M

I’m not really sure how Stéphane Beel sleeps at night. I’m sure I’d be wide awake in the wee hours of the morning tossing and turning and worrying about when exactly the right time would be to hang up all the pictures and if the paint will be dry on time and whether the frontage would look presentable enough to welcome all the visitors. I dare say he might just feel the same way that I did when I had left the writing of my Master’s thesis a tad too late and as a consequence spent four nights awake writing up the final pages in order to meet the deadline. When I had finally handed it in I was so relieved that I laughed hysterically for about half an hour at a “knock knock” joke that someone happened to tell me. Will Beel do the same I wonder on 21 September 2009 when the whole shebang is over and “M” can finally be declared officially open? Laugh at a knock knock joke that is?

On the other hand if Architect Beel is as cool a cucumber as his buildings are I’m sure he’ll pull the show off with aplomb. And speaking from a personal point of view I have to admit that I loooove what he’s done. The building is amazing and sits comfortably in the heart of historic Leuven – what’s even more exciting is the fact that little ‘ol Leuven will be the proud owner of such a swanky cultural museum. “Do you think it’ll have a café?” K.M. asked me yesterday when we walked past the building site. She’s obviously heard me ask that question quite a lot over the past year. I hope the planners thought of a drinking hole since I rather like the idea of “hanging out” in such a cool space with so much natural light. But then again this is Belgium not the UK where every attraction, be it the indoor play park in Bexhill-on-sea or the National Academy in London serves up refreshments to visitors in the form of flapjacks and a cup of tea. There certainly won’t be any flapjacks on offer and if there is a café (which I hope there is but I’m not sure about) I have no doubt that it will not serve up PG Tips but only the finest variety of delicatly flavoured organic tea from Japan. Oh I so love the idea of this “M”.

“I don’t know K.M.” I answered “but the building looks great doesn’t it – as though is should belong in Paris or Moscow rather than Leuven.” Anyway 20 September is the official opening of “M” – only seventeen days to go! Yet, every time I walk past what is still effectively a building site I wonder how on earth it’s all going to be finished on time. Doors need to be installed, facades painted, windows put in place, the tills installed etc. etc. On the other hand Stad Leuven has probably credible building contractors not like some of the clowns we had to chase up all the time when we were dolling up Maria Callas. Still, I wonder when on earth they are going to find the time to hang up all those amazing Rogier Van der Weyden pictures that are about to arrive in Leuven from across the globe – the Flemish primitive artist (1400 -1464) that is going to launch M onto the cultural map of Europe.

Well, good luck Mr Beel – the VC-G’s wish you all the best and sure hope that you meet your deadline on time. It would be great if I could get an invite to the opening party of M – I promise I won’t make any comments about unfinished finishing touches, nor will I make any snide comments about Van der Weyden’s Madonna hanging a bit wonky, nor will I make any silly knock knock jokes that might just make you loose your cool on the evening when you want to show-case your amazing creation to Leuven’s illustrious burghers – because I really, really do believe that M is going to be a great asset to Leuven and I can’t wait to hang out there.

Zumba

You may be forgiven for wanting to hide at the back of a Zumba class – but in reality it’s not such a good idea. Especially if the Zumba class is packed because it is being led by a sexy little lady going by the name of Rosie who just happens to be half Brazilian and gyrates to the beat of a mambo drum ten times faster than any of us can ever dream of mustering. Rumour has it that the manager of the gym went down on bended knees and begged Rosie to give Zumba lessons at our club. She’s so popular and is in seriously hot demand the length and breadth of The Middle so that we in Sportoase are seriously privileged to have the likes of Rosie teach us Zumba. Guess our manager has a lot of charm because Rosie now comes at least three times a week and her classes are booked out weeks in advance. I was amazed, therefore, that there was still a spot available in Rosie’s’ class on Tuesday evening from 19.30 to 20.30.

Not sure if any of you have heard of Zumba. It really is the latest craze in the world of fitness. I know, it’s so sad to write about fitness crazes – have any of you seen the film “Perfect” with John Travolta and Jamie Lee Curtis where Travolta plays a Rolling Stone journalist who completely trashes the world of fitness gyms in the early 1980’s? It’s a great film. As a result whenever I talk about the gym I feel just a tad sad. Still I enjoy working out at the gym ... and so I shall recount my Zumba experiences.

Zumba, the absolute latest in gym-speak, hit our consciousness here in The Middle a few months ago. Even K.M. had heard of it and began showing me how to swing the hips sideways whilst waving arms high in the air. “They were showing it on KetNet Mummy,” she told me. “You must go – it comes from Brazil.”

In fact before Rosie’s class on Tuesday I had actually been to one Zumba class given by Ann. I was amazed to find that Zumba was nothing more than a Latin American work-out. Amazing what marketing and re-branding does – it creates a whole knew concept out of what is already bog standard and pretty well known. I quite enjoyed Ann’s class though. The music is fun and the moves great. But Ann is not Rosie. I just had to try out Zumba with Rosie at her Tuesday evening class.

Anyway, coming back to this hiding at the back of the class business. I know it’s a bad idea because I did just this on Tuesday evening. I arrived five minutes late and the class was already in full Zumba swing when I came in. Before I had even performed a neat little Meringue or punched my fist in the air with Latin American zeal I could feel the sweat forming in between my shoulder blades. The heat in the airless room from all the dancers was overwhelming. I’ve never seen a class so full. This suited me fine. I wasn’t exactly in the mood to stand at the front. Not in Rosie’s class.

It didn’t take me long to realise though that trying to be unobtrusive was a mistake. From where I was standing I couldn’t see what I was supposed to do. Above the top of other people’s head I could see Rosie up on the podium giving a fantastic performance. The girl can dance – just like in all those promotional Zumba video’s we’ve seen over the past couple of months. No doubting that Rosie is straight-up the real thing, she’s the McCoy alright with her long dark hair, amazingly toned Latino body, friendly grin and dance moves – but she is half Brazilian and has a huge advantage over the rest of us cold blooded northerners.

There is some family talk that great Grandmother Isabella Garnett née Brown was half Spanish because she too had long dark hair that, in the old sepia photo we have of her, she wears high in Spanish combs. She was born on a boat off the coast of Galway when her father, get this John Brown, was on his way to India. No one rally knows the name of her mother other than that it too was Isabella. So perhaps, just perhaps there is some kind of family Spanish connection going way back when – not that any of it has been passed down to me. No Sir. I look as though I was born to Morris Dance.

Give me a couple of sticks, tie a few bells around the ankles and I might just be able to kick my knee into the air with some authenticity. Sadly, am not sure I can cha-cha-cha with any great authenticity. I look around the heaving room. Ninety percent of the dancers look like me, not quite Morris Dancers but certainly NOT Latin-blooded lovers either. Involuntarily I think of Breughel. Scenes of jolly outdoor feasts come to mind with frothy beer spilling out of huge tankards and onto wooden trestle tables and plump breast spilling out of tight lace corsets. OK, so if one follows the logic that I was built to Morris Dance then surely the locals were meant to clog dance. There you have it. Our heritage: Morris Dancing and Clog tapping. All a million miles away from the cha-cha-cha and mambo. Can we overcome our heritage though and move beyond Morris/clog dancing I wonder?

Since I’m not really following Rosie I follow what her audience are doing. Most of them are giving it their all. Some look great, other’s look confused, most of us look like clog/Morris dancers. Well who wouldn’t when Rosie is standing on the stage looking like she’s just sashayed out of the Coco Cabana. The other’s seem to know the dance moves by now and unlike me are able to mimic, if not quite replicate, Rosie’s routine. As soon as one song finishes there’s spontaneous applause and then everyone, led by Rosie, launches themselves into the next Zumba jive. Rosie is giving it her all as though she’s performing for the Brazilian football team before the opening of the World Cup Final against Germany. Or perhaps she’s performing for Ronaldo – or perhaps just for us. She grins friendly at the class and encourages us all on to greater mambo heights.

Perhaps she is unaware that some of us are not following. She doesn’t bark out any instructions at us such as: meringue left foot; meringue side-ways; forwards; back-wards; four-step forwards; wave the arms up, wave the arms down; cha-cha-cha – one, two three. After the third dance I give up and decide to leave. I weave my way through the room and all the dancers doing their four-steps arms held high and waving to the beat.

Yesterday I went back to Ann’s class. I like her. She looks more like us: a clog dancer with a sweat band who knows the steps and shouts them out to us. The room is full but not as packed as Rosie’s so at least we can breath. I stand at the front. This way I can watch the moves closely. I get a good workout and feel well trained at the end of it. At one point I look at myself in the mirror doing a cha-cha-cha and think I see a faint glimpse of Isabella Garnett as I gyrate my hips. In Ann’s class I can just about believe that it is possible for me to move beyond Morris Dancing. With Rosie I just look like a lost cause.

In other news: J., who turned eleven yesterday (yes eleven!) is still football crazy. G. is delighted. I am resigned. We are both thrilled that J. is enjoying playing foot-ball. He’s a lot less “icky” then he used to be and has, almost, abandoned the shrill shrieking and yelling he so favoured. Training twice a week and playing football on Saturdays releases all his energy. This is fantastic. Am seriously concerned now that the football season has stopped and he won’t have anything to do until August. I have to get used to the fact though that most Wednesday’s are now foot-ball night. Reluctantly I vacate the lounge and find comfort in our bedroom in order to escape the sound of endless football commentaries. Motherhood is all about sacrifice and I have accepted that I have to sacrifice part of this household to football. Luckily G. enjoys talking footie to J. and so the names of Lampard; Ballack; and Rooney are seeping into my consciousness.

K.M and L. have their big ballet show this week-end. Mum is coming by train today for the week-end to watch them. They have been preparing for it twice a week since November. The girls are delighted. L. told me she will be wearing glitter in her hair so can we please not wash it on Sunday so that she can show it off to her friends on Monday morning. Can’t wait to see it. Before you all think I discriminate – I also enjoy watching J. play football on Saturday when I have the time.

Grass is growing brilliantly. Still have one or two dodgy patches. Only one more week and then I think we’ll let the kids loose on the lawn. No need to worry anymore about flowers being trampled to oblivion. They’ve all gone.

Monday morning

Monday morning and I have to say I’m not exactly feeling top of the world. Probably all the champagne we were served last night at Christine and Nick’s followed by a rather splendid red wine. Should have refused all those top ups – but you know what its like. Have had a pretty hectic two weeks. Its hard to say no when the setting is comfortable, the canapés are delicious and there are no kids around to worry about.

Didn’t sleep brilliantly last night though. Alcohol plus food repeating itself and discussion on euthanasia spinning through my semi-conscience state. Was pleased when G. woke me up at 6.15 with a cup of tea. I’d been dreaming that it was already 8.20 a.m. and none of the children were getting up for school and that the dog had stolen R’s bed covers and was making a little nest out of them downstairs in the kitchen. Was so relieved that it was, in fact, just past six and not past eight o’clock and that I still had plenty of time to get the whole show on the road and that Belle had not chewed R's bed covers and made a nest of the remains.

Before having supper at Christine and Nick’s we’d driven to Tongerlo to visit Stefanie and Stijn. Our previous tenants who are getting married in May and who’ve bought themselves a wonderful new house in Tongerlo. We went for a sunny walk to the twelfth century Norbentine Abbey. Belle bounced and bounded all over the place and it took us a while to coax her away from the local football club once she’d spotted the ball. We walked past lots of newly built houses, fields with horses (including a massive Shire Horse) and across a stream and a wooded area.

I kept having to repeat to R. over and over again that “no we are not going for a walk. We are going to feed the goats in the abbey.” R. has taken a distinct dislike to the expression: “going for a walk.” Every time he and L. hear it they protest and make a fuss about how they are staying at home.

In the distance over the fields was a new development. Stefanie pointed it out to us. “That development was in the news recently”, she told us. Apparently, in all of the twenty or so new houses, every family is expecting a child this year. Flanders is a confident society.

J. and K. want to move to Tongerlo. They saw other kids out on their bikes and mucking around in the Giro to a loud disco beat. (Giro is a bit like the Flemish equivalent of the boy scouts) Gotta love the Flemish – they have no hang-up or anxiety about suburbia or youth movements. Rather, they embrace it; make the most of it; and exploit it’s many advantages. Safe streets, wide open gardens, light filled houses, no renovation hassles, great youth clubs that play football and basket ball on a sunny Sunday afternoon. I doubted that we would come across a street dubbed Revolutionary Road. Nor did I spot Kate Winslet sulking behind netted curtains; angry and resentful.

Last week I spent every single day in the garden dig, dig, dig, dig, digging. On the first sunny week-end of the year I saw the kids run into the garden, kick a ball about and trample all over my flower beds. Valerie came to play, as did Ivan, and I was constantly knocking at the window telling the kids to “get off of the flowerbeds.” I then had a sudden epiphany. Why not just turn the whole of the garden over to lawn. Tom and Ben have done the same and their lawn looks great. So, last week out went the rosemary, the lavender, the sage, the alliums, the African lilies and much much more. It was terribly sad and I really had to grimace as I dug up healthy plants that were just beginning to show signs of life after a harsh cold winter.

On Saturday G. helped me clear away some of the garden waste. We began work in the pouring rain at twelve and didn’t stop until well past six in the evening. Nothing like comfort food and lots of mugs of hot tea to keep one going under late March conditions. Needless to say though I was exhausted come Saturday night and went to bed at nine already.

Anyway, hang over or not, I must now go into the garden and begin to rake the ground one last time before sowing the grass seeds. Our next real challenge will be to keep the kids off the lawn for the next six to eight weeks before the grass is strong enough. This is going to be hard. Yesterday, at around nine thirty in the evening, as I was choosing another choice piece of meat to dip into the bubbling fondu I suddenly saw Thomas whizz by, followed closely by J. and then K.

"G." I said, "are those our kids whizzing past? Aren't they supposed to be in bed by now? Tomorrow's a school day."

Unbeknown to us the little blighters had escaped the house, clambered over the garden wall and taken up with Thomas. To do so they had to walk all over my newly prepared soil. Inna was busy putting R. and L. to bed - but apparently knew they were with us.

Coming Out

In the new spirit of openness, liberalism and hope I think the time is right for G. and I to come out. I’ve been dithering about whether I should do this privately or make the big announcement publicly. Our family, of course, have already guessed what our inclinations are and it has been the matter of considerably discussion over late night whiskey sessions in Montaut. In the end, I’ve decided that telling my friends through my blog is by far the easiest route to confirm our inclinations. Its going to be controversial so brace yourselves.

OK, here goes: we supported the aims of the Iraq war.

Oh God! What a relief. I’ve said it. Phew! Its been, like, our little secret for such a long time now that I can hardly believe I’ve had the audacity to spell it out. On the other hand if we’re supposed to have the audacity to hope surely we can then also have the audacity to confess? Mentioning support for the Iraq war is not exactly the kind of thing one wants to talk about in polite company. Polite company normally chokes on its canapé when such views are aired.

The last time I had the guts to discuss this openly was in April 2002 – shortly after the Iraq invasion. It caused so much upset that I felt as though I was doing my hostess a disservice by allowing the conversation to turn into a fist fight. (Not literally of course). A normally placid, easy going and lovely ex-Spanish colleague of mine almost spat at me in anger and resentment when we discussed some of the advantages of getting rid of Saddam Hussein. Ever since then G. and I have decided just to keep schtum whenever the Iraq war is mentioned. Its better all round and no one gets upset.

Its not that G and I are neo-cons. I hate the NRA; totally oppose the death penalty; consider Cheney a snake in the grass; believe in the redistribution of wealth and not in the trickle down effect; hate the free market and can live comfortably within a regulated society. My views on Bush are set out in “Where were you” so I won’t repeat them here. Suffice it to say here that I agree with most of the globe that George Bush Jr is a real dumbo. The only good thing coming out of Texas is Tex-Mex and finally I fully support the Kyoto Protocol and believe in climate change.

Having got that political credo off my chest I shall now continue. Why do I bring this up now? Why should G. and I come out in February 2009? Mostly because Father Pat gave such a good sermon a couple of Sunday’s ago on speaking with moral authority. Without wishing to go into detail the general gist of his sermon was this: its not because one is in a position of authority that one speaks with moral authority. Father Pat gave the example of a Head teacher to whom none of the children in the school wanted to speak to at a time of bereavement. Instead the pupils turned to the teachers who, although they held no particular position in the school, were considered more comforting at a time of crisis precisely because they spoke with “moral authority”.

A couple of weeks ago the BBC news had an item, number three on the list I think, about elections in Iraq. It wasn’t head-line news but it was really good news. The Iraqi’s had gone to vote in their masses and there had only been one small incident of violence. From what I could understand, the Sunnis and the Shia’s had all come out to vote as did the residents of Basra that, only a few months ago, had been in the grip of militias. I felt very happy for the Iraqi’s and I really wish them a peaceful and prosperous future.

I’m by no means an expert but I think one of the main aims of the invasion was to secure “regime change” and create democracy in Iraq. We know that the first aim was achieved. Thank goodness. Saddam Hussein was a mean, brutal, cruel and truly evil dictator. What he did to his citizens was horrendous. Why would one not support the removal of Saddam Hussein? In fact I wish someone would do the same with Robert Mugabe in Zimbabwe.

The second aim: to create democracy has been much harder. The Bush administration were completely naïve in assuming that democracy would somehow miraculously appear on its own. I guess at the end of the day neo-cons are isolationists who are to idle and to arrogant to do their homework properly. They failed to understand that not everyone is as enamoured with the principles of freedom as the founding fathers were two centuries ago. Still if democracy succeeds in Iraq, and based on elections a couple of weeks ago let us hope that it does, then what it there to argue about? Shouldn’t we all in the West, especially those in polite society, applaud the end of tyranny and oppression? If we don’t then I worry about the future.

On the way back from mass I said to G. “Can’t you just see it now. In a years time, possibly, we’ll have pictures of Barak Obama in Bagdad, signing the official document withdrawing all coalition troops from Iraq once and for all. Hopefully by then there will be long lasting peace and security in Iraq and the Iraqi’s will be able to build themselves a prosperous future. How the neo-Cons will choke on their canapés when they see Obama take all the credit.”

Failing to speak with the correct moral authority was Bush’s, Cheney’s and Rumsfeld’s biggest failure. I still believe the aims of the Iraq war were correct. It was the way in which the message was given that was all wrong. Obama, on the other hand, now there’s a guy who can talk with moral authority.

That’s the beauty of democracy though. Leaders can be held accountable and changed if they are seen to fail. How the world rejoiced when Bush Jr was finally forced to leave the White House. They have to win the election and it is constitutionally written that a President can serve no longer than two terms. Even the neo-Cons respected that. Unfortunately for the Iraqis the only way they could even dream of ridding themselves of their unelected President was by relying on something that has gained such disrespect from many: regime change.

Revolutionary Road vs Maria

We went to bed at two a.m. last night after two glasses of whiskey. As G. and I sat slumped in our armchairs, chatting peacefully, I looked around our house and positively embraced Maria Callas. I gave her two massive big smakeroons on the cheek, dusted down her skirts and straightened her hair. I even lit a scented candle in her honour. Last night, in the wee hours of a Tuesday morning in late January, I positively loved my mistress and promised that no expense would be spared on her beautification. “Thank-you, thank-you, thank-you,” I said over and over again to her, “for sparing me a life in the suburbs. I know you and I have had our moments over the past five years but we’ve weathered the worst and being together was, absolutely the right thing to do.”

Why this sudden fondness for Maria Callas? Well, because G. and I had just come back from watching a late night showing of Revolutionary Road with Kate Winslet and Leonardo di Caprio. Veerle sent us a rather unexpected e-mail yesterday asking if we would like to have a couple of spare tickets she had for the cinema that needed to be used by the 26/01? We were pleased to accept and, in the absence of any other film that looked interesting, decided to go and see Revolutionary Road. G. had to pick J. and Tuur up from footie at eight so an early showing was out of the question. Luckily we have Inna these days so, unlike a few months ago, a late night trip to the cinema is perfectly feasible.

Kate Winslet and Leonardo give a great performance – more like a stage play than a big Hollywood movie. What is it, I often wonder though, about the suburbs that brings out the ire and frustration in script writers? This is the second Sam Mendes film deriding the suburbs. Betjeman began the trend in the 1930’s when he sneered at suburban conventionality. What, though, is wrong with wanting to live in a green, spacious, safe, comfortable environment? In our first grim year of learning to live with Maria Callas, when the hall-way peeled, water dripped onto the kitchen floor and the house lay in disarray I could think of nothing nicer than coming home every day to a clean, perfectly finished house at the end of a driveway.

I can still see K.M, age four, crying on the stairs saying she hated our house, questioning why we had ever sold the Pieter Coutereel and vowing to go live with her best friend Marie because they had a nice modern house. The worst part was I couldn’t blame her. Looking at the filthy state Maria Callas was in then, the even filthier state of our finances and the never ending round of petty disagreements with contractors, I too was wondering whether I could go live with Marie and escape Maria Callas. I fantasised about selling our mistress and handing her demands over to someone with a bigger wallet than ours – but who would buy a mistress in such a distressing state?

Hey and you guy’s should have seen Kate and Leonardo’s house on Revolutionary Road – it was just amazing! I can’t rave enough about their furniture, artwork, style. The windows! The light! It looked like something out of an Elle photo-shoot. I would have been first in line for their garage sale before their big move to Paris. I had my eye on quite a few of their table lamps which I just can’t seem to source anywhere around here – plus their kitchen chairs, and that pale green sofa in the living room …. and the bed room furniture … but I digress.

When the credits began rolling I looked at G saying, “Geeeee, G. aren’t you glad we opted for Maria Callas rather than a comfortable house outside of the town? We could be divorced, or worse, by now if we had settled for a suburban solution.”

It was tough getting up this morning though. Am glad I didn’t opt for the third whiskey as I was seriously tempted to do. We still have a busy week ahead of us. Now, we must get round to calling contractors to get the best price for painting the front of our dame.

Where were you?

So, yesterday was inauguration day and boy didn’t we know it. All the hype. The media was in a total frenzy days before the event. The Times had a “countdown to the inauguration” link on its front page, the BBC promised “live coverage” throughout the day, Anja held an inauguration party and Becky and Erwan popped open a bottle of champagne. I missed the speech and Obama’s fluffing of the oath since I was putting kids to bed so I picked up on the BBC’s live coverage as Obama was in the middle of his inauguration lunch. Outside the massed media looked frozen as they stood in the cold January air. Who was it that chose 20th January as the official inauguration date? June or July would have been much better. Something to do with the Revolution no doubt.

The BBC journalists were pukka and doing their best to look enthusiastic and cheery as they shivered outside on the mall; their smiles about as frozen as their noses. “He’s been delayed,” they said graciously as they awaited for the Obama/Biden cavalcade to come down Pennsylvania Avenue – but one could see them wishing the Obama’s would “hurry-up for f…’s sake. It’s freezing out here….” Hugh Edward’s eyes were squinted up as he tried to stay warm under one miserable looking blanket and one could feel his discomfort at having to give an enthusiastic running commentary on the BBC’s roof top in temperatures close to freezing.

“In years to come people will be asking – where were you when the first black-African American President was sworn in?” Hugh gushed as his hair was whipped up by the lovely fresh breeze. Sitting on the sofa watching in the warmth of a cosy sitting room waiting for G. to come home from Munich is the answer. Much as I am a sucker for historic houses; films; books and events – I’m not that much of a sucker to want to spend a day in the freezing cold to catch a “glimpse” of the Obama’s as millions of Americans were doing.

Funnily enough my mind was cast back to what many would regard as being a non-event - where was I when President Bush was declared the official winner of the 2000 campaign. I was standing in the kitchen of the Begijnhof listening to the World Service incredulous that enough people had actually voted for him. Somehow that event sticks in my mind more than Obama’s inauguration. At least Obama talks sense of course he should have won the election – but Bush? I couldn’t then – and I still can’t quite fathom how on earth the American electorate, the very same that voted in Obama, managed to vote in a twit such as George Bush – and this was even before 9/11 or his by now infamous remarks such as: “the problem with the French is that they have no word for entrepreneur.”

I remember feeling vaguely disturbed at the thought that America was going to be run by a guy who looked, well, dim. Its not that I hold politicians in particularly high regard nor is it that I expect them all to be hugely intellectual academics but they must at least look as though could write a moderately good thesis on Keynesian economics if they really had to. Well, phew, yesterday, we said good-bye to all that and welcomed in a new era. Huge sigh of relief all round. HOPE in desperate times. Just what the doctor ordered after eight years of sitting on the edge wondering what gimmick George W Bush was going to pull out of his hat.

Now, I have to say that under any other circumstances I would look at a guy who pulled in such a huge crown with scepticism and cynicism. I mean Hitler rallied adoring crowds like that in Nuremberg right? Or the Ceauşescus who relied on “rent a crowds” to wave flags and look adoringly at them. Such big crowds are normally the preserve of nasty dictators – not democratically elected Presidents. Its very hard to be sneering or cynical about Barak Obama though no matter how hard one tries. He seems genuinely nice. A cool head on strong shoulders. A wise guy. A man who looks as though he’s really concerned about the good of all and not just the good of vested interests. In any case his wife looks lovely and the girls adorable – so perhaps it really is the dawning of a new, hopeful, era.

No doubt the crowd will go on loving the guy even after he retires from politics. I wonder how long the media’s love affair with him will last. The parallels with Tony Blair are striking – he too won the election in 1997 with a huge majority. Adoring crowds lined the streets leading up to 10 Downing Street. They cheered and waved as he stood outside the front door with his young photogenic family. He went on to win two more elections credibly. Even after he had committed British troops to Iraq he still went on to deliver Labour a credible majority in Parliament. The voters still liked and trusted Blair. Even now though the media deigns not to cover Blair’s achievements – only his mistakes. We’ll see how long this hero is reduced to zero by the media.

In post script I have to add, the one thing I love about the Obama campaign – more so than all his moving speeches and soaring rhetoric - and for that alone I would have probably voted for him, superficial girl that I am, is his iconic HOPE poster by Shepard Fairey. Its fantastic artwork combining Andy Warhol pop art with art deco design. Obama’s a good looking guy and his face lends itself to such graphic imagery perfectly. I’m seriously tempted to hang it up in the house – not because I’m such a slavish fan of Obama, you understand, but because I think the poster would look nifty hanging in the hall way somewhere.

The stamping of heels

The Maria Theresiastraat. Such a pretty name. Kinda chic. How elegant to live on a street that is named after the Empress Marie-Therese; mother of Marie Antoinette. So, when G. and I moved into this house on 1 November 2003 we decided to christen her “the good ship Marie-Therese”. She was an honest, god-fearing, vessel that would carry us on our life’s journey with a merry band of happy children in tow. We spoke fondly of “a house we can grow into” and “it’ll be perfect” and “can you imagine how much the kids are going to enjoy the space” and “the structure is so sound all it needs is a lick of paint.” I don’t think we quite appreciated the journey of discovery we were about to embark upon. We were so sure we’d thought of every eventuality and had every thing covered.

The house seduced us when we bought her on that beautiful sunny, summer, evening in July. She had seen better days of course and nothing had been done to her in thirty years. She needed new electricity and plumbing. She needed a new kitchen downstairs – but budgeting for a new kitchen is fun. Right? Her ceiling roses winked at us as we entered the salon; the art nouveau stained-glass window in the dining room smiled charmingly at me; the large spacious rooms lured us in; the walled-in garden whispered gentle promises in our ear of fine summer evenings and long rows of fine smelling lavender. We were bewitched. She was a sleeping beauty that needed to be gently re-awakened.

Having lived here for five years now though I’ve become more hardened, more cynical, more smart-arsed. Oh yes, my friend, I’ve wisened up to what we have let ourselves into. We awakened her alright. I now, though, dub my house the "Maria Callas". Gone is all that tripe about vessels and merry children and sweet smelling lavendar. I swear I can hear the clicking of castanet’s as I close the cupboard doors, the stamping of high-heeled leather gypsy boots on the nineteenth century tiled floors in our hallway and the flicking of dusty red silk skirts as I walk into the dining room. Our house is not a “good ship”. She’s a mistress, par excellence.

Like all good mistresses she has expensive tastes. “Plastic windows!” one can hear her almost screech. “I will NOT have white PVC windows! What was good enough for the Pieter Coutereel* is not good enough for me.” So, G. and I obligingly go out and order fine, exquisite hand-crafted, wooden windows that are in keeping with our mistresses’ taste.

“A pine wooden chest in my hallway! Away with it – it looks cheap.” So, G. and I concur that although it did look so nice and sweet in our kitchen in Brussels when we were just married its just isn’t in keeping with the landing here. We all agree a stylish, retro Danish cupboard from the 1950’s would look great, or alternatively an antique French armoire - but we wring our hands over how on earth we can oblige Maria Callas.

“Cement bricks for the garden terrace – have you gone completely mad?! Can you imagine how tacky that will look.” So, G. and I opt for the dark grey slate tiles that look a lot my stylish and come with a much higher price tag.

“When you finally get round to replacing my soaked and leaking roof, do me the honour of using hand made clay tiles as originally crafted in the late nineteenth century. Cement tiles are so heavy, they go so green and quite frankly they look so nouveau. Put enough Velux windows in to light up my darkened interior. The guttering will have to be of zinc not roofing and replace the pvc cladding with the ornate carved wooden one underneath in the same green that you have chosen for the windows. It’s the one I wore when I first débuted this street in 1888. I have such a nostalgia for those days. You will have to paint it every six to eight years but that grey grimy pvc cladding simply has to go.”

As far as I’m concerned there is only one mistress in this house and that should be me. No! No! No! I simply don’t want to be paying those kind of invoices. Trinkets for me? Forget it. Ever since J. and his buddy Louis decided to spray half a bottle of my Channel perfume randomly around the house whilst I was bringing L. to ballet I haven't bought myself a replacement bottle. Money has to be saved to serve our mistress. I call G. up at work from Bordeaux to ask if I can buy a dress from Zara. "Can we afford it - shouldn't we be saving?" is his usual response. Yes, saving for Maria Callas, our exotic and sultry mistress.

Can someone please stop this woman. Can someone save us from this seductress. Damn it – G. and I work our buts off – is there no respite? We’re raising four children in this house. Its me that should decide the budget and not Maria Callas – but somehow she always gets away with it. She’s right. She’s far too stylish to settle for “cheap and cheerful”

Were we to put in pvc windows it will make our house look like a tart dressed up for a night out on the sea front. Put concrete tiles in the garden and she’ll look less than a million dollars. Go for concrete roof tiles and we’ll lower the tone of a great beauty. The pine chest, we bought so proudly in Brussels, has been moved. It just didn’t look right on our grand landing having spent yet another fortune on painting the stair-well.

Today though is a big day for us. Today our expensive new windows are being installed. We are within an inch of taming this shrew; within an ace of calming her ruffled feathers. Maria Callas you will tread the boards again in silks and satins and dripping in jewels. You will look stunning. G. and I may have aged in the process – but you, yes you will be a stunner once again.

There is still much that needs to be done, most notably and most expensively the roof – but we are close to completion. The spirit of Maria Callas still mutters and tut tuts occasionally about wonky skirting boards and some unpainted radiators – and she’s not overly impressed that her painted walls bear R.’s "kribel-krabel" on them. Nevertheless, the end is in sight and I may just be tempted to think fondly of my house again - viewing her more as wonderful vessel in which to sail rather than a temperamental mistress who I resent and dislike.

*The Pieter Coutereelstraat was the address of our first house. A lovely small, terraced house that I, and J and K, still think of with great nostalgia.