Things Belgium is very good at:
- Not taking itself too seriously
- Bizarre, moderately wrong folklore type events (Ypres cat throwing festival, Doudou de Mons, the horrible, eery Gilles de Binche). I am desperate for someone to let me write at length about all this medieval wrongness, but it creeps every commissioning editor in the universe out, and who can blame them.
-Endive rehabilitation
Belgium's national day is a fairly mysterious event. In an infamous investigation a few years ago, Belgian television reporters discovered that most of the political class had no idea what the 21 July was the anniversary of. It was during this same report that head potato, and current caretaker prime minister, Yves Leterme, sang La Marseillaise when asked to sing the Belgian national anthem, La Brabançonne. I will not deny that La Marseillaise is a vastly superior tune, but if you are Prime Minister of a country, knowing the national anthem seems to be a fairly basic requirement. I know it - though not the words - as it is always played, solemnly, at gulag prize giving. Whenever I try to sing it, it morphs mysteriously into 'Hail to the Chief', so I would have some sympathy for Mr Leterme if he were not such a witless tuber.
Seriously, play one, then the other. You'll see what I mean.
Hail to the Chief
Now I defy you to try and hum La Brabançonne without morphing into De Souza. Go on, try it. I should turn this into a Belgian National Day drinking game, probably.
Anyway. The streets - already empty for the summer - are completely deserted. When I took the dog out earlier, it was eerily silent and the only sign of life was a scrawny fox, hanging around a dustbin. I feel it should be a holiday for me, even though no-one I work for currently is based in Belgium, so unilaterally declaring that I will be having a day off, thanks, to commemorate Leopold Saxe-Coburg taking an oath to become - lucky man! - first king of Belgium is unlikely to be a good idea. So I am doing the next best thing and being moderately inefficient and resentful. I based a whole career on this, so I am an expert.
The paler patch on my jeans to the right is a series of dusty paw prints. He looks quite sweet from that angle, but I assure you, he is hell-bent on ensuring my total psychological collapse.
Part of the problem is I am living in a dustbowl at the moment. There are Works. Travaux. The kind that feature monosyllabic men with schedules as elusive and rapidly changing as Madonna's and giant, great, fuck off pieces of plant. ("Plant". That is what it's called, isn't it? As in the sign, "Heavy plant crossing"? I mean pneumatic drills. Lots, and lots of pneumatic drills). Works are always fun, aren't they? Everything is dirty, I am dirty, the dog is dirty. The dirty dog is so distressed that whenever I sit down, it jumps onto my knee, even though it is plainly too big to be on there, and cannot get comfortable once it is up there. So it circles sadly around my knees, leaving dusty pawprints all over me, then jumps down, then regrets its decision and jumps back up and the whole dismal cycle continues until I throw it out of the kitchen window (soon, at this rate). Look, here he is, preparing for his 98th leap onto my knees today.
The paler patch on my jeans to the right is a series of dusty paw prints. He looks quite sweet from that angle, but I assure you, he is hell-bent on ensuring my total psychological collapse.
My main observation is how fast one becomes (ok, I become) entirely feral. Once the kitchen is reduced to a heap of rubble, there is little point in doing anything. Why wash, when within minutes I will be covered in masonry dust? Why wash clothes, or dishes? And HOW? Why wear make up? In fact, why get dressed - or indeed, get up - at all? I might as well fester in bed, gnawing on an arbitrary selection of frozen foods without bothering to defrost them first. This will happen, I am sure of it. I would say I am, at a conservative estimate, three days away from eating out of bins and wearing a pillow case. By the time the Works are finished (supposedly a month, I do not believe a word of it, the builder has the weary, devious look of someone who is working on 43 jobs at once), I will probably have been placed in protective custody.
Given the immense (canine) strain on my sanity, and the surprisingly large amount of law I STILL have to do before the children return (they have been away for ages on some far flung campsite with their grandparents, and I am missing them painfully), you will forgive me if the only other thing I have to offer tonight is this, the CFO's leaving present from his au pair:
An oven glove and three packets of moth repellent.
What was your worst ever present? Can you beat moth repellent?
29 comments:
Worst present: Immediately after two, nearly simultaneous, unexpectedly traumatic events (moving into my first solo apartment, in New York--which was about the size (and odor) of a hatbox, and the demise of my first engagement), my dear auntie gave me a garishly painted tea pot with nesting teacup for one with a portrait of a mangled female profile on one side, and a cat head on the other. Nothing says, "you're alone now, bitch!" quite like that. No, I don't speak with her anymore.
One year my then 13 year old brother received socks for Christmas. From everyone. Entire extended family. Aside from the then secretly lesbian auntie who gave him (13 year old boy!) an apron with cats on. Funny, he was never much into Christmas from then on.
i gave the worst ever present to my bf, god preserve her. a cd case with the cd ripped out and a piece of plaster of paris inserted in it instead. it cost me a f*ing fortune thanks to it being from 'the artist'. freak. it was a total toss of a present and it is a wonder she ever spoke to me again.
My grandmother gave me a horrible Christmas present when I was about eight: a fat, ceramic pig, when wound up, played "Everyone is Beautiful, In Their Own Way..." What are you trying to say, grandma? I should lay off the Girl Scout cookies?
My husband once handed me a birthday present filled with bubble wrap. Said bubble wrap was not protecting a fragile gift. It was the gift.
A leather back-pack in the shape of a monkey given to me by my late father-in-law (whom I loved and miss greatly), and which according to him was very "me" (I was in my mid-twenties). He must have been drunk or on something when he made that purchase. He had kept the receipt, thankfully.
Some sort of roughly hollowed out lump of wood which bore a very faint passing resemblance to a turtle (it had 5 slightly pointy bits sticking out like 4 flippers and a head) trying to pretend it was a fruit bowl, or possibly a tray. We were never sure; it spent 9 years under my bed, then got broken up and burned when we were low on firewood. My MIL has always given weird presents, but that one took the biscuit; it is still a legend in this household. Damn, I should have taken a photo, it is impossible to describe how shit it really was.
What was the tiniest Trefusis doing to the weepette? That current photo nearly made me cry, I felt so guilty just looking at him!
The "decorated" weepette looks like ET.
Where are his ears????
Worst present(s) : Years of underwear and pajamas -- practical Christmas presents. I never got the horse I yearned years for or the much less costly "Betsy Wetsy" doll (that request was a major lapse in sanity; the horse was not!)
My mother gave me for Christmas a few years back the book "Managing your Menopause".
Betsy Wetsy! Sorry, that brought back memories. I can't think of any terrible presents I received, but a girl I went to college with got a clothes brush from her boyfriend as a Valentine's gift. It was weird because he was a very handsome, gentlemanly, if slightly dull, boy, and he really built the gift up. She somehow managed to be gracious despite being somewhat stunned. She wasn't greedy or expecting a big, fancy gift, but I'm pretty sure a clothes brush was waaaay off the radar.
"He looks quite sweet from that angle, but I assure you, he is hell-bent on ensuring my total psychological collapse."
Hilarious. My dog is the same. At the moment he is worrying me half to death by deliberately running through vegetation that he is allergic to until his entire head puffs up in hives. I've had to buy jumbo packs of Piriton to keep him from combusting.
Worst present ever seen in my family was one Christmas when my dad gave my mum 20 pairs of Sloggies pants, all cunningly disguised; wrapped in different shapes etc. Poor long suffering woman.
Moth Repellent?!!
Age 22, the Christmas after my mum died, my auntie gave me a t-shirt with a kitten wearing a sparkly crown on it. A) I wasn't 5 B)even at 5 I wouldn't have worn a sparkly kitten t-shirt C)I was(and still am inside) a punk kid. Baggy jeans/denim skirts, chunk boots, balck, red, purple. How exactly does that translate to sparkly kitten?!
The man who would later become my husband wasn't always lovely and sweet. In fact he was a bit of a dick to begin with, if truth be told. The first birthday I had while we were "dating" he made a huge song and dance about my present. Lots of leading (I thought) qs about whether I liked cooking, had I ever done a cookery course, how was my french, did I like paris etc... Clearly all pointing towards a v lovely paris-based cookery course, no? No. Instead I got an XXXL Ossie Osborne T-Shirt. Ossie Fucking Osborne. I'm still - 9 years on - slightly flummoxed by it.
Six months after I started going out with the Love of My Life, we had our first Christmas together. His present to me was giftwrapped, but I could feel a small ring sized box.
I was super excited.
He was worried about us opening our presents at my mother's, so we stopped in the car on the way to have this special moment together
I opened my pressie to find a bug in a box.
A bike for Christmas when I was rather small. My father would not let me touch it until he took the training wheels off, in the grand family tradition of children standing by tearfully--or in the end, just resigned--while he insisted on something or other. By the end of the day I had commandeered my sister's much larger bike, which I had to ride standing up as I wasn't tall enough to reach the seat. The Intangible Heritage of Humanity, indeed.
Belgium seems to understand that one is never going to be able to grasp anything with the rational mind alone.
My worst present was this Christmas when my boyfriend's mother gave us a travel hairdryer (she actually said, "you've probably already got one" - don't buy it then) and amongst other odd bits of tat, some ear indicators - they looked like hearing aids but with lights on so we could indicate if we were turning left or right. I honestly did not know what to say to her
Mr Trefusis once gave me the entire box set of Friends. Not only do I loathe Friends, but it was a passion he shared with the girlfriend he had before me. He'd made the mistake of telling me this on several occasions, to which I'd always reply 'Whatever'. Evidently this translated as 'Oh, I wish you and I could bond over friends too - just think, you me, a bottle of wine and all ten series - brilliant'.
Anyway, I don't think it's a mistake he'd make again.
On another note, my antecedents were called Saxe... do you think I could put in a bid to be a long-lost relative of the Belgian King?
My sister used to sing "La Brabançonne" to me as if it was a nursery rhyme. Consequently I know every single word, and it is always one of my 5 facts during ice breaker exercises.
My worst ever present pales in comparison to my best friends. Her Gran got her a pack of (incredibly expensive) hazelnut chocolates. Which is a great present for someone who is deathly allergic to nuts.
Why are the Gilles de Binch horribly creepy? The Wikipedia article doesn't convey this. I'd love to read more of your impressions of this!
My former sister-in-law once gave me a pair of yellow rubber washing up gloves with green scrubby palms for Christmas. I never gave her another gift and silently cheered when she and my brother split.
Bright red trainers with thick (red) crepe soles and ribbon-like (red) laces. From husband. Never worn. Abominations.
My father's sister favoured gifts from the discount table at department stores and was infamous for giving bizarre and only vaguely appropriate gifts. One Christmas, she gave me a china tea cup and saucer that featured a clan tartan. While we aren't of Scots descent, I was playing a drum in a pipe band (I was a teenager. What did I know?) at the time. However, they were mis-matched, with a different clan on the cup than the one on the saucer, and neither of them was the tartan the pipe band wore. I did like tea, though.
It may be too late now, but I always send the family away whenever I do Works around the house. I get to swear, yell, bang, and live like an animal, and they come home to an improved dwelling. Everybody wins.
Aged 17 - received a school jumper (grey v- necked, sensible) and a school scarf. Can't say urgh!!! Loud enough.
Close second was the Christmas we all had flu and 'big' presents were bath cubes and a face cloth.
Lacy pants and a garter belt from my mother. No tags. The label read Anne Summers, and I knew my mother would never cross that threshold, and realised with dawning horror that the only way they had come into her possession was as a present to her from her new boyfriend. And (understandably) she didn't like them. (But why no tags? Pause while I poke out my mind's eye). So rather than bin them she passed them onto me.
As shiveringly awful as that present was, it's still not as bad as whatisthewhat's singleton teapot, though.
WT Softie
Yes Peter. This would indeed be wise. Too late, I am taking them away tomorrow, now that everything we own is covered in a thick layer of masonry dust, there is hedgehog faeces trailed throughout the ground floor where the feral hedgehog has decided to sneak into the house in search of food, and we have selected the requisite Farrow & Ball "Tubercular orphan" paint colour. The dog is in the grip of a catastrophic nervous breakdown and I have just realised the emergency tea caddy of (human) downers is hidden deep in a packing box.
I am relieved to hear you also live like an animal during works, however.
A friend once gave me a book that displayed on the first page inside a dedication to herself...
I seem to be a magnet for shit Sexret Santa presents;
My first Christmas in an office at age 16, I received a pair of red lacy knickers and a scrunchy (it was 1995 so the scrunchy wasn't quite so heinous). Mortified.
Then a couple of years ago, I received a battered and dusty box containing Partylight Room Fragrance which was clearly "re-gifted" after lying in a cupboard. Yup, a second hand air-freshner... Thanks Secret Santa!
Late comment to this, but my grandfather is always very proud of hs presents to me. One year he gave me a framed picture of himself. The next year he triumphantly presented me with a roughly wrapped bag of 100 toothbrushes. "10 pounds! I got you 100 toothbrushes for ten quid!" So generous.
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