Borrel met de buren

Here, as promised, is my first report from the edge. The edge of my garden, to be precise. Borrel met de buren. Drinks at our next-door neighbours'.

It was as tense and edgy as only middle-aged, middle-class gatherings can get. And, the guests being middle-aged and middle-class, the drink of choice was wine. My wine drinking is as eclectic as my writing. Basically, I grab anything that comes within my reach. Red, white, pink, green, black. Any colour will do.

This is a good technique to employ at a party where you don't know people that well. Grab a bottle of wine and take it around the room (garden in yesterday's case) and serve fellow guests. Everyone likes having their glass filled. It's a good excuse to approach people. And you keep your own glass full without looking like a raging alkie.

The beer was limited to Amstel Pils. Good enough reason to stick to wine. Though I did notice an empty bottle of Duivels Bier. Quite a good sign. It was Peter's birthday so I took along a bottle of my beer as a present. Another good icebreaker.

Next doors' flat was built as a mirror image of our own (architect Piet Kramer, king of Amsterdam bridges). Divergent refurbishments have left them quiet different in layout. And theirs isn't full of junk like ours is. Dolores won't have a party because of the mess. But what was most striking was how much bigger both their flat and garden appear. I'd swear that hey have 50% more space than us. Compare and contrast the sheds in the photo. Ours, with the emergency corrugated plastic roof, theirs with electricity.

The European Championship is a great boon for social inadequates like myself. It's a great topic of conversation. Football in general is. But a tournament brings it to the fore even more. Of course, when in the company of the Dutch, I'm careful not to express my real sentiments about their team. Because my overwhelming love of Dutch football might embarrass them. Or something like that.

My first venture into the world of extreme drinking was quite successful. We returned with the same number with which we set out: four. Everything else is just a matter of opinion.

My shed

Today is going to heaven day. Hemelvaart. Another day off. We're spoilt, we really are. Two public holidays in one week.

Shed day. Today was that, too. Our garden shed. It sits in the bottom-right hand corner of our garden. I can wave to it from where I sit. . . . I just have waved to it. No reaction. Antisocial bastard shed.

Dolores got suspicious when I took a couple of photos of the shed just now. "You're going to blog about the shed, aren't you? Claiming you did all the work. Typical! It's always the same, Ronald. I have to do everything and you just sit there drinking beer!"

That's so unfair. Truthful, but horribly, even psychopathically, unfair.

I won't deny that I was intending to highlight my own particular contributions to the restoration of our shed. ("That's where you'll be living now, kids. With Lucas. He has the floor." "But there isn't room for us and Lucas in there." "OK then, you can have the whole shed to yourselves. Lucas will have to make do with the spare room.") The passing of the hammer, the holding of the door. What did Ricki (Dolores's sister) do? Just hammer in the nails, screw in the screws and crawl on the roof of the shed to attach the corrugated fibre glass plates. And clear the roof first of rotted leaves and bird poo. She did clean out the inside of the shed, too. What did I tell you - nothing compared to my hardcore holding-things and standing-around duties.

Ricki is so lazy. While I'm usefully employed typing this on the computer, she's lounging around vacuum-cleaning our kitchen. "Hoy. There's a couple of dirty plates in the sink. Quicky, quicky cleanee platee." Pity she doesn't understand English. "Du hast das aber gut gemacht, Ricki. Gehe jetzt schlafen, das hast du verdient, Schatz."

I can now hear myself talk. Ricki has finally stopped making all those irritating vacuum-cleaning noises. She insisted on making it all way around the living room, as well as the kitchen. Show a bit of consideration, girl.

My theme. Where is it? In the photographs. Can't see it? Put your glasses on, grandad. Just to the left of the shed door. Thanks Andy. Dolores thinks it's a great plant pot holder. I'm not going to argue with her. I enjoy having a complete set of genitalia.