I’ve always blushed and squirmed and begun making excuses whenever anybody found out that I had a lady come to my house to help me with some of my … filthier needs. The first time she turned up I felt very awkward about the situation but I soon began to look forward to her regular visits. If, for whatever reason, she couldn’t come, the problem would just build up getting more and more urgent until she arrived to deal with it. After all these years of my lazy incompetence finally I had someone to do a spot of cleaning for me.

But for some reason I was loath to admit this to anyone.  I’m not entirely sure what my problem was but I think I had a fear that I’d been seen as some sort of evil slave driver who was too lazy to pick up a mop once in a while. But it’s only once every two weeks and then only for a couple of hours I would offer voluntarily and she doesn’t even sweep underneath the furniture. This last piece of information usually elicited raised eyebrows which I took to mean that I was clearly being ridiculously charitable hiring such a misfortunate cleaner. So long as nobody knew I had a cleaner I felt happy with the arrangement. My apartment would be get a quick wipe and a scrub once a fortnight which meant I never even had to mention the word dust. 

And then she began to slowly raise her prices. The first hike was by two euro but I decided that even still it was worth it to come home once a fortnight and be able to see the floor again. After a period of getting used to this new financial burden she announced last week that she was raising her fee again, this time by a further three euro bringing her costs to a massive 15 euro an hour. When I read her little note I realised that our fruitful relationship had come to an end. I could no longer justify such a luxury. Because her English isn’t great we generally communicate by text and I agonised for hours how to phrase my message. I tried my very best to convey to her that I appreciated all her hard work but I was unfortunately not in a financial position to have a cleaner any longer.

Her reply broke my heart -  ’That’s sad. I just ask if it’s possible, and your answer is I’m fired?’. My eyes welled up and I felt meaner than the nasty man on The Apprentice. She’ll probably have to return to her homeland now with her confidence in shatters I thought to myself until I remembered she only worked for me two hours once a fortnight. As I looked down at my bathroom floor I suddenly started to feel even sorrier for myself. I guess I need to figure how a mop works now…although clean floors are quite overrated… Well at least I won’t have to worry about people finding out about my dirty secret any longer.

I often get complimented on how good my Dutch is by the natives. They sit around nodding in agreement at how wonderful it is that a foreigner (especially an English speaking one) has bothered to learn a few words. I lap it all up, joining in involuntarily with the nodding, basking happily in the praise. I try to get the most out of these few seconds as I know only too well what is coming next. The dreaded question - How long have you been here now? My answer invariably causes an immediate halt to the head movements, or at the very least an abrupt change of direction from up and down to side to side. Oh dear, that long? they will exclaim, your Dutch should really be better by now. God bless the Dutch and their hit and run honesty - a trait they like to market as a national quality.

A good way to get around this would be by lying. Unfortunately my face is the ultimate lie detector as I go bright red at even the slightest fib. No matter how hard I try I can never seem convincing when juggling the truth. And so, if I was asked yesterday how long I had been in this country I would have had to truthfully answer that it was ten years exactly.

Such a ridiculously poignant anniversary can only lead someone to reflection. I’ve spent a third of my life here. You’d think that would probably mean that I love the place and am deliriously happy among the windmills and frightening honesty. On this premise I sat at home last night, on my own, reliving moments of the years gone by. I’ve lived in two different Dutch cities. Bought a cute little attic apartment. Made countless good friends. Found love and then lost it. Had hundreds of wonderful nights out. Adopted traditions and spread some others. And even learned some of the language to varying degrees of success.

I sat back feeling a little overcome by the magnitude of the years and wondered just how it had gone so fast and what should I have done differently. As I lay down to sleep later that night one overriding thought took over - it’s time to move on.

I had already begun grumbling away to myself on the tram home. How did a week’s holiday go so quickly? And look at this rain! It never rains in Berlin I’m sure. Okay, we did have that one day, but it was different rain, less wet and annoying - this is evil hard rain. Sigh. And tomorrow it’s back to work. I’m sure people in Berlin don’t really need to actually work. They just turn up in the early afternoon and while away the hours until cocktail time. I marched off the tram in a private huff and made my way to my flat. Maybe there’ll be letters waiting for me I thought optimistically. A valentine’s card that had gone astray or that birthday card my sister promised me months ago. Alas, all that was there to greet my soggy arrival was a bank statement and some post for my Ex Occasionally Better Half. Even after moving out over half a year ago he still manages to get more post than I do.

My self pity reached a crescendo when I felt another drop on my head. Not so strange considering the atrocious rain. Except now I was inside my house. I looked up to see a pathetically stained ceiling and a tiny little waterfall flowing down into my hall. Right, this is a sign that I should still be on holiday I declared to myself. I shouldn’t have to deal with such irritations. My moaning quickly developed into wondering just who would one ring to sort this out. I am completely useless when it comes to DIY and manly house issues. A plumber perhaps! They usually deal with all things water-related I remembered, although then again they don’t normally arrive with a ladder to get on the roof. In the good old days my Ex OBH would have scrambled up there himself to have a peek around and fix the hole while I stayed safely below, unable to even look upwards while busily saying numerous prayers that he wouldn’t fall off.

And then it came to me. All of a terrific sudden the voice of reason spoke. Quit your moaning. Accept you’re home and had a great time and get on with your life. You can’t always be on holiday. Stop with your feelings of inadequacy and deal with the problem at hand. You can do it! You’re a man - act like one. It was like I had turned into a whole team of cheer-leaders - I almost did a dance I got so caught up in my enthusiasm. Yeah, look at me fixing problems I thought proudly, I don’t need anyone else and I ran to the kitchen for a bucket which I promptly placed underneath the leak.

I stood back admiring my handiwork with growing pride. Easily saved €80 there by not calling a plumber. That’s €80 I can put towards my next trip away I realised with glee.

After spending a wonderful week in Berlin with my ex Occasionally Better Half I was dreading returning to my empty house and having to deal with the silence and being on my own again. It’s amazing how quickly you become used to having somebody around. Even if they are not saying anything or are in the next room, just knowing they’re nearby can be immensely comforting.

On top of this I kept seeing couples everywhere I looked. From old dithery spouses to four year olds holding hands already paired off it seemed. 31 and single again was not in my life’s plans. I am a ridiculous romantic and always envisaged a rich lasting love. One with lots of fiery problems sure but with an Ennio Morricone soundtrack in the background and sunsets lighting our besotted faces.

To take my mind off the state of affairs (or lack of) I spent most of the return train journey reading and staring out of the window dreaming of how things could be. To break the monotony I got up to get a coffee and as I came back to my seat I saw that a rather attractive looking man was sitting right behind me. When I resumed my day dreaming he had taken on the starring role. I glanced back at him for a better look and noticed he was reading. Ah, perfect - I want my future partner to be a reader so we can recommend books to each other and spend hours in flattering candle light discussing our latest favourite novels. He is just perfect I thought but then noticed an alarming looking earring that might have actually been a tiny weapon masquerading as jewellery. Oh I’ll talk him out of that easily enough I reassured myself - a haircut and a smarter outfit and then he really will be perfect. And just imagine our how we met story - how we were united by literature and our love for travelling…sigh.

My next mission was to find out what book he was reading. He was smirking so it was clearly something witty. Extra points. I invented a need to go to the toilet and with a ridiculously subtle glance I investigated his book. I almost fainted - he was reading a book by the very same author I was reading. Good god it’s a sign! Wedding bells rang in my ear as I got caught up in the excitement of it all. The next ten minutes were spent debating which approach to take. Option one was to yell - ‘Look, we’re reading books by the same author - clearly we should be together’. Option two was the safer but less fun ‘What do you think of yours - I think this one is terrific’ as I’d wave mine (book people, book) in the air. As I was becoming more and more nervous I decided that perhaps it was wiser to let him make the first move. But perhaps he hadn’t seen what I was reading and was yet unaware that we were made for each other. That has to be rectified I thought as I turned 45 degrees and raised my book so the cover was easily visible. After ten minutes, during which no contact was made I raised my book higher and dangled it mere centimetres from his face. What the hell is wrong with him I wondered five minutes later…why won’t he say something? It is so obvious that we’d be perfect together. Well, if he is going to be playing games then that’s just what I will do and I sunk into my seat turning completely around ignoring him until he got off at a stop before mine. Now, that showed him I thought triumphantly.

Without any distractions I was able to settle back and resume my original worrying. How is it that I am single at 31? What could I possibly be doing wrong…

After a week back at home it became clear that the travelling bug hadn’t entirely left my system. Obviously there was only one acceptable solution to that. Bags had to be packed once again, my passport was where I had left it upon my last return and I merely had to swap one guide book for another. Before I knew it I found myself on an epic train journey to Berlin. And I don’t say epic lightly. Seven long hours on an over-heated train carriage is enough to stretch any friendship to its limit. I was travelling with my Ex Occasionally Better Half which I feared might turn out to be the making or breaking of the entire train.

Fortunately all went without hassle apart from the moment I found myself doing a superman impression just at the moment we were crossing the border. I needn’t go into why I felt the need to pretend to be a superhero (especially when my Kermit impression is so much more sophisticated), that wasn’t really why I was getting strange looks. It seems when I try and recreate a superhero in flight I stretch my arm up in what can only be described as the well recognised salute made famous by the most infamous German man ever. I received a polite nudge from my Ex OBF who quickly informed me that the train to Germany wasn’t perhaps the best venue for my unique repertoire of superhero impressions.

Having promised to behave myself and stay clear of superheroes I’ve been allowed stay in Berlin for a few days. At the moment I’m doing my best not to melt in the heat - 35 degrees today. After walking for hours on end taking in this vast city the only way we could stay cool was sit in the shade and surround ourselves with cocktails packed with ice. It’s a tough life really!

I’m just back from New York I proudly informed a friend I bumped into in the pub last night. Yes, I can smell that he dryly replied softening my cough in one foul swoop. I think this might have put an end to my not so subtle references to New York I’ve been dropping into every second sentence to impress whoever I’m talking to. Would you like a coffee? Oh in New York I could have got you a tall skinny macchiatio in any flavour you want - unfortunately the canteen here has only black or white. You think this little Dutch tram is busy? You should see the L train on its way to Brooklyn during rush hour! That’s such a small slice of cheesecake, why in New York you could feed a family of six for a whole week with one of their slices. Yes, I was beginning to bore myself with my nonsensical nostalgic wittering. The smell my friend had accurately detected did in fact belong to New York though. To be more precise it belonged to Abercrombie and Fitch - possibly the world’s most terrifying shop, or lifestyle brand as they’d probably prefer to be called.

The first thing that strikes you upon entering is that the shop is run by vampires. Well I can only assume that this is why they prevent any natural light from entering. In every outlet they have pulled their shutters down so you never know what time of day or night it is. The next sense to be shocked into submission is your hearing. Booming music at night club levels makes every part of your body vibrate. This is possibly so you can’t hear the cashiers tell you just how much money you are about to part with. The last assault is on your nose. They pump the shop with their own brand of cologne, going as far as spraying it on all their clothes. They get so trigger happy you can actually smell the shop down the block long before you can see or indeed hear it. Trouble is that you are so dazed by the dark and inability to hear that your sense of smell takes over and you end up loving it. I ended up buying two bottles in the ensuing sensory confusion. The final straw that made me wonder if I’m just too old for this place was the half-naked young male models strategically placed to make the shop seem even more hip. Unfortunately they just made me feel horribly old and out of shape so I quickly fled the mayhem with my cologne in my sweaty hands and a buzzing in my terrorised ears.

New York made it up to me later on that evening as we hit the bars. There is something so utterly respectable and dignified at being asked to show your ID everywhere. In Europe I haven’t had that in about ten years. In New York I revelled every time the bouncer scrutonised my little Dutch ID card trying to understand even one word or figure out which of the numbers indicated my birth date. I even perfected the feigned annoyed look that you feel obliged to show when asked, despite loving every moment of it. Ignoring the fact that they were also asking people who easily looked over 50 I bounced inside confident that I looked ridiculously young for my age. Or maybe it was my new magic cologne that did the trick, who knows.

Like every good love affair New York and I have had our difficulties. In fact this time round she did her very best to dissuade me from coming at all. This was mainly achieved through challenging me with the most lengthy and ghastly queues. It began in Schiphol airport at the luggage drop-off desk. How can it take one hour to wait to simply drop off your bag I ask you? And why do people wait until it’s their turn to decide to repack all their possessions?

The next difficulty was at immigration at JFK. I had spent the whole flight relearning my left from my right to avoid a repeat of the last fiasco. I had plenty of time to practise in the immigration queue as we found ourselves behind the three slowest people in the entire airport. The first took so long we could only assume she was seeking asylum after being kicked out of her own country for being the slowest person there. The next two were girls with complicated visa issues that have put me off Ukrainians for life. When I finally got through over an hour later - hot, annoyed, tired and fed up I discovered that my bag had not arrived. This meant I had to join my next queue for Lost Luggage. Another half hour later and I finally got to talk with a lady who spoke in little more than a breathy whisper. Just what I needed at that time. I eventually filed my claim after some form filling and countless ‘pardon me’s’ and we went outside to join the taxi queue. Another 25 minutes.

I got a call sometime later to say they had found my bag. At least that’s what I had presumed from her little mousey squeak. The problem then was that the delivery company refused to ring my international phone number to let me know when they’d bring my bag. ‘It should come sometime before 12 but if you’re not in you will have to come back to the airport yourself to get it’ she whispered. Hours and hours of waiting the whole day long finally built up and burst the dam as I lost patience with Ms Squeak. She finally raised her voiced and told me ‘We’ll do our best to get you your bag sir’ and promptly hung up.

The only thing I didn’t wait for that day was sleep. I had already dropped off before my head met the pillow. The nightmares of the start of my holiday drifted away as I finally relaxed - sound asleep. Only to be awoken at 4am at what sounded like an air-raid siren that turned out to be the apartment’s doorbell. Five flights of stairs down in a sleepy dazed state saw me face to face with my bag again. I was really beginning to think that coming back to New York had been a very bad decision. Fortunately I couldn’t stay angry for long so we quickly resolved our issues and as always, the making up part was delicious.

I’m back, although somewhat temporarily. After being assured that all orange coloured clothing items had been safely stowed away I deemed it safe to return. I managed to love New York even more this trip spending less time among skyscrapers and shops and concentrating more on wandering about streets in the Village and Brooklyn. Stepping in off the mayhem I got to see Sex and the City in the city, Boeing Boeing on Broadway and R.E.M in Madison Square Garden - not that I am bragging or anything. Two out of those three were fantastic, I kind of get to thinking that you’ll work out which was less so.

I had planned on doing lots of resting seeing as I was there for a whole week. I thought I’d have lots of time to read some books and just chill out and do nothing. Silly me! If I was sitting still for more than a couple of minutes I felt I was missing out on something. New York is exhausting. I knew that it never sleeps and all but I was sincerely expecting a couple of cat naps at the very least.

I was accompanied by my Occasionally Nefarious Friend who proved again to be the perfect travelling companion. I was thinking about this one day on the metro as we went from one ridiculously exciting place to the next. I was utterly exhausted so hadn’t said anything at all in about ten minutes and I realised that we were so comfortable and used to each other that this was perfectly fine. It didn’t pronounce a bad mood or unease, it was simply that fatigue had crept in. I wanted to explain this fuzzy warm feeling of not having to be anything other than how I felt and proudly informed him that ‘going on holiday with you is like going on holiday on my own’. As soon as it came out of my mouth I realised I should have thought about how to express this just a tad longer. Fortunately he was also worn out from the fabulousness of the city and barely raised an eyebrow. That is until later in the evening after a restorative G’n'T or two when my words first reemerged to mock me. Something tells me I’ll be hearing them for a while yet.

My ONF also fell in love with New York and is threatening to flee there for good. This is alarming in many ways - NY can’t have him! Who would I go travelling with? And who would he ride the metro with in silence? I’m just going to have to keep reminding him of all the bad things about NY - the ghastly humidity, dirty streets, the relentless pace of the city. Failing that I might just have to alert the immigration authorities as to why he earned his name.

There is no other option I realised, I have to flee the continent. After a week of soccer cries and football chants my nightmares of growing up loathing this game came back to life. How I used to have to make up an answer to ‘Which club do you support?’. My problem was always that I couldn’t remember what I’d said the day before and was very quickly exposed as a fake. I was always the very last to be picked for a team - even behind the sickly smelly kids. This is completely understandable as I tended to race off in the opposite direction should the ball foolishly come my way.  The shrieking and hand flailing was just for added flair.

Since last week the Dutch have gone soccer crazy. Mainly because they seem to be popping goals at a phenomenal rate. The cheering is getting louder and louder as the European Championship goes on. Even louder than that are the clothes. The country is flooded in a sea of radioactive orange. I keep trying to drop helpful hints that orange does not suit ANYONE. But they won’t listen.

So to save my sanity and eyesight I’ve decided to leave. I’m heading across the pond back to New York in the hope of not seeing a football or even a dash of orange. I don’t plan to return until the last whistle has been blown. Unfortunately I haven’t bothered to check when that is and I return in a week’s time. Surely soccer madness will have burned itself out by then, right?

I had such a wonderful day yesterday with my ex Occasionally Better Half. We wandered about Amsterdam in the glorious sunshine indulging in coffees and cocktails and cake. We strolled about the Botanic Gardens in the middle of the city trying not to pass out from the heat in the glass houses, laughing at the oddly shaped cacti. We had come for a concert in the evening and whiled away the time lazily watching the tourists go by as we relaxed in the sun. It was one of those perfect days - nothing sensationally exciting just comfortable and warming in so many ways.

After the gig we had a couple of beers in a bar before beginning the journey home on the train. Our conversation meandered from laughing about the good old days to more poignant nostalgia. As we swapped notes on how we were each dealing with the loneliness of being without the other we reached a point where we didn’t know what else to say and so simply rested our heads against each other in a way that expressed more than a train full of words ever could. We just stayed in that tender moment staring through the window at the darkness outside until it was time to part.

My stop was first and as I was just about to get off the train a tough looking man glanced at us and said ‘You boys are very brave’.  Our raised eyebrows preceded his explanation ‘This country isn’t as liberated as you may think. You should be more careful. You might offend someone …Just giving you some advice’ and then he quickly walked away.

I found myself on my own on the platform waving a quick confused goodbye to my ex as the train pulled out. I made sure the scary man had gone a good way ahead of me before I moved a step. Instead of being able to think about life and love as I should of at that moment I was caught in this stranger’s alarming words. Was it really advice or a masked threat? Is it possible that such a moment could really offend anyone? Is this something I should be thinking about whenever I am in public? After all, people’s ignorance can easily spill over from merely baffling to dangerous.

I thought about it all the way on my cycle home and first thing when I awoke this morning. Sometimes I find it difficult to even recognise the world I live in. But I also realise that there are some things you simply cannot allow to get to you, otherwise you might never leave the safety of your own home.