E=MSc2

Today it is exactly one year since I heard the words 'Hora est' and was told that I should carry my new doctoral title with honour but should never forget the responsibilities it brings towards science and country. Big words to live up to.

As for carrying the title with honour, I try not to flash it around wantonly. Here in the UK though it seems academic titles carry a lot more weight than they do back home. I was advised quickly after I arrived that I should use it in official dealings whenever possible. On that advice I added the Dr. to my name when I applied for a bank account. I fear to think how banks treat people otherwise but that is a different matter. The unintended side effect is that the title appears on all of my bank statements and even gets printed on the receipt every time I pay for anything with my card.

Soon after I moved I also applied for a student travel card. In a frivolous moment I ticked that box marked "Dr.". I had just gotten my title a few weeks before and I suppose I was just trying it on for size. A silly impulse. Once, at the station, I presented my card at the ticket window to top up my credit. The guy there took a long hard look at the card, then at me, and back again at the card. Then suddenly he hollered to his colleague in the next window "hey, look: we have a real doctor here!". My cheeks flushed a bright red and I thought I would die of humiliation right there. I know I shouldn’t be embarrassed about a title I worked so hard to get but I do feel that there is a time and a place for it. The ticket window and the check-out counter, however, are definitely not it.

The Anglo-Saxons on the other hand sure do like to show off their titles. They have a wide range of them and they’re not ashamed to use them. It is not like the Dutch system where there is essentially a succession of titles and as you get a new one, you drop the old one. Here you keep them all, stacking them up like Lego blocks. And it is not just the MSc or PhD titles; they have some very specific ones too. My project supervisor, for instance, carries the impressive epithet "MBBS MBA DIC MFPH FRCGP". Now that I have handed in my thesis I will soon also be allowed to add the letters DIC to my name: short for Degree of Imperial College. Of course the main title I have earned myself this year is MSc, but I already have one of those in my collection. So what shall I do: MSc² DIC PhD?

Barnes to Fulham... to Battersea

Almost 12 months have I been here now. I am about to move to my third address in this city and know that I will see the coming and going of another winter. I might as well face it: London is where I live now. In recognition of this I have decided to make an effort to get to know the city better. Since the best way, the only way, to do this is on foot, I have treated myself to a book with 50 walking tours of London. Yesterday I picked my first one.

I start at Barnes Bridge Station. Although strictly speaking a part of London, Barnes is essentially one at those many little river towns that got swallowed up by the city but has managed to retain some of its small town feel. It looks prosperous and is full of families with young children. Apparently it is also rather full of Dutch people as several times I pass families warning their bike-riding children to be 'voorzichtig' or to stop 'zeuren'. Barnes is also where the famous Oxford-Cambridge Boat Race finishes.

The route continues along Putney which, for its sheer number of boat houses, reminds me of the sea-side villages I spent my childhood holidays in. This is rowing central. At the end of the route lies Fulham Palace, the former summer house of the Bishops of London. Although I have been to Fulham many times before I have somehow managed to completely miss noticing this. London is so full of history mixed in with the present that you develop a blind spot for it.

Barnes to Battersea

According to my guide book this is where the route finishes after a walk of two hours straight. In a reckless over-estimation of my own fitness I decide that, since I made it this far, I might as well continue walking all the way home. All I need to do is follow the Thames for another few twists and turns. A pleasant surprise is that I am kept company by hundreds of boats on the river participating in the Great River Race. Less pleasant is that in the last stretch my knee joints decide it has been enough and go on strike. I hobble the last 15 minutes home like an old arthritic woman. Sitting at home all these weeks, writing my thesis, has clearly not done my shape much good. Three and a half hours after I got off the train I stumble through my door. Home.

One down, forty-nine to go.

Kill your darlings

Almost there. I have written all I had to say, entered all my references and did the formatting. Version 1 was sent off to my supervisor yesterday who promptly returned it to me two hours later with relevant suggestions and a general nod of approval. All should be well then with nine more days on the clock. Except that I am 1,000 words over my allowed word count of 8,000. I need to cut.

Easier said then done. I have spent so much time giving birth to these words; how can I kill them now? They are my children, my darlings. How can I choose between them? But like Sophie, I too have to make my choice. This is no time to be soft-hearted. Chop chop. Off with the adjectives. Bang bang. Another paraphrase mortally wounded. Like dominos they fall, hapless victims of a brutal verbacide. I am judge, jury and executioner.

Here the fallen lay
never will they be read
a thousand silenced words
some good, some plain, some bad

The unbearable lightness of being

Soon I will be changing my address. For most people that is a big deal. The hungry databases of departments, institutions, companies, governmental bodies, and charities all demand to be fed the information of your new whereabouts. And even after you have surrendered that information to everything and everyone, the lesser remnants of your mail are still likely to haunt the new residents for many years after your departure. Not for me, not this time.

I lead a shadow life in London. Almost nobody knows I am here. As far as the city of Amsterdam is concerned, Oost is where they still believe I lay my hat. The English government and the city of London are blissfully unaware I walk amongst them. The only ones who know where to find me are the bank and the university. Here I have no subscriptions, no bills, no taxes, no ties. I can disappear quietly into the night.

At the moment a significant part of my life is taking place on this almost etherical level. My new tenancy agreement is written in the pale-hued ink of good faith, at least until the estate agent becomes aware of the changes in the household. My job offer is a mere spoken promise, figuring no figures, dating no dates. All I can do is have faith as I walk into my new life across this bridge built from promises and cemented by trust.

Exodus

And so it begins. Like Jews out of Egypt, my flatmates and I are marching out of the house and into our respective promised lands.

In a wholly coincidental, yet magnificent display of unison all five of us have chosen September as the month to move out. It secretly gives me great pleasure to think of the distress this will have caused my landlords. They and I have not always been on the best of terms. In general I think it is fair to say the feelings amongst us flatmates are not unlike those of the Jews towards the Pharaoh. There is a definite taste of revenge in this miniature Exodus.

Unfortunately, unlike in the biblical story, it seems some of the seven plagues are not being visited upon our landlords but on us, poor tenants. First there was the river. Although it did not turn to blood, it definitely turned into sewage forcing its way into the flat. Then came darkness. One by one the lights have started to go bust. But the most recent plague is one we indeed brought onto ourselves: locusts. Swarms of hopeful prospects have descended on the house to view our rooms. Day after day they come and chirp noisily. Soon hopefully they will have eaten everything and the sounds will quiet down again.

The first of us has already crossed the sea and over the course of the next few weeks the rest of us will follow. Off to our lands of milk and honey.

Tiger stripes

The explorer wanders through the jungle
Unhurried for he feels safe
He knows the beast is far away

He marvels at the tangled vastness
He catalogues, collects
Naïve to her approach

Slowly, steadily she sneaks near
One soft foot before another
Till underneath a branch snaps

Frightened he takes flight
Fast as his feet will carry
Dashing through the green

He turns, feels her hungry breath upon him
Through the trees he sees the deathly lines
Deadlines

My thesis is due in 14 days.

Innuendo

Imperial College has seen its share of celebrities pass through the doors, from scientific powerhouses to royalty. Not so long ago, for instance, IC celebrated the centenary and new-found independence from the University of London by inviting HMQ over. A few weeks ago I walked into the building only to run into a photo shoot for another sort of Royal. Queen guitarist Brian May was having his picture taken.

I stuck around for a few minutes trying to figure out what was going on. The reason for the shoot was unclear. There was another guy in the picture as well and they seemed to be passing what looked like a thesis between them. I jumped to conclusions. Either the other guy had written some thesis on Queen or worse: May was being awarded some nonsensical honorary doctorate. The impudence! The arrogant scientist in me fumed with indignant outrage. Blood, sweat and tears had I poured into my thesis and here they were bestowing this precious title on some... some rock star?! How dare they! Then last week my eye fell on a news headline:

"Brian May completes doctoral thesis in astrophysics: Radial Velocities in the Zodiacal Dust Cloud."

Right... I'll very humbly be shutting up now.

Carnaval des animaux

Saturday afternoon I am strolling through Hyde Park when from a distance a low sound starts to pound on my eardrums. Intrigued I follow it to its origin. As I come closer the sound becomes richer and swells in intensity. At the source I find hundreds of steel drum players. About a dozen steel bands are battling it out in the Park as a prelude to London's biggest annual street festival: The Notting Hill Carnival.

Notting Hill Carnival is held on the August Bank Holiday weekend with the climax on Monday. It's something you should at the very least see once when you live in London. The feeling I got there was oddly enough very much that of a Queen's day celebration though with a touch of Gay Parade. It's essentially a Caribbean Carnival so the costumes are colourful and exotic. Somewhat less so are its participants. In the true spirit of the multicultural society a very substantial part of the dancers is white to the point of being transparent. It's a weird sight: the sparrow dressed up like a peacock.



The more exotic birds are for the most part no long-legged flamingos either. This may be Notting Hill but the ladies sure do not look like Julia Roberts. Down here, 'big is beautiful' appears to be the credo as the excess flesh is shaking and gyrating to the music.



The weather was sunny and dry and yet it somehow felt too quiet on the streets. You could still walk around normally and the festival seemed confined to a fairly small area. The organisation proudly says the festival is the second biggest street party in the world, first being the Rio carnival, but I wonder if they have ever been to Amsterdam on Queen's Day.

More pics

Too-early bird - The reprise

I may not believe in Heaven or Hell but I have just found Paradise...and I'm moving there!

Last week I looked at a really nice apartment close to where I live now. It was love at first sight. The apartment is on the waterfront, as close to living in Chelsea as one can get without having to pay Chelsea prices. It has a cosy bedroom, a gigantic living room, a really nice kitchen and a clean bathroom. There is a communal garden and a balcony with view over the river. In short, I loved it. Unfortunately the current tenant also had a friend who was interested and naturally friendship obliges. I was very disappointed to hear the friend had decided to take it and consequently I could not.

This morning I got a phone call. The friend has had to decline after all and the room is mine if I want it! I am deliriously happy. It really is excellent value for money. Of course it can never compete with my flat back home which is my true home and has all my beloved belongings but it is as good an alternative as I could dare hope for. I can't wait to move.

Too-early bird

The early bird catches the worm, or so at least the saying goes. Lately though I have been finding this misses a crucial point. It is not about being early. It is being timely that counts.

I have given notice to my landlords a couple of weeks ago already since my contract with them requires I give them about two months notice. I did not think that was terribly unreasonable. I have a similar arrangement with the tenant renting my apartment back in Amsterdam. Leaving sufficient notice allows the other party to find a new tenant. But here in London there is something strange going on.

Ever since I gave my notice I have been scanning the flatshare websites for a new place to call home. There are, however, surprisingly few ads that are worth responding to. That is not because the flats on offer themselves are not interesting. It is because they are all available NOW. Everything is done on such short notice. You essentially don't start looking for a place until after your moving boxes are already packed. Another example of that famous high-paced life in the city I suppose.

I have a few more weeks left on my contract so there is no point in taking a new place before that. Paying double rent is not something my budget allows for. Nonetheless, I have looked at a couple of flats in the past two weeks: exceptions to the rule. They included some lovely places that I would have been very happy to live in. Unfortunately there were more birds pecking for the same worms and I bit nothing but the dust. Apparently I will need to wait patiently for the rest of the worms to come out.

Bright lights, big city

The engines roar and once the plane is in the air the view from the window bathes in green. Even here, over the coast and close to the city, Sweden reveals itself as a green and spacious country. Underneath the colours glow intensely as the sun slowly sets over Scandinavia.

I have spent the weekend in Sweden to join in the wedding celebrations of one of my eldest friends. The man of her dreams is a Swede and several years ago she followed him there. As the scene for their happy day they had chosen an island about an hour away from their home town Göteborg. This island epitomizes Sweden: green, quiet, picturesque. It is great to get away from the city to a place like this every once in a while. The air you breath is salty and fresh and nobody is in a hurry. Here stress falls away like water off a duck's back.


But imagine you live there every day... I could not do it. I am too much of a city girl at heart. In the city, the air might be thick and greasy and everybody is always rushing to get somewhere where they are not, but there is something magnetic about life in the city. Cities are about possibilities, about choices. I have not been to a theatre in months, true, nor have I been to a concert since I moved to London. But I have the possibility to go whenever I feel like it, as well as the choice not to if I don't. All options are open. The decision is entirely my own.

As the plane approaches London the city is hidden from view by a thick cotton-candy layer of clouds. You can tell the days have started to shorten again as it is only nine o'clock but already dark. Then suddenly the plane dips below the clouds, revealing a breathtaking sight. The city stretches as far as the eye can see and is ablaze with thousands of lights. My pulse picks up speed, resynchronizing itself to the familiar rhythm of the city. Yes, I am a city girl.

Packed and ready

Alright, let's see... Clean socks and underwear, my festive dress and matching shoes. Ouch, my feet already hurt just looking at those. Well, that's the price you pay for beauty.

Something warm to wear, just in case. You never know with these scandinavian summers. What else? Make-up, toilettries and toothbrush. Check, check and double check.

The present for the happy couple? Yes, that's save in my pack. Did I get the card too? I'm sure I did. Something to read for on the plane ofcourse. Ooh, I should not forget my iPod. My own in-flight entertainment. And where is my camera? Damn it, I know it is around here somewhere... okay, found it. Phone and half a dozen chargers, bank cards. Yes, all there. I think that's it. I believe I am ready. Sweden here I come!


O wait... my passport.

Generation O

The UK holds a sad record: according to statistics it is the country with the highest rate of obesity in Europe. It's not hard to believe. I see it with my own eyes every day; people so big they take up two seats on the bus, men and women who haven't seen their toes wiggle in years.

Seeing what people eat around here explains a lot. Fish & chips are never far away. At college I myself have picked up a nasty lunch habit. Our cantine is fairly small and does not serve much that takes my fancy (yes, how surprising) so when I can't be bothered to head over to the larger and slightly better main cantine I sometimes lunch British style: with a pack of crisps. It's a terrible habit and I can't believe I'm doing it but when in Rome... . It is also known as the "Heathrow diet": new arrivals are said to start putting on the pounds as soon as they set foot on British soil. I don't have any scales to test this hypothesis for myself but the overly snug fit of my trousers suggests there is an element of truth in it.

The real tragedy is that a lot of the obese people here are only teenagers, sometimes not even. Of the generation that is growing up now already 1 in about 5 children is considered obese. Unless something dramatically changes soon that number is not likely to decrease. Jamie Oliver for one has been waging his legendary war on fa(s)t food on the battle grounds of the school cantines. It is of course a start but in the era where Wii is considered sports and a crisp sandwich a wholesome lunch I fear the worst. This island seems doomed to slowly sink into the sea, unable to carry its weight.

The Big Issue

I first met Yevgeni outside the supermarket. I guessed him to be in his fifties though his unkempt grey beard and tired eyes made his face hard to read. He could have been much younger for all I knew, but life had weighted down his years. He wore a faded green army jacket and a warm, friendly smile. Yevgeni sold the homeless newspaper.

Every other week I would buy his latest issue and sometimes we would share a brief chat. Yevgeni took pride in his job. He was not very comfortable accepting charity and rather had that you bought his paper than gave him money. In our conversations Yevgeni told me in his rudimentary Dutch that he was originally from Belarus. I also learned he was plagued by back pains but that he did not belief in doctors. Some days I looked forward to seeing him, other days -when I was too tired or too cranky for small talk- I secretly hoped he wouldn't be there. Then one day he was gone. I never found out why he had come to the Netherlands or why he lived on the streets. I do know that in his own country Yevgeni would very possibly have had tuberculosis.

Once thought a disease of the past, TB is now rampant again throughout large parts of Eastern Europe and the former Soviet states. Especially homeless people, addicts and prisoners are at high risk of infection by this horrible disease. Thousands of people needlessly die of TB each year. Needlessly because the drugs to fight TB have been around for decades. The big problem is that patients have to take a handful of pills, several times a week and for months on end. Any interruption of this strenuous regime can lead to a recurrence of the disease and most alarmingly: to the appearance of drug-resistance. Ironically, those patients most likely to contract TB are also those most likely to default from their treatment; that is, they are for a variety of reasons unable to keep up with their medication.

My thesis centres on this problem with so-called treatment adherence. We are looking at why patients stop taking their medication and what can be done to help them stay on their treatment. One way of doing this is to offer them incentives. There have been examples in the US where patients receive a small sum of money or some grocery coupons to entice them to attend their clinic appointments. In the countries my thesis focuses on food support is an inherent part of most anti-TB programmes. At the moment most of these programmes are run by organisations like the Red Cross. For the long-term, however, it is important that countries absorb this sort of care into their own healthcare systems. The work we are doing will hopefully help towards understanding how TB care can best be organised to help those people most vulnerable. People like Yevgeni.

Fruit of knowledge

This I know - that I know nothing. -- Socrates

If all goes well, in just a few weeks time I will have handed in my thesis and, assuming it meets the standards, I will then have successfully added another academic degree to my substantial collection. I don't have the exact numbers but I am pretty sure that in terms of formal education that puts me somewhere in the highest percentages globally. And yet, all it has done is make me realise how little I really know.

The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool. -- William Shakespeare

Especially writing my dissertation and preparing for the defense of it, made me very aware of just how small the box we think in is. The thought of having to answer questions even just slightly off-topic scared the living daylights out of me. I remember many years ago a friend of mine, a social scientist herself, wanted to know what as an exact scientist were my thoughts on Big Bang Theory. I replied her with stunned silence. More frequently I have had to answer questions concerning genetic engineering, stem cell research and such. I feel slightly more equipped to handle those types of questions though my approach is usually that of the objective scientist and not that of the opiniated ethicist.

The well-bred contradict other people. The wise contradict themselves. -- Oscar Wilde

I often find it hard to publicly defend an opinion on something that lies outside my comfort zone. That is not to say I have no opinions. In fact, opiniated and argumentative are words that have both been used on me frequently. My problem is that I don't remember sources very well. I am the uncrowned queen of the statement "I recall reading somewhere...". I did read it somewhere and usually in a credible source but I tend to forget where exactly the 'somewhere' was, thus undermining my own credibility. It makes me too easily blown out of the water by people less hesitant to bluff their way out of an argument. Fiction can sound like fact if said with enough conviction. Internet is a great help. At least it will retrospectively tell me what the real facts of the matter were. But of course by that time it is too late to save face in the discussion.

Better to remain silent and be thought a fool then to speak out and remove all doubt. -- Abraham Lincoln

Imagine

The doorbell rings. I walk downstairs to open the door, expecting some delivery. Instead, I find two ladies caressing a book.
"Goodmorning, we are here to talk to our neighbours".
These ladies have not come to borrow a cup of sugar. They are not that kind of neighbours. My house is only a few doors down the road from the City Mission. This is indeed not the first time I have had them come knocking on my door. They have come to the wrong house though. I am not one to be converted.

My family has a long standing tradition of atheism, going at least three generations back. I would not even know for sure which exact flavour of Christianity predates atheism in my family. I myself was raised on a healthy diet of cynicism and realism. My atheism is as much the result of that upbringing as it is of my own trust in science and the faculties of reason. As Richard Dawkins explains it: I have no need for the 'God hypothesis'.

Of course even as an atheist I am not entirely immune to rituals and superstition. I can occassionally be found to cross my fingers or to knock on wood in an attempt to thwart bad luck. But do I really believe these little acts of superstition make any difference on the way life rolls the dice? Absolutely not. They are ritualised habits, ceremonial rather than meaningful, to feign control over an uncontrollable situation. When my father had just been diagnosed with cancer, for instance, I temporarily developed a habit of stepping over the cracks between the paving stones. I told myself that if I did that the tumour would be operable. No part of me ever seriously thought that I could magically revert cell division by the placement of my foot. I just needed something to stop me feeling so powerless.

Despite these small digressions into superstition, I am perfectly comfortable in my atheism. I find no particular solace in the idea of an afterlife. It is difficult enough to just live for today and I'd rather focus on that. The idea of an omniscient overseer is chilling more than anything. I value my privacy too much. My moral compass does not need to be calibrated to any particular religion to show me how to lead my life. I set my own course.

Of course I did not think there was any point in explaining all this to these devout ladies. I merely told them that I was very busy and closed the door.

Travelling without moving

Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Russia... in my mind I have travelled thousands of miles already, visiting new and exciting places. In reality I am still sitting in my room looking out over the familiar skies of London. For weeks, months now, my travel plans have bounced around like a restless pingpong ball. I have been moved like a pawn over an invisible chessboard drawn across the map of EurAsia.

My original project was to be in Central Asia. Then, just weeks before it was about to start we had to reconsider. The twinned stars of science and funding had not yet lined up and until they did, the project was at a standstill. Kyrgyzstan transformed into Russia. The contacts had been made, the plan was drawn up and the research done. Suddenly, for reasons still shrouded in mystery, the Russians dropped off the radar and went incommunicado. A mild panic started to grip me by the throat. Only seven more weeks until the thesis is due and the rug gets pulled out from under my project! More back-up plans were dreamed up, like rabbits pulled out of a hat. Turkey, Moldova, Bulgaria. What country east of Hungary wasn't suggested?

Then cosmic intervention. The stars have finally started to align. Kyrgyzstan has come back into focus. Not for the orginal plan but for an improvised patchwork formed of the original and the new project. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I am excited but by now won't actually believe anything anymore until I land at Bishkek airport and the custom officers let me in.

Thesis blues

i know exactly where to go
but how it is
i am to get there,
that, alas, i do not know

i see the sentences before me clear as day

but when i reach to grab

and pin them down

they turn shy and slip away

i try to catch them with my butterfly net

but every time i take a swing

the thoughts dissolve before my eyes

and hollow air is all i get

i have all the puzzle's pieces

but can not make them fit

there is no picture on this box

to help compose my thesis

Life in limbo

The alarm clock by my bed shrilly informs me it is 9 o'clock. Still half asleep I punch its buttons and set it forward by 20 minutes. I roll over on my side again. This process repeats itself two more times before I finally feel ready enough to get up and face the world. It is not a weekend. It's just a Tuesday morning and yet I don't get up before 10 o'clock. This is starting to become routine. What is wrong with me?

Ever since I stopped having lectures I have slipped into this disturbing nocturnal rhythm. I sit at the computer or read my book until deep into the night. My flatmates have been asleep for hours. Only my light is still shining out into the hall through the cracks above and beneath the door. I am leading the life of the unattached and unemployed. I stay up late and get up only when the working masses are already on their morning coffee break. I feel guilty, feel unproductive.

My thesis is not moving along very fast. I mostly sit at the computer and gloss over the countless articles but without mentally processing much of what I read. I allow myself to be distracted by anything. I check my email every 5 minutes. A pointless effort since if I really do have new messages they will announce themselves both visibly and audibly. Every unknown word I come across in my papers can send me on an hours long quest over the internet. I can not find the inspiration. All I have are chapter headings. Is there such a thing as scientists block?

Kew Gardens

It is Saturday and although I am not exactly living a normal 5-day working week these days I feel like doing something special with the day. I could scavenge the sales on High Street Kensington before they finish but I could also go for a more memorable option. The weather is dry for now and who knows how long that will last. Consumerism can wait.

My grandfather lived in London once, a lifetime ago. For the last year, every time I have seen him he has asked me if I have been to Kew Gardens yet. Every time I have had to disappoint him. He is not well and I do want to be able to tell him I have been and so I find myself on a train to Richmond. From here I take the route suggested by my thus far unused guide book. It quickly leads me away from the busy high street and past the local common, where people are having a picknick and playing cricket. I don't know the first thing about cricket but even I can see this lot isn't any good. While passing them, I keep the guide book half-hidden under the jacket I hold casually slung over my arm. Why is it that we are so embarrassed to be identified as tourists? I memorise the next few lines of the route, then quickly stow the book away in my bag.

My route leads past beautiful Tudor houses, down to the river. From here I don't need directions anymore; I simply follow the old tow path. The Dutch girl in me feels right at home here amidst the houseboats on the river and the cyclists on the path. It is scenic and quiet by the Thames, which here seems a meek shadow of the swift flowing river that runs by my house, with only the oars of rowers splashing on the water. The path leads all the way up to Kew Gardens. The entrance fee is steep, even with my student discount, but the grounds are vast. I start with the greenhouses and look at towering palms, exotic flowers and suggestively phallic cacti. I smell the fragrant lavender and the roses. In the gardens I find ancient trees bent under the weight of their own history. Many will have already been here when my grandfather visited.

The grounds of Kew Gardens are speckled with countless benches, dedicated in loving memory to husbands & wives, fathers & mothers, sons & daughters now gone. Wooden tombstones without graves. Most benches are empty -it is not busy here today- except for the ones by the waterfront. I sit down on one dedicated to a man who died the same year my father did. The sun is shining now and is reflecting off the water. I close my eyes and sit in the sun for a while. Every other minute the serene silence is shattered by airplanes moaning overhead. Heathrow airport is not far. Eventually I get up and walk back through the bamboo gardens. I have a strong feeling I will be back here. On my way out I stop by the giftshop to buy a postcard for my grandfather.

Richmond & Kew Gardens - London

Panta rhei

Everything flows and nothing is left unchanged. (Heraclitus)

Change. A choice to do away with the old and let in the new. To cast away that what we know and to embrace that which we do not.

Change. Change takes courage. It opposes our instinctive need for safety. Stability and routine bring safety, change brings chaos and uncertainty. Rather we hold on to the status quo, with all its imperfections, than be swept away by the currents of change.

Change. A decision to move on. Literally. Figuratively. Change can bring great things. It can lead us to new and exciting places. It can also rip us away from that which we cherish or find comfort in.

Change. We can try to fight it; hold on to false beacons of stability in a turbulent sea of unrest, but no matter how hard we resist, everywhere around us change rushes by. Continuously and irresistibly, until we surrender to it.

Today I have given my landlord notice that I will be moving out. It is time for Change. Panta rhei.

The midnight train

Bowler hats, Beefeaters, Burberry. Such cliché images have nothing to do with real London life. For a true glimpse of what makes people in this city tick, you should get on an innercity tube train on a Saturday night. It makes for an entertaining, yet potentially stomic turning, ride. It's not all humanity's finest specimens that gather here. Despite the fact that since last year pubs can apply for a late license, many have passed up on this opportunity and so between the hours of eleven and twelve the inebriated populace of London spills onto the streets and into the tube, crawling and falling its way back home.

Last night.
After a Brick Lane curry dinner, I am on the tube home from Liverpool street. Standing next to me is a young guy, early twenties or so I suppose. He oozes a sickly sour smell and is struggling to hold himself upright. With every turn in the track he sways dangerously in my direction. When a seat opens up I jump at the opportunity to put some distance between myself and him before he can vomit on my feet. The guy now sitting next to me is trying to soak up the alcohol in his blood with a helping of sweet&sour pork. His motor skills have already fallen victim to his drinking. The food that was intended for his mouth lands on his T-shirt instead. Unfazed he simply redirects his fork to his shirt and continues eating from there.

Two men, each with their heads leaning against the glass in perfect symmetry, riding the train all the way to the land of Dreams. Giggling girls with bosoms overflowing from their glitzy tops. A woman in a dress so frigid that it would have made her look Amish if she hadn't at the same been holding a bottle of Corona. An elderly gentleman in a three-piece suit with a pocket watch on a gold chain and eyebrows turned towards the heavens like Dali's mustache.

As long as you're sober enough to take a good look around you, the midnight train shows a wonderful and hilarious cross section of London life. Mind the smell.

When the floods come in

"Torrential downpour". It sounds poetic enough when they forecast it but it doesn't really mean anything to me. So it rains...big deal. This is the UK after all. Well, it does become a big deal when the water starts to come into your house! And not from above but upwards from below.

I'm sitting at home, recovering from yesterday, when a loud bubbly noise comes from the loo downstairs. Water is being pushed up through the toilet! I try to fight the water back by closing the lid but to no avail. Within minutes the water goes from bubbling to gushing and soon water is starting to come into the hall. A look outside into the pouring rain shows that the sewer can't get rid of all the water quickly enough and has started to overflow. The force of the water has pushed the sewer lid clean off giving way to a violent fountain of water.

How do you fight back the water without sandbags or even a bucket? My DIY solution involved a salad bowl and a dinner plate. And in my PJ's since those are the only shorts I have here and I wasn't about to go mucking through the water in my nice trousers! The nice thing about when disaster strikes it that you finally get to meet the neighbours. Nothing better for some neighbourly bonding than disaster tourism. Everybody is a photo journalist these days. The scene outside my house was indeed impressive enough to attract people from everywhere. Cars were stuck in the road, about to get swept away by the current, while the fire brigade had to rescue the poor/stupid drivers from their vehicles.

It's stopped raining now and the sun has even come out, trying to pretend it never happened. I have the smelly proof in my house that it did. As in many British houses our toilet is -very hygienically- outfitted with carpet on the floor and both the toilet and the hall are drenched in liters of sewage water! I've called the landlords hours ago but they have not returned my call at all and are taking off on their holiday this weekend. Great timing.

I've turned up the heating everywhere hoping this will help to dry up the place a bit but I think the best thing to do is rip out all of the carpet. I just beg the skies will stay blue.

More pictures

Put through the wringer

Squeezed like a lemon. That's how I feel after yesterday's experience: the assessment centre. All year long I have been hearing the buzz about these things but I haven't actually talked to anyone who has been through one so I wasn't quite sure what to expect.

The day was in Cambridge and since registration started at 9AM and it takes me 2 hours to get there, I decided to go the night before and stay with friends. I must have been more nervous than I realised because I didn't sleep very well. In the morning I joined a group of 7 others who all turned out to be very highly qualified people. With 4 PhD's and 2 MBA's between us I suppose it is fair to say it was stiff competition.

The whole assessment consisted of 4 parts, not counting the usual sales pitch of "our company is the greatest". First up was a 30 minute interview with one of their analysts. It was actually a very agreeable chat with a girl about my age who did a PhD in protein NMR! Next up was a more hardcore interview with two of the senior consultants. This is also were I had to give my 10 minute pitch on me. Things got a bit hairy when they asked me about my "socio-ethical" perspective on the job but I think I managed to bluff my way through that one! At least I didn't use the words "Satan" or "money grabbing".

My biggest disaster was the case study. To test our analytical and numeracy skills we were given an hour to complete two tasks. It was a weird case on a travel agency for which we had to identify the cause of their declining profits and suggest solutions based on a bunch of tables. I didn't realise when we were supposed to start on the second one so when it was announced we had "10 minutes" left, I still had to start on it! I wrote some utter nonsense. I'm sure I look like a real fool on that task.

The pièce de resistance was an "observed group task": four of us had an hour to come up with an innovative business idea, a logo and a slogan for a railway company and then to present this. During the whole task three people sat there in the room with us, not saying anything but just taking notes. I've never felt more like a lab rat in my life!

Now I'll just have to wait and see. If chosen there is in fact one more step: a one-on-one conversation with the company boss. This is as far as I am taking it though. Even if they do pick me now, I won't continue any further. I got what I came for; the experience, but I can't justify wasting anymore of their time.

Russian Roulette

I know you are all waiting to hear more about my Russia trip. The problem is that so am I. It turns out the whole project is experiencing some serious hiccups and I still haven't had a definitive answer on when I can go. I first need to get a letter of invitation that I will need to apply for a visa. It's all extremely frustrating because even though I know I will be on this project for some time and eventually it will happen, I still have the small matter of a thesis deadline to deal with. The deadline is completely non-negotiable so as I see the weeks pass by without any news from Russia, I am getting more and more squirmish.

Yesterday the British government announced it is expelling four Russian diplomats from the country to put pressure on the Russians to cooperate in the Litvinenko murder case. The Russians have already announced they don't intend to take this lying down and warn this will have "serious consequences". Taken to the extreme, this could even affect the issuing of visas. I really hope this will not interfer with my trip. At least I will be travelling on a Dutch, rather than a British, passport but I still need to get my visa through the Russian embassy here in London.

As a European citizen you tend to take your passport for granted. Dealing with visas is new to me. The only other country I have ever needed to apply for a visa beforehand for was Australia and that you could just do over the internet. I know plenty of people in my circle of friends who aren't so lucky and have found themselves trapped in the slow churning wheels of bureaucracy simply because they are not EU citizens. That burgundy passport really does help to make life easier. I just hope that it will help me out this time as well. Fingers crossed.

Me, Myself and I

I've given a fair bunch of presentations in my life and I can honestly say that over the years I have learned to enjoy it. In school I hated getting up in front of the whole class for a "spreekbeurt", but once in uni I started to get used to it and realised I was in fact even quite good at it. In academics it just becomes part of the job; speaking in public about your work. The things about these workdiscussions is that your topic is pretty much set for you. You just talk people through your latest results or explain why you think a particular paper is interesting.

The presentation I am at the moment trying to put together for later this week is of a very different nature. I actually managed to get through to the final round of that job application I mentioned before. It's a whole day so-called "assessment centre", which means I am going to be quizzed, probed and put under the microscope for 7 hours! As part of the assessment they want me to give a 10 minute presentation on...me. I have 10 minutes to explain why I am the best thing since sliced bread for them.

I have talked about many things before but never a full presentation just on me! It feels absurd to do it. It makes me feel rather uncomfortable even. I mean, come on: that's just egotripping in public. I have to seriously go out there and sing my own praises; bragging about my naturally wonderful analytic abilities, my sharp intellect and my fabulous social skills...or something. How do you do that without sounding like an arrogant twat?

No magic touch

The quick brown fox jumpes over the lazy dog.

Anybody who doesn't recognise this sentence has probably never taken a typing course. The sentence's claim to fame lies in the fact that it is a pangram: every single letter of the roman alphabet is represented in it.

I have never had any typing lessons and it shows. Over the years I have developed my own, rather random, way of typing using more than two, but definitely fewer than 10, fingers. I can't say it's very effective. Truth be told, I am a really bad typist. When I was writing my thesis last year I probably spent more time hitting backspace than I did getting the right strokes.

At the moment I am living in limbo a little bit. I am waiting for my project to kick into gear (and for the proper motivation to help it get there!) but have not much else to do either. I have decided to try and do something useful with my newly found spare time. With an eye on the fact that I am about to start writing yet another thesis, I have begun to teach myself touch-typing using an internet tutorial. After all, I can play piano so how hard can it be? It's not like playing a Chopin nocturne trying to match up 21 notes on your right hand with 11 on your left, is it?

Well, you'ld be surprised. Even though, unlike on a piano, you don't usually have to hit several keys at once and they all follow a neatly defined linear sequence, I'm still having a lot of difficulties with it. Old habits die hard and if you've been improvising for so long, it's not easy to stick with a system all of a sudden. I am practising and slowly have managed to get my words-per-minute count upto around 40 from the 25 it was two days ago but I am nowhere near to being a professional secretary yet who can hit the keys at 65 wpm. As long as I can see some improvement though I'll keep practising, waiting for the RSI to kick in.

Academics Anonymous

Hi, my name is Thyra and I'm an academic. There, I've said it.

It all started out so innocently. Everybody else was doing it too, I did not think I was doing anything wrong. People were even encouraging me, telling me that it was okay to do a degree. But then I moved on to the heavier stuff: PhD. It was during this time that I started to realise that perhaps I had a problem. I promised myself that this was where I would draw the line. I was going to kick the habit and break free from academia's clutches. I had to do it carefully though and to minimise the withdrawal effects I tried to wane myself off gradually by going back to doing a masters degree rather than going cold turkey.

It's hopeless. I have realised by now that there is no escape for me. Once again I am sifting through the Web of Science, spending hours reading papers and processing data. I can not help myself. I have even committed to doing this for the next 9 months or so in return for a PhD type salary. A UK PhD salary that is... And worst if it all: I am excited about it. Once again I am hooked.

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.

The Princess and the Pea

"Oh!" said the Princess. "No. I scarcely slept at all. Heaven knows what's in that bed. I lay on something so hard that I'm black and blue all over. It was simply terrible."

They could see she was a real Princess and no question about it, now that she had felt one pea all the way through twenty mattresses and twenty more feather beds. Nobody but a Princess could be so delicate.
(H.C. Andersen, translation J. Hersholt)

My chances of becoming a real princess may have gone out the window with all the Dutch princes having found their matches and Wills&Kate back together here, but I am not sleeping any better for it. My mattress is the lumpiest and bumpiest in the world. I have tried flipping it over, turning it around, checking underneath for peas...it doesn't help. I have trouble falling asleep and wake up with an agonising backache.

In my own flat I would simply have gotten a new mattress but here I can't. It's part of the deal of renting a furnished place and I am not about to buy a new mattress for my landlords. Now that I know I will be in London for another while I should probably start looking for a new place to live. This one was okay until now but I wouldn't mind trying something different, hopefully with a more comfy bed. No more peas under the bed. Boiled, mushy or any other way.

Sodom and Gomorrah

Whenever people around here hear that I am from Holland, they will immediately begin talking to me about the time they went to Amsterdam. What little they can remember of it, that is.

I find it kind of depressing that most of these people have apparently not managed to see beyond the coffeeshops and the red light district. With some luck they might have made it to either the van Gogh museum (and picked up the famous blue triangular box) or the Anne Frank house but that is about it. It annoys me because I really love Amsterdam and want other people to enjoy this beautiful city too but not just for drugs and whores. I understand the fascination with coffeeshops and a stroll through the red light district can be entertaining but the city is so much more than that.

The worst group are British blokes on their stag parties. I was listening to Dutch radio this morning when I heard that some hostels are so fed up with them and their rowdy behaviour, that they are banning all groups of Brits! It must be pretty bad for dutch people to ban anything! A few weeks ago I was at the airport, checking in for my flight to Amsterdam, when I found myself standing in line behind such a group. They were all dressed up in superhero costumes; Batman & Robin, Superman, Spiderman and the groom to be as...Wonderwoman. I was fully expecting them to show up on my flight but they didn't. As it turns out the Brits are discovering Prague, Warsaw and other Eastern European destinations as their new favourite hangouts. I feel sorry for the Czechs and Poles already.

Soul searching

What would a soul go for these days?

The reason I ask is that I am contemplating selling mine. Well, not really but I am at least pretending to negotiate handing it over to Satan. Okay, maybe not Satan himself but at least a distant relative: I am applying for a job that would have me consulting for the pharmaceutical industry. I have just finished a second phone interview in the recruitment process and will hear soon whether or not I am through to the final assessment round.

Is it fair of me to liken the pharma industry to Satan? Probably not. Without the drugs this industry produces millions of people would live in misery or even die. I myself have given praise for the invention of paracetamol more than once. And it's only natural that these companies need to make money to pay for the very costly R&D process. I know all this and yet I am not comfortable with the idea of working for them. It does not sit right with me that the most profitable, preferably chronic, diseases get all the attention while millions of people are not getting the drugs they need simply because they don't have the money to pay for them. Nor do I agree with the agressive way some drugs are being pushed.

The problem of course is not just the pharmaceutical industry itself. It is our money-driven society where shareholder returns are deemed more important than caring for the needy. And yet, here I am interviewing for a company whose principal clients are these 'money grabbers'.

Before you all start to fret over the tragic loss of my mortal soul, let me reassure you. I have no intention of actually taking the job should they offer it to me. I am purely in this for the practice. I have never properly interviewed for a job before and I'd rather practise on a job I don't give a hoot about than on my dream job. Of course I am not telling this company that (and I sure hope they don't find this blog). I have already been forcing myself to say things like "I understand that the bottom-line is of utmost importance" and "yes, I am very excited about working for your company". Can you go to hell for lying to Satan?

Take a deep breath

Aaaaaah...so nice! As of today England enforces a full smoking ban in all public places like restaurants, pubs and clubs. This means that after a night out my clothes won't reek so bad anymore the next day. And it won't be necessary to immediately wash my hair to get rid of the ash tray smell. I am a big fan of the ban!

I have never really smoked in my life. I tried it once on a drunken evening many years ago with my flatmates. One of them had a pack of cigarettes (Belinda menthol, if my memory serves me right!) and well...why not? I didn't choke on it or anything but I couldn't see the appeal of it either. I'm glad I didn't. I have seen too many of my friends struggle with trying to quit the cancer sticks. Some had less difficulties but in general I can see it is not an easy habit to kick.

Not that I need it, but I have an added incentive to stay away from cigarettes. The WHO, as the prime advocate of the anti-tobacco movement, has a very strict no-smoking policy for its employees these days . You can not even apply for a job if you smoke, unless you are willing to quit instantly. It is hard enough to get into an organisation like that as it is so if there is an easy win to be had, I'll gladly take it.

When I'm feeling sad

This streak of sad news has to end somehow. It is depressing me and I even risk depressing all of you too and that's not why you read this blog, I'd imagine. I need to start writing about happy things again. I have been racking my brain about what happy news there is for me to write about.

I could write about Teflon Tony finally moving out of nr 10 but I prefer to withhold my verdict on whether or not that is good news until we know exactly what he has been replaced with. I could write about Tim Henman getting his butt kicked at Wimbledon, which always puts a smile on my face, but that might upset my British readers. I have searched the news for something upbeat but unless you are the kind of person who rejoices over the reunion of the Spice Girls, it is slim pickings out there today.

So unless you can all point me in the right direction and flood me with positive news, I am stuck for now singing to myself about raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens so I won't feel so bad.

When it rains it pours

Occassionally life insists on kicking you while you're down. Sadly enough we have lost a second member of our family this week: our sweet old cat Karel. Some people might frown upon hearing me call him family but those people have clearly never had a pet. Especially not one like Karel.

We don't know exactly how old he was. He only showed up on our doorstep 9 years ago, but we do know he was pretty darn old. The best guess is that he was 21 which in human terms puts him more or less at par with my grandfather. None of our other cats were ever fortunate enough to live to such an advanced age.

They say you don't own a cat; they own you. That was definitely true for Karel. One summer he started coming around and eventually, after some phone calls to his then "caretakers", he ended up staying. He had chosen to adopt us as his new family. Karel was the sweetest natured cat you can imagine. Everybody in the neighbourhood knew and adored him. He was clever too. When he was younger he had figured out how to open doors by jumping for the handle and leveraging his body weight. His jumping days were long gone. These last few months he even needed a little stool to help him get up on the sofa.

Every time I left Holland this year I would take a long good look at him knowing it could be the last. This time I was certain of it though. He had stopped eating a few days before already and he was getting visibly older by the day. Walking out the door yesterday was heartbreaking. He passed away quietly late last night. He was old, tired and he has lived a long and happy life but the timing is awful. We are all going to miss him dearly.

Some days life just really sucks.

The end of an era

Last Tuesday my grandmother passed away. She had been in hospital for the last three weeks already after major surgery but it all still happened rather quickly.

My mum was supposed to come to London on Tuesday. In the days before, however, it was starting to become apparent that my grandmother was not making the kind of recovery that was expected. She wasn't eating anymore and was getting weaker by the day. On Sunday evening my mum decided that it would not be wise to go and leave her. When we spoke on Monday evening it was clear there was little hope left and on Tuesday morning she died. My mum, uncle and grandfather were all there by her side. The hardest thing about living abroad is not being able to be there for your family or friends when they need you. Thankfully, London is not too far and I managed to get a flight home that same day. The cremation service was this Saturday. It was a beautiful, dignified farewell to the special, proud and, at times, also very complicated woman that my grandmother was.

My grandmother was the last of my 'real' grandparents. My father's parents passed away a long time ago. I have only a few memories of my grandmother from that side of the family and my grandfather I remember mostly as an old man sitting in his armchair, smoking his pipe. My mother's father died before my brother was even born so unfortunately I have no memories of him at all; just stories. I do still have a grandfather. My grandmother remarried after her divorce and although we don't share any genes, I consider her second husband my grandfather for all intents and purposes. But of course he can't fill in all of the blanks in our family history. That link to my past is gone now. Of course, one never asks these questions while we still can anyway. It's only when the line breaks that you realise how much you don't know.

My grandmother was 87; a good age. An age where you have to accept that's how life goes and that maybe she's had her fair innings. That doesn't make it any less sad for those left behind though. My 96 (!) year old grandfather will have to find a new way to fill his days now that he can't squabble with her all day long anymore. My mum and uncle have lost their last remaining parent and are left having to sort through a lifetime of memorabilia.

Я не говорю на русском языке

Alright, I have promised you that I would explain to you all soon why I was talking about Russia before.

Some time ago I wrote here about a project my thesis supervisor assigned me to in Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan. Unfortunately we are still waiting for the funding approval of this project to come through. Since I have a thesis deadline in September that is non-negotiable, we can't sit around and wait for that. Instead, he has now offered me a different project for which everything is already arranged. This project, as you will have guessed by now, will take place in Russia.

The focus of the project is slightly different but it still involves analysis of the healthcare offered to tuberculosis patients. The Red Cross is running a TB programme in several Russian regions and my project centres on the evaluation of the effectiveness of this programme in one of these. I am being thrown in at the deep end a bit by my supervisor because the information I just gave you is pretty much about all I know myself. I only know that I am expected to be travelling to Russia and spent about two weeks doing interviews with people there. That is of course, if I can sort out my visa application on time.

The Central Asia project is not necessarily out the window either. If the funding approval comes through soon, I just might get to work on that after my thesis project. It is all very exciting what is happening now but to be honest, I am somewhat worried I may be getting in over my head. For somebody who only last year was still trying to purify proteins from E.coli my career is making a very drastic sudden move. It is what I really want to do and why I came to London in the first place. It's just scary when dreams start becoming reality.

You've been Googled

After a period in which all my attention was taken up by exams and business plans, I have finally returned to job hunting. It's very half-heartedly though. I will be working with my thesis supervisor for at least the next couple of months and of course I hope this position will serve as a spring board to my dream career. Still, it would not be wise for me to put all my eggs in one basket. So when a job advert was practically thrown in my lap for which the profile fits me like a glove, I told myself I had to put in an application.

Writing CV's and cover letters is not exactly a hobby of mine. I always wonder what to include and how to phrase it. Of course lying on your CV is a big no-no but where is the line between embellishing and flat-out lying? For safety's sake I tend to be very much on the cautious side thus potentially underselling myself. The alternative is too dangerous to consider seriously. In this information era it is so easy to check facts that you're bound to be found out if you are anything less than truthful. Anybody can do a quick Google search. Especially people like me who keep a blog and are registered on Facebook and Hyves need to be careful. If you put anything potentially embarrassing out there you have to be prepared for the possiblity of a future employer seeing those pictures of you dancing on the table.

Although I am not aware of any particularly incriminating information about myself I have ran a Google search to see what shows up and if, for instance, this blog can be found that way. It looks like my internet presence is pretty much in line with what my CV says about me. It pulls up a rather dull list of scientific references and the minutes of student council meetings. A search for pictures is even duller and shows a crystal structure of the protein I worked with! Nothing to worry about then. Nonetheless, I will continue to be quite careful with the information I make public. I have just heard that my CV passed the first round of scrutiny and that I am invited for a phone interview. I guess I have been Google-approved.

Gone to the dogs

Last night I had a typical British evening out. A friend invited me to come along to the greyhound racing track in Wimbledon.

I didn't quite know what to expect so in my naivety I asked what I should wear. I had images in mind of women in flowery dresses and hats, sipping champagne. Nothing could be further from the truth. Dog racing is also known as the "poor man's horse racing" and is far removed from the high society image of horse racing. It was more a spectacle of big bellies, beer and betting. It was very entertaining to see the whole experience. The dogs waiting in their traps, eager to go chase that fake bunny, the trainers in their white coats, the betting frenzy and the tacky bombastic music as the race is about to start.

I did bet a few pounds myself that all woefully went to waste. My friend won £0.60 and one other person in our group managed to actually go home with a few more pounds than she came with. Other than that though we all lost. My bets were all pretty much wild guesses anyhow. We did get a stat book before the races but I had no idea how to interpret all those facts and figures. My chosen ones were primarily based on the dog's name. Unfortunately Fear Haribo, Rhincrew Molly and Unique Pharaoh did not bring me any luck. O well, I am more of a cat person anyway.

Sour grapes

I was hoping today's contribution would be a triumphant one. Instead what you will get is the sour ramblings of a sore loser. You may have guessed it by now: we did not win our business plan competition. We came in second. My rational side tries to tell me that is actually really good but to be honest, I am gutted and so is the rest of the team.

We gave a stellar performance today and I really can not see how we could have done any better a job. In fact, this is what our lecturer confirmed to us afterwards as well. This will sound very, very bitchy, I am well aware of that, but our lecturer confided in us after the ceremony that had it been fully his decision we would have taken home those brand new laptops that were the first prize. Even worse, he told us we could have taken home the first prize in the MBA competition! Not exactly much comfort, is it? Unfortunately it wasn't all his call and the other juror was somebody from the computer industry (hence the laptops) who had no full appreciation for the intricacies of the biotech business we were pitching.

I think I am mostly upset because I saw the presentation of the winning team and they were by no means my favourite. It is hard enough losing to a team that in your heart you have to admit were better, but the team that I felt were our genuine competitors only came in third. I know I am being ungraceful in defeat here but as I have said before: we were in this to win. Besides, I really could have used that laptop for my trip to Russia (I'll explain soon). Instead, I now have a brand new 20''W flatscreen monitor sitting in my room for which I have no use whatsoever. Does anybody want to make me an offer for it?

Petit Paris

There are days when I wonder if I managed to get on the wrong plane and fly to Paris instead of London. I live in a part of London close to the borough of South Kensington, one of the most affluent parts of the city (mind you, I said 'close to', not IN!). This area is so full of French people it is like little Paris out there. Aside from the French consulate, the area houses a French high school , a French cultural institute and several French bakeries and bookstores. The population of French people in London is in fact so large that Nicolas Sarkozy actually came over to campaign here a few months ago.

Out of the 4 people that I currently live with, 3 are French. We try to keep English the predominant language around the house but I do still get my fair dose of French. I should be able to handle that. I have had French lessons for six years in school and it was in fact one of my best subjects. I vaguely remember discussing the meaning of 'Le rouge et le noir' at my final oral exam. On my CV I actually claim to be business conversational in the language. At some point in my life I would have had no reservations about making such a claim but those days are long gone. I haven't practised it since I left school all those years ago and it has gone pretty rusty. I realised it again this morning at the bakery, buying my croissant, when two ladies were carrying on a conversation in French. I could just make out the words 'plage', 'soleil' and 'Marseille' so I assume they were discussing their holiday plans. My teacher would be very disappointed in me.

As I have mentioned many times before I would really love to end up working for international organisations such as WHO or the Red Cross. Their requirements include that you are fluent in one of their official languages and at least conversational in an other. The options are English, Spanish, Chinese, Russian, Arabic and... French. Despite my efforts this year to learn some Spanish my best bet at this stage probably still is to go for French. Also, the headquarters of both these organisations are in Geneva where the primary language is, again, French. I suppose I should start taking more advantage of being exposed to the language so much. Who knew you could go to London to brush up on your French?

On your marks...

Everybody loves a winner. And everybody loves to be a winner. I'm not proud of it but I am one of those übercompetitive people. I will choose my battles though. I don't care too much about losing at boardgames and I am certainly not sporty enough to ever win a medal in any kind of athletics. But when it come to battles of the mind, my darker side takes over.

I have always had this drive to be the best. Getting a good grade in school, even an excellent one, wasn't enough as long as somebody else had a better one. Of course that philosophy becomes harder and harder to maintain as you move up the academic ladder. The playing field gets tougher the further you go. By the time I got to university I had to acknowledge that there will always be somebody out there smarter than you. A valuable life lesson.

Our business plan competition draws to a close this coming week and it has seriously brought out my competitive streak again. I find myself wondering what the other teams are up to, trying to spot the favourites and the dark horses. Fortunately my sentiment is shared by the rest of the team and we are all working very hard to iron out the last flaws in our plan. It has even put us on a plane to the Netherlands this week to meet with the brains behind the patent. Now that is going the extra mile, 202 of 'em in fact! We did really well in the first round and I do believe we stand a fair chance of coming out on top but we can't get too cocky just yet. Arrogance breeds ignorance and that we can not afford.

There are rumours flying about surrounding the prizes to be won. I'm no holier than the next person and of course I would welcome a material reward but the main reason we are all keen on winnning is the prestige that comes with it. A resume that can boast winning a business plan competition carries some real weight around here and in the cut-throat world that is the London job market we can all use a competitive edge.

Echt HEMA

This week I'm off again for another short trip back home, this time on school related 'business' (more on that later). On the way back I won't be carrying a lot of souvenirs. I used to bring back stroopwafels every time but I've recently discovered that the snack shop at my local tube station also sells them! The other thing I tend to pick up is old Dutch cheese. That is something I haven't been able to find here anywhere. Occassionally I bring over some other small things. Like most people I am fairly brand loyal and I can't get my favourite toothpaste and shampoo over here. Other than that though there aren't many things that are so exclusively Dutch I couldn't buy them in London.

There is one thing, however, I really do miss: HEMA! My non-Dutch friends living in Holland have been singing the shop's praises for years and I never fully understood why they would think it so special. Now I do. You don't know what you've got till it's gone! HEMA is the ultimate "go-to'' shop. It doesn't matter what you are looking for; electrical extension cords, hold-up stockings (ask a girl, guys), curtain hooks... I don't know how they do it but they always seem to have just the thing you were looking for. If there is a shop anything like it around here, I for sure haven't been able to find it yet.

It turns out I'm not alone in my craving for HEMA. Research among Dutch expats has shown it's our biggest common denominator. Good news might be on the way for us. Last week HEMA was taken over by a UK based private equity firm that is planning to expand its international operations. "HEMA; Coming soon to a highstreet near you"? I can't wait!