I finally broke down and bought sheets in The Netherlands. I have avoided this for years and years and years because- psst ! Hush! You have to iron them.

But we have not been to America for a very long time ( Oh, Wally World !) and we were up next for new sheets and so ours were simply in taters. I kid you not. One of the great luxuries in life are good sheets.

When I made the great escape from Ward 4, not only did I throw every piece of clothing that I owned into the rubbish bin or the *Poor folks in Africa* container, but I bought two new RubberMaid thingers for in our bath tub and I bought new sheets for our bed. Hema. Hotel quality. They are to die for. But I have to iron them. And I have severe eczema ( read : blood stains). Oh well, one day we can simply dye them… brown.

Last night was ironing day. I did this in the kitchen. Destin is molting- I had one of those pick- the- fuzz-off- of- your- clothing rollers in my hand, as I ironed the sheets.

I was bored. Sheets are big. We had recently watched Dr. Zhivago, and I went to the front room and- in my best hubba-hubba mode- asked The Father if he wanted to come and watch me iron.

He told me that I was not Lara.

I have been having a lot of fun with this. You know, well, hey, you ain’t Yuri.

It works.

Poffertje came by today. She was bringing back my stuff. As an aside, it is very odd to think about what one would put in four boxes if one thought that one’s life as one knew it was over. What would you save ?

In any case, Poffertje came by.  We sat in the kitchen. I have changed so much. As always, at 9.30 in the morning, the kitchen looked like 10 minutes after, Hiroshima. But I don’t feel comfortable in the front room, I never have. So I brushed aside the dog snot on the door and the hair all over ( Destin seems to be molting) and we- or at least I- simply had a lovely time, sitting across the kitchen  table from each other, smoking too much. Swapping stories about our first attempts to make banana bread in the Netherlands and how Dutch beef can not become meatloaf ( thanks, Jo).

I like Poffertje so very much because she is very, very intelligent and and could talk paint off of the walls. I simply have to ask a question, and for at least a half an hour I am regaled with fine and witty stories, and I only have to nod. I am not much of a talker. I tend to be more of an observer. And I could see what was going on with her, not because I am so very clever, but simply because I know simple math : one and one is two. We are going to meet up again, after Bangladesh.

Suits me fine.

( The scene : The Father’s car. The Father and Theo are in the front seats, Mummy Dearest is in the back seat.  It is very late at night, and they are driving back to the boonies from expensive street, Amsterdam. Mummy Dearest really wants a Whopper, no, a Big Mac will not do- but, I digress. (  whoops, I feel an I- need-spell-check moment here…yes, I am on a new computer…where was I ?) Mummy Dearest had no desire to meet anyone involved in Haute Couture, first off, that is French, and as Mummy told Haute Couture, my brother and I invented Grunge.

They are catching up, as one says…)

Theo : How is The Boy ?

Mummy Dearest : He has a girlfriend.

The Father : She is German.

Theo  : German ! How did he meet her ?

The Father  : In Zeeland.

Mummy Dearest : At a camping. ( this is, for whatever reason, very funny to Dutch people ). She is a Gothic ( she actually is not a Gothic, she is some sub division or uber division thereof, what does Mummy  know, this is not a dissertation after all, it is a BLOG, BLOG, BLOG ). Mummy likes her fine. The Boy has now become a vegetarian. He looks like Kurt Cobain and is proud of it. He wants Dr.Martin´s, Mummy tells Theo. But, she says, at least The Girlfriend is not a Moonie.

That does date one, doesn´t  it?