Don’t you want me Baby?

I had a blind date this morning. A blind date for a threesome no less. And to make it even weirder it was with two women! Okay actually it was a job interview but it really felt just like a blind date. What will they be like? Will they find me charming? Will they notice that spot on my face? Is my beard too long? All the same feelings as a date but without any chance of a snog at the end. Probably.

While I love my current job ….(anyone know what the hell it is I do?) …. the place I work for is going to close in over a year and a half or so. From underneath my snug blankets of denial I had a hot flush of practicality one day and looked on the internet to see what job vacancies were out there in the scary real world. I absentmindedly sent off my CV to one and before I knew it I was invited for an ‘informal interview’.  Just what the Tom Jones is an informal interview when it’s at home? Does it take place in the pub? Do I turn up in jeans and t-shirt? Should I be speaking in some sort of hip street slang? Do people even use the word hip anymore. PANIC!! I decided I’d cancel - I really didn’t need the hassle of being a big bag of nerves for a job I’m not even sure I’d be interested in - but my Occasionally Sober Friend wouldn’t let me - It’ll be good practice for when you really want a job she wisely advised. And so I reluctantly went.

Informal my elbow! It was like being on Mastermind with my chosen topic being ‘How wonderful am I’. I spent an hour answering rapid-fire questions doing my best to sell myself - so much so that by the end of it I felt like I should really be ruling the world and am totally wasted in day-to-day life.

I squirmed and sweated and asked questions. Tried to seem both interesting and interested. I smiled, made jokes and tried to pretend I knew what I was talking about. And then they asked ‘What is your experience in writing?’. I repeated the question back to them slowly hoping to buy some time - I ran through my life in one swoop and before I knew it there I was answering boldly ‘I write a blog’. Their blank expressions and silence forced me to plod further into this murky region. ‘It’s a fairly good blog though’ I pleaded quite unconvincingly ‘with real readers’. The next few questions had me explaining all about my blog, what it was about, who reads it etc stopping short of showing them pictures of the history of my beard. I dread to think how geeky it all must have sounded. I’d have gotten away more easily had I just said that I’d written some angst-ridden poetry when I was 14.

Anyways I survived the whole experience but really felt like a stiff drink afterwards. I’m still not sure how interested I would be if they call me for a second interview but it’s always nice to be wanted. I wouldn’t go back again without the promise of at least a quick grope though.

I don’t care too much for money

January to May 2008: What joy! The university has completely forgotten to bill me for this year’s fees. I’ve slipped through the cracks and have basically scored a year without having to pay anything. Yippee! Maybe they liked what I wrote in my assignments so much that they decided to give me my masters for free.  Perhaps they are just feeling charitable and know that I really can’t afford it. Whatever the reason I now have lots of money that the bank lent gave me to spend on whatever I deem essential instead.

A new bicycle is needed, a nice flashy one with a shiny loud bell! New York was great - why don’t I go back in June before everyone else discovers how great it is. And how about Berlin, I’ve always wanted to go there. I’d better book that too before all the trains and hotels are full. And of course there is no point going to these places unless I look utterly fabulous, a new wardrobe is essential. ..

June 2008: Dear Mr Conortje, Well done for passing your latest assignment. Our records show that you owe us a wheelbarrow full of money and have not made any payments in a ridiculously long time. Pay up ASAP or we’ll be very mean and scary. Hope you’re having a splendid day, yours greedily, The University.

Now until roughly 2020: I will be eating nothing but supermarket own-brand rice. If I had more than one kidney I’d sell it! Ah well, at least I’ll also be the best dressed pauper in the city and who knows, maybe the bank will just forget to ask for their money back.

Drink your wine from a mug

With the fine summer weather it would be downright rude not to sit out on your balcony sipping a cool crisp white wine. Now I don’t pretend to know very much about wine but can happily invent all sorts of pompous descriptions if I am in company and feel the need to show off. After a couple of glasses the words just tumble off my tongue… Yes, I can detect undertones of cinnamon with a hint of distressed truffle - gentle ripples of vanilla radiating through the soft shades of elderflower… or my favourite, whispers of nutmeg enveloping echoes of rich oak.

My Occasionally Sober Friend however has given one of the very best descriptions of wine I’ve ever heard. Coming across a brand new wine in our local supermarket I felt obliged to investigate. ‘I had that one last weekend’ she announced. And when I asked what it was like she paused in thought for a moment before replying - ‘It was very cold!’.

My laughter only settled down about an hour later when I had a chance to examine the label in more detail at home and discovered on the back that it had ‘a third less alcohol than other wines’. I felt ridiculously hard done by! Less alcohol? And they’re proud of this? It was all I could do to prevent myself throwing the whole bottle down the drain. Until I realised with glee that this was in fact a wonderful thing. It means I can drink three times as much! Well, maths was never my forte in school.

I’d rather Jack, than Fleetwood Mac

Lost briefly became my favourite TV programme of all time. Not because I had finally figured out just what the hell was going on or because I was bowled over by the stunning performances (ahem!) by the actors. No, it was a much simpler reason. I used it in my most successful chat-up line ever.

I usually don’t bother with chat-up lines. In fact I have a strict policy of never talking to strangers I fancy and instead completely ignore them while saying silent prayers that they’ll miraculously come to me. Needless to say that has been hugely unsuccessful to date. Last week though I broke the habit of a lifetime. Egged on by my Occasionally Holy Friend and my other good chum Mr Heineken, I boldly swayed over to my target and announced that ‘You look just like Jack from Lost’. And he really did, which explains why my heart was a thump thumping the whole time. Even though this was a spectacularly stupid thing to say he didn’t laugh in my face or turn his back and so I spent the rest of the night with a look of complete disbelief on my face as we chatted away. It turned out that Jack was as sweet as a button and apparently liked me too. As I left his place on an incredibly sunny Friday morning I really couldn’t believe my luck. And I still couldn’t believe it an hour later when I got a text saying that he wanted to see me again soon.  I went straight to the printers to order the wedding invitations.

Over the next couple of days we swapped sweet texts until Tuesday morning when I received one saying ‘When can I see you?’. I waited an appropriate two hours before replying to show I wasn’t ridiculously desperate (yeah, I know - who am I fooling). And since then I have heard nothing. Absolutely nothing! After two days I sent another, just in case the mean text underworld had stolen my message. 24 hours from that - still nothing. So now I’m left wondering if I dreamt last week? Was he abducted by Lost loving aliens? If he wasn’t interested then why bother with all those texts? Is he trying to be as enigmatic as his look-alike?

I suppose it’s for the best really. The world probably isn’t ready for a Frodo/Jack match. Besides, my friends would probably have ended up calling me Kate. I’m off to drown my sorrows in whatever substance has the highest alcohol content. And I suppose I’d better drop into the printers to cancel that order.

So many people you just had to meet without your clothes

We’ve have the most incredible summer weather for the last couple of weeks. We’re talking ridiculously hot and sunny here. Everyone’s smiling and happy (when not complaining of sunburn). And to add to this spot of heated luck I had a four-day weekend! Four long hot sunny days with nothing to do. Pure Bliss. Being on the coast I felt a growing obligation to go the beach and experience the sun there instead of on my balcony. I reckoned with a book in hand I could happily laze about being all content and beachy.

As I cycled over the dunes it quickly became apparent that my idea was far from original. In fact thousands shared it- it was like the Tour de France just getting there. That’s the problem with living along side 16 million others in a country the size of a postage stamp.  The only way to get away from the beach masses is to go further up the beach away from civilisation. As you walk further away from the main drag there are fewer and fewer people. And indeed fewer and fewer clothes. Until you get to a point where they’ve just stopped bothering wearing anything at all. This makes walking more and more of a challenge as you try to not openly stare at the exhibits people splayed about and not act shocked or uncomfortable. I just pretended to be following the flight of a particularly fascinating bird until I could find a safe patch to lower my eyes.

Finally I found a nice little piece of beach where I wasn’t directly confronted by anything that dangled. I spread my towel on the ground, had a little stretch and lay down. Thirty seconds later boredom crept in and I started fidgeting so I got my book out. The wind kept blowing the pages so I put it away again. I fortunately remembered then to put on some sun block. All lotioned up I lay down again just as the wind blew, covering me in a light layer of sand. Trying to rub the sand off me I managed to trip up in my towel and ended up completely in the sand. As I am fairly generous with the sun block this meant I was totally covered in sticky sand and resembled some sort of ‘it crawled from the dunes …’ monster.  I raced to the sea with the idea of washing myself  - cautiously dipping one toe first to check before plunging. This was an exceptionally good decision as the sea was colder than a witch’s mojito.

Severely discouraged by this whole beach visit I tried one last time to relax on my towel. No easy feat when there is sand everywhere. And I mean everywhere. Applying more sun block was like having an excruciating exfoliation with sand paper. I decided that I had enough - I was sick of the sand and bored of just lying there - what was wrong with my balcony after all. It’s clean, sandless and just a couple of steps from a cool beer in the fridge! Just before packing up though my mind started wandering…it’s probably nicer to be sunbathing in the nip - fewer places for the sand to get caught up. And sure,  if everytone else is doing it then indeed why not me? In fact I’m standing out like a sore thumb here. I don’t want to be a fuddy duddy! Plus it’s probably a nice feeling to have the gentle breeze blowing over your sunkissed body…

And so my trip wasn’t a complete waste. The sand removed all my dead skin cells and I now have a wonderful all-over tan!

You asked for the truth and I told you

I am always weary of putting photos on WordPress as in the past they’d end up mysteriously moving about the page at random, scared of the cursor, obscuring words and generally going places and doing things they shouldn’t. I’m not sure if they’ve fixed this problem but we’ll soon see…

So amid an avalanche of pressure (as in someone mentioned in passing they wouldn’t mind seeing my attempt-a-beard) I’ve decided to present my current facial hair to the world. It’s a week and a half old now which, in Conortje years, is the equivalent of about three days on a ‘normal’ man. Strangely, in real life not even one person has actually commented at all on it which makes me worry that it is some sort of reverse Emperor’s New Clothes. That, or they’re all sweetly trying to protect my feelings.

So I practised and practised for hours and took lots and lots of photos until I got one that looked suitably beardy I very casually lifted up my camera and took a quick random shot which resulted in this

Worried that I’d be branded as a posing tosspot for the rest of my life I decided to try and learn to smile. This is easier said than done and I ended up with some sort of grimace-style smuggish grin and unusual bug eyes.

And just in case anyone doubted the uniqueness of my beard hair growth this is why I’ll never sport dashing sideburns

Now that I have presented photographic evidence, the question is do I shave and return to normality or keep going with this beardalicious experiment. Can my life get any more exciting I wonder?

Make believe this moment’s here to stay

Yesterday, during the 24 degree sunny Tuesday afternoon I had to spend three and a half long hours in an exam room. Fortunately, I was giving the examination so my little brain wasn’t taxed too much. But a holiday it certainly wasn’t as it was in a ridiculously big room and I had fifty-five people taking the exam! In fact there were so many people that I had to give the instructions from the top of the room through a microphone. Of course all this attention had my adrenalin on over-drive and it took all my strength not to swing my hips, grab the mic and give my best rendition of New York, New York. Fortunately for all the eager people nervously clutching their pencils I resisted that particular temptation. Just looking at their tense faces made me incredibly nervous and brought back all my own exam anxieties that I still have nightmares about.

It occurred to me later that the building was the same place where countless famous singers and groups have performed (albeit in the really big auditorium next door). In fact I saw Dead Can Dance there a couple of years ago. I can now honestly tell people that I have performed in the same place as all these amazing musicians. Then I remembered that it was also the very same place that Johnny Logan first won the Eurovision Song Contest and wisely decided against ever mentioning a word to a living soul.

On a hairier note, as soon as I work out WordPress’ new system of posting photos I’ll upload a picture of my attempt-a-beard. It’s good that there’s a pre-warning anyway so there’s time enough to prepare yourself.

Every head he’s had the pleasure to know

On my jaunt of the local pubs last weekend, amidst all the garbled drunken stories and conversations, I happened to pick up some rather unusual advice. This came about when my friend bumped into (literally) someone who introduced himself as Oscar, the Stylist. Oh my friend said excitedly, a good friend of mine is a hairdresser too. Queue icy cold looks from young Oscar and an incredibly lengthy and impatient lecture on the differences between said professions. I must admit that I had lost interest in the situation at the very beginning of the rant, possibly being distracted by a glass of beer, or a catchy tune played by the DJ, or let’s face it - anything not to do with hair.

However before I had a chance to make a complete escape I felt fingers in my hair that I found belonged to a puzzled looking Oscar. Whatever did they do with your hair? he asked with such urgency that I wondered if it had suddenly turned blue or had fallen out. This? It’s my post modern Ringo look I explained with as much confidence as I could muster. No, no! Don’t ever let that happen again he warned with flailing hands - oh and you know what would make you look so much better? - if you grew a beard! It will make the world of a difference.

I had happily forgotten all about this encounter until the next day when it came time to shave. Ah, I’ll just leave it a couple of days longer I thought, deciding that a stylist must know what they’re talking about. Perhaps the secret to personal beauty is facial hair after all, it certainly never did the real Ringo any harm.

The problem with this however is that I have not been blessed when it comes to beard growth. It’s patchy at best, downright bizarre at worst. There’s a centimeter on my left side where a sideburn should live that no hair grows on at all - no matter the amount of coaxing. I also exhibit some breathtaking examples of asymmetry in beard growth with my right side being much more eager about the job than the left.  Against all my better judgment I decided to give it a go regardless and see what would happen.

This morning, as I looked in the mirror and saw what looked like a scruffy teenager battling a particularly difficult bout of puberty it occurred to me that perhaps this was Oscar’s plan all along. It was his cruel punishment for not knowing that his job was ‘on a totally different level’ than a hairdresser.

The moral of the story is to never take advice from someone you may have recently offended. Oh and never ever use the lovely Ringo as a fashion example.

Chemicals all rushing through my bloodstream

I always figured that it was only a matter of time before I ended up on anti-depressants. A chemical force-field against life’s irritants sounds very attractive and finally last week I got just what I wished for. Okay, actually it was my neurologist (or should I say one of my neurologists) prescribing them to me to treat symptoms of my Sarcozydosis but I like to milk these things for as much as I can.

So the next time some rude person skips the queue I have been obediently waiting in I am going to inform them in a high-pitched squeal that I am very unstable and am taking anti-depressants. If work gets too much for me I might ostentatiously pop some pills in front of my boss and wait until the sympathy starts flowing.  My happy pills are at a much lower dosage then it would be to treat real depression but nobody needs to know that do they?

The wonderful potential for sympathy and attention was growing as I read the medical information that came along with the drugs. Some of the side-effects alarmed me though, such as drowsiness during the day and extreme weight-gain.  Still and all, I expect to be ridiculously happy in no time. One big excitable bouncing Conorball, you have been warned!

Of course I won’t be mentioning one of the other uses of the drug that I came across - ‘used in the treatment of bed wetting’. I think it wise that I don’t advertise that particular one.

I’m coming down fast but I’m miles above you

I could measure out my life in The Netherlands in bikes I’ve had. On last count it was six. You cannot call yourself fully integrated into Dutch society until you’ve had at least two bikes stolen. I’ve had two and half taken from me. The half was when I actually caught the thief wheeling my bike away. I rushed up to him in a fit of superherotacklingcrimeness and yelled Hey that’s my bike! He replied, oh is it? as he politely handed it back acting as if he had merely mistaken it for his own and not broken the lock in the process.

Almost worse than the bike thieves are the bicycle repairmen. They are the laziest bunch of scoundrels (don’t you just love that word) I’ve had to deal with. No matter what is wrong with your bike they will invariably tell you that it would be cheaper to buy a new one than get this one repaired. And bikes are far from cheap in this country. Even the falling to pieces ones that nobody would want will set you back almost 100 euro.

This is why I am very very sad that my current bike is on its way out. The back wheel seems to be suffering from some sort of progressive buckling process making it harder and harder daily to get from A to B. Perhaps it’s fed up with maniac drivers and is coming down with a dose of metal fatigue. I wouldn’t blame it. But because I’m loathe to bring it to the bike hospital or trade it in, I am cycling about town in an embarrassingly erratic way. It’s like riding a bike that’s having a permanent epileptic fit. Strangely though I have found that the faster I cycle the less I feel the wobble. This is surely going to lead to my grizzly demise on the Dutch bike paths. In the meantime I will see how long I can string it out for. Being without a bike in The Netherlands is like being in the middle of the Irish countryside without a car. Apart from all the, trams, trains and busses galore we have here I suppose. 

What I am going to do until I come up with a better plan is pretend that I’m on a bucking bronco - who would have thought that cycling to work could be so much fun?