Clean the carpet

I am about as good at cleaning carpets as Andrew Eldritch is at singing. No that’s not true; I’m worse. Why the comparison? Those who recognise the name of the singer of the Sisters of Mercy will also know they have a song called “kiss the carpet” which I cannot help but think about when I contemplate the topic of this post. About a week ago I accidentally kicked over a mug of coffee, and I had tried to mop up the stain with kitchen paper. Not much luck. Then I tried water with BioTex and a towel. Not much luck. It’s a very ugly stain! I wanted to get rid of it. I first tried mailing some carpet cleaning services but they didn’t respond. Then I thought maybe it would be worth hiring a carpet cleaner. So I did!

 Before the carpet cleaner

First thing on a Saturday I went to the rental place. And then got working; they closed at 1PM. So I assembled the thing and tried to fill the reservoir with warm water and detergent. That should be easy! It wasn’t. Just then my boiler refused, and I had to boil water in the kettle and on the hob. (It wasn’t a good time in more than only that way; I also had the biggest pile of dishes waiting...)

I attacked the stain vigorously. I hardly bothered with the rest of the room. The manual of the thing warned against over-wetting, but I ignored that. I kept going over the stain until I had exhausted the entire reservoir. But the stain wouldn’t go! It did fade, but it stayed put. I had little choice but to return the machine, and wait until the carpet was dry; things might look different then. And then contemplate my options...

 After the carpet cleaner

Antonia

Dutch cinema in general is not something to write home about. And it’s not just me who thinks that; international film critics agree. Rarely does a Dutch movie receive critical acclaim. This year, a Dutch moviecompetes for the Palm d’Or in Cannes,but that’s the first one in decades. In my lifetime, only three Dutch movies have won an Oscar for best foreign-language movie, and a further two have been nominated. Of the three winners I’d seen two: “the Assault” (de Aanslag, 1986) and “Character” (Karakter, 1997). I liked the Assault. I liked most of Character, but I was very disappointed that the end was fundamentally different from the book it’s based on.

And then there was “Antonia’s Line” (Antonia, 1995). It came out while I was living in Amsterdam. There are many moviehouses in Amsterdam, so the opportunity was there, but I somehow didn’t get round to it. But I kept it somewhere in the more obscure recesses of my to-do list. 

Eighteen years passed. And then I joined the Environment Department movie club. And I figured that when I would host a viewing, maybe it should be Antonia’s line I would show. A new film for absolutely everybody! So I did. 

I decided to cook Dutch-English food for the occasion; a Dutch(ish) dish, made of exclusively English ingredients. And five people showed up to enjoy it. And we all fit on the table! I was chuffed. I never before managed such a feat. Six people, all at the table, and all with crockery and cutlery! And my guests had brought self-baked chili-and-onion bread, and Früchtequark. And wine. And to my joy, my house was judged to be very cosy, especially considering I’d only lived in it for a few months. 

Five distinguished guests at my table!

 This is what my cutlery drawer looked like after the meal - it was only just enough

And then the movie. It dealt with Antonia, a widow who returns, with her daughter, to her village of birth when her mother is on her deathbed. After the funeral she takes over the farm, and she’s quite successful. And she provides a kind of haven for the oppressed and the despised. And the film takes us through the entire rest of her life; through finding a father for her grandchild (a son-in-law is not appreciated) and seeing that grandchild grow up to her old age when she’s a great-grandma. It’s quite a feminist pamphlet! I didn’t expect that. And it’s a bit caricaturesque, but I found it very enjoyable. What puzzled me, though, was that I thought the movie was supposed to be Dutch, and unfold in a Dutch village. But half the cast speaks Flemish, and the village is about as Dutch as the pope. I figured the village was supposed to be Belgian, but there was no explanation for why a Dutch woman would be born and raised in Belgium. Some googling revealed the village is supposed to be Dutch indeed, which means to be the location scout was drunk out of his/her skull or something, and that it was actually filmed in France (!). 

 A still from the beginning of the film

I’m glad I’ve finally seen it! And I recommend it. And I’m glad I had all these colleagues visit me! My house is now properly warmed, after two earlier partial warmings. Good.

Everyday sexism - by women

I read the text and I was shocked. It was an open resignation letter by a primary school teacher (in Dutch). She complained that nowadays, the government tries to micro-manage school teachers, and stifles the children in its way. Read it (if you understand Dutch); the author says it better then I could, and frankly, I know bugger all about the ins and outs of primary education in the Netherlands. So why was I shocked? 

Somewhere in the text she refers to a "collegaatje" of hers; a "little colleague". She means a female colleague; that's a common thing in the Netherlands. I never liked the word in this meaning, but I think the fact it hit me straight in the face had something to do with having lived abroad for the past six years. A diminutive to indicate a female! And I trust the woman who wrote this is not a misogynist, and has just seen it used so much as to lose track of what it implies. But, or maybe therefore, I think it shows there's still a lot of everyday sexism around; so much many of us don't see it anymore. A man is a colleague, a woman is a little colleague.

Is this feminist drivel? No. When, as the Guardian put it recently (although I am afraid I didn't keep the cutting; I hope you'll all just believe me), it is "glaringly obvious that any woman who speaks out in public can expect a torrent of sexually explicit abuse hurled at her through social media" (approximate quote) it's clear something needs to change. When a man gets a lenient sentence for raping a 13 year old girl because she was "sexually predatory" (although this has been righted; I do assume, however, that the damage to the girl is done) clearly we have no equal rights. When a man winning Wimbledon, irrespective of his looks, is hailed as a sports hero, but a woman who does is probably forgotten (remember the "Murray first Brit in 77 years" debacle) or only hailed if she looks like a supermodel (remember the Marion Bartoli debacle). And I think using a diminutive to indicate a woman isn't helping. These little colleagues, they'd better know their place, and make sure they look good for the eyes of any male who happens to be within sight, and not pipe up! Leave that to the colleagues...

From climber through glacier hiker to, finally, caver.

When your harness is comfortable for walking in, it is, by definition, not comfortable for climbing a rope in. And vice versa. What does that mean? That it’s important your harness can be quickly and easily adjusted. Mine isn’t.

In Norway, I started rock climbing, so I bought a climbing harness. When I then did some glacier hiking I bought a chest harness too; on a glacier, you tend to wear a combination harness. On a Norwegian one, at least. And when I then moved to the UK and started mine exploring, I did all the rope work still in that combination harness. And that worked fine! I never did a single pitch longer than 50m, and even multi-pitch trips did not tend to end up too deep underground. That you have to take the chest harness off to adjust it, and can’t get it too tight didn’t matter too much. But once you start doing proper Yorkshire caving this won’t do anymore. The Boxhead Pot trip was sufficient to convince me of that.

One also tends to wear something underneath one’s harness. Even underneath one’s caving suit. I used to just wear old thermals; wear few if you go into a warm, steamy cave, and just add a few layers when you go into a cold mine. And if it gets too cold and wet you just wear a wetsuit. But the incessant crawling in Yorkshire did make me wonder if it wouldn’t be better to wear what most cavers wear: a furry suit. Wearing a full fleece suit (nowadays even fashionable, it seems) rules out the possibility of your upper garments creeping up and exposing skin to the clammy caving suit.

 

The harness! And it won't be of much use until it's combined with a chest strap, as-and descenders, and some more dangly bits, but that's easily added!

The furry suit. If you call it a onesie it suddenly becomes fashionable!

I’ve now bought both. So in a way, after several years, my kit has caught up with my interests. I’m no longer a caver dressed up as a glacier hiker! And my old harness will go into the washing machine; were I to take up climbing or glacier hiking again it can be put to its original use again!

There goes my voice again

There we go again! No sound emerging from my throat on Monday. Except some gunky coughs. It was due, I suppose; it happened twice in 2010 and once at the end of 2011. I managed to speak all through 2012 and most of 2013. It couldn't last forever!

People have assumed I partied extremely hard during my weekend in the South, but actually I didn't! I suppose I was a bit under the weather to start with. I am resigned; I just went home early-ish and went to bed at a good time. And drank Lemsip, and lemon juice with honey. And hoped it would go away soon. It seems to be a case of laryngitis only, and not, like the previous time, combined with tonsillitis!

On Tuesday I got out my little notebook, in case I needed to speak without voice. But I could already speak very softly! I'll just go go on speaking little and sleeping lots, and enjoying internet because that's the place where I can still speak as loudly as I want!

 Laryngitis rarely comes alone

Back south for Dr. Rob

Plymouth University, Friday at 6PM. A gaggle of girls is sitting in a corridor, taking in hushed voices. Every now and then one comes up with an excuse to walk past the nearest door, and sneak a look in. They have been in that corridor for two hours already. Another fifteen minutes pass. And another fifteen.

Then, at 6.30, finally the door opens, and a well-dressed man emerges. The waiting is over! The well-dressed man will soon be a doctor. It’s Rob, my dearly beloved PhD student. His viva is now over. A few minutes later he is called back in. In spite of the fears that have been growing among the girls in the corridor, he only has to do minor corrections. So now it’s time to raise a glass!

Rob had advised me to not come over for the viva, but for the celebration. Much more fun! But he couldn’t tell me when that would be, even though it looked like it would be in a weekend in which I would be unavailable. So in the end I came for the viva anyway! And I would catch up with lots of other friends too.

On a Thursday I did the 6 hour journey south. Jon whisked me away from the railway station, and too me to the Clovelly Bay Inn for dinner with Simon and Tim, Rob’s internal examiner. Jon and Simon would be away the rest of the weekend, and this was my chance to see them. And afterwards I knocked on Pete and Sabrina’s door; they would be my hosts for the weekend.

The next day I retrieved Jon’s bike, which I could borrow, pottered around a bit, and then went to campus. I had coffee with my old office mate, saw Rob, caught up with a few more of the PhD students and other staff, went for lunch with Rupert, got some cash out, and then saw Rob in. Somewhere between the two times I saw him he changed from shorts and a faded T-shirt to a suit. I gave him a hug, and he went in! And then the waiting had started.

As the viva started at 14.30 I figured it would last some two, two and a half hours; by about five the examiners would get thirsty. So I made sure I was ready near the door by 4PM. And it turned out I would have plenty of time catching up with the other ladies (occasionally a man joined, but they never stayed long) before, at 18.30, Rob finally emerged, and it all was over.

Happy supervisor and new doctor after the viva!

By the time Rob came out, two contingents of people had already decided to not wait but go to the pub. To two different pubs. And after he'd gone back in and received the "minor corrections" verdict, Rob decided to go to a third one. He hadn’t intended it to be a big thing, but word got around, and people flocked in from all directions to celebrate with him. He wouldn’t stay long, though; his life didn’t stop at the viva and he had something planned for the night. I decided to accompany the examiners for dinner.

The next day was for accompanying Pete and Sabrina on some errands, catching up with Rob, and popping by at Rupert’s. And then a social gathering. Not all went well; Rob said he’d phone me when he was near, but when my phone finally beeped it was to announce a text message saying he had found nobody home. We had been sitting in the garden, and hadn’t heard the knocking! I was very disappointed; I’d not had much time to speak with him the day before. But the pottering around with my hosts was fun, and so was the meeting Rupert’s sprog; she kindly refrained from vomiting all over me.

The social gathering was a modest one; Jon was exchanging his car in the midlands, Simon was at a wedding, Marta was preparing for fieldwork with the geologists, Hoayda was writing a chapter of her thesis, Rich and Vince were decorating the house, and so on. Not many people made it! But Paul, Lou, and Jessie did, and that was enough for a nice night, with updates on houses, jobs, children, sport, and food, drinks and a fire. Lovely!

Tea lights in Pete and Sabrina's garden. And Rob's gift!

The last morning, Pete and Sabrina dragged me to Bovisand for breakfast. Dave, who had come home too late from a mine exploration trip in St Just the day before to join the gathering, completed the quartet. It was a lovely day, and the view was stunning! I think the southwest is showing me what I’ve lost, and is beckoning me back!

 The bay seen from Bovisand

Dit zijn de namen

“Are you still interested in Dutch literature?” I said yes. I don’t tend to have (make?) time to actually enjoy any; if I read it tends to be the newspaper. But she offered me “dit zijn de namen” van Tommy Wieringa. And I happily accepted.

When I got home after a train ride, a wait at the airport, and a flight I had almost finished it. It was a page-turner indeed! Set in some former Soviet state, it follows a group of people who have paid smugglers to get them across the border, and the policeman in whose town they end up at the end of their travels. Wieringa convincingly portrays both the makeshift group of wanderers and the somewhat resigned copper. I liked the changing moods within the group; as long as you are relatively healthy you make the group stronger and you’re welcome; get weak and you’re on your own.

Beside the issues of illegal migration and power in a corrupt society, the book also deals with identity and religion. I quite liked it! And both my mother and me like sharing; if someone wants to read it I’ll happily send it to them, on the condition they either send it on to my mother, or onto someone else who will send it on to my mother instead!