The most amusing and unexpected event of the week was discovering that to learn Dutch, I needed to be processed by the Huis van het nederlands. Classes are not held there; it is just the Belgian Dutch version of the Academie Francaise; guardian, in this case, of the Dutch language. I turned up, after a two bus journey, to find entry to the building, challenging [no instructions on the keypad and what I considered inspired attempts to guess the correct numbers, proving inadequate, it took a phone call to resolve the problem] and the interview which eventually followed, unexpected. The absolutely charming Evgenia insisted on addressing me as if I were five years old; something perhaps lost in translation there. Then I discovered that a grown-up 11+ test, complete with practice paper, was to follow. "We need to assess your intelligence and aptitude" she said and, strangely, my confidence did not grow. I am comfortable with words but less so with symbols, patterns, shapes. Alas, no words were involved. Result is that I am suitable for a standard level class but, comfortingly, there IS a lower level should I fall below the required! Only then did I discover that the classes will take up four hours a day, four days a week. Yikes. Had envisaged a gentle couple of hours, twice a week max, but no such available. SO I am signed up to start in early May when life will change with my mental acuity or lack of, uncomfortably exposed. Everyone says that, even if one learns a little Dutch, understanding the Bruggean patois will be impossible. Apparently people in Damme, a few kilometres up the canal, cannot understand their cousins nearby. Have a suspicion that the Bruggeans are rather proud of that.
What other minor triumphs are to be reported? Found, by chance, a Sue Ryder shop in Katelijnestraat and eventually dropped off a few surplus clothes. I am in constant search for space in what is a large apartment with less wardrobe space than in earlier times and with, altogether, less storage, full stop. I reminded myself of that when I was in Massive, a lighting emporium staffed by two wonderfully warm and receptive women, Lieve and Saskia. I found two of the aforementioned fittings, each at a 50% discount to my unbridled delight, and then fell in love with a gorgeous black lamp [fashioned from volcanic rock] and shade. Again, the seductive label of a 50% discount which I resisted irritatingly, so that I had to repeat the long walk along the Langerei to buy the following day, even though I have a number of lamps! The first time I investigated Massive and the route there, I followed the canal, as directed, to Dampoort, where to my initial delight, the bridge was up and the road closed. Loved being able to have a ring-side view of the whole process of an immensely slow barge, almost as long as a football field, manoeuvre itself so carefully, millimetre by millimetre, into the lock. The sun was high, the wind cold and brisk, so that by the time three elongated barges had queued, finessed, bobbed gently in the swell and glided at the slowest walking pace through the gates, followed by an equally cautious large motor boat, I was cold and even colder when I saw the whole procedure had taken almost thirty minutes. I could see Massive across the canal and the wide main road, just opposite. Tantalising. Small wonder I bought; I was oleaginously grateful for the warmth, both of the store and the reception from the girls. Residents of Wye in Kent, will recognise the mindset necessary for this prolonged wait while one form of transport holds up an alternative. Years of training in Wye, waiting for trains to go through the level crossing, have prepared me for the possibly greater travails of Serious Waiting here.
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