Absolute trust

Her posterior parked in the chair
She handled burgers with positive flair
"And aren't you mama's lil boy, Fifi?"
I had say his future was iffy!

The road to Glasgow

Bowing to popular demand, all two of them, I am going to describe, in several parts, my first trip to Scotland. Another is going to follow suit in a couple of weeks.

The road to Glasgow is paved with rest stops, intersects a big blob of ugly humanity around Birmingham, goes through the the rolling planes of Liecestershire before one takes a detour into Kendall and is brought to a stop, out of breath, on the shore of the famous Lake Windermere in The Lake Districts.

The lake, and the countryside, are, of course, made famous by having been the haunts of several poets, Robert Burns and Wordsworth being notable, and authors. So, the thing to buy there was a book of poetry, not that I read, or understand, the stuff. Thus, I made my way to nearest big bookshop, where, though full to the brim with tomes of the same literary value as "Confessions of Monica Lewinsky: Straight from the filly's mouth", there was a aching lack of Burns and Wordsworth. Reminded me of my father's visit to Lake Windermere. Arriving on its banks with memories of Wordsworth read in his youth, he slightly taken aback by the sight of friendly sardar's demanding their well filled spouses to "pass the prothas". Oh, well.

The liberal dutch

As mentioned in the earlier post, the Dutch are a liberal nation; so liberal that ...

... a burglar recently successfully claimed tax exemption for purchasing skeleton keys, night glasses, blowtorches etc. - neccessary equipment for any self-respecting plunderer. His claim was upheld by the courts on the grounds that these were purchases neccessary for his particular line of work. Occupational expenditure!

Now that is a paying occupation.

Amsterdam rehashed: Of tulips and lips

Amsterdam!

That might mean either or all of the following to you - prostitutes, tulips, canals, legal drugs. In the four hours that I had their, I had occasion to see all of them, some unavoidably, but there is one image that sticks in my mind. Right in the middle of Amsterdam's most famous tourist spot - its G-spot you might even say - stand the big, old St. Iforgetitsnamechurch. A mere four feet on all sides stand ladies in various stages of undress inside glass windows. Yes, they stand like that in windows - think live mannequins. Anyway, what you had was The House of The Son surrounded by the several houses of The Sin. There was even a convenient back door, no doubt to enable the chaplain to keep his tryst in secret, after delivering a sermon on the sins of contraception and the dangers of fornication. Bloody hilarious!

Next to the church was the BludStrat - the Blood Street for the linguistically challenged. Story has it that this street was so named because at the head of the street stands the (erstwhile) execution house, so that when the irritating head was lopped off, the blood flowed gently down this street. I suppose the rent must have been low, and the houses in great demand amongst people of the clan Dracula.

Also on show were happy people, sitting and smoking in open air cafes. Smoking hashish that is. Hashish is legal in Netherlands, so much so that you can walk into a cafe and order it off the menu! Talk about the Dutch being a liberal people.

Anyway, the trip was rounded up with a nice hot chocolate on the banks of the Amster.

Zealand, and the discovery of an ideal prototype for a holiday

If you know where that is, you get five bonus points.

Situated in the central-south of the Netherlands, it is a collection of reclaimed islands. Recently, when I was out of sync, I decided to get my mind back on track by spending four days in a lovely Pension(?) in Rennese. During this period I found the perfect way to spend a holiday - wake up with the Sun, bicycle for four to five hours, thereby getting exercise and seeing the land, followed by an hours steady gustation (or breakfast), before spending the rest of the day working while lapping up icecream. About the one hour gustations, I kid you not. When I arrived, there was this large jar of banana nut cereal, when I left, there was this large jar.

This area is flat; so flat that mole-hills fill in for hills, and one can spot women sunbathing five miles away. Too bad the Dutch women never measured up too much, or, perhaps, the good ones escaped before I landed.

A number of quaint little towns dot this area. All of them are rather old, and having had a rich mercantile past, still seem to remember glories past, though most of the Dutch presence in shipping has moved to Rotterdam, about which the less said the better. Though to be fair Rotterdam did suffer a rather severe lashing during WWII - all buildings, except the present Town Hall were destroyed. Talk about Germans being a thorough breed.

Anyway, coming back to Zealand - Zierikzee, Viere, Domburg, Middleburg. Small towns, with big bloody churches, especially Viere. Pointers of old money. Middleburg even had a lovely old museum in its centre, while Domburg had the lovely Kasteel Westerhoven on its outskirts - a medieval little castle, but a new restaurant. The beaches were nice too, though lacked trees of any kind, which, for me, are what make a beach. Especially, as I can't swim, so that to me a beach is but a place to rest underneath a tree letting the sea help me tide over several books in a day.

Then there were the old windmills, each of which has its own name. And the dykes, riding a bike over which was a great experience, though the dykes themselves were nasty black tarry mounds of man's ugly resourcefulness. Also the sheep. Surprised to see a crazy Indian at that'o clock, on an ugly metallic paraphenalia. Finally, the bridges. Long, long bridges, stretching North to South, so that early mornings I could see the Moon set on my right, and the Sun rise on my left. Almost made a poet of me, but better sense prevaled, and the World was saved. Actually, it may not have been saved, but that is for another place, another day.

Across from the Pension in Renesse, was this lovely cafe, with great music and a better ambience. There were books all around. Just plonk your laptop tabletop, order some bruschetta, and some hot 'n sweet coffee, and you are all set... up until the lovely Italian ice cream, unfortunately served by statuesque Dutch milkmaids, not sultry Italians, beckoned you from down the road.

After this I went to Amsterdam. Aha!, you say...

Her Royal Majesty, and her husband, The Duke of Edinburgh arrive today to unveil the foundation stone for the Centre for Mathematical Sciences, a stones throw away from my office (actually I am in CMS, so not even that).

They arrive in all their pomp, glory, pageantry, and paranoia. As if anyone would be bothered enough to shoot them. Anyway had dogs crawling all over my office yesterday looking for tell-tale signs of bombs and sniper-scopes.

Any mention of HRH conjures up the image of Deepak Ramani's (a chap I knew back at TAM, Cornell - a second generation Indian) mother paying money to take a gander at the (fake) Crown Jewels in the Tower of London, only to be told by the Bobby that "Lady, we are not giving them back". Talk about showing off incriminating evidence. Scotland Yard has taken a several steps backwards.