MissLeonie.com

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There is something about candles that always cheers me up. The days have been gray and cold, and these candles have been lit pretty much permanently. Wintery light is so unfriendly and harsh, but candlelight so warm and comforting. It’s easy to get lost in feeling sorry for yourself. It’s easy to feel swamped by a neverending to-do-list. It’s tempting to hide and wait for it all to go away. I’d rather light a few candles, though.

I found these at a hardware shop my mum, my sister and I visited on the weekend. They were an absolute bargain. Turns out they’re actually good quality too - they’re not leaky, bendy or smelly. I’ve already asked my mum to get a few more for me if she’s near. Sometimes, you just can’t have enough candles.

I had a bit of a McLeod’s Daughters binge yesterday. My friend Martine and I had agreed to have dinner together on Wednesday, but something came up, so we decided to postpone our deep fat frying pan plans (try saying that ten times fast). Instead, we sat down for a bit of a McLeod’s Daughters marathon.

We watched two episodes, I pressed the snapshot button occasionally. I couldn’t Ctrl-V the results at all, so I assumed this snapshot function just wasn’t snapping. However, I found a neat little folder in My Pictures just now, where all the snapshots have been saved. Handy. After Martine left (I may have administered a McLeod’s and pear-cinnamon-drink overdose), I decided to get my ironing and folding over with. To the tune of McLeod’s Daughters, yes. I should probably apologise to my neighbours for singing along to the theme song. Multiple times. Loudly.

at a nursery - sticky date pudding - the psychedelic 70s train - homemade indian curry pastry

I went home for the weekend. After my journalism class, I bolted out the door and made my way to the train station as quickly as possible. When I got there, I actually had time to spare. Go figure. Two friends who are also blessed with clas till 6pm on Fridays soon joined me on the platform. The entire trip to the final destination of this first train (but not mine) turned into a lovely bitch about all things that are wrong with my university. The general consensus was that we learn an awful lot of very cool stuff, but that the entire staff needs a managment course.

Before I got on the train, I’d spent a great deal of the two hour journalism timeslot ranting to the teacher about my tutor and general university policy. I don’t normally get angry very easily, if only because I don’t want to upset people, but when I found out that my tutor had been lying to my face about getting a move on to retrieve some very important information, something snapped and friendliness went out the window. I am trying so hard to apply to an MA in the UK; I have never done this before and have no idea how it is done in the first place; I am on prednisone and a double dose of my regular medicines - the last thing I needed was for the one person my university allotted to me to help me out with academic problems to lie to me. The condescension he did it with was even more baffling. I was not pleased.

The weekend at home was smashing, however. Had a great time laughing it up with my mum and my sister. My dad had to work, unfortunately, but whenever he returned home, he returned carrying chocolate treats and bottles of soft drink. He was going to get a hug anyway, but after a Lion bar and a bottle of Fanta?

I have a tendency to bring too much stuff home, and to carry too much of it back to uni with me. I don’t recommend travelling on trains with four bags unless you have more than your standard two arms. I outdid myself this weekend, carrying home a laptop bag, two handbags, a backpack and a box with a handy table. The handy table isn’t handy until you get home.

Whenever I get to Arnhem station, my connecting train is about to leave from a platform on the other side of the station. In addition, there is construction work going on at the moment, so to get from one platform to the other, I have to climb stairs that are see-through because of the holes in the material. It’s a bout of vertigo waiting to happen. However, aided by the Killers singing “Help me get down, I can make it, help me get down!” as I was rushing down the stairs onto the right platform, I actually made it on time! Sure, I nearly died in the process, but it cut my travelling time by half an hour.

There is nothing common about my cold, ladies and gentlemen. When I got up this morning, I realised I could no longer cough away the little hummer in my chest. A historical survey of my life reveals that this is the point in time we name “x.” I had to go see a doctor.

There is one doctor at my practice who never fails to make me feel like I am wasting his time. Unfortunately, this was also the only doctor at work, so I had to suck it up and go. Perhaps I have indeed always wasted this doctor’s time or something, because he seemed almost happy today. He only listened to my breathing a couple of times, as the wheezing and rattling was pretty obvious.

Thank Christ it was obvious. Whenever I see a doctor about my asthma, I feel like a fraud. My asthma is exercise-induced most often, so after sitting down in a waiting room for half an hour before seeing the doctor, I’m generally OK when I am examined. There are only so many times you can endure this before you start feeling like a bit of a joke. When I rang the doctor’s practice this time around, however, I was told I could see a doctor in 15 minutes. Never before have I jumped out of my pajamas and into socially acceptable clothing so quickly. I hopped on my little bike and raced to the practice, sat down in the waiting room and read the local newspaper. Funnily enough, I hadn’t been imagining things: no amount of coughing got rid of that little buzz in my lungs.

This doctor felt that prednisone, not antibiotics, should be the first step in battling this thing. He didn’t label it so much, but when I talked of a cold turning into bronchitis, he sort of nodded along. I did a bit of my own research and I would say that what I currently have falls under “bronchitis.” I’m happy that my feeling of knowing my own body has been reaffirmed. After my run in with the Bitch of Buteyko, I had started to doubt my perceptions of my health. It’s good to see that in the end, I know myself just fine. Give me a week with these little pills of prednisone, and my lungs will be fine too.

Things only got worse after the fantastic burning adventure of Valentine’s Day. When I woke up on Thursday, I felt a little under the weather. That got progressively worse over the next few days. I travelled home on Friday, because there’s nothing better than mum’s care when you’ve caught a big cold. She got me liquorice and pineapple juice and everything. <insert collective “hang on?” from the Internet>

My GP, whom my family are fairly friendly with due to babysitting arrangements, told me that pineapple juice and liquorice works just as well as coughing syrup. We’re talking proper liquorice here, the Dutch kind. In Australia, a shop called Darrell Lea sells things like blackcurrant liquorice, and that’s just not going to do the trick, I’m afraid. This chain of shops is more disappointing than that, though. I say that any shop spelling “Lee” as “Lea” should legally be made to sell tea, otherwise what’s the point.

I’m starting to feel a bit better, although I want to make sure I’m well and truly over this cold before I jump right back into the action. My lungs are like a bacterium’s Hilton hotel.

You know when you feel just a little too good about yourself? When you are about to skillfully put a healthy well-cooked meal on the table? Yeah, that’s when you burn yourself with steam as you pour the water out of the brussel sprouts pan.

I put my wrist under the tap to cool things down, then ate a few bites of dinner, put my wrist back under the tap to cool things down, ate a few more bites of dinner, and realised that this hurt like a very hot place and didn’t seem to be getting any better. As I was sitting on the toilet, my arm dunked in the sink to my right that was filled to the brim with cool water, it dawned on me that water alone wasn’t going to do the trick. Momentarily thanking the gods that I decided to eat early, I decided to pay the nearest drugstore (still open for another 25 minutes) a visit.

I hopped on my bike while the fabric rubbing the surface of my burn made me cycle even faster. When I got to the chemist, I asked a monumentally uninterested sales assitant for a cooling gel type of thing, after which she handed me something overpriced. This gel must contain Essence of Eucalyptus or something: I smell like a bloody koala.

I don’t think you’ll see my Valentine’s Day 2007 in a romantic comedy with Hugh Grant and Kate Winslet anytime soon. I could have at least got myself a heart-shaped burn…

My Spanish teacher organised a Pablo Neruda night. I wasn’t looking forward to it, because it was mandatory and I’m a rebel, but as soon as we all got on the bus to get to the restaurant, the school trip spirit kicked in. The venue was beautiful, the food magnificent and the company great fun. Part of the reason we all thought it was great was that we were all given a “free” glass of drink at the start of it all (”free” because the night cost us €15). You could either get apple or orange juice, or cider. I have yet to meet a student who will say “no, thanks” to free alcohol.

But. The cider? It smelled like equine urine. Some glasses contained transparent horse piss, others held a more blurry yellow fluid. It was all very shifty. Not easily discouraged, however, the students raised their glasses and got on with the drinking business, only to find the smell should have been taken for what it was: a warning. An hour after the “party” started, no one had finished their free drinks. After a while, we were all offered a replacement free drink in the shape of (transparent) apple juice.

Every half hour, two students would be called forward to recite one of Neruda’s twenty love poems, in the form of a duet in two languages. Despite my literary enthusiasm I was never one for poetry, but it was beautiful! After two hours of eating, and with two more to go, most people starting swapping seats in an attempt to burn some calories and avoid falling asleep. It was warm, we had stuffed ourselves with nice food, everyone got a bit rosy and sleepy. In the end, although it was a school outing, it was more like a fun evening with friends in a beautifully decorated restaurant at the beach.

Today, I have become something I wasn’t before, although I’m not necessarily able to tell you what that is exactly. My cousin and his wife had a baby today! I have absolutely no idea what that makes me. I’m this boy’s dad’s cousin. What does that make me? Anyway, I’m very happy for them, and just happy in general. Congratulations, Leonie’s Family! The surname lives!

I have also become something of a cook today. I cooked my mum’s meatballs, with potatoes and red cabbage. And strangely enough, I can now start up dinner, have a seat and let it cook. I no longer frantically hover over the stove, burning my face with the steam of overcooked potatoes. The food I made, on a two-pan stove no less, turned out pret-ty good if I may say so myself. If anyone needs a spare meatball, you know where to go.

Lastly, I am turning into a fully fledged housewife on the cleaning front, as I purchased a Swiffer kit today. Not just a Swiffer, mind you, this is the full kit. It comes with extra Swiffer whipes and a Swiffer duster. My room is now pretty dust-free, because you know what? Swiffer dusters? GREAT TOY. I’m thinking of getting the baby a Swiffer Duster engraved with his name. Alternatively, I might scribble it on in Sharpie.

I was afraid this would happen. I fell in love with another man today. I wasn’t sure whether I should tell Liam, until I realised that Liam would understand. This guy I met? He was HOT.

Only he wasn’t. He was shivering in fact. He cried at me when I came walking out of the supermarket and looked at me with the most beautiful brown eyes I have ever seen. He was flirting with me, begging me to stay.

I couldn’t resist and had to fiddle with his hair and cuddle him. He wouldn’t let me stop. We only had a fling, but it changed me forever. I will never forget that wet little nose, the cute little tail and the snow-frozen soft belly.

Whoever left this little dog waiting outside the supermarket doesn’t deserve him. Had he fit in my bag I would have taken him.

I’ve done ballroom dancing before, for three years even. One-Two-Cha-Cha-Chas are most familiar, but I’d never done One-Two-Three (Four) Five-Six-Seven (Eight) before. I went to a trial salsa class! It soon became evident that I am perfectly capable of memorising the steps and forcing my feet to move in the desired direction, but I need more practice in the hip-swaying department. I have all the grace of a stoned hippo.

Thankfully, when we were paired up, I got one of those slick latino types who make you learn extra steps. Somehow, I find it disturbing when a guy is better at hip-swaying than I will ever be. However, I did have a personal salsa coach who had the decency not to laugh at me whenever he made an unexpected salsa pro-move and I just stood there, temporarily unable to move from surprise. I have a three-counts-and-one-silent-count lag in my brain.

Don’t get me wrong, though: salsa dancing is serious business. At first, I kept having to look at my partner’s feet while dancing. Then I realised he might have thought I was looking at something else, so I made a conscious effort to do justice to my salsa talent right then and there, and also, to avoid certain embarrassment. You could see the little rabbit at the controls, but I was dancing that salsa!