The writings

Blonde and Dutch

I was invited to the Netherlands, Amsterdam, to be specific, to appear on a talk show. Nothing unusual in that, and one would assume that I would take a direct flight to Schipol Airport. But for some reason (which remains a closely guarded secret between my travel agent and I) I took a plane to Brussels, to be collected there by a limo for the two-hour drive to Amsterdam.

I insisted that the chauffeur be male, gorgeous, blonde, young and Dutch! No complications arose from that request, for the country, small as it is, teems with young males fitting that description. And there he was, my beautiful uniformed chauffeur. Bas was his name, and so nervous that he called me Mevrouw. I found it very charming, but made a small mental note to call the hire company and remind them that although the Princess (of Wales) was sadly no longer with us, titles are still to be adhered to.

And so Bas and the Baroness bumped over the Belgian boarder into the province of Brabant, and on to the city of Breda. One does not need to leave the highway, but Mevrouw needed a pee, and no highway-squatting for me, so Breda it had to be. Noticing a charming little bar, I ordered him to pull in so I could indulge in a small La Trappe Quardrupl (a seasonal Trappist monk’s beer, 10%!) Bas didn’t flinch at my request, for in Brabant, real women (or is that wild women?) drink beer, but he did point out most diplomatically that the bar I had chosen had certain rules.

Darling, I am not lying. Rule no. 1 was that ladies had to remove their clothing, place it in a plastic (refuse!) bag and enjoy their drinks wearing only their lingerie. Rule no. 2 was that men had to follow the same ritual and enjoy their drinks in the nude! Tempted tho’ I was by this extraordinary idea (I made a quick check-list of what lingerie I was wearing …black lace and suspenders…can’t go wrong with that!) but felt that Bas in the nude, me in whatever, could, just possibly, lead to natural biological changes in him, and thereby cause a little embarrassment. But then I thought, ‘silly me!’ We were in Brabant, not Gauteng and Bas was Dutch, not English.

Whether or not I made it to Amsterdam, I don’t remember. Some vague images of lights and applause, but what I do remember was Bas. Heavenly.

Oh well, there is always tomorrow, and that’s the tragedy of life. We are here today, and we’re here tomorrow! Smile darling, believe me, it’s never that bad. Kiss, kiss?