So I sent a little e-letter to The Brother. Not a love letter, but one of interest and lust translated into an invitation for a night out. Four days later, I'm still waiting for the reply and it surprises me that my ego doesn't give a rat's ass. The next time I see him at least I will have something to talk about.

Lust. We have a great word for it in Flemish : goesting. Ik heb goesting in pudding (de kleine van mijn zus), goesting om te leven (mijn ma toen ze ziek was), goesting om te slapen (zowat iedereen één keer per dag). If you run out of goesting you will probably get diagnosed as being depressed.

I am sitting in front of my PC screen and behind this : a mirror, conveniently installed to look at your eyes getting tired, your skin turning dull. For the last 40 minutes I have been trying to get my wireless connection up and running, but finally had to give up - the reason probably being my lack of authorisation to change settings. So this text is going on dematerialised paper and on the internet when I get a chance to connect.

Day 235 of 2006 had a wonderful summer evening. I spent it in steadily growing joy, eating early and small mussels, writing cards to my family.

Tilburg is a nice town. It has agreeable architecture, a lively city centre and lots of young people are out on the street riding their bike, talking. Some of its citizens are sitting next to me on other tables at the Bistro Napoleon. Dutchmen. I overhear one explaining to an Englishman that he “can stay during the muziek still plays”. They are so gifted when it comes to languages. I wonder what the Dutch ever did to earn this illegitimate status of language geniuses, pay the bill and go to my room.

Before turning to my computer I was watching Tutto per Tutto on the RAI, since at home I don’t get to watch Italian television anymore after the cable company changed their programming. Tutto per Tutto is about choosing girls and boys out of a cupboard (real men and women holding envelopes) who all have a part of the key to hard cash fortune. If you guess who is holding the largest amount of money, you can order yourself a dream come true. I would have won The Brother – for that was what I imagined guessing for. And because there is no such thing as coincidence, I was cleaning out my purse on my hotel bed during the show and found … a business card of The Brother! Flashback. Shame and scandal – I see a 4th Duvel entering my digestive system. I see him handing over his card and me saying I don’t have one at hand. How is it possible that I did not remember this proof of mutual interest? Last weekend I text messaged L to get the phone number of his Brother, while all the while I had it in my purse! Alcohol has played another trick on me and I let it happen. Still I am glad to have his email for now I can send a love letter.

So now the RAI is playing something on I diritti degli Obesi – the rights of the obese. There is a large market for it in Italy, home of the anorexic. A little boy with breasts larger than mine ‘dives’ into the Mediterranean. A girl is saying that she still feels sexy. Wow, she’s belly dancing now. You go girl! I love Arabian music – this leads me to the growing joy of the day. I get to go to Fès on a luxury weekend paid by one of our suppliers. My favourite colleague Stéphane is joining me. We both have a weakness for whiskey. Pray to God I will remember my first weekend in Morocco.

In the meantime a new show has started on TV. A good-looking woman in her thirties is singing and dancing on Madonna’s (and Abba’s – let’s be fair) Hung up : “ringue, ringue, ringue I’m ung up, so ung up on yo-o”. Respect – to sing and dance like that I would mumble the words correctly but so out of breath. I'm ageing fast. And furiously.

une femme like you

Donne-moi ton coeur baby
Ton corps baby hey
Donne-moi ton bon vieux funk
Ton rock baby
Ta soul baby Hey

Chante avec moi, je veux une femme like you
Pour m'emmener au bout du monde,
une femme like you Hey

Though the song above is about a transvestite or she-male, it inspires me to write about women . That ànd the fact that last Tueday I was in church listening to the priest preaching about women. It sounded like he didn't know thàt new kind of woman - single, well earning, generous, no kids and high on testosteron - come to think of it ... the new kind of woman is a nun but unmarried to God and overtly sexual. Pfjew. No wonder I wanted to be Mother Theresa when I was little. I saw it coming. Anyway, last Tuesday was the celebration of the day Mary died and went to heaven by means of an elevator cloud - that's how I've always imagined it : Mary in a shiny pale blue dress, with lace lining on a white cloud. During the sermon I kept humming a self-invented gospel in my mind : Praise the Lord for inventing women, for what would this world be without childbearing mothers, cocksucking lovers, desperate housewifes, crazy aunts, married sisters, hardworking prostitutes or they-don't-know-what-they're-missing lesbians? Glory, glory, hallelujah.

It took me 30 years and 5 years of semi-singledom to realize women are as interesting as men. Obviously, I've always known we were the more cunning of our species. Nevertheless, beware all you women out there, for the legging is about to become fashionable again. Unless you've followed my diet and now have a pair of killer thighs and buns, I would suggest you turn away from this infamous bad taste must-have.

But back to men. Some of you guys might think I am being rude talking about categories and the lot, but the more intelligent amongst my readers might have understood it is a mere technique to give some color and body to my texts. Of course I don't think in categories, but in Yes and No's, and take it from there.

The brother is - obviously - a brother of someone from the past. Well actually, L showed up again and along with him, so did The Brother. It's testosteron-time again. I see and think The Brother all the time. And the silly thing is, it's all because I got too drunk in his presence and instead of saying the right things to get some of his testosteron moving too, I just said either nothing or tried to organize my thoughts out loud (a very annoying habit when you're drunk).

The next time I meet him I will be sober and pull the right strings - Inchallah.

I am not know for my well thought-out actions and might take some risk. Will I call his parents and ask him on the phone like a 16 year old - leaving his family with the inevitable question: who is she and what is she to him? - or will I sit still and wait for another chance? Cast your votes please.

I've met a guy who has never been in love. 26 and to him a butterfly is an insect, no more, no less. I wonder how a lovesong sounds to his ears.

I remember when I found out about chemistry. It was a long, long way from here.

I was 6 and in love with the adopted son of a preacherman. I got my first kiss on a birthday party for kids. What a buzz, the reciprocity of things. Love and sex - probably the cheapest drug around. But the cold turkey ...

O my baby, baby, I want you so it scares me to death. I can't say anymore than 'I love you'. Everything else is a waste of breath.

Right, so it can go pretty wrong in love. The decay of reciprocity. Before you know it you're left with a skeleton and you need to move on.

Don't want your love anymore. Don't want your kisses, that's for sure. I die each time I hear this sound : here he comes, that's Cathy's clown.

To have never been in love. I am puzzled and wonder why I have met this particular specimen.

It's official : a Sandy-day contains 72 hours. And once again I have no time to update my blog.

Someone screwed off the head of doll Sandy. I pick it up, shake it. Shake it, shake it. Like autumn leafs, the ideas, images and stored sounds fall to the ground : I see a bird flying against a car (or would it be a car driving into a bird?), a transparent human red nose, a flock of 30 black birds and only 2 white ones, the news. I hear seagulls screeming, a door slamming and a toilet flushing. The new sounds of Sandy’s appartment.

I’m back. The weather has been too good to be sitting inside. The dates too numerous. I found out about the rendez-vous site years ago but only recently signed up. The reason might have been the Deva-failure, which made me realize I am not incapable of falling in love. Or could it be I desperately need a handyman? Whichever reason may be the cause, I met 5 men I didn’t know before the summer. I like them all but no one seems to be third category.

Shake it, shake it, shake it, like a polaroid picture. I see Sandy scratching the back of Ella Bandita. A crazy dutch girl who makes good lo-fi punk trash music. On Theater aan Zee, she played a set containing the infamous song ‘scratch’ and felt a sudden urge to interact with the public by asking them to scratch her body. She jumped off the stage like a little insect and there she stood, back turned towards me, asking for a scratch. And I scratched.

Yesterday I met The Brother. 100% Category 3. I need to dash now (off to Brussels) but more soon. Tomorrow. It's all in my head and ready for paper.