I am in need of another holiday. I had barely recovered from my grand tour of the South West of Blighty when the Olympics started. I had been to look at the Olympic Park while I was staying in trendy E12, but nothing had prepared me for the spectacle that Danny Boyle served up to the world. It was breathtaking - Her Majesty as Bond girl, the 20-minute industrial revolution, Mr Bean and the London Symphony Orchestra, the fabulous music composed and performed by Underground, the dancing nurses, Beckham in a speedboat going under Tower Bridge with the Olympic flame, Ban-Ki Moon carrying the Olympic flag with Doreen Lawrence, the flaming rings in the sky, Muhammed Ali, the fireworks, the parade of the teams -- there was so much crammed into a couple of hours that I had to watch it again on playback the next day, to see all the bits I'd missed.
I am not remotely interested in archery, fencing, dressage, beach volleyball or BMX riding, but Team GB's success in the cycling and sailing whetted my appetite, and as soon as the track and field events started, I was glued to the sofa in the true Olympic spirit. It's all that lycra I think. I took to toasting each medal with a glass of wine, and that is how I became temporarily alcoholic. My patriotism knows no bounds. I did, in fact, feel proud to be British and a Londoner, and even "Gorbals" McChe, who found an excuse to go out of the room every time God Save the Queen was played, looked up from his video game once or twice, which counts as rapt attention from him.
Sous l'atomium ....
.... le paradis terrestre !
During the athletics I had a visitor from UK, which meant much out-and-abouting, to the Grand' Place, the Mannekin Pis, and the usual tourist circuit. I couldn't face going up the bloody Atomium for the nth time so while my visitor went up inside I went wandering in the woods at the foot of the edifice. This was quite a revelation - it was delightful, with a canal and an open air auditorium. Brussels certainly keeps its best bits - the green bits - hidden. The green spaces are the best thing about this city, which has ruined quite a lot of the centre with supposedly cutting edge architecture. The "Square", for example, is a massive glass cube plonked right in the middle of the very classical Mont des Arts, which houses an underground conference centre. Because, you know, there is an absolute dearth of underground conference centres in the middle of Brussels. I think they wanted to do something like the Pyramide du Louvre, which was equally badly received when it was first built in the 1980's. But the Pyramide somehow worked. The Square doesn't. So well done Brussels town planning department, you've done it again. La Brusselisation continue.
Pyramide du Louvre, Paris
Le Square, Brussels
In the midst of all this I decided it was time to send out a Missing Persons Alert on my waistline, which was last seen circa 1994 heading in a southerly direction. Although I think I eat a fairly healthy diet - fresh meat and vegetables, good quality bread, chips only on very rare occasions (and only outside - I could never achieve the perfection of a Belgian frietkot), chocs perhaps a bit less rarely - I thought it might be a useful exercise just to see how many calories I pack away each day. They have these wonderful websites now where you just type in everything you eat and drink and it works it all out for you. After I'd typed in my age, weight, lifestyle details etc. it replied "LOL". On weekends I consume nearly half my daily allowance at breakfast! Anyway, I've devised a 3-step programme. First step - start taking an interest. Second step - start worrying about the results. Third step - do something about it. I'm only on the first step for now. I'll keep you posted.
While out and about being a tourist guide, I was drawn by the irresistable sound of a brass band from a courtyard. My visitor and I went to investigate, and to my surprise there were the KNOB* doing a gig for an old people's home. Hildegard from Hot Flash! was guesting on sax. There were various pensioners milling about in odd costomes, smocks and whatnot, which I presumed was the Belgian equivalent of the Chelsea Pensioners' dress uniform. One lady was dressed as the cartoon character Madame Chapeau and a number of the younger contingent were dressed like the bull-runners of Pamplona, in white with red neckerchiefs. Then there was a giant puppet wandering around the streets looking a bit disoriented. This is fairly standard for a Saturday afternoon in Brussels, which is of course the home of surrealism.
The KNOB* feat. Hildegard on sax
Making an old woman very happy
One of the blue-smocked pensioners grabbed me for a quick foxtrot around the courtyard. It turned out this was the warm-up day for a strange and slightly mad event which takes place every 9th August in Brussels - the planting of the Meyboom. I tried to find out the story behind it - something about a 13th century wedding, a punch-up between people from Brussels and Louvain, and a tree. So on the appointed day, a bunch of colleagues and I went off to see this bit of unique Brussels folklore. It was all very jolly, although several hours later when I was sitting in La Mort Subite slumped over a Grimbergen and a plate of cheese with a militant Spaniard, I couldn't quite recall what the point of it had all been.
And then Lolo La Clope turned up and it was "rebelote", as the French say. Lolo went off to America a few years ago and we had a lot to catch up on. Her anecdotes about the Americans made me realize the Belgians are actually not as crazy as they appear. It is one thing to dress up in a smock and dance with strange women, and quite another to carry a kitten around an all-night shopping centre because the poor thing can't sleep. Normality is all relative. But there I was, out on the razzle again, two nights in a row. Do you know how many calories are in beer? And do you know how many beers I had over two evenings out? Sufficient to say that I am not likely to get past Step One for quite a while yet. And next Friday I am orf to the Sahf of France with "Gorbals" McChe for a week of sun, Pastis and cassoulet. I feel I ought to amortize those walking shoes I bought in Blighty, but as they only cost £6.95, I think walking from the house to the car and back for five days should probably cover it.
This, just so's you know, is the view I will be looking at for most of next week, altered only by a glass of something cold and pink close to hand on the edge of the pool. On my return will think about progressing to Step 2.
Bonnes vacances!
