tooth hurts. He can't see anything wrong with it and tells her to floss and change to another brand of toothpaste. When she leaves the dentist's practice, she suddenly hears a lot of voices in her head. All her teeth are yelling at her in Dutch that the dentist has hurt them and they demand that she does not change toothpaste.

In vain, she tries to shut them up using aspirin. She locks herself up in her room, cancels her date with David and and tells Mrs. Goldman that she cannot take care of Rafi because she is ill.

After a while all the voices are quiet again, except for the molar tooth who is asking for sugar and his neighbour, who is nagging for greasy food. Their whining keeps her awake, so she sneaks into the kitchen to fetch something to eat. Mrs. Goldstein catches her in the kitchen with a spoonful of Nutella in her mouth and warns her that she will get fat if she entertains such eating habits.

When Laura gets back to her room, another voice emerges. It encourages her to throw up so that she won't get fat.

The next day, David drops by with a box of chocolates. She eats them during his visit to keep the voices down and throws up again as soon as he leaves.

Laura considers going to a psychologist, but, before she meets her GP to explain her concerns, she finds out the voices are not imaginary. When she is cuddling Rafi, it turns out the toddler can hear them too. She tells him it is their little secret and decides to keep her problem to herself because other people would definitely think she's mad.

When Mrs. Goldman says Laura is setting a bad example for Rafi, eating all the time, Laura bursts out crying and almost tells her employer about her problem but holds back at the last moment.

The voices are fighting so loud that she can't sleep at night. She tries to focus on her lower left canine. It is telling her they will shut up if she smokes a cigarette. She has no sympathy for smokers whatsoever. It's an unhealthy, disgusting habit. However, she can't bare listening to the voices any longer and steals a cigarette from Mr. Goldman. When she smokes it out of her window, she finds out her lower left canine was right. The next day, she buys a pack of cigarettes and smoking becomes her ritual to fall asleep.

Since she keeps giving in to the demands of her teeth, she is getting bigger. She doesn't feel comfortable any more making love to David. One day, after a romantic dinner, Laura is giving him a blowjob, when the voices encourage her to bite him. She stops and with tears in her eyes she breaks up with him, muttering something about not wanting to be an in-between-girl to him.

He tries to get back in touch with her, but she avoids him. She asks Mrs. Goldman if she can be excused from the Friday night dinner parties. Mrs. Goldman replies she is worried about Laura since Rafi says she talks to herself with her mouth closed. She also says she has called Laura's mother and told her about this. Laura's parents are coming to London to pick her up and take her back to Holland that Friday night.

In Holland she recovers quickly. The voices are quiet, she stops smoking and she manages to get back to her old weight within a couple of weeks.

Crisis:

Then she receives a letter from David. He writes that he doesn't believe in God and doesn't need to marry a Jewish woman. He admits that he has never really seen her as a shiksa, that it was only banter. In fact, he has never loved anyone in his life as much as he loves her, and he begs her to take him back because he doesn't think he can have as much fun with anybody else.

Laura realises she feels the same way about him.

The next year, they both get into Brunel University and live close together on campus. At first, nothing is wrong, but after fresher's week, the voices start again. She runs to the corner shop and tries to shut them up by smoking and eating, but they are relentless.

Climax:

Then she returns to her halls. With pliers, she pulls out her teeth one by one, naming each bad habit that she does not wish to give in to.

Return:

A couple of years later, Laura is sitting in front of a mirror and removing her make-up. She hears David singing in the shower and smiles at her beautiful reflection. She's got everything she ever wished for: she's married to Mr. Right; she's got a challenging job in PR, and she's living in a beautiful apartment in London. And, after she pulled out her teeth, she never heard the voices again. Then she puts her false teeth in a glass of water and realises that she is just like her dentures. By emigrating and marrying David, she has removed herself from her Dutch background, and with extracting her talking teeth, she has chopped off her roots in her native soil. Though she is welcomed in both the English society and David's family, she knows she will never be a real Brit nor an original Jew. She is shiny and she's happy. No one cares about it and neither does she, but she is a fake, a rootless sham.

Which pen names sound best?
	Deborah Class
	Guirlande F.
	Deborah Mendes
	Debs Clarkson
	Lizzy Mendes
	Deborah Clarkson
	Lizzy Clarkson
	Bella Clarkson
	Deborah Klaassen

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