I love seeing people’s responses to the news that I am leaving to go travelling for a year. It’s mostly a positive, excited reaction although I did meet one colleague who felt the need to tell me that’s the oddest thing I’ve heard in ages.  Each to their own I suppose. The reactions become less enthusiastic however when they hear my vague answers to their questions about my exact route or whether all my tickets have been booked and purchased. 

But now, finally, I am able to say to them that I have at least bought the ticket for the very first leg. They usually get a little shiver of excitement and a dreamy look in their eyes as they ask where are you heading first then?

Cork! I answer proudly. I then enjoy watching them struggle to muster up some encouraging words at this news. On the 3rd of December I leave the Netherlands after 11 ½ years and I make my way back to the Emerald Isle for a month.  Their obvious disappointment doesn’t phase me though as I have already lined up a stay with my Occasionally Pole-dancing Friend and his certain someone in Waterford. There is surely no better way to begin the whole adventure than by spending time with good friends back in the mother land!  I can’t wait.

I can turn into a startling hybrid of the Cookie Monster and Taz the Tasmanian Devil if I’m hungry. Really hungry that is. I cease all activities and that can include talking or being reasonably friendly with whoever I’m with, until I have food again in my belly. After which I continue on merrily as if nothing had happened at all, almost instantly!

This is of more than moderate concern for our world tour ahead. Especially considering that we are both vegetarians. For some reason many people still struggle with the notion and seem more satisfied to simply believe that we are just being unnecessarily problematic or demanding. Considering the difficulties I’ve had in Europe I can’t imagine what lies ahead of us in some less progressive places. One time in a restaurant here in Den Haag the waitress, upon seeing my disappointed face when served my horrific looking meal announced in a very patronising voice It’s your fault for being vegetarian!

France has always proved to be a particular challenge. For a country with a reputation for good cuisine they can be astonishingly narrow minded and unadventurous when it comes to food. I was once forced into a debate with a waiter in Paris about the sandwich he served me after I had asked for one without meat. This, is not meat! he yelled pointing at the ham in my sandwich. Of course it is I retorted, deciding that my argument was strong enough to keep my line of defence simple. After a moment’s thought he simply spat back It is not! like a spoiled 10 year old, turned his back and stormed off leaving me to contemplate the ham sandwich and the bill he’d left with it.

My last trip to Paris was no better when it came to food. The worst was in a restaurant where we ordered the stuffed peppers, being the only item on the menu not to have meat in its description. When it arrived it was a pepper stuffed with beef. Describing our dilemma the waiter informed us they could whip up an omelette and vegetables. While a little underwhelmed my hunger monster was beginning to grow so I agreed to the offer. When they arrived the omelette and vegetables turned out to be a half raw poached egg on rice with tasteless green beans. The dish was inedible. When the waiter returned later to take our plates he didn’t say a word at our obviously untouched food but the implication was that he shared the views of that Den Haag waitress.

So I’ve decided to employ some preemptive strikes against the inevitable challenges ahead. I’ve come to the conclusion that it is actually a ridiculously fabulous excuse to eat as much as I want! I keep telling myself that it is essential I store up an impressive reserve of fat for the difficult times ahead. At this rate I’ll be rolling into South America.

My Newfie is a loser!  Now I mean that in a literal way rather than as a mean insult. Put more straight forwardly, he loses things – regularly! His keys, bank card and mobile phone have all been victim to this misfortune in the last couple of months. I like to think it is the result of his being driven to constant distraction by my brilliance but I think it is more likely just a series of bad luck and carelessness. That doesn’t stop me quietly moaning inside whenever it happens. The last time I counseled him that perhaps it was time he started taking more care with his possessions. Obviously this was conveyed in a ridiculously calm and supportive manner that underlined my astonishing sympathy and understanding. What else?

I certainly wasn’t calm yesterday when my departure from work was delayed by the absence of my own keys. Why would someone take my keys from my bag I shrieked. I combed my office just in case whoever it was had simply moved or dropped them. Backtracking down the corridor and the main lobby I scoured the entire path and even employed the assistance of two security officers who had been informed of this heinous act against me. 

Even with all that help they were nowhere to be found! Feeling very sorry for myself I stepped out into the rain wondering how I was going to get into my Manhattan-Style Loft Apartment. As I glanced at my locked bike ready to reluctantly abandon it for the forced walk home something caught my eye. It was a glint of metal dangling from the bike lock. I walked over to confirm my growing suspicions. Indeed, there were my keys. Someone had clearly gone into my office, found my bag, smuggled my keys out of the building and stuck them in my bike lock. They had been there all day, practically shouting at each passer by Come take me, I’m yours! What fiendish soul could have done such a thing I asked myself as I cycled away in shock.

When I got home I began the long internal debate of whether or not to admit this series of events to my Newfie. Better not I decided, it’s important we have established roles. Any change in the status quo would be far too confusing.

The waiting game has well and truly begun. Every day I seem to be looking around for more signs that I made the right decision. This is probably mainly to distract myself from the big issue of having to say goodbye to all my wonderful occasionallies. I am ridiculously excited about travelling with my Newfie (formerly known as Occasionally Sleeping Friend) and about the future until I picture myself having to say goodbye to any one of my wonderful friends – let alone all of them!

However it is also with a heavy heart that I read two news items in the last week that have made me braver about leaving The Netherlands. In my 11 years here I have sadly watched the country become more and more conservative. I have a feeling that the proud history of open mindedness and tolerance eventually resulted in people here being somewhat complacent and slowly things are creeping backwards without much of a fuss.

On a first reading this story made me laugh but considering how the country seems to be moving more and more towards a police state it also frightened me a little. The police here seem all too eager to fine you for anything they can and lord knows there are enough rules and regulations for them to choose from. I have always had the feeling that they are against you rather than there to make society better.

On a more serious note it seems that now it is legal to refuse to employ somebody (and possibly even sack them) in a Dutch state-funded school based only on their sexuality. A progressive, modern, tolerant country?

It’s like the end of any relationship – if you focus on the bad things the transition just might be that little bit easier.

In a dramatic flurry of excitement I handed in my notice at work. My last day will be the 30th of November I announced in a high pitched Conorsqueal of excitement and basked in the ensuing reactions and attention. Some were shocked, some cried, some hugged me, some grunted and others’ minds wandered towards what they were going to have for lunch. I had to answer questions on dates and destinations and a whole array of details big and small regarding our travel plans and did my best to paint a picture that would describe a well thought out adventure rather than the haphazard loose idea that it currently is.

It was the talk of the place for a whole five minutes and I revelled in the attention.  Even though I really like my job and love my colleagues there was something so satisfying about the whole event. It felt like progress, turning a page and moving on with my life. 

I sat back at my desk with a huge grin on my face and it took me a good few minutes to slowly calm down. But I noticed that everybody else had quickly returned to their work and were going about their business as usual. Hmmm I thought to myself – maybe I should do it again - only this time louder and with more pizzazz! But no, the realisation hit that while I may indeed be leaving it’s not for another two months and life goes on. Worse than that was the understanding that I am still expected to work just as hard, right up until the end.

Ah well, in my head at least, the minutes are racing towards an end.

North America was just about the last place I had expected to see queen’s guards doing their I am not really a human I am a pole act but there they were in Ottawa guarding the tomb of the unknown soldier. And just like in London they were attracting tourists like flies who were alternating between trying to get a reaction from underneath the hairy hat and having their photo taken next to the furry pole.  I half expected to turn around and see a red double-decker bus pass by or a group of girls on a night out wearing belts as skirts.

Do you want to wait and watch the changing of the guards my OSF suggested. Remembering my less than gracious outburst in the parliament not so long before I decided it was safer to stay far away from anything remotely queen related.

Hmm I replied, I think I’d rather watch the changing of the guards’ uniforms.

happily asking everybody to add the letters MSc to my name. Because now I can, finally!

Number 20 in my list of things not worth knowing about Conortje was I love Canada and Canadians even though I’ve never been there. Yet.

I can now proudly dispense with the last seven words. I have been and loved and have returned and now love the place even more. It could be that I am slightly biased what with my Occasionally Holy Friend and Occasionally Sleeping Friend both hailing from the great land. But it really is true that in general the Canadians are incredibly warm, friendly and unusually helpful. My OSF introduced me to lots of his friends every single one of which I wanted to take back with me to Cloggyland.

My preparations before I arrived served me well. I had practised adding eh! to the end of every sentence and started introducing words like chesterfield, loonie and washroom into my daily speech. I have to admit I drew the line at using the term homo milk though. So seriously did I take my Canadianisation that I also got into the habit of taking my shoes off before entering my apartment as I knew that to neglect to do so could lead to being socially ostracised!

Everything was going ridiculously well until I took the tour of parliament in Ottawa. All the smiles and kind words I had been collecting since my arrival went right out the window after our guide pointed out the throne that the British Queen sits on whenever she decides to grace the Canadian government with her presence. Before I knew it I had let out a startlingly loud tut and sigh that even took me by surprise. While going bright red I looked around me pretending to search for the perpetrator, all the while hoping I could rat someone out for blatantly wearing their shoes to deflect the attention.

That flippin’ queen always gets me into trouble eh!

I have spent every day of this summer eagerly refreshing my in-box to see if the results of my master’s dissertation had come in. And still nothing. Now the reason for my impatience isn’t that I am eager to see the fruits of my labour or am excited to progress up the career ladder. At this stage I’ve all but forgotten what the dissertation was even about. The real reason I am looking forward to it is that I can then demand everyone to call me Master. And demand I will!

To distract I have busied myself not only with being horribly sick but also with lots of chores I’ve been putting off.  Top on the list was to begin making arrangements for my big trip in January. So in a fit of productivity I contacted a rental agency to enquire how one went about renting out their beloved Manhattan-Style Loft Apartment. Before I knew what was happening a representative had come round to view the place and take photos. A couple of days later I had a lady come by who had seen the ad and was very interested. She loved the place and yesterday contracts were signed. She moves in on the 1st of December. 

Sitting at home last night I was ridiculously pleased with myself that everything had gone so smoothly – if only everything was quite so easy. And then a shiver went up my spine as I realised I would be a landlord! After a long history of being a tenant I would now be a landlord. Scary!

And then an even more incredible thought erupted – to hell with Master, I can now insist that everyone calls me Lord!

As we strolled into Nice airport we pulled our bags after us with a great deal less enthusiasm than on the way out. We reluctantly made our way to the check in area and were met by an Air France official whose husky Gauloises drenched voice greeted us with the unlikely phrase Would you like to make some money?

Hello, good afternoon! I replied what did you just say? Visions of Air France running a corrupt web of prostitution and drug smuggling filled my head. Before my imagination had too much time to gain momentum he explained that the flight was overbooked and if we flew via London arriving in Amsterdam an hour later than planned we’d each earn €125 and the great respect of the company. My Occasionally Sleeping Friend and I looked at each other and quickly decided that the great respect of Air France was easily worth a delay of one hour.

Before we knew it we found ourselves on a plane bound for London and I glanced about myself to see more than a few passengers wearing masks in the hope of avoiding the dreaded swine flu (still known in the Netherlands as Mexican Flu incidentally). As the sunny French countryside had still not cured my dramatic consumption I decided to have a bit of fun. After a particularly impressive bout of lung evacuation I asked my OSF in an overly loud and concerned voice if he had packed the Tamiflu in the check-in bags or our hand luggage. I then sat back safe in the knowledge that I had just made the entire plane nervous and impatient for the flight to end. Ah well, at least Air France still loved me.