Over honderd jaar zijn wij
Vergeten ik en jij, zei zij
Bij ons eerste echte treffen
Spaghetti stolde op het bord
De wijn bleef ongedronken
Brokken liefde in ons strot
Alsof het heden even niet bestond
Omdat het opging in de eeuwigheid
Waardoor ook de toekomst
Werd bepaald, wellicht betoverd
Zo werden twintig jaar een dag,
Een uur in twintigduizend
Een zucht in twee miljard
Zo zijn wij blijven leven
Gevangen tussen eb en vloed
Jij de rusteloze zee
En ik het droge land
Onze namen telkens weer
Geschreven in het natte zand
Haastig, haastig ons gedicht
Voor altijd bijna ademloos.

In one hundred years, you said
We’ll be forgotten, you and I
Not bad for a first date
Spaghetti frozen on our plates
The wine a patient witness
Love clawing at our throats
The present briefly non-existent
As if absorbed into eternity
Which realigned the future
All sense of time was lost
Twenty years became a day
An hour in twenty thousand
A sigh amid the aeons
And there our love remained
Trapped between ebb and flow
You the restless sea
And I the stubborn land
Ceaselessly we scrawled
Our names in the wet sand
Hurried our forgotten verse
Forever almost out of breath.

“No, dear lady, I assure you, despite my fearsome canine countenance, I have no intention of raping your dachshund.” All the mind’s a stage.

Still playing the tall, dark, couldn’t-care-less stranger, I round the corner, startling the Puzzling Man, standing at his window staring down the street. He reels back, wide-eyed, when I wave, as if death was closer than he thought. He has seen the signs. This morning the 12 white geese at the bread drop zone were fatter, noisier and more confident than all the coots and ducks and gulls put together. Goose. Cooked. A dozen deaths. Overhead a high jet carved a vapour trail, like a cosmic knife tip slicing sky-blue paper. God. Watching. Waiting.

“So, my little smoking writer, do you have a book for me?” asks my neighbour. She is 93 and often sees me, thinking, from her balcony.

“I’ll give you my reading copy. It’s the last I have,” I lie.

“Is it special?” she asks, taking my arm.

“Would you like me to carry that?” I ask, taking the grocery bag from her hand.

“Thanks. Looks like I’ve survived another festive season,” she says, nodding at the miniature Swedish forest that has been released into the wild to die a pitiful death on the nearest street corner. How swiftly twinkling joy becomes garish nonsense.

“Old fool,” she huffs as her even older neighbour cycles by, unaware that the running commentary on his own progress is not just in his mind. “Did you enjoy the fireworks, last night? They’re a lot like life, you know – a couple of bangs, a few bright flashes and vast quantities of junk that no amount of rain can wash away. Speaking of which…”

A black dog drags his stumbling master through the lashing rain, reducing him to dog-food mule, two tins of Fido stacked against his arm. Wind and rain conspire to vaporise the heads of cyclists and pedestrians, so that their limbs can labour mindlessly. We cross the road as fast as her crooked legs will carry her. It always rains harder in the beams of headlights and just beyond the edge of shelter. We stop and hope the shower will pass, watch the drenched parade. Rain is a critical inspector, ruthlessly exposing design flaws with its puddles. Surfers paddle out to the break line, where passing cars raise perfect crescent tubes that break upon the flagstone beach. Dutch cyclists have children so that they can strap them to the handlebars, providing shelter from the rain.

“I should have worn my bikini,” she chirps, giving me a sly wink. More than 30 years have passed since she last wore one. At the “recreational facility”, where they re-enact creation, stripping down to their loincloths to rejoin the other primates in the gene pool. Hell on earth. All species must shower before entering the chlorinated toilet with its bobbing human flotsam and jetsam. At every pool on every continent, humanity finds common customs and archetypes – the handstand, the bullfight, the wanker with the beach ball. Too many fathers still contravening the United Nations Speedo Limit, causing serious ocular trauma. Meanwhile, behind one-way mirrors psychologists study the transition from incredulity to rage as they monitor who-the-fuck-used-my-towel behaviour.

I give her my thoughts and hand her the groceries. “Thanks. No need to bring them up. I’ll take the rollercoaster,” she smiles, nodding to her chair lift. “Don’t forget that book, now.”

“I won’t,” I promise, waving.

Already the tinnitus of traffic has gone from hushed holiday whisper to steady roar, echoing the combined feelings of commuting humanity. But tranquillity is just around he corner. Having a coffee shop in one’s street assures one of a steady parade of shuffling, smiling zombies. Even in the early morning. The outsized gnome under his little red roof leers his unrequited love at the blind Greek nymph half-hidden, armless in the ivy. Like human gulls, the Bulgarians have cornered the garbage assessment and extraction market. They sniff among the outmoded furniture, splintered on the sidewalk, testimony to the slow demise of utility, an industrious life discarded.

I must remember to give her that book.

I was about to take cover under the buffet table when I noticed that my new friends were rushing out to the balcony or up to the roof or downstairs into the street, carrying bags full of fireworks. And so I put on my jacket and made my way out into the freezing night, seeking shelter behind a parked car until I imagined what might happen if a stray rocket were to hit the petrol tank.

When I was growing up in Johannesburg, we celebrated Guy Fawkes Day (5 November) with fireworks, but I don’t recall ever having been treated to such incredible aerial displays or hearing such an ear-shattering barrage of bangs on New Year’s Eve. Fireworks were banned in South Africa sometime in the late 1970s, so all this was new to me.

When I explained this to a couple of my friends, they immediately suggested that we should go to the Nieuwmarkt, a square in the oldest part of town renowned for the Red Light District but also for the many Chinese restaurants and businesses that line the surrounding streets. Every year, the local Chinese community put on a spectacular display of firepower, transforming the square into an ankle-deep red sea of firecracker paper.

“And it isn’t even really new year for them!” shouted one of my friends.

Only later did I discover that the Chinese celebrate the start of the new year sometime between mid-January and late February to mark the end of the winter season. And only today did I discover that this is because the Chinese calendar is lunisolar, which is why the date varies with the coming of the new moon and why Chinese New Year is also referred to as Lunar New Year, which usually falls about four to eight weeks before spring begins.

Only later did I discover that the Chinese celebrate the start of the new year sometime between mid-January and late February to mark the end of the winter season. And only today did I discover that this is because the Chinese calendar is lunisolar, which is why the date varies with the coming of the new moon and why Chinese New Year is also referred to as Lunar New Year, which usually falls about four to eight weeks before spring begins.

(Fireworks on Nieuwmarkt, Amsterdam. Photo by Roel Brals)

Read the rest here…

How I took the train from Amsterdam to Gare du Nord?

How I skimped and saved my paltry student loan to buy the ticket, because I wouldn’t let you pay?

How I almost got into a fight and then struck up an absurd conversation with a drunken Scottish tourist who kept asking if I was a poofter?

How you said I should take the metro out to Charles de Gaulle?

How I pleaded with the chauffeur of the hotel shuttle in my awesome schoolboy French?

How snow delayed your flight in London and then again in Amsterdam?

How I sat waiting in the deserted hangar of a hotel lobby?

How the prim receptionists whispered with puckered lips, casting sly glances, their horn-rimmed heads nodding in agreement at my lack of elegance, my ponytail, my leather jacket, my winkle-pickers?

How I worried about the fact that I couldn’t catch a taxi into town (“Je suis rien de monnaie…”), that I didn’t have a credit card, that mobile phones had yet to be invented, that the only other person waiting in the lobby – clearly a handsome deserter from the légion étrangère – kept eyeing me over his copy of Le Monde?

How I later discovered that he was the French lover of one of your crewmates, instructed to give me shelter should your flight be cancelled, but too bashful or linguistically ill-equipped to inform me of his role as saviour?

Do you remember how I sat trying to read James Joyce because I thought it looked cool?

Read the rest here…

At the recreational facility, we re-enact creation, stripping down to our loincloths before rejoining the primates in the gene pool.

All patrons must shower before entering the chlorinated toilet with its bobbing human flotsam and jetsam.

Humanity has common customs and archetypes at pools around the world – the handstand, the bullfight, the wanker with the beach ball.

Too many fathers still contravene the United Nations Speedo Limit, set at 25 years and under, causing serious ocular trauma.

Psychologists studying the transition from incredulity to rage often visit pools to witness who-the-fuck-used-my-towel behaviour.

Those who ask for nothing in return are often the most difficult to please.

Our obsession with screens, big and small, is driven by our deeply-rooted desire to sieve reality and bend it to our will.

It is unclear whether the photos of Balkan treats on display in the snackbar window were taken before or after digestion.

The petrified wood on display in the window of the floor shop has no obvious reason to be scared.

The commuters who snatch free newspapers outside the bakery seem oblivious to the price they’re paying.

The rain tells its tragic tale of endless regeneration in whispered rhythms.

Double parked, the hot date waits in the nearby shadows and leaps upon his girlfriend, arousing her because he is not death.

The puzzling man has almost finished the black tableau with jagged stripes – just 100 pieces left to go and an answer I will never know.

The tram is a caterpillar weaving its silver overhead line into a loose cocoon that binds the city.

The wind has laid a carpet of leaves on the wet glue of the street.

The whitest beeches are conveniently located, row on row, near the windswept airport onramp.

The stewardesses gather in gaggling groups before taking off in tight patterns to warmer climes.

Three melancholy trios in the park at ear-shot intervals, as one faded the next swelled, forcing me to stop and slowly walk my bike.

The clarinet a mournful mistress, the sax a whispering, wanton wench, gathered at the bedside of their dying crooner, the accordion.

It’s really hard to look cool when you’ve got a gigantic cardboard flacon of Chanel riding up front on your carrier.

There’s nothing like a sudden hailstorm to transform children into a screeching, fleeing mob of monkeys.

The excavator smoothes the sand like King King stroking Fay Wray’s hair, a monstrous arm guided by gentle intent.

When passing joggers in the street, I cycle just ahead of them and pretend to be a nervous star pursued by a tenacious fan.

One swallow doth not a summer make, but one poor summer doth an ice-cream parlour break.

Is there anything more chuffed and astounded than a toddler perched on his father’s shoulders?

And so we see once more the muttering ire, the barely-restrained rage that marks man’s eternal struggle with the parking meter.

To celebrate our gratitude and joy and hope, it is inevitable the several million small trees must die.

Jesus help the retailer who hasn’t got his Christmas shite up and shining yet, for he shall not taste the profits of heaven.

Four mannequins in their Christmas finest stand by a wooden pole suspended like a swing with five owlets perched upon it.

The tram has its own tiny electrical storm overhead as it thunders across the darkened square.

The Council on Superstition has yet to rule on the new scaffolding that has pedestrians walking under a ladder for 25 metres.

The roughness of the world lingers on fingertips as they turn instinctively, seeking the warmth of smooth palms.

All that we must touch – saddles, doorknobs, polished cars, canvas covers on sleeping scooters – is created to the comfort of our caress.

Touch is the most neglected sense and the most suspicious, judging by the faces of those who see a large man fondling his world.

A car reversing to retrieve a forgotten laptop or lunchbox expresses the driver’s impatience and annoyance with its high-pitched moan.

With mocking calls, the crows and magpies wait to feed upon the more impatient birds that cannot resist the road at rush hour.

Forlorn, a child’s bike stands chained to a steel gate like a tiny, shiny Shetland pony with training wheels.

Children who drag their feet on the final stretch to school, enjoy the thrill of sprinting to the gate before the bell stops ringing.

Flashing brightly, the ball orbits the skipping child’s ankle as if to confirm that she is the centre of her smiling father’s universe.

The toddler in the kiddie seat leans far back, head aside, to evade his mother’s cycling buttocks, like a priest at a strip club.

The Christmas trees, each in its own net, have been individually tracked and trapped by Scandinavian woodsmen, which explains their price.

Clouds catching the last rays of daylight become trendy cotton wool lamps floating abstract against a dark designer wall.

I sometimes go out in the garden at night and sit looking at my house, watching the lights and movement, until I wish I was home, and I am.

The sign on the tree reads: “This is NOT a dog toilet!” The root-riddled patch of soil around the trunk proves just how illiterate dogs are.

Reno Slovak offers rock-bottom renovation rates on five consecutive lampposts, underscoring his precision by charging 13.90 euros/hr.

Some people are born to work in supermarkets, but end up becoming great thinkers, artists, authors and leaders.

Three laughing schoolgirls on one bike, two facing forward and one back, are sharp-eyed bait for scooter sharks.

The Banished Queen has posted a still-life review: Stephen Poliakoff’s Perfect Strangers shares her freebie table with a crash helmet.

Café Pleinzicht is undergoing open-heart surgery, its hardened plastic arteries removed and neatly stacked against the façade.

The black dog, muzzle greying, urinates in short bursts, losing its balance every time it lifts its leg. Squatting is not an option.

The old lady with the heavy grocery bags hails from an age when you were considered mad if you didn’t greet every stranger in the street.

The wind breathes life into umbrellas, gives them a mind of their own.

A workman hoisting building materials waits on the sidewalk, rope in hand, as if amnesia has thwarted his suicide attempt.

Jacob’s Chapel has a three-part frieze: two men back to back; two sharing a book; Jesus in the middle, arms wide, wearing a sou’wester.

The hippest hangouts have an antique element accentuating their modernity. In this case, it is a vagrant, seeking shelter from the rain.

Creepers hang on where others have died. Not the prettiest plants, but the most tenacious: Hedera Hibernica vs Passiflora Caerulea.

The old dog walks his even older master to the butcher and the baker and then around the corner, home.

Dying bikes are marked with orange stickers, giving owners a chance to resuscitate their steeds or to see them meet their mangler.

The only hill in the area is a mound built on wood and bones and standing stones, bearing the names of long-unvisited ancestors.

The nocturnal flatulence of sleeping cars greets the early showroom client with the heady scent of worn rubber and spent gasoline.

Still the most hotly contested and perilous territory on the planet: the zebra crossing.

“We gave you our best price…” says the garage guy, “…wrapped it around a spanner and shoved it up your arse,” I add in my mind.

63% of the equipment in a garage is financed by way of the gullibility mark-up.

One of the best ways to retain your independence is by painting racing stripes on your boring sedan.

The municipal transport service clearly hasn’t received my memo on musical concertina busses.

The more elusive the neighbour, the more effusive the Christmas display.

Let me tell you about the night, its infinite depth beyond the last streetlight, its slow breath and the silence.

Let me tell you about the men who park their sleek cars on corners, their intricate handshakes disguising simple thoughts.

Let me tell you about the trees that raise their bare arms in the night, spreading their fingers to capture thoughts like birds.

Let me tell you about the light that bleeds from tight geometry to warm the night.

Let me tell you about the moon that lost its way, condemned forever to stalk the earth in the shadows.

Let met tell you about the scent of deep-fried dreams and pizza that weaves through the rain to embrace the smoking scooter sharks.

Let me hunger for more, ever more, let me thirst for the dull light that shines from the grey stone and the tarmac.

Let me feel the cold air slide its hand in my coat, causing my skin to rise to its touch and, deeper, my flesh to shiver in welcome.

Let me tell you about the blind dawn, reaching out silently as it picks its way cautiously to avoid waking the night.

I will venture outside in a moment, walk the 276 steps to get cigarettes, walk the 272 steps home, and unravel my mind.

My coat hangs about my shoulder like a pleasant memory that has changed shape over the years but retained its warmth.

The alien spaceship replenishing its water supply at the edge of the pond claims to be a Lebanese Restaurant.

The night shop has a handwritten sign on the door for its tourist clientele: “Beware. The door hangs.” I am the only customer.

If I were a girl wearing a sequin-skull jacket and silver moonboots, what would I be thinking? In whose arms would I find love?

Hail is ambitious rain.

Dostoevsky on a park bench addresses an attentive feathered salon, his grey muse perched upon his knee.

Even Dutch pigeons are best scattered by the hissing of a snake.

The gypsy trio with their melancholy dirge turn my run into a headlong dash to attend a funeral on time.

And so emotional phases are precipitated: rain is sadness, hail is rage, sleet indifference.

I cannot shake the ever-stronger feeling that I may be writing a novel in public.

A cement truck pumps a new floor through a narrow tube with fluid, yet concrete intent.

Thin ice on the bridge claims its first wrists and ankles, the three-bike pile-up sliding gracefully to a halt against the garbage.

Every supermarket has its own poetry, stacked row on row in garish stanzas, aisle upon aisle of clichéd verse.

The clotted cream is not here yet, perhaps tomorrow it will come. He begins to point out an alternative, but decides against it in mid-air.

The elderly lady behind me in the queue has just one item in her trolley: a large, cheap, lonely bottle of white wine.

The homeless woman with the shy smile knows I do not want a magazine in exchange for my trolley coin. I can read enough in her eyes.

The old dog with its blue-sheened eyes and wobbly gait carries a football in its jaws, like a punctured memory.

The three invigilators, shepherding a flock of playing kids at St John the Baptist’s Catholic Primary School, all wear headscarves.

Ciara, the headline act at this week’s Black Music Special, has a lovely cappuccino complexion.

“Judaism – A World of Stories” is now on at the New Church in Amsterdam.

The green parakeets in their screeching swarms are now as much a part of Amsterdam as the boats lining the canal.

The glitter on the classroom floor will find its way to houses throughout the neighbourhood like a sparkling memory, slowly fading.

Lying side-by-side in the street, the scooter shark and fragile lady awaken like morning-after lovers. “I didn’t see you, ma’am,” he says.

“I don’t think so, no…” she tells her phone, then sighs the answer it doesn’t want to hear: “…that things are going to be alright.”

There is something utterly intriguing about transparent bin liners. Like open curtains, they say: we have nothing to hide.

The paint bomber has hit the parking meter again. He is probably Italian, judging by the red, white and green traces on the pavement.

You can tell a great deal about a man by the way he clears his throat and spits his phlegm upon the waking world.

The full moon just above the skyline would have been spectacular were it not sponsored by ARAG car insurance.

Little bashful girl, your life is held together by snot, two pink ribbons and maternal love.

Like your smiling teeth, you leather legs and feet, your hands, speak of comfort found in discomfort and inexplicable joy.

There are those who want for nothing because they wish for nothing, with hope just around the corner at the garbage can.

The watery sun and boisterous breeze conspire to weave a golden tapestry with the feathered pennants of the dry reeds.

A noisy demonstration of grey geese has gathered on the grass to protest the mild winter undermining their right to migration.

How sad that the desire to walk is inversely proportional in dogs and children.

The simple joy of having the time to stand staring into a copse until you spot the woodpecker and see its manic rattle.

The water seeps and trickles from the lock, patiently feedings its ferns as it awaits its inevitable release.

Beyond the houses, a wave of humanity breaks incessantly on the city’s shore in a rolling hush.

Dawn’s grey light seeps evenly, avoiding stark contrast in favour of a mild compromise between night and day.

The breeze is just strong enough to clear the backdrop for the brightest stars, spelling out the pinhole autograph of our universe.

Darkness wraps your skin in ice and steals your breath in gasps, bold wind whispers names of those it has taken, driven to the fire.

Readers outside South Africa can order The Big Stick via the Jacana Media website or by sending a message to lanore@jacana.co.za.

You can read an excerpt from The Big Stick here.

LAUNCHES ————————–

Johannesburg – A report on the launch of The Big Stick at Love Books in Melville, where I was interviewed by Ndumiso Ngcobo.

Cape Town – A report on the launch of The Big Stick at the Book Lounge in Cape Town, where I was interviewed by Lauren Beukes.

REVIEWS ————————–

A selection of excerpts from reviews that appeared in the South African and Dutch media. You will find the latest at the top of the list.

[Newest]
“De Nooy, in my circles, would be branded homophobic. I still don’t know if he treats the subjects of homosexuality with respect. All I know is that he writes well and got me reading even when Alma was tracing Staal’s steps in the seedy world of flesh on flesh male sex where gay porn was the staple.” More… (Don Makatile on Africa Book Club)

[Newer]
“The Big Stick certainly is compact, but its characters ring true and its darkly humorous approach undercuts what could have become a barrage of overwhelmingly depressing scenes of the underbelly of the city. It manages to encompass a number of overarching and important ideas about difference and acceptance without being flippant or obvious – an achievement for any writer.” More… (Inter-review with Tymon Smith on TimesLIVE)

[New]
“The Big Stick is as irreverent, cheeky and compulsively readable as a novel about estrangement, exile, isolation and loss can be. De Nooy’s study of queer power relations, embodied experiences and male intimacy is sensitive, filled to the brim with an exuberance of voice, and boasts a mesmerising confidence in the feel for dialogue and relationships.” More… (Jonathan Amid on LitNet)

[New]
“De Nooy is an unashamed rule breaker. There are stereotypes, multiple viewpoints, a mix of interviews, narratives and personal reminiscences, but every broken rule enhances and entertains.” More… (Isabella Morris in the Sunday Independent)

[New]
“Like a bon-bon layered from dark, bitter chocolate and sweetly nutty bits, the interwoven tales of Staal — the moffie with “the big stick” who was exiled from Zeerust to the gay heaven of the Netherlands in the eighties — will have you devouring the pages like so many Ferrero Rochers.” More… (Alwyn Viljoen in The Witness)

[New]
“The story brims over with laughter. Two homoerotic donkeys star in a Herman Charles Bosman-esque short story, and Alma and son’s grammar (“I beg yours?”) is rendered with exquisite tenderness.” More… (Ruth Browne in The Cape Times)

“It’s heeee-fucking-larious and right up my alley. I loved it. It’s dark and funny.” More… (Paige Nick on her blog.)

“De Nooy is the type of writer who can convey more feeling in a tweet (#walk) than other writers could in an entire chapter. If you were fortunate enough to have read De Nooy’s debut – Six Fang Marks and a Tetanus Shot – you’ll know exactly what we’re talking about. If not, shame. The good news is that there’s a follow up book and it doesn’t disappoint.” More… (Dylan Muhlenberg in Men’s Health)

“De Nooy has an ear for dialogue which not only renders the text almost audible, but pumps his crystal clear, acutely and empathetically observed characters full of humanity. He builds tension subtly and constucts his story with tender care. I found the novel so moving, so humane and so compulsive that I could not settle to any other novel.” More in English…
(Karin Schimke in the Cape Times and on Books LIVE)

“De Nooy’s debut is beautiful, as is his second book, The Big Stick. His style is raw and macho, as well as – almost – hypersensitive.”
(Ivo Weyel in Esquire)

“The Big Stick is a book that leaves you with a feeling of gratitude, moved, uplifted, and jealous that there are so few books of this standard about lesbians.” More in Dutch…
(Connie van Gils op ILHIA.nl)

“De Nooy is a brilliant storyteller, who blends humour and tragedy in a heart-wrenching manner. […] The story is compelling and moving, skilfully composed and poignantly rendered.”
More in Dutch…
(Cees van der Pluijm (NBD/Biblion) op bol.com)

“De Nooy brilliantly evokes two worlds: the harsh reality of South Africa and the ‘gay is beautiful’ mentality of 1980s Amsterdam, which proves to be equally fraught with violence. Staal is lost between these two worlds – and drowns.”
More in Dutch…
(Toef Jaeger in NRC Handelsblad)

“What De Nooy expresses most beautifully, is that people hide behind their prejudices. His novel is populated by a truly diverse cast of characters: from a police detective and an airline steward to gay hairdressers and a coke dealer. They all find their way into the reader’s heart.”
More in Dutch…
(Marjolein Paalvast op LiterairNederland.nl)

“Overwhelming, impressive, refreshing, surprising.”
More in Dutch…
(Pimm van Hest in Gay Krant)

“The Big Stick is one of those novels you can’t put down once you’ve started: compelling, moving, to be read in a single sitting. The portrait of 1980s Amsterdam takes you on a nostalgic trip back to those days, and the author sketches the pink couleur locale with great refinement, replete with acerbic gay wit, nicknames and juicy wordplay.”
More in Dutch…
(Kristiaan Schimmel op gay.blog.nl)

“De Nooy’s style is raw and rock-hard, as well as poetic and at times hilarious.”
More in Dutch…
(Sonja de Jong in various regional newspapers)

INTERVIEWS ————————–

Interview by Coen Peppelenbos in Tzum literary magazine (Dutch)

Interview by Annemarié van Niekerk on Litnet (Afrikaans)

Inter-review by Janet van Eeden on Litnet (English)

Let me tell you about my coat
that hangs about my shoulders
like a pleasant memory that
changes shape over time
but retains its warmth

Let me tell you about the men who park
their sleek cars on corners
their intricate handshakes
disguising simple thoughts

Let me tell you about the girl
in a sequin-skull jacket
and bright silver moonboots,
Where does she find love?
Does she think like I do
That hail is ambitious rain?

Let met tell you about the scent
of deep-fried dreams and pizza
that weaves through the rain
to embrace the smoking scooter sharks

Let me tell you about the night shop
with its has a handwritten sign
for tourists that reads:
“Beware – The door hangs”
There is no one inside

Let me tell you about the spaceship
that was stranded, round and bright
at the edge of the pond, disguised
as a Lebanese Restaurant

Let me tell you about the trees
that raise their bare arms in the night
spreading their fingers
to capture thoughts like birds

Let me tell you about the light
that bleeds from tight geometry
to warm the night

Let me tell you about the moon that lost its way
condemned forever to stalk the earth in shadow

Let me hunger for more, ever more
let me thirst for the dull light
that shines from the grey
stone and the tarmac

Let me feel the cold air
slide its hand in my coat
my skin rising to its touch
my flesh shivering in welcome

Let me tell you about the blind dawn
reaching out silently
as it picks its way cautiously
to avoid waking the night.

The wind, playing in the reeds, impressionises the reflected sky as it slips across the water to creep under my shirt.



Ducks are short on initiative but long on patience, content to let the restless gulls guide them to their next meal.



Herons fly low to beat fish and frog radar, before becoming plastic replicas of themselves to trick motion detectors.



Geese are airborne scholars, loudly discussing the equations they spell out in the sky: Σ < V / ^...



Swans passing overhead reaffirm their vow of loyalty with wings that creak like lovers on a rusty bed.

There's nothing like a nice, wood fire to keep you worried about asphyxiation all night long.



Up at 5.00. Fog as far as the eye could see. Walked around house with axe to check for predators.



Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man suitable for agriculture.



10 clicks north of A'dam, but 1000 clicks closer to the pole. Slipped into frozen jeans this morning.



Country bumpkins love strangers, proudly displaying their lifeless remains in their sheds.



Curiosity fed the goat. The bastards will attempt to eat anything. Even large, bald men.



The houseboats each have their own garden, which is approximately the size of a houseboat.

To each his dew.

St. Nicholas and his merry slaves sailed into town today, to remind us where the legacy of our brightly-wrapped privilege began.

Amsterdam’s ageless mother meanders gently in the sun, faithfully feeding her well-disciplined offshoots.

It is the privilege of policemen everywhere to wantonly obstruct traffic in the interests of safety.

Cycling parents come in four categories: carriers, vanguards, rearguards and sideguards, depending on the age and mood of the child.

The workmen in the stripped house are morose, knowing that interior designers will wrap their gift and take all the credit.

Starting a car first time on a chilly day is no great achievement, unless one’s partner has been trying in vain for 15 minutes.

And still the lights in every window are bright reminders of the many lives unsung.

Commuters waddling to catch the tram are living proof that flight is no longer a prerequisite for survival of the species.

Evergreens mourn the absence of their leafless neighbours, except the creeping ivy which steals a metre every winter.

The yellow Chevy pickup confirms its garish disco-ness by acting as a smoke machine for waiting garbage.

Two dustmen, belting out an aria, transform their truck into a gondola.

A bunch of flaccid balloons have sought shelter in a tree, like a colourful string of broken promises.

Jogging reduces people to their barest essence – tight-arsed, nimble, breathless, red-faced, dying.

Winter brings out the mad caps. The world would be a better place if all adults replaced their heads with grinning beavers and koalas.

Removal men gruffly analyse why it is always the owners of the most expensive cars who ignore temporary parking bans.

The surest remedy for a workman’s blues is an office girl cycling in high-heeled shoes.

The last autumn leaves have been lumped with the unenviable task of demarcating parking spaces in the street. #walk

CHARLESI, GEORGEI, EDWARDEI, HENRYVII – And so Romanian footballers become poorly-ordered British kings in the bookstore window.

Sometimes keeping up with the Joneses means transforming your basement into a green-barred dungeon.

Even the most impatient Amsterdam commuters are prepared to accept that there are those who need to unload.

The Banished Queen has laid out sodden espadrilles in memory of all those who have suffered really bad holidays.

Should gravity ever fail, the chairs and tables outside the café will float like balloons at the end of their snaking security cable.

A basement window set ajar becomes a doorway where one steps straight from the pavement onto the stove and then sink.

Banished from the trees, the leaves flee before the grim-faced blowers, straight into the whirring mandibles of the RAVO.

The splayed mouse, almost invisible against the grey paving, has plenty of time to consider its next move.

The red-and-white safety line, spanning five stacks of tiles, is just high enough for a toddler to jump and a pensioner to trip into the sandpit.

How unfortunate that the latest transporter bikes should resemble children’s coffins on two wheels.

Yes, I am looking at you, young man with your phone in one hand and a smoking reefer in the other, but not because I disapprove.

Through the open curtains, I saw a couple standing with their coats on, watching television, each from their own angle.

Decay has its own aesthetics: the frayed edges, the deeper lines, the smudged features, revelling in contrast.

When I wear my long coat, my Dutch kids call me “the pencil vendor”, the flasher, probably alluding to my cerebral exhibitionism.

I’m considering product placement in my #walk tweets: “Hurried heels spread fresh dog shit as easily as #Calvé Peanut Butter.”