Excess Baggage

It is remarkable how much superfluous baggage one accumulates. When I had finally unpacked the last box and found somewhere to stash all the different kinds of silverware, crockery, glassware, tablecloths, etc., I wondered if I really needed most of it.

Our street-wise friend Scrumpy (who I note has a bit of a fan club already!) has the right idea. He travels light. In his backpack he carries nothing but a full-sized duvet and a ghetto blaster (he doesn’t believe in MP3’s or iPods, he likes to share his music with friends and anyone else within a hundred yard radius), and a length of string, in case he finds a stray dog to tie on the end of it. Such freedom! I would never be able to live like that. I can manage with a small holdall for a weekend away. But that’s just for my make-up. My trunk full of clothes is sent on ahead. Ballgowns can be required at a moment’s notice, and a girl doesn’t like to be caught unawares. And as Princess Zoé will confirm, you never know which size of tiara is appropriate for a formal function, so it’s best to pack three. Of course I can do “smart casual” for popping down to the supermarket – you know, a little Chanel suit over a cashmere sweater with just the one string of pearls, and matching shopping caddy. But I do like to dress up if the occasion demands, and bustles can’t be squashed into a suitcase, not even the largest one that Louis Vuitton make.

However, I pondered, as I surveyed six different kinds of fish knife, am I ever going to be hosting nine-course dinner parties for 20 again? Does a footloose and fancy-free city girl such as I require three dozen crystal champagne flutes? Large gatherings are so passé, the trend is more towards small informal gatherings where one eats sushi with one’s fingers from hollowed-out bamboo sticks whilst lounging on Moroccan divans and discussing the latest hors d’oeuvre of Michel Houellebecq with the likes of Salman and Melvyn. I decided to follow the teachings of St Bono of Geldof, and donate my unwanted possessions to the poor.

Scrumpy directed me to a charity warehouse called “Les Petits Riens” which was enormous and stacked to the rafters with second-hand furniture, clothing, books, carpets, electrical equipment, musical instruments, paintings, even computers which were surplus to somebody’s requirements, and had been donated for re-sale. At a guess, a good deal of it had been salvaged from house clearances, and there was some remarkable period furniture, particularly from the 1970’s formica era, which is already back in fashion. The warehouse is like Ali Baba’s cavern, and you could get lost in the maze of rooms which led from one collection of slightly dog-eared treasures to another. I was so entranced by it all that I completely forgot to leave my excess baggage, and purchased a crystal chandelier, an oil painting in the style of Rolf Harris, two Rimini chairs, a trombone and a life-sized plaster statue of the Virgin Mary.

Oh well, charity begins at home.

Room with an EU View

This weekend I gathered up my belongings from the bijou but frankly rather poky shoebox I have been occupying in the leafy but dull southern suburb of Brussels, and moved to my new abode in the heart of the pulsating metropolis. The new Wayne-Bough Towers has more room, and a stunning view of the EU Commission headquarters, enabling me to keep an eye on the buggers on your behalf, dear readers. With a high-powered lens I could probably see into Commissioner Mandelson’s private dining room.

I was assisted in my housemoving by an old//young friend -- Harold's erstwhile protege, the still fairly pungent new age traveller, anti-globalisation eco-warrier, professional protester, treehugger and hunt saboteur Scrumpy (see Wayne-Boughs’ World posts "Land and Freedom" and "Global Warning" ) who is taking the "Year of Mobility" seriously, and has turned up in Brussels for the purpose of being as much of a nuisance to the EU as he can, whilst applying himself to evading any form of paid employment with his usual grit and determination. In fact, I think he works harder at avoiding work than most people do at their jobs. (Particularly those at the Commission).

Scrumpy finds panhandling tourists pays better here than in Poland, and there are almost as many Poles here so he feels very much at home. He made himself very useful and helped make some room in my fridge by disposing of all the beer (down his neck). He’s a good boy, needs feeding up though, I shall have to have him round for a Sunday roast now that I have an oven and can let my inner Nigella out again. It was such a joy to unpack the 10-setting dinner service, the best silver, the lace tablecloths, the crystal and the porcelain, which I haven’t seen for a year as there was no room to put it. Daphne’s Dinners will be up and running again soon, mark my words. My soirées were legendary from Lagos to Accra. Before long the Commissioners will be badgering their assistants to get them an invitation to Chez Daphnée. Mr Mandelson will be peering enviously at my dining room window through his telescope!

Dante's Al Forno

Last Saturday night I took the Hornblowers out for a meal, as they are finally leaving Brussels and going to vegetate in deepest Bucks. They arrived with their small grand-daughters Hermione and Hepzibah, who are very well behaved in restaurants. Most of the time. They arrived more or less on time, only because I had phoned ahead and woken Desmond up. The narcolepsy isn't getting any better. Once he fell asleep in the middle of a conversation with Harold. Mind you, who hasn't?

We met at the Pizzeria Paradiso, on Museumlaan in Tervuren, which I think is one of the best Italian restaurants in Brussels. Pity it is right out in the English ghetto on the far eastern edge of the city. The food is scrumptious, and the service is always friendly and efficient. The restaurant was packed with diners, which speaks for itself. The owner-waiters speak at least four languages fluently - French, Flemish, English and Italian - and probably a few more besides, and are brilliant with children. And with Desmond.

To start, Desmond ordered a tuna carpaccio which looked absolutely mouthwatering. I tried a little bit - it was scrumptioso, wafer-thin slivers of fresh tuna drizzled with truffle, I mean twuffle, oil. I have had beef carpaccio but will certainly try tuna carpaccio next time. Vi had calamari fritti, and I had garlic prawns - one of the nice things about being single, you can eat what you want and the pillow won't complain - and was served a dish with six huge butterfly prawns sitting in a pool of melted garlic butter. Hermione and Hepzibah had home made tomato soup which was delicious, if unadventurous. But they are only 5 and 7. For main courses, the children shared a pizza carbonara, Vi had tagliatelle in a cream sauce, Desmond had a huge thin-crust pizza, and I had Saltimbocca alla Romana, delicious veal escalopes with ham and cheese in a very tasty sauce, and a plate of chips on the side which were more for the children than for me. Oh and two litres of red wine, most of which Desmond and I managed to dispose of with ease.

The Hornblower family have the appetites of birds. Vultures. Desserts were ordered - "Dames Blanches" for Hermione and the grandparents (vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce). Hepzibah was doing an Elton, didn't like any of the desserts on offer, so the waiter-boss brought her a "surprise" which she didn't like either. I would have liked a home-made panna cotta, but the boss said I needed to order it in advance, so instead I had a chocolate mousse which, like everything at Paradiso, was fait maison. A coffee and some complimentary amarettos, and we rolled out of the restaurant sighing and patting our tummies.



The Hornblowers will be sadly missed. Mostly by the owner of the Paradiso and the wine section at their local GB store. But I shall miss my GNOs (girls' nights out) with Vi, and will never be able to pass a raunchy underwear shop without thinking of her. Deepest Bucks is about to be hit by an earth tremor in a leopardskin thong. And Desmond will probably sleep right through it.

Let's get fizzical

The 1980 (or perhaps 1979) Perrier advert I referred to was shown only a few times in French cinemas before it was banned. In France. I was one of the lucky few that caught it, and joined a whole roomful of French people dissolving into hysterical laughter simultaneously. I have searched YouTube and sadly it is not there. It is too good not to share, so I shall attempt to describe it for you.

A bottle of Perrier water stands bathed in soft lighting. The music starts - Serge Gainsbourg's "Je t'aime, moi non plus". A woman's hand appears and caresses the bottle. The bubbles start rising to the surface. The music gets louder and Jane Birkin's panting gets more urgent. The woman's hand is now encircling the bottle and sliding up and down. The bubbles are going mad, the water is fizzing away and the screw top is undoing itself. When Gainsbourg gets to "maintenant - viens!" and Birkin gives it her All, the screw top flies off and the water comes shooting out.

Personally I prefer Badoit, but their advertising is not half
so much fun.

This'll put lead in your pencil

Big up to Young & Rubicam. The poster I wrote about a couple of posts ago, featuring a man of advanced years dressed as John Travolta, was not, as I and no doubt many other had first thought, for some kind of sexual stimulant, despite the suggestive name Flexity 3000. When I finally found the website, I had to agree that the product could indeed improve sexual performance, as well as make women look younger, and restore hair growth. I cannot tell you what this miracle product is, as I'm still laughing too much. You'll have to look at it yourself - it's only in French or Dutch, but you're a clever lot, you'll work it out. I reckon this campaign deserves to win an award. It has already been lauded as Campaign of the Week by Belgian advertising website Media Marketing. I would rank it a close second to the 1980 Perrier orgasm, which was the funniest advert of all time, ever, anywhere.