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.