ROYAL FLUSH

I am on my hols bols now for three weeks, and next Monday am orf on the train to Gay Paree, where I have been invited to join in a line-up of veteran hoofers at the Folies Bergère. That will be a post worth waiting for. I am always happy to be back in Paris, where you can get decent baguettes and a proper Croque Monsieur, although the beer and chips are rubbish.

I am hoping for better weather down there. We have not had a summer to speak of here in Brussels, and according to my doctor Gorilla Bananas the damp weather is not good for my joints, which seem to be wearing out rather earlier than they should, so I may have to fluff the high kicks in the finale next week. I can't complain, I was probably a bit heavy on the accelerator in my younger days and flooded the carburettor more than once. The latest diagnosis gives me the perfect excuse to plan winter holidays in hot, dry places. And summer ones. The weather has only just made a turn for the better here, in the last week of July. it was so cold last weekend that I had to dig out a quilt and put it on top of my duvet for added warmth.

This was how close I got to the King of Belgium. Is that his royal portaloo on the right?

Last Monday was Belgian National Day, and I braved the cold and damp to go and lend my support to His Majesty during these troubled times. HM Albert II was in attendance, well I think he was, I arrived a bit late and couldn't get near enough to the podium to see. However, I think the chap in the sash might have been His Maj. Or the mayor. Who can say?

I must get a better camera

Unfortunately I missed the fancy bits of the parade - the King's horse guards, cadets, etc. - and only arrived in time to see the grunts. I was seriously underwhelmed. Don't they teach marching in the Belgian army? They looked like they were having a Sunday stroll in the park! Perhaps their crack troops are all tied up in Afghanistan and they wheeled out the territorials, I can't believe they rely on a slovenly bunch of bearded, beer-bellied, gum-chewing superannuated slobs backed up by a waddle of short tubby women to defend the nation. On the other hand, under the present circumstances, who would want to invade Belgium anyway? The display of hardware was a long way from Red Square, I think they wanted to emphasize the - ahem - "unity" of the country, so there was a touching display of teamwork at the end of the parade, when the fire engines rolled down the Rue Royale in tandem, one marked "Brandweer", the other "Pompiers", the effect spoiled only by the drivers of the Flemish vehicles, with their road maps spread out on the dashboard, stopping to ask directions of the spectators.

The flypast took me rather by surprise and the first squadron with the smoke trails in the colours of the Belgian flag had gone over and left me all of a tremble so it was a minute or two before I could fish out my camera from the bottom of my bottomless handbag to catch a couple of the stragglers:

I do like a lot of thrust

Chocks away, Squadron Leader!

To think I had one of these in my stomach!

Anyway the military music was quite stirring and got the children waving their little Belgian flags and asking when Mickey Mouse was coming. I tapped my leopardskin umbrella in time to the rumty-tumty-tum and applauded as the army demonstrated how they would deal with a violent mob. In Kosovo. But just so's we know.

In a burst of optimism, Brussels authorities have for the 6th year running tipped a few hundred tons of sand on the canalside, wheeled out some of the chalets from the Christmas markets and re-launched "Bruxelles les Bains" - translated as "Brussels Bath" by the announcer! - a poor man's Paris-Plage, the fake beach on the banks of the Seine where I may be found sunning my aching bones, weather permitting, next week. Last Saturday evening, during a short break in the wintry weather, I dropped by to see Agua de Beber, a Brazilian band with whom I spent a pleasant rainy afternoon in a pub last summer, and to sup a Caiparinha or three. It was quite pleasant, but a closing time of 11.00 p.m. and nothing more exotic to eat than a bag of chips is not really going to turn Brussels into the Copacabana of the North.

I am not wasting my holidays. I also went to the cinema, to see "In Bruges", a recent British film, which was finally released in Belgium after being shown everywhere else. Bruges is the star of the film, which is set at Christmastime, festive lights reflecting off the cobblestones of this beautiful medieval city. It's a well-paced, well-crafted and well-cast thriller starring Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson as a pair of lumbering Irish hitmen hiding out in Bruges after a job turned nasty, and a remarkable Ralph Fiennes as their very scary boss. It is both funny and poignant, with subtleties in the dialogue that the subtitles don't catch.

Your holiday puzzler: find the anagram in the last sentence.

Right, must start packing for Paris. Now, where did I put those caribou feathers?