How to lose 2500$ without passing through Vegas

You go live in Belgium and buy an appartement. The government promises you a discount on the purchase taxes if its rateable value stays under 1000$. It does, but then during the 4 months waiting periode between the bidding and actual buying they increase the rateable value from 750 to 1011$. Which means that next Saturday when I'm signing the papers, I can make no claim for a discount anymore. Bam! 1300$ gone.

The government also promise a subvention for the environment friendly renovation of a window. But only if your mini-appartement's rateable value stays ... under 1000$, indeed. Fuckers! Now I can work 250 hours extra on my weekends just to make up for these unforeseen expenses. I have no idea how the state all of a sudden rates my 52 m² appartement in Ostend higher than my sister's villa in the center of a sleepy town.

PS: I pay in euros of course. But dollars just sound so much more dramatic. Imagine 'For a fistful of euros', what a bad movie that would make.

Let me tell you why I deleted all links to my new job: I don't want people from work to stumble upon my blog. Should've thought of that before ... but I'm a person of action and thinking is the part that takes place in the car. I'm behind the steering wheel and my text is on the www.

It's great to be politically correct and incorrect at the same time. To change plans every hour so people let you go your own way- though by that time you yourself no longer know what that means exactly. I talk about men and women I don't know and have the strongest opinion about them. I sometimes feel my heart shrink when a homeless drunk asks for money and I just gave a 5 euro note to another one because he had beautiful eyes. All of that just isn't reading material for new colleagues - I have a vision of a Christmas-sketch ... I'm out in the streets, handing out money to the cutest homeless drunk in town. Which would have to be played by my colleague H. of course. I hope he's single (well, nevermind that - at least he's not wearing a wedding ring) and well hung. But there's no size indicator ring or tattoo on him or any other man for that matter and all common theories have been refuted during this memorable July 2005.

Enter the story of the African Myth. In the name of all girls and women out there: there is no 15 % extra to be found in African underwear. I must admit I abused a political refugee seeker to find out. But it was either that or staring at African men for the rest of my life wondering if ... maybe ...

I met him early in the morning, on the train on my way to work. I hadn't slept all night and was wearing my dark Nana Mouskouri glasses when he gave me his number and asked me to give him a call. I knew right there and then he was looking for a Belgian woman to support his goal: a permanent residency in Belgium, the promised land with a million highways and an army of depressed civil servants. I was sure about his motives because I would never, ever have given my phone number to a girl with a swollen face and unflattering Nana Mouskouri glasses. But he did it. And all I could think was: "Look at those hands! Finally we're getting somewhere.". A week after that I called him to say hi. A couple of days later, we're at the seaside. He's nice and intelligent. I want to fall in love. He's clever, African, beautiful, please God, make me fall in love! And God is challenging me. He's giving me the force to deceive myself and I begin to believe I'm in love. I go visit my guy in the centre every other day for about a week and then - just like that - the lights go out, I fall out of love. Putain. I fall out of love on a Friday. I hate it when that happens. I ignore the cold feeling and try to hold on to a vague memory of two days earlier (Dementia praecox? Who's to say). Alcohol flows richly. And by the end of the night I've added another chapter to my knowledge of male human anotomy. At the break of day, I have a cup of coffee and proceed to the order of the day: maintaining the single status for a little while longer.

Note to self: throw away all mental checklists. Stop screening hands, skin and size of males and follow intuition.

Big giant tampon commercial: your blog is in my rather modest list of fellow bloggers because if I'd change places and names and translate it to Dutch no one would notice it wasn't mine. Except that I gave up smoking and never flush tampons. And speak schoolish English.

La Bottarga

Planning to go to Ostend for the Theater aan Zee festival? And do you enjoy eating and drinking well? Try La Bottarga on the front between the casino and termae palace. Good food at an honest price with a free sunset every night.

I might - according to some - still look 25, last night I felt 30+. The town that I lived in for some ten years - I left it a good year ago - was eight days far in their ten day summer theatre- and musicfestival called De Gentse Feesten. I can't think of anything that could've dragged me away from it between 1995 and 2004, but this year was different. I woke up Saturday July 16th without thinking about the parties, the stand-up comedy acts and the neverending line of irish coffees and coctails ahead that week. In fact, I was thinking about the tapas and the car I was about to buy.

I did meet a lot of old friends yesterday and enjoyed every minute of the night. As long as we were sitting comfortably on a terras, a cold beer on the table and a good converstaion going round. Around 4 a.m. we got up and started moving along to the epicentre of the party, l'ombelico del mondo of all partypeople in Ghent: De Vlasmarkt (picture). A lot of shuffling and pushing and claustrophobia and not a single deserted bar in town made me just long for the privacy of my own home and the comfort of drinking a glass (or two, or three) of Cabernet Sauvignon. Preferably in the company of old friends.

I definitely entered the era of the couch potato. The drunken couch potato. Can't think of anything I'd need. Expect maybe a fellow potato who philosophizes about the coolness of being 30. Can't be that hard, can it?

Right, and I think Jack White's entered the same era: "I was sittin' there in a comfortable chair and that was all that I needed. Then a friend offered me a drink for us to share and that was all that I needed" (Take, take, take on Get behind me Satan).

This morning was the start of my thrid day at my new job. Check out the website (it's gone) I'll be teaching people how to take orders from customers that visited our website or read our catalogue and want to spend some money by phone. Believe it or not, selling clothes by phone is a bit hit in The Netherlands, France and Belgium. In the very near future the UK market is gonna fall and that's where I come in. I'll be the teacher for the English (and Dutch) part of the call centres.

My third day at my new job ... training starting at nine a.m. I'm all stressed and ready to go this morning, but I forgot about trainconductors that don't have anything to say at home and go use their power and force an innocent motivated girl to miss the train. I swear if I'd had a knife, I'd be in jail right now. The exercise I got this morning excelled the running contest by far: I bike to the trainstation and when I get there see that the train's already waiting on the platform. I run, make it to the platform and the conductor closes the doors just as I get there. He simply says - while standing in the only open door left - "You're too late, you can't get on". My reaction - survival instinct / all I see is the trainingroom and me waiting on the tram in Tourcoing because I'm one hour late - I jump on the train and try to pass the conductor, I even grab his jacket. For a moment I think "Yes, I'm on", but then he pushes me off back on the platform! I finished by shouting "You are leaving too early, I will be late for work!" but he showed no mercy and I saw the train and the conductor leave right in front of me. Le con!
Am I ready for this new job or what?

Public transport, I love it. You can read a book while you're being driven to your destination. A poor man's car-and-chauffeur package. But I hate it when I have no impact on my timetable. Trains should wait for me! In fact, I àm the train. I'm the one that goes fast. No one ever has to wander around on a platform and wait more than 40 minutes before I show up. For Christ's sake. So, I'm sorry to say Belgium won't make the Kyotonorm this fall, because commuting between Belgium and the North of France is hell and this working girl's just bought a car.

I ate a lot of tapas yesterday but was mainly focussed on my favourite drink of the day: kirr. It's an aperitif as old as the sea but so damn tasty, especially when you get to make it yourself: raspberry liquor and cold white wine, proportioned to taste.

I told some friends about my blog. They thought it was funny, didn't believe I had time for it and Danny mentioned that it must mean I'm an exhibistionist. He's right. For now.

Around four o'clock, when all the eating and drinking had finished, I tried to go to bed and sleep. Then I started feeling a little queasy every hour. At six I was considering to send an sms to Lien to cancel the whole running participation. I typed some lettres on my cellphone, dozed off again and failed to send the sms. At nine I decided there was no excuse for not running. I stayed in bed until about eleven, took a shower when I got up, ate a sandwich and a banana and hit the road.

So I ran the contest and my time wasn't all that bad considering the lack of sleep, the drinking and the lack of preparation last week - I believe it is very important for a jogger to have a basket full of excuses. Another one: it was scorchingly hot during the first 3 km and heat just kills me.

It's six o'clock p.m. and a perfect time to go to bed since I didn't get any real sleep yesterday and have to get up at quarter to six a.m. tomorrow to talk French all day. Salut!

Bloggers who want a loyal audience need:
- to be some sort of an exhibitionist
- something to talk about, preferably a social life or a hobby like drinking and jogging
- to know how to put pictures on a blog
- to write in English, Spanish or Chinese.
Fail on any of these points and you're either just keeping a diary or indulging in navel-gazing.
I think.

Anyway, I've tried to maintain a couple of blogs in the past.
Ha! I just came up with another requirement: perserverance. Never stop writing! If you stop writing, you might get crossed out on the holy list of links of fellow bloggers and blogger friends. Not producing any entries? Playing the sad old bore with no stories to tell and a post only once in a while? Get off my list you good for nothing no blog ethics whatsoever fucked up girl!

My blog experience started three years ago when I was introduced to this new electronic waterfall of words by Cristian, a guy from Treviso. I kept up the good work for a while and all of a sudden felt short of ideas. I wasn't into talking about everyday matters at that time. And yes, I run out of ideas once in a while.

After a year or so I created "Koperke" which was basically a blog about the life and times of a music-, books- and general purchase-addict. Yes, that's me. Or should I say 'was' me, because I ran out of material after I bought an appartement and drastically cut all expenses. That was four months ago. Since then however, my bankaccount has regained some of its old glory and I thought I should mention that I bought Vol. I & II of Fassbinder dvd's, the collection of winning movies of the Palme d'Or en Cannes from 1996 until 2003 ànd the new White Stripes cd yesterday. But this is starting to sound like my old blog. Only now it's in English and not in Dutch. Dutch is my mothertongue. Flemish Dutch, I'm a Belgian.

Since last Wednesday, my mothertongue is of no use to me during the daytime. I've started working for a company in France and I speak French all day. The plan is that I also go work in the UK for my new employer. Is anyone from Liverpool still reading at this point? I'll be spending lots of days in your town. If you're male, single, well hung and in possession of a good sense of humour, mail me. If you're female and you know a lot of single friends that match the profile as outlined, mail me.

Every vessel in my body is tired right now and I feel like someone has put a hose up my ass and inflated me (it's the heat I guess and the talking French all day). I can't wait to fall on my bed, turn on the TV and fall asleep after ten minutes of fighting the same sleep I desperately need. Who needs a lover if your relationship with your bed and sleep - it's a ménage à trois - is so complex and satisfying?

Yesterday's stories I will write about in due time: the African Affaire, Inertia-hell at work. Plans for tomorrow: tapas night at my place (hope someone has a digital camera), puchasing a secondhand car. Unfortunate plans for Sunday: running contest in Ostend. I am planning to test the influence of alcoholabuse on the eve of a contest. If I fail to report, you can bet your life I've had a cardiovascular accident of some sort. Just don't ever think I lack perserverance to maintain a blog!

The first cut is the deepest. The first blog is a test.