Deborah Brave Klaassen

I've been brave. Very brave indeed.

Those who know me well know all about my hairdresser-dramas, including:

* An overzealous intern that gave me layers to create more volume (what was she thinking?!?);

* An angry pro that took revenge after I hadn't seen him for a year, resulting in a fetching Coupe Frizz and

* A creep with a hair-cutting fetish at Amsterdam Central on a Friday night (don't remind me).

Yes, I've had my share of experiences that made me want to pull my hair out. Not to mention Freddie's recurring jokes (well, I hope they're jokes) about shaving one side of my head while I'm asleep!


Sadly, my tresses do need a trim every now and again. Although it can be quite a challenge to get it right behind my back, I've done it myself for the last 4 or 5 years.

Last weekend, though, I spotted some split ends and asked Freddie. Just like that. Hadn't thought about it, just asked. And he did. As I sat on the edge of the sofa and heard the scissors snip away behind my back, that horrible what-have-I-done-there's-no-way-back feeling overtook me. It helped me sit as still as I could, which, I guess, is a good thing. Comments like "hold on, I think it's a bit shorter now on this side" and "I hope this isn't too much" didn't help though.

All-in-all, he lopped off about 5 or 6 inches (rather than the requested 5 or 6 cm).

But guess what - I still have lots of hair left. And it looks good. It looks great, even.
Far better than it would be, had I done it myself.

So thank you, Freddie.

It helps as well that I've been using a new shampoo, conditioner and leave-in conditioner by Mixed Chicks. It's my best hair-discovery since Aussi Miracle Moist shampoo (just the shampoo - the conditioner is not that special. And the Miracle Frizz range doesn't really solve my frizz-problem either). There are other products that make my locks feel soft and bouncy, and there are other products that really define my curls (especially Tesco's Smooth Coconut Conditioner. It's a real shame they stopped selling it!). But as far as I can recall, Mixed Chicks is the only product range that makes my hair look and feel good at the same time - and the effect lasts for 3 days!

Lycra

During my daily commute on my Bianchi bike today, I was dodging buses and police cars in Oxford Street. At the traffic lights next to Marble Arch, a Cav lookalike pulled up next to me.
"Got to respect a lady in heels and Lycra," he said.
I looked him up and down, from his lightweight helmet to his cleats.
"Guess what," I said, "I shave my legs too!"

Money money money...

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.

Deep Blue Connection

“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.”

May you stay forever young...

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.

I’m worth £350342 more than Madonna

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.

My first time in a British van

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

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 1: Pub Talk Philosophy

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 had 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 capacity 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 at 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 foot prints in the vicinity. 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 at 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 yourself. 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 art 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

“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.”

Good times!

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!

Finances when studying abroad...

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!

Why I went to London

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.

Shut Up and Eat!

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 need help with my novel!

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

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!

Like Question, Like Answer

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.

Hip Hip Hurrah!

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)

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.

A Table Full of Butterflies

“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.