Belgium and Belgians

Since the resurrection of the blog, I have been getting a disproportionate number of hits from Belgium. I assumed that this is due to the many Belgians that now find their life oddly empty and shallow without my wit and bonhomie to enliven it.

The chikenz on the other hand observed that my erstwhile employer most probably has a small team of crack agents monitoring my every move to ensure that I do not do anything that would harm their endeavours.

I was amused to hear this and it did wonders for my self esteem, but I explained to the chikenz that my former employer is not sufficiently organised to undertake such an task and that, even if they were, the likelihood of them finding anything interesting on my blog is remote.

"Ah yes," says the chikenz with a tone of finality that brooks no argument, "but some other people find your blog interesting..."

The ellipsis hangs in the air ominously and I decide that this is the sort of logic against which I am completely helpless. I agree that a small coterie of senior personnel at my erstwhile employer are, at this very moment, secretly studying my blog (Hello Jos, Paul, Piet, Pete and Wim).

Oh Dear

I have just been told that the link to the bullfrog's karaoke version of Oni no Pantsu (The Demon's Underpants) in this post was not working.

I have fixed it in the post and here it is again just in case.

Updating the Scorecard

I mentioned earlier that I was undertaking a number of tasks during my extended vacation. In summary and in no special order, those tasks are;

• Improve my Japanese
• Spend more time with the bullfrog
• Improve my guitar
• Grow a beard
• Write more

So, I think it might be worthwhile to quickly recap my progress on these matters.

Regarding Satan’s Underpants

I recall, I would have been about 18 or 19, driving my brother to some place or another, being stopped at a traffic light and having my brother announce apropos of nothing much at all, that he knows a poem. My brother is 12 years younger than me, so he would have been only 6 or 7. At that age, I remember him as an intensely serious child, so when he said to me “I know a poem” I braced myself for all six stanza’s of John Donne’s A Nocturnal Upon S. Lucy's Day, Being the Shortest Day.