The crisis is starting to bite. On Sunday Brussels ran out of petrol. There was not a car to be seen on the roads. Citizens took to their bicycles, meandering in a state of confusion with their entire families. The very occasional vehicle which passed, obviously belonging to black marketeers, was greeted with raised fists and jeers. It's turning nasty out there.
Refugees were walking the streets aimlessly, searching for an exit sign. Café waiters ran through the park with their trays of drinks, chasing customers who had given up all hope of being served and left the country without paying. It's utter chaos.
I could flee, of course, back to Blighty, and abandon Belgium in her darkest hour. But I have come to think of this odd little country as home, a land which welcomed me to her bosom in my hour of need and offered me a peaceful haven when I had been tossed on stormy seas (literally), a shoe rack to lay my weary Manolos when all shoeshop doors had been slammed in my face. Plucky little Belgium came through for me. And I for one do not forget a favour. I will not flee - I will stand and fight alongside my colleagues and neighbours, for a united Belgium. And in any case I've just moved all my belongings here and it would cost a fortune to move them back again, not to mention the loss I would suffer on the exchange rate.
Having been born too late to have been a member of the French resistance, I feel my moment of glory may be about to present itself. I have a trenchcoat. I have a beret. And I can do a French accent. I have been practising in front of the mirror. "It is I, Daphnée, of the Résistance. Leesten vairy carefully, I weel say thees only once." I hereby declare myself ready for action, and at the service of the Belgian resistance. Sudden Death before dishonour! A la bière comme à la guerre.
Strangely enough, it's all back to normal now.
Refugees were walking the streets aimlessly, searching for an exit sign. Café waiters ran through the park with their trays of drinks, chasing customers who had given up all hope of being served and left the country without paying. It's utter chaos.I could flee, of course, back to Blighty, and abandon Belgium in her darkest hour. But I have come to think of this odd little country as home, a land which welcomed me to her bosom in my hour of need and offered me a peaceful haven when I had been tossed on stormy seas (literally), a shoe rack to lay my weary Manolos when all shoeshop doors had been slammed in my face. Plucky little Belgium came through for me. And I for one do not forget a favour. I will not flee - I will stand and fight alongside my colleagues and neighbours, for a united Belgium. And in any case I've just moved all my belongings here and it would cost a fortune to move them back again, not to mention the loss I would suffer on the exchange rate.
Having been born too late to have been a member of the French resistance, I feel my moment of glory may be about to present itself. I have a trenchcoat. I have a beret. And I can do a French accent. I have been practising in front of the mirror. "It is I, Daphnée, of the Résistance. Leesten vairy carefully, I weel say thees only once." I hereby declare myself ready for action, and at the service of the Belgian resistance. Sudden Death before dishonour! A la bière comme à la guerre.Strangely enough, it's all back to normal now.
10 comments:
Shock therapy is what's required to get things back to normal. A famous and well-respected woman must ride through Brussels on a black horse, tearing her hair and exposing her bosom.
- sniggering behind my hand so as not to alarm colleague in the same room -
That is how people abroad start to think Belgium is really falling apart.
Although a car free Sunday is a revolution in its own right here.
I heard on the Home Service that Belgium was only 100 years old and that they hate each others guts and that their chips are fab. That is all they could muster re the state of Belgium.
Get out now, a warm welcome awaits you in Perth, (so long as you're travelling solo.)
Make sure to carry a weapon of some sort in your stockings. If gunless take a banana off your hat and use it as a threatening thigh-bulge in your tight black resistance skirt. Make knockwurst jokes at every opportunity to signal your political persuasions. Make "Make Chocolate Not War!" your slogan and sweep to success in new emergency elections. Then solve the language disputes by making everybody learn Gaelic, the language of angels and the baby Jesus. Then ban these God-awful mayonnaise chips. Chips need vinegar - everybody right-thinking sort of person knows that.
I'd vote for Candidate Daphne!
I can't remember what happened to Leopold and his lovely wife. I have some beautiful blue bulbs which come up smiling every year named after her. Fabiola?
GB, I suggest the actress Cecile de France, who despite her name is Belgian, and the nearest thing they've got to a famous woman.
Bart, how anyone can afford to drive here beats me, having seen the cost of insurance and road tax.
Doc, Belgium is 175 years old. They sort of hate each others guts. And the chips ARE fab. Is that Perth Scotland or Perth Australia? It makes a difference you know.
Sam, welcome back, where've you been lassie? A tight skirt is essential for a resistance girl, that's why they stood and fought rather than tried to run for it.
Pat, Baudouin the present king's brother suddenly without descendants. (Leopold III was their father). Fabiola is still alive, which means that Belgium has a king and two queens, one Spanish and one Italian. Perhaps they could give one to each half of Belgium and maybe that might break the deadlock ...?
That should have been "died suddenly without descendants".
It was not funny ?
I correct , live Belgium !
"Sudden death before dishonour'.
I admire your fortitude; Reminds me of when comedienne Jenny Eclair was asked whether she would prefer to die quietly in her sleep.
She said: "No. I'd rather choke to death...
...on Johnny Depp"
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