sugar hiccup, or ‘…’.

yeah yeah. so i just came back from this really oldskool evening in sc’s city of residence. lots of free booze, chess games, loud music and knowing everybody in the pub, just like it was effing oh-four. one would get really nostalgic smoking and drinking out in the cold with a once very significant girl, if it wasn’t for the stoned, giggling teenagers hiding behind some strange, well-flowered bushes. well, cheers is nothing to it. everyone doesn’t only know your name, but your whole back history, which is why i only choose to spend one saturday in 82 here.

but anyways, i went to enroll myself the other day, and apparently the university had outplaced the whole process and put it in the hands of a pack of lobotomized crustacean creatures. the people there had no clue about what i was doing there, which was moderately amusing at first but quickly became very kafka-esque.

’so you are a freshman.’
’sdfsd, i am not a freshman at all, HERE are my qualifications.’
‘ah yes, ah yes, i see. em, i think you should be in queue B.’
‘and this is queue A.’
‘yes, it is, most certainly, queue A.’
‘why does my reservation say queue A then?’
‘AH! so you are not a freshman?’
‘no, not at all. bloody hell! (under my breath, in english)’
‘do you speak dutch?’
‘no, i have just been speaking fluent dutch all along to tease you, ha ha.’
‘…’

and so on, and so on. after ten whole minutes of staring into thin air (i did have the chance to soak up the rather nice medieval decor), the girl realised what i was doing and asked me if i wanted government sponsoring.

’so do you want to apply for governmental subventions?’
‘yeees.’
‘are you SURE?’
‘yes, i am very poor.’
‘…’

blank stare again, while she was looking for the required forms. i personally think i have already payed enough taxes and should receive some sort of cashback, even if i was wearing dior frames, but what the hell. after 15 minutes of this nonsense, i was standing outside with a student ID in my grubby little hands (yay! a valid ID! sorta! i still haven’t received my real ID, so i make do with a foreign passport), and promptly rushed off to the record store to satisfy my craving for big spending. the crustaceans kept prancing around merrily and bothering others unfortunate enough to want to enter higher education.

***

so… enter sc, REAL university student, once more! eeee. exam stress! papers! chinese teachers!

***

what i will look like after another encounter with ANY KIND of belgian administration:

 

belgium like a promethean curse.

so basically… no money means no transport means no job means no money means no transport means no job. that’s quite the vicious circle, innit? i wish john maynard keynes had some sort of treatise on the phenomenon of penniless people not finding jobs. i originally wasn’t all that penniless, but then -after a wild spending spree, as these things always go, of course- i was told my job consultant was apparently diagnosed with a nervous breakdown this summer, and has been put on leave. all that doesn’t bide well for my job prospects this month… oh BUH.

in other news, i’m going to have a haircut tomorrow! yay. and, as you will notice, i took the perfect picture to illustrate my current plight.

now i must rush off to nibble some stale knackebrod and refurbish the cardboard box i call home, dear reader! ta for now.

bureaucracy explained.

dear reader. one of my biggest worries lately has been my utterly absence of a belgian ID. i somehow lost it, then went to the police station and filed an application for a new, posh, electronic one… and then left the country for two months.

bad, bad, bad idea. if you are belgian, devoid of ID and hope and reading this, it’s imperative you stay next to your post box till they inform you. when i came back, i found out that my Proof of Not Having An ID, But Kind of Existing wasn’t valid anymore. so off i went to the city hall, armed with tons of other IDs.

city hall clerk: ‘i’m sorry, but this Proof isn’t valid anymore.’
me: ‘errrrrrr…’
clerk: ‘i can still order a new ID, but you’ll need a NEW proof proving that you’ve still lost the old one.’
me: ‘well, i already definitively lost it! what do you mean with ’still lost the old one’?’
clerk: ‘i don’t really know, but you need a valid Proof to pick your new ID up.’

so off i went to the police station, thinking that i could get another such thing (it’s really a very insignificant document and all, with about three lines of text).

officer: ‘HA! but you ALREADY lost your ID!’
me: ‘yeeees.’
officer: ‘well…. a Proof isn’t an ID, so you can’t file for another Proof when your old Proof has become invalid. all we can do is extend this Proof’s validity for ONE DAY.’
me: ‘how will THAT help me? then it’s still not valid now.’
officer: ‘no, it’s not, i agree. you could cover the ‘valid until’ part with your hand when you go to the city hall, maybe…’
me: ’surely i’d have to give it to them at some point, officer.’
officer: ‘well, if they see your Proof isn’t much of a Proof anymore, you could always come back to us, and we’ll extend it for another day then. surely that’s not much of a problem.’
me: ‘raaaaaah! merrrrrr! so you’d extend it till… Sep 3! in three weeks that thing’s going to be even less valid than it already is now, isn’t it?’

he looked at me as if i had just launched myself into some very abstract rant and asked me if i wanted a coffee. at least their coffee was good.

socialist defeats and new ono.

i will not say anything about the socialist-liberal defeat, except that i voted for both (well, i had to vote for one of them because second cousin annemie was on the list), and that belgium will get what it asked for, and wholly deserves. the left doesn’t need to popularize its message – that would be laughable. there’s nothing wrong with either party (either dutch speaking branch, that is), and i’m not saying more about this national shame.

we shall instead discuss the new yoko ono album.

we see simon dialing a number as margaret thatcher, the duke of york and cecilia sarkozy are looking on.

simon: hello, chan marshall? i just called to say i love you.

chan marshall: man, it’s too early for this shit.

sound of phone being hung up. i redial.

marshall: hulloa?

simon: hi, chan?

marshall: yes?

simon: this is simon…

marshall: <silence>

simon: i just called to say i love you, but not yoko ono.

marshall hangs up phone. we see simon redial.

yoko ono: moshi moshi?

simon: yoko? i just called to say i like “walking on thin ice”, some of the time, but your new album, er…

ono: (annoyed, spontaneously pretends to be an answering machine.) hi! i’m not in right now, i’m preparing for an appearance in which i will put all the world’s pain in a glass and then drink it.

simon: yoko! i know it’s you.

yoko ono: (faltering, but determined to continue.) please leave a message at the sound of a woman crying out in the agony of childbirth and i will try to return your call as soon as—

simon: no!

ono: (moaning, screeching, and all kinds of annoying sounds ensue).

simon: (turning to the duke of york and the others) what. a. bitch….

END

(slightly plagiarised but ha ha.)