MissLeonie.com

One of them thought it would be great fun to chuck sand on the back of the one thing my dad loves the most, after his wife and children. And rub it in. Thankfully, there are only two scratches that my dad thinks he can fix up.

We found the culprit by taking into his account the short reach of his arms, and the little footstep in the sand in front of the car. This kid will not be getting an allowance until he turns 18. After which he still won’t get an allowance, just a notice to leave his parents’ house.

How on earth could a child think this is OK? That, sure, it’s naughty, but that he would survive his parents’ punishment once they found out? This is where I advocate bottom spanking. In public. Ruining other people’s cars is NOT OK. Ever. And your bum should know it.

We had a slightly different journalism class today. We are currently working on developing a radio programme that will go live in three weeks time. However, Rick Nieman, the anchorman of the Netherlands’ second largest evening news bulletin, was presenting his book at the bookshop I used to work at. He knew there would be a large number of university students there and since he studied at Roosevelt University in Chicago, he was willing to answer questions in English as well. He invited the audience to put forward questions, so that the book presentation would rather be a discussion of what news is (as per the title of his book).

I learnt that I need to be more aggressive in my question asking: it took me a while to get through. That’s fine as a member of the audience at a book presentation, but it would have been much worse had I been a journalist already. My question was answered eventually, though. I asked what he thought of psychologists’ remarks that titling family murders by one of the parents “family dramas” could lower the threshold for other people in a similar confused state of mind. To what extend did he think journalists have a responsibility in that area? And what about the video message of the Virginia Tech shooter? Not only could it encourage further sick individuals, broadcasting it worldwide is exactly what the kid was going for. I won’t summarise Rick Nieman’s answer, because it was quite long and I don’t want to leave things out and twist his words, but it was an interesting discussion.

He’d also brought his wife, Sacha de Boer, who is a news anchor(wo)man as well. She works for the country’s most popular evening news bulletin, effectively one-upping her husband. The book that was being presented is about what goes on behind the scenes at different news programmes, and being a news reader herself, she had plenty to contribute. It was a really interesting discussion between the pair of them and the audience, although I wish a certain ex-news reader from the local TV station could have enjoyed listening to her own voice a little less. At the end of the one hour discussion, I decided to purchase his book and have it signed. I’ve almost finished it by now. It’s a good but quick read, and an honest report of what happens behind the scenes of the primary source of new information for a lot of people. I recommend it.

I forgot to bring my camera, but an old workmate promised to forward a few photos. I’ll update this post when that happens.

When I woke up and started the computer this morning, there was an email with an interesting sender in my inbox. The University of Doesn’t Matter Where sent me an email, informing me that “a decision had been made” about my application. I could learn the result by logging into their online application page. It took me about six goes to log in (part nerves, part having too many log in names and passwords), and then there was the ominous application tracking page, listing just the one application I had made, much like a giant sign saying “This Is Your One Chance.” Oh dear. I was in the process of applying to three other universities, but Doesn’t Matter Where was my favourite by a mile. So I clicked.

Now, there were many reasons that would explain a “thanks, but no thanks.” For example, another girl from my uni has been offered a place in the exact same Masters course I”m applying to. It would be highly unlikely for them to pick two of a kind, wouldn’t it? In addition, I heard that English universities sometimes prefer non-EU applicants because they have to pay a much higher tuition fee. I didn’t dare to hope.

But what do you know, I got in! They gave me a conditional offer, which basically means I need to get the grades I estimated I would, send down signed copies of my references and provide a sample of my writing. I can do that. So basically, I’m in. And that’s a pretty good start to the day.

Liam’s luggage arrived after 5pm yesterday, so he got to hand out the souvenirs we picked for everyone. Everyone loved their presents, and Bailey was indeed so chuffed that he 1) sat still long enough to allow for a photo (he likes to pose), 2) tired himself out playing with it and 3) came walking into Liam’s room with his toy - had he been able to wink and nudge, he would have.

I am particularly good at making my life really hard. I literally worry myself sick. I’m not sure how common this is, but when I’m stressed, my skin goes funny. Right now, it’s all dry, which tells me I need to ease up.

I managed to turn a friend’s sweet offers to take my mind off things into yet more drama. A few of my friends asked if I’d like to come along to Antwerp for a night on the town on Wednesday. It’s so nice of them to try to distract me and cheer me up. I really appreciate it, but saying yes feels wrong. Firstly, I’m trying to save, for various reasons. In addition, Wednesday night is Liam’s Thursday morning. It will be his first day back at work. We always, always talk in the mornings, while Liam gets ready for work. We’ll miss a few occasionally due to circumstances, true, but right now, it’s tough for both of us to be apart. We only spent two weeks together, but it’s enough to remind us that that’s how we want to be. To have that taken away from you, out of reach for so long… I wish I could describe how much it hurts. We can bear it, because we’re more or less used to it and because we dream, but there are always moments it stings. And his first day back at work is bound to sting. So I have to decline the generous invitation.

Coming to this decision made me cry and despair - and it shouldn’t. That’s insane. From now on, I’m going to make a conscious effort to set a mental kitchen timer. Five minutes of worrying at a time, no more. My life is difficult enough without my complicating it further. I have priorities, and that’s OK. Other people may not agree with my decisions, but that’s why they’re mine. If they take offence, that is theirs. I’m doing a pretty good job at keeping everyone happy most of the time; juggling like a pro I do so good a job that I sometimes lose perspective. No more losing.

I managed to get out of bed and go to school as usual today. I won’t lie - I still get a little teary-eyed at times, but generally, I’m coping pretty well. I don’t want to be sad when I have so much to be happy about. And, as Shakespeare says in The Merchant of Venice, ” (…) these foolish drops do somewhat drown my manly spirit (…).” I kept telling Liam I would throw that quote at him if he got sad. Only I forgot the exact quote. And no, I did not give it some “Farewell, good Liamcelot,” I am not THAT big a booknerd.

Liam has just got home, had a lovely shower, and got to hand out the zero souvenirs that made it to Sydney at the same time as him. His luggage was left behind in Hong Kong! Not to worry, however, because this will only increase the suspense. The suitcase will be delivered to his door tomorrow, apparently. And man, did we find some awesome souvenirs. I am really excited to hear how Liam’s family like their presents.

Isn’t it strange how the one week you need homework to keep your mind occupied, there is hardly any? After I work out the difference between a Petrarchian and a Shakespearian sonnet, I will be free as a bird. I have plenty of other things to keep me busy: McLeod’s DVDs, the pile of books I couldn’t bring back with me from Australia that Liam returned to me. I’ll get stuck into some Dorothy Parker, or perhaps a bit of Bill Bryson. I might go really crazy and read some rare Jane Austen! In addition, there is a new Cage podcast to listen to. And if I get really bored, I’ll try to get rid of the epic amount of lint hiding in the nooks and crannies of my room. Leonie lives in a lint factory.

I generally feel sorry for people who play music in large cities and smile hopefully at passers by, hoping they will chuck a few coins in a sweaty, raggy hat. Generally, if the music is half decent (I think it’s fair to ask for a bit of effort on their side), I can be trusted to dig up a few coins, or at least smile in a friendly manner. However, this changes when they change the rules.

I was on the train back from the airport, listening to the Cage podcasts to keep my mind occupied, when a wino type of person walked past. Not an issue, of course, until the man started playing his acoustic guitar right behind me, over the top of my little iPod. The whole reason I think being polite to street musicians is a must is that if you don’t like it? MOVE ON. However, the rule-breaking turned the gig into the equivalent of a passer by standing next to one of these musicians, singing at the top of her lungs, drowning out the druggies music when he can’t go anywhere else.

It is in fact so inconsiderate that I felt not an ounce of guilt when I changed my music to a very loud “What Have You Done Now,” by Withing Temptation, and stared out of the window, sunnies on and everything, completely ignoring our wanting guitar playing.

Like I said, it’s fine if you can keep moving when la musique de la rue does not tickle your fancy, but Train Guitar Oppressionist? MOVE ON.

I wasn’t in the best of moods in the first place, as I had just said goodbye to my sweet Liam. We’ve had an amazing two weeks together, which is why I have been slightly MIA. I had plenty to write about, but I didn’t want to waste any Liam time sitting in front of a computer screen.

We shopped in Amsterdam, visited the Rijksmuseum, went to a local aquarium/pirates theme park, went to the beach, strolled through town, shopped in Utrecht and probably a lot more that I can’t currently remember. I had a fantastic time. And although saying goodbye sucks, dreaming is quite lovely, and we’ve done plenty of that. We’ll be just fine. And happy, and all that good stuff.

My windowsills were covered in sand these past few days. There’s a strip of fine sand in front of my building, and the violent wind picked it up and dropped it on my windowsill. Did I mention I live on the first floor? That is some wind.

I have been vacuuming like mad, Swiffering the floor, and giving it some mop-action. Liam is coming over and it has triggered a mad cleaning frenzy.

After the cleaning I went out to the supermarket to buy a few things for dinner on Sunday and Monday, because the shops will be closed then. Only… I pulled the door shut behind me, with the keys still inside. The friend who has my spare key had already gone home. The friend who I guessed had my friend’s key was still there, and we had a quick scout of her room to find mine. We didn’t want to go through her things, though, and we saw no superficial key-evidence, so we had to call it a day. I was locked out. The groundskeeper had long gone home and wouldn’t return until Tuesday. It was going to be a long, long night.

Until the lovely Caroline, Keeper of the Key to the Key, mentioned that another schoolmate knew how to open the locks on our doors with a bank card. I went up to the guy and asked him to break into my room, pretty please. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t get that every day.

To any prospective burglars: 1) I don’t have that many gadgets, try my neighbour’s room, and 2) you can’t open the door with a bank card if it’s been locked properly. Like now. Tough luck!

I am so proud of myself right now. I told you about the skin terrorism on Saturday. About how I washed my face and put on the new moisturiser I had bought at the pharmacy after getting advice from the people there. About how my face started to itch so much I had to sit on my hands to stop myself from scratching. About how my skin started burning soon after, after which it flatteringly peeled off like old wallpaper. It ate my face!

It ate my face, and for a moisturiser costing €14.25, that’s just not cool. I would have gone back to the shop with my wallpaper face, had I not been at my parents house, roughly 250kms away from uni. This is Sod’s Law, article 6, subsection 3b: your face will only break when you are not in the vicinity of the culprit.

There were two problems: 1) I had no idea where the receipt had gone and 2) my face looks more or less normal again after three days of intense schmearing. Nevertheless, I gathered my courage and set out like pre-Waterloo Napoleon.

I went up to the counter when it was my turn, and explained the horrors I had been through. The lady, seemingly unimpressed with my hardship, suggested I try using the moisturiser on my arm for three days to see if I was allergic to it. After all, something else could have triggered the allergic reaction, like food. And so I left.

While cycling back, I kept thinking, “hang on, this is stupid - how could food break just my face?” I was disappointed that I hadn’t stood up to Pharmacy Woman. It couldn’t be “some other allergy,” actually, because I have been thoroughly tested for all sorts of allergies due to my asthma. Pollen hang around all year, and zea mays (corn for laymen)? There’s none yet. In addition, I hadn’t eaten anything out of the ordinary. This moisturiser ate my face and I wanted my money back.

I got home and stood next to my bike for a few minutes. Ideally, this would be one of those situations where mum comes in, rants to the right people and I get my money back, but I’m twenty now, and mum isn’t going to save my arse forever. I was also a bit offended that I had to prove that THIS STUFF ATE MY FACE. So I recuperated, set up my argument and went back. Perhaps I had lost the first battle, but I would be damned if I were going to lose the war.

I talked to another lady at the pharmacy. She seemed much more understanding, and rang the company to ask if she could refund their product. Coincidentally, Vichy let her know that they have heard my story before. In rare cases, people react to one of the ingredients. I must emphasise that this is in no way a bad product - I am just allergic to some part of the contents. Vichy and Pharmacy Lady #2 were a great help. They gave me my money back and offered some testers for other products too, no pressure!

I’m so proud that I was friendly but persistent, and that it worked. I may be growing up. And stuff.

Yesterday, I picked up a necklace from a jeweller in my hometown. Liam gave it to me for Christmas, after I had first spotted it when I was shopping with his mum and Masha. Liam had practically begged me to pick myself a Christmas present, because he didn’t want to get it wrong. He’s cute like that.

It was a beautiful necklace that came with matching earrings. I’ve worn the necklace, or the perfume he bought me, every day since I’ve been back. One day, the necklace broke. It’s a very delicate silver necklace, and I’m a not-so-delicate girl. It may have brought on a moist-eye-syndrome attack. I just figured it’s a good thing I’m not superstitious.

I’ve finally got round to having it fixed, so that now, I can wear it every day again. And the week I brought it to the shop to have it fixed was the week I found out Liam would soon be visiting. I’m still not superstitious, but I think it’s a nice symbol.