Is it really still January?!

This blog has been going for quite a wee while now. To start with it was a travel blog. Then a 'learning Polish' blog. Then a sort of student interpreter blog in a very discreet way because interpreters are bound by all sorts of unspoken confidentiality rules (I'm still not clear on whether or not I'm crossing the line simply by owning up to actually being one). After that it briefly mutated into a sort of personal therapy whinge centre, a phase which is thankfully now over. It occasionally moonlights as a half-hearted satire wannabe. One thing it's never been though is particularly girly.

In fact I can only apologise for the almost total lack of love interest on these pages. It must make for very dull reading. What kind of a human being would rather stay in on a Saturday night and read about the genitive case than sit awkwardly in a cinema and engage in circular conversations of the 'ça t'a plu?' 'oui, ça m'a plu, et toi, ça t'a plu?' type. There's probably a grammar issue there to do with agreeing feminine endings come to think of it but I can't be bothered. The great thing about blogging is that sooner or later someone else corrects your grammar (usually someone else Polish).

When most girls talk about what they'd like to see in a potential partner, the list generally includes tall, dark, handsome, good sense of humour, near-saintly tolerance of lateness, familiarity with a washing up bowl, etc. Personally, I'd like to improve my spoken French, maybe learn German, and absolutely nip in the bud an unexpected and highly perverse taste for Dutch boys because, like it or not, the Dutch language will never be useful for work.

(Overheard in a bar near Merode:
Anonymous Female Ex-pat Blogger no 1: Dutch boys are SO nice! They're so tall...'
AFXB no 2: 'oh yes, and really athletic!'
AFXB no 3: 'and they have these rosy cheeks like they've been out sailing a boat all day'
AFXB no 1: 'and they all have funny accents like Sean Connery. In Bond I mean.'
AFXB no 2: 'I had a Dutch boss once *sigh*...' etc.)

In any case, the situation is not going to change now. Love interest on these pages will continue at an average rate of little-to-none, largely because any eligible men within a half mile radius tend to get frostbite. I can't help it... I just can't be nice. It's against my upbringing.

That's not true actually. It can't be my upbringing that is at fault. My Mum is very nice indeed. She stays at home and looks after the kids (which now means only my 26-year old brother) and cooks, and puts up with complaints about the food, and always kisses my Dad goodbye when he leaves the house (out of an irrational fear that he may be abducted by aliens or have a nasty accident with the space-time continuum or simply not come back). My Mum is nearly sixty, but when she can't start her car in Tesco carpark hundreds of dashing young doctors flock to her rescue. Many of them probably Dutch.

Oh dear. I was going to go all girly and talk about bikini waxing and why small bra sizes only come in virginal white, but I appear to have reached the standard recommended post length. Actually the bikini post I had in mind was rather funny. Maybe tomorrow.