My brother-in-law D. gave me an interesting insight into the British medical establishment the other day... You see, in Holland, you have your GP. And if there's anything wrong with you, that's who you make an appointment with. In my case, that means that you drop by yourself, because if you call the assistants will not be available. If they even pick up the phone, they will berate you for not calling at the time that they have set for making appointments. The conversation will go something like this:
'Hello, I would like to make an appointment to see my GP, please.'
'We don't take appointments at this time.'
'Ah. Why not?'
'Because we don't. If you want an appointment, then you have to call at another time.'
'And what time is that?'
'I'm not telling you. You'll have to call back at another time to find out.'
'Ah. So at what time can I call you to find out the time at which I can call you to make an appointment?'
'You'd have to call on Thursday morning between 3 am and 3.08 am.'
'Right... You realise that at that time, the world is normally asleep?'
'You needn't talk to me in such a fashion!!!
This is generally followed by the sound of the phone being smashed down. Of course, at 3.06 am on the following Thursday morning, you then find out that the appropriated time to call for actually making an appointment will be on Wednesday between 11.43 and 11.52 PM, by which time you'll either have recovered, or you'll have dropped dead. In either case, the assistants are virtually never bothered on the Wednesday night, which is probably the point.
Needless to say, I've always been extremely glad that I've never had to make an appointment with my doctor for a ruptured appendix or something similarly life-threatening, because I'm sure the assistants at my local surgery are doing their utmost to bring down the world's overpopulation.
However, in England they have, besides the GP surgery, a wonderful invention called a walk-in clinic. This is meant for people who do not have a GP, or who do not have the time, energy or ability to deal with the kind of palaver described above (I suppose that explains why so many doctors are excellent golf-players...) At least, I thought it was a wonderful invention. You see, D. had to see a doctor for tonsillitis (painful, annoying, but hardly deadly). Being sick, he did not have the energy to deal with the dreaded assistant and decided to go to his local walk-in clinic instead. And here's the thing.
The assistant asked him if he had an appointment.
All the doctors, you see, were on a training session. When he answered that he did not have an appointment (hardly surprising, it was, after all, a WALK-IN CLINIC!) he was told he had to make one. And then the nurse actually gave him a phone number AND a telephone to call a company on the other side of the country to make an appointment for the clinic he was in, on the day he was there!
I'm currently considering asking my Dutch GP if he'd be interested to pack up his surgery in Holland and setting up shop in England instead, nurses and all...
Friday, 31 October 2008
Sunday, 26 October 2008
Pet peeve
People who know me well, and especially those who were with me during my first trip to Stratford in years come by, know my pet peeve about England. It's the toilets.
It's not the toilets themselves, mind, but in particular the doors on public lavatories in this country. I'm at a complete loss to know why, but in England, somehow, the doors of public toilets always open inward. This would not be a problem, of course, except for the fact that they take the phrase 'smallest room' just a tad too seriously as well.
Imagine: you are bursting for a pee, and rushing into the ladies room (after having waited in an immense cue for ages... but that's another blog entry, I think), you finally bang open the door. That's literally banging it open, because it smashes straight into the loo. You then have to proceed to squeeze yourself into the tiny area between the toilet and the wall in order to close the door again. Sadly, that also seems to be the exact spot where they put the bin, making your chances of closing the door even smaller.
Honestly, I've been in cubicles where I've had to stand on the toiletseat in order to close the door. Can you imagine what that's like while your bladder is about to burst? Not to mention that you've got to do the same thing in reverse in order to get out. I've had people ask me whether I'd been attacked after coming out of the toilet.
Strangely, I've been in lots of toilet cubicles that were tinier in Amsterdam, but as the doors open outward, it's never been a problem there.
Isn't it interesting how cultures differ...
It's not the toilets themselves, mind, but in particular the doors on public lavatories in this country. I'm at a complete loss to know why, but in England, somehow, the doors of public toilets always open inward. This would not be a problem, of course, except for the fact that they take the phrase 'smallest room' just a tad too seriously as well.
Imagine: you are bursting for a pee, and rushing into the ladies room (after having waited in an immense cue for ages... but that's another blog entry, I think), you finally bang open the door. That's literally banging it open, because it smashes straight into the loo. You then have to proceed to squeeze yourself into the tiny area between the toilet and the wall in order to close the door again. Sadly, that also seems to be the exact spot where they put the bin, making your chances of closing the door even smaller.
Honestly, I've been in cubicles where I've had to stand on the toiletseat in order to close the door. Can you imagine what that's like while your bladder is about to burst? Not to mention that you've got to do the same thing in reverse in order to get out. I've had people ask me whether I'd been attacked after coming out of the toilet.
Strangely, I've been in lots of toilet cubicles that were tinier in Amsterdam, but as the doors open outward, it's never been a problem there.
Isn't it interesting how cultures differ...
Wednesday, 22 October 2008
It's a gay life
This morning, I had a bit of a misunderstanding with one of my colleagues, who was, somehow,under the impression that I'm gay. I have no idea why he came to that conclusion, as I'm sure we'd discussed my husband in previous conversations, but there you go.
The most interesting thing, though, is that when we finally cleared up the miscommunication, was that he apologised for assuming that I was a lesbian.
Why? Why does sexual preference confuse us so? Why should I feel at all offended at this?
It brings to mind something that happened about 12 years ago. Schoolmate E. was completely adamant that she didn't know any gay people because she reckoned she'd know. How she would know is beyond me, perhaps she expected every homosexual to have the word 'Gay' tattoo'd on their foreheads, but I vividly remember the shock on her face when I pointed out that our mutual friend S. was (and still is) a lesbian.
You see, S. looks completely normal. She does not have extra toes or fingers, nor any webbing between them. She does not (as far as I know) have any tattoos in any strange places, she does not look particularly butch and does not normally dress up in men's suits with slicked-back hair and a make-up moustache. She simply looks like S. And because of that, E. could not believe that S. is gay.
Something else that always grabs my attention is the annual Gay Pride parade. Why? Why would you choose to go around parading your homosexuality? Not that you should keep it hidden, but why is it so important that for a whole day you should dress in pink feather boa's and dance on a barge in the Amsterdam canals, shouting and singing that you prefer same-sex-sex?
You see, it seems to me that defining your, or anyone's character by sexual orientation alone is rather shallow. Why would anyone go around, introducing themselves as 'hi, my name is and I am straight/gay/bisexual/celibate/attracted to horses'? Who cares? I refuse to believe that any person is as simple to understand as that.
Myself, I think I'm mostly straight, but I can appreciate the female form as much as any man (or woman) around. And I can honestly say that I'm not with hubby because he's a man, but because he's S. (part of which is that he happens to be a man). It's because he's his own person, and his own unique individuality that I love him. And it's also friend S.'s unique personality that makes her my friend. Their sexual preferences have nothing to do with that.
Anyway, in retrospect I'm wondering which was a bigger dissapointment for my colleague: the idea that I might be gay, or the fact that I'm married...
The most interesting thing, though, is that when we finally cleared up the miscommunication, was that he apologised for assuming that I was a lesbian.
Why? Why does sexual preference confuse us so? Why should I feel at all offended at this?
It brings to mind something that happened about 12 years ago. Schoolmate E. was completely adamant that she didn't know any gay people because she reckoned she'd know. How she would know is beyond me, perhaps she expected every homosexual to have the word 'Gay' tattoo'd on their foreheads, but I vividly remember the shock on her face when I pointed out that our mutual friend S. was (and still is) a lesbian.
You see, S. looks completely normal. She does not have extra toes or fingers, nor any webbing between them. She does not (as far as I know) have any tattoos in any strange places, she does not look particularly butch and does not normally dress up in men's suits with slicked-back hair and a make-up moustache. She simply looks like S. And because of that, E. could not believe that S. is gay.
Something else that always grabs my attention is the annual Gay Pride parade. Why? Why would you choose to go around parading your homosexuality? Not that you should keep it hidden, but why is it so important that for a whole day you should dress in pink feather boa's and dance on a barge in the Amsterdam canals, shouting and singing that you prefer same-sex-sex?
You see, it seems to me that defining your, or anyone's character by sexual orientation alone is rather shallow. Why would anyone go around, introducing themselves as 'hi, my name is
Myself, I think I'm mostly straight, but I can appreciate the female form as much as any man (or woman) around. And I can honestly say that I'm not with hubby because he's a man, but because he's S. (part of which is that he happens to be a man). It's because he's his own person, and his own unique individuality that I love him. And it's also friend S.'s unique personality that makes her my friend. Their sexual preferences have nothing to do with that.
Anyway, in retrospect I'm wondering which was a bigger dissapointment for my colleague: the idea that I might be gay, or the fact that I'm married...
Tuesday, 14 October 2008
Interesting photo's
These make me laugh:
I came across this chewing gum tree in Bobbejaanland, when I visited it with friend R. It is a wooden board for visitors to put their used chewing gum on, so it doesn't mess up the floor...
And then here's the floor below that board. Effective, isn't it?
The sign reads: 'beware, boobytrap'. Now somebody explain why?
Interesting: are they trying to say that you've seen it, now get real, because you'll never own one?
Hmmm... I wonder what they'll be transporting? I suppose they hope that if you advertise you're transporting controlled substances you won't be stopped for them?!?!
I came across this chewing gum tree in Bobbejaanland, when I visited it with friend R. It is a wooden board for visitors to put their used chewing gum on, so it doesn't mess up the floor...
And then here's the floor below that board. Effective, isn't it?
The sign reads: 'beware, boobytrap'. Now somebody explain why?
Interesting: are they trying to say that you've seen it, now get real, because you'll never own one?
Hmmm... I wonder what they'll be transporting? I suppose they hope that if you advertise you're transporting controlled substances you won't be stopped for them?!?!
Sunday, 12 October 2008
Recession Fashion
In continuation to my banker's rant, I have come to the conclusion that there is another group of idiots who deserve the same treatment: Fashion designers.
You see, husband S. has been over in Holland for the weekend (weehee!) and in order to celebrate for this, we went shopping. And after a truly obscene amount of money had been spent on his clothes, we had a little look at clothes for me. So there I was, standing in the middle of a shop that I normally enjoy, doing a 360 degree turn.
My conlusion: I hate, no, loath this year's fashion. With a vengeance. It is absolutely awful! I don't mind the cut and style so much, but the colour! How can you like something that isn't there?
Every piece of clothing, as far as the eyes could see, was devoid of colour. And I don't mean bleached, but everything was drab: olive greens, plum purples, grey, dark brown. I remember that, when I was a child, we would paint sometimes, and one day I mixed all my colours to see what would come out. I tell you, it was more vibrant than the colours I saw in the shops yesterday. They made me think of tarmac in the rain: good for traffic accidents, not for wearing.
Anyway, it seems to me, that it's no wonder we are plunging into a recession at breakneck speed: you are what you wear, after all. So if you dress in depressing clothes, how can you be cheery?
I say, we kill the fashion designers for what they're putting us through. Oh, and the bankers, of course.
You see, husband S. has been over in Holland for the weekend (weehee!) and in order to celebrate for this, we went shopping. And after a truly obscene amount of money had been spent on his clothes, we had a little look at clothes for me. So there I was, standing in the middle of a shop that I normally enjoy, doing a 360 degree turn.
My conlusion: I hate, no, loath this year's fashion. With a vengeance. It is absolutely awful! I don't mind the cut and style so much, but the colour! How can you like something that isn't there?
Every piece of clothing, as far as the eyes could see, was devoid of colour. And I don't mean bleached, but everything was drab: olive greens, plum purples, grey, dark brown. I remember that, when I was a child, we would paint sometimes, and one day I mixed all my colours to see what would come out. I tell you, it was more vibrant than the colours I saw in the shops yesterday. They made me think of tarmac in the rain: good for traffic accidents, not for wearing.
Anyway, it seems to me, that it's no wonder we are plunging into a recession at breakneck speed: you are what you wear, after all. So if you dress in depressing clothes, how can you be cheery?
I say, we kill the fashion designers for what they're putting us through. Oh, and the bankers, of course.
Thursday, 9 October 2008
Kill all the Bankers!!!!
Friend M. just called with a burning question:
'P... Can we kill all bankers?'
Shock!
Horror!
And then an emphatic: 'Sure!'
It turns out that she's having some trouble transferring a sizeable amount of money from one bank to another. You can undoubtedly imagine what that's like (well, I'm having trouble with that sizeable amount of money, but I know the routine): you need a signature for this, and a special statement for that, a form 146826xydn in order to receive form 73654769fkjhy, which you need to get permission for filling out form 78874djhgnsl, but only if you have not filled out form 146826xydn, etc. The sheer complexity of the ordeal rattles me, and I just listened to M.'s story! M.: I feel soooo sorry for you.
Which leads me to my burning question: why do finances have to be so incredibly complicated? I break out in hives every year when its time to do my taxes. I shiver at the mere thought of having to open a bank account in England soon. I dread having to deal with the bank regarding the mortgage on the house in Holland, to the point where I'm wondering if I'll ever want to buy a house again. And it's not that I'm completely stupid. I think I'm better informed about financial services than most people. It's completely down to the financial market itself.
Case in point: Fortis and ABN Amro. Wouter Bos stated last week that one reason that the ABN Amro takeover went wrong is because there were things happening on the Fortis balance sheet that no one could have foreseen, and not even experts could have predicted. Even stronger, the Fortis was, apparently, selling financial products that no one understood, not even the smartest bankers. And now the financial world is toppling, the stockmarket is in a free-fall and every financial journalist is completely spooked. Duh! It's as if they've been playing with matches and didn't realise that they could start a forest fire! I've had periods where I've felt as if I was out of my league, but it now appears as if everybody in the finance industry feels that way all the time. They've just been play acting all along!
You know what, I think M. may have a point: let's kill all the bankers. And then start on the stock traders and financial journalists. Serves them right for not choosing a serious profession. Like acting.
'P... Can we kill all bankers?'
Shock!
Horror!
Shock!
Horror!
Shock!
Horror!
And then an emphatic: 'Sure!'
It turns out that she's having some trouble transferring a sizeable amount of money from one bank to another. You can undoubtedly imagine what that's like (well, I'm having trouble with that sizeable amount of money, but I know the routine): you need a signature for this, and a special statement for that, a form 146826xydn in order to receive form 73654769fkjhy, which you need to get permission for filling out form 78874djhgnsl, but only if you have not filled out form 146826xydn, etc. The sheer complexity of the ordeal rattles me, and I just listened to M.'s story! M.: I feel soooo sorry for you.
Which leads me to my burning question: why do finances have to be so incredibly complicated? I break out in hives every year when its time to do my taxes. I shiver at the mere thought of having to open a bank account in England soon. I dread having to deal with the bank regarding the mortgage on the house in Holland, to the point where I'm wondering if I'll ever want to buy a house again. And it's not that I'm completely stupid. I think I'm better informed about financial services than most people. It's completely down to the financial market itself.
Case in point: Fortis and ABN Amro. Wouter Bos stated last week that one reason that the ABN Amro takeover went wrong is because there were things happening on the Fortis balance sheet that no one could have foreseen, and not even experts could have predicted. Even stronger, the Fortis was, apparently, selling financial products that no one understood, not even the smartest bankers. And now the financial world is toppling, the stockmarket is in a free-fall and every financial journalist is completely spooked. Duh! It's as if they've been playing with matches and didn't realise that they could start a forest fire! I've had periods where I've felt as if I was out of my league, but it now appears as if everybody in the finance industry feels that way all the time. They've just been play acting all along!
You know what, I think M. may have a point: let's kill all the bankers. And then start on the stock traders and financial journalists. Serves them right for not choosing a serious profession. Like acting.
Tuesday, 7 October 2008
Stuff
I've been trying to sort out my life recently. Any housemove leads to a lot of arranging and sorting, and none more so than a move to another country. Also, as my friends and family are undoubtedly aware of, it is not in my nature to throw things away. And that's an understatement...
So while I was sorting through ancient magazines (last looked at four years ago), deciding which to keep and which to throw, I wondered. How do you sort through all the stuff that accumulates during your life? There are interesting things all around, how do you decide what's important, and what not?
One member of my family has no such problems. E. has the uncanny ability to simply throw stuff when she doesn't need it. She goes to fleamarkets and e-bay, not to buy stuff like the rest of us, but to sell it... L., a friend of a friend, has that same unsettling, but entirely admirable habit. How do they do it?
Anyway, while pondering this, my eye fell on an interesting article that I just had to read. It didn't help me clear up my house, but it did help me furnish my mind, and I spent a nice quiet afternoon reading...
So while I was sorting through ancient magazines (last looked at four years ago), deciding which to keep and which to throw, I wondered. How do you sort through all the stuff that accumulates during your life? There are interesting things all around, how do you decide what's important, and what not?
One member of my family has no such problems. E. has the uncanny ability to simply throw stuff when she doesn't need it. She goes to fleamarkets and e-bay, not to buy stuff like the rest of us, but to sell it... L., a friend of a friend, has that same unsettling, but entirely admirable habit. How do they do it?
Anyway, while pondering this, my eye fell on an interesting article that I just had to read. It didn't help me clear up my house, but it did help me furnish my mind, and I spent a nice quiet afternoon reading...
Thursday, 2 October 2008
Typical
Hubby just asked me how I am today, given yesterday's traumatic experiences, and it made me realise something about myself.
When I was a little girl, maybe 6 years old, I had to go into hospital for surgery. And one of the things I remember most about it, is that at one point I woke up, still in the operating room, and I saw all these doctors around me, wearing face masks, gloves and surgical caps and other items of OR-clothes.
Today, with adult hindsight and experience, I know that anesthetists wake patients up immediately after surgery, before even taking them to the recovery room. But back then it was one of my most traumatic experiences ever: I thought I'd woken up in the middle of surgery! I remember that I closed my eyes immediately and willed myself to sleep. My mom still tells the story of how the nurse came to her afterwards, all nerves, to say that she had trouble waking me up.
But strangely, that event made such an impression on me that it still holds true for me now: if something bad happens to me, my first reaction is to go to bed, curl up, close my eyes tightly and sleep until the bad things have passed by.
And that explains why I'm currently at work, trying to keep my eyes open, and stifling a yawn every two minutes.
How typical is that?
When I was a little girl, maybe 6 years old, I had to go into hospital for surgery. And one of the things I remember most about it, is that at one point I woke up, still in the operating room, and I saw all these doctors around me, wearing face masks, gloves and surgical caps and other items of OR-clothes.
Today, with adult hindsight and experience, I know that anesthetists wake patients up immediately after surgery, before even taking them to the recovery room. But back then it was one of my most traumatic experiences ever: I thought I'd woken up in the middle of surgery! I remember that I closed my eyes immediately and willed myself to sleep. My mom still tells the story of how the nurse came to her afterwards, all nerves, to say that she had trouble waking me up.
But strangely, that event made such an impression on me that it still holds true for me now: if something bad happens to me, my first reaction is to go to bed, curl up, close my eyes tightly and sleep until the bad things have passed by.
And that explains why I'm currently at work, trying to keep my eyes open, and stifling a yawn every two minutes.
How typical is that?
Paranoid
I was in an accident yesterday.
Not a serious one by any standards: I was stationary in a traffic jam on the motorway (this was in Holland and it was raining: what else is new...), and this guy in a big mercedes was not paying attention and rolled right into Hedwig's towing hook.
There was no visible damage, except that (besides the marbles he never had) the man is now one license plate short. That, however, is not the point of this story...
The point came to light this morning. I haven't slept well: I kept having bad dreams and the cat kept meowing at me. No wonder then, that I'm not feeling up to scratch at the moment. I always get headaches when I'm tired, but now, with every twitch and twang I scare myself senseless: 'Aaargh, I've got whiplash!'. There's nothing wrong with me! I get shaken around more every time I ride a rollercoaster!
But the worse was when I stepped into the car to go to work this morning. I spent more time looking in the rearview mirror than I did watching the road in front of me. I jumped every time someone got too close behind me (imagine, I was sitting in yet another traffic jam. Every car was too close behind me). And most of all, with every bump in the road I thought that poor Hedwig was falling to pieces...
Completely paranoid. I think I'll call the garage to have them check her out, just in case.
Not a serious one by any standards: I was stationary in a traffic jam on the motorway (this was in Holland and it was raining: what else is new...), and this guy in a big mercedes was not paying attention and rolled right into Hedwig's towing hook.
There was no visible damage, except that (besides the marbles he never had) the man is now one license plate short. That, however, is not the point of this story...
The point came to light this morning. I haven't slept well: I kept having bad dreams and the cat kept meowing at me. No wonder then, that I'm not feeling up to scratch at the moment. I always get headaches when I'm tired, but now, with every twitch and twang I scare myself senseless: 'Aaargh, I've got whiplash!'. There's nothing wrong with me! I get shaken around more every time I ride a rollercoaster!
But the worse was when I stepped into the car to go to work this morning. I spent more time looking in the rearview mirror than I did watching the road in front of me. I jumped every time someone got too close behind me (imagine, I was sitting in yet another traffic jam. Every car was too close behind me). And most of all, with every bump in the road I thought that poor Hedwig was falling to pieces...
Completely paranoid. I think I'll call the garage to have them check her out, just in case.
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