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).