To Liege With Love xxx

It was a wet, grey and gloomy afternoon in the Summer of 1999, when I drank my first Cecemel Chaud on Wallonian soil. Looking around me at the ugly rainy atmosphere, the graffiti-ridden buildings and the abundant canine faecal matter, I wondered: "What am I doing here? Is this really going to be my home for the unforseeable future? Have I made a huge mistake?"

12 years later and I'm still here. One of the stalwarts. Practically a pillar of the community. Known to many locals as 'Clairvoyant', 'Madame Android 80' or just simply 'l'anglaise'. Unable to travel just a few yards down the road without a salutatory peck on the cheek, a friendly wave or even being dragged into the nearest cafe for 'un verre'. Wherever I have lived before, my existence has been one of anonymity and, in some places, almost been met with downright resentment. Not in Liege. Its warm and colourful people have opened their arms to me, welcomed me into the very heart of their cosy community, nurtured my eccentricities and drank to my health.

I'm not sure when my love affair with Liege began. It slowly crept up on me like alcoholic intoxication and I have, metaphorically speaking (and possibly even literally), never sobered up since. In the scheme of things, Liege is pretty much a non-entity: Lacking the splendour of Prague or the glamour of Barcelona, its dreary climate and central European location makes it nothing more than a convenient toilet stop on the way to Berlin, Amsterdam or Paris. But this is the city where an elderly gentleman feels comfortable enough to walk around a town centre supermarket with his pet cockatoo perched on the edge of a trolley; where the dogs are better dressed than most people and are treated to Saturday afternoon ice-cream; where a guy with a Salvador Dali moustache arrives on horseback for his Sunday morning coffee; where the gardening shops have racks of mint condition second-hand vinyl sat amongst the bottles of weed killer; where there's an annual spaghetti eating contest; where more than a handful of people use unicycles as a valid form of transport. Liege embraces all of life's eccentricities and with its hippy philosophy, manana attitude, flair for the creative and utmost respect for the absurd, offers a haven where Australian students, Iranian political refugees and Bolivian pan pipers can use one of its multitude of festivals as a convenient excuse to celebrate life.

It is with the heaviest heart that I feel compelled to relay events that have occured this week that would be enough to chew up and spit out even the most solid of communities. On Tuesday afternoon at approximately 12h30, a local man named Nordine Amrani opened fire in Liege's Place St Lambert massacring 4 people (a toddler, 2 teenagers and a 75 year old lady) and leaving many others gravely injured and the rest of us in a state of shock and bewilderment. Just inches away from the Christmas Village; last year covered in snow, this year a blood bath. After first lethally shooting a woman in a shed that he owned, armed with an assault rifle, a revolver and hand grenades, he indulged in the kind of murdering spree alien to most provincial towns, before turning a gun on himself and taking his own life. A convicted rapist and drug dealer, also previously charged for possession of lethal weapons, Amrani was released for good behaviour in 2010. It is believed that he had no terrorist connections and acted alone.

In committing this atrocity in the bustling Place St Lambert, where the grand architecture of years gone by sits comfortably alongside popular modern day chain stores, Amrani has as good as pierced the very soul of Liege.

The aftermath of these events has left our community reeling. We need answers. We need justice. We need peace of mind. From sick jokes and unwarrented racist slurs (although a Belgian national, Amrani was of Moroccan descent) on Facebook, to demonstrative outpourings of grief at the site of the incident via genuine heartfelt compassion, nobody has been left feeling indifferent.

Whatever your religion, I urge all my compatriots to take time out and give some thought to the victims. Let's all reflect on and light candles for those senselessly lost lives and their grief-stricken families. If action needs to be taken, let's point this in the direction of the justice system and the arms industry who have seemingly failed us by allowing the circumstances for this act of evil to take place. Let's eliminate the fear. Above all, let's come together and gently pull out the arrow that's pierced our soul and focus on healing so that we can live harmoniously again and Liege can continue to be the welcoming city we all love.

Please don't change, Liege.

Little Ole Wine Drinker Me

Last week: I went to my first ever wine tasting evening



Although I usually only drink the odd small sweet sherry over Christmas, I couldn't help but jump at the chance to attend a wine tasting evening held at our offices last week. At just 13€ a ticket, 'The Grape and the Glorious; Wines for Christmas' sounded like a promising event; the opportunity to taste some affordable but quality vino, mingle with colleagues and nibble on some fine cheese, bread and cold meats. All part of my education. Plus I was sure there would be spittoons just in case I really wasn't in the mood for boozing.

Our hostess was Sarah Morphew Stephen, who boasts the title of first ever female Master of Wine after making her mark on what was previously a male-dominated universe. A delightful lady, Sarah is knowledageble, witty and bursting with anecdotes and top tips to help novices like myself remove the cloud of mystique that surrounds the world of viticulture.

After a brief introduction from Sarah,where she explained how duty effects wine quality and by investing just a couple of pounds more than £3.99, you can happen on a rather decent bottle thank you very much, we got stuck into the whites. Our first wine on the list was the Vignobles Des Aubas Colombard-Gros Manseng 2010. Not so dissimilar to my usual white of choice, Sauvignon Blanc, this wine was dry, nice and crisp and packed with citrus flavours. Suprisingly, this Gascony nectar will only set you back £5.99 from Majestic. Until that evening I had never heard of Majestic Wine Warehouses before, but after trying some of the wines Sarah had selected from their range and seeing the competitive prices, I will definitely try to find an opportunity to browse their aisles. According to Sarah, it's hard to find staff with such great expertise, thanks to their meticulous training - the person hired to head up the Spanish wine section was sent to Spain on a month-long assignment shadowing the country's leading expert. For my training at Virgin Megastore, I was escorted into a cupboard, handed a roll of 99p stickers and a pile of cd singles and left there for the rest of the day to get on with it.

Our second white was 'Tesco's Finest' Mendoza Chardonnay 2009. Dubbed a 'granny' wine by Sarah due to it's potent nature (14 degrees alcohol makes it sweet enough to please the less discerning palate), this is best enjoyed with a heavy starter like foie gras. Finding it a little rough and overpowering and in the absence of such fancy schmancy entrées, I was more than happy to move on to the rosé. Sainsbury's provided the Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon Rosé, my second favourite wine of the evening. It was interesting to learn that until around 3 years ago, the popularity of rosé wine had completely dwindled thanks to the dodgy reputation thrust upon it by old 70's favourite Mateus. Thankfully we now have a much more palatable range to choose from, including Shiraz rosés and the likes of d'Anjou made from aristocratic grapes. On the other hand, Mateus is still the most imported wine in the USA. No way rosé.

Sarah definitely displayed a preference for New World wines, reflecting the growing trend in the UK where French wines are now only number 5 on the list of most imported, with Australian being the most popular and Chilean not too far behind. By far the highlight of the evening was The Crossings Marlborough New Zealand Pinot Noir, the most expensive, of course (£9.95), but definitely worth seeking out at The Wine Society.




Beware of overflowing spittoons.......

 
Although the wines under scrutiny that evening were mostly available in UK stores, Sarah had also taken the time to visit some Belgian supermarkets and suggested some viable alternatives. We came away armed with bundles of information and hurriedly scribbled notes. In total, we tried 7 wines, leaving me enough time to catch a train at a reasonable hour and my colleagues to empty any remnants from the stray bottles dotted around the room, which I'm sure they did admirably.

Would I try this again?: Go on then. Just one more for the road.
                                     More than £3.99? Sorry it's the end of the month.

Some interesting points from a Master of Wine:

1. "It's not food, it's mood"
Giving me carte blanche to ignore any wine snobs that I may encounter in the future, it was refreshing to hear an expert play down the importance of the correct pairing of wine and cuisine.

2. 72% of all wine purchased in the UK is consumed within 24 hours
The other 28% is presumably consumed in the checkout queue.

3. Adding a tablespoon or so of sweet dessert wine to a poor quality white wine can work magic. Likewise with port and red wine
Now there's an excuse to purchase a bottle of port if ever there was one...

They Eat it in the Congo

Last week: I ate Congolese food for the first time

As a child, I was a rather fussy eater to say the least. At primary school, I made an art form of hiding uneaten vegetables so that I was allowed a slice of chocolate cake for afters and, on one occasion, my cousin's Grandma served me sugarless jam sandwiches for lunch because there was nothing else in her pantry that I could stomach. There were some days when my diet consisted of 2 oz of Cola Cubes and whatever my parents managed to force feed me in the evenings.

I still have my moments, but on the whole, I am far more compliant these days, although my mother-in-law would probably beg to differ. Important as it is to me to broaden my culinary horizons, there are some things that I really don't think were ever meant for human consumption. I'm thinking specifically of one occasion when I was tucking into lunch in a French school canteen when my exchange partner proudly exclaimed "eet eez ze Sheep's brain". Or when killing time before a train in fabulous Brussels art nouveau bar A la Mort Subite, I inadvisably ordered popular Flemish bar snack 'kip kap'. One of the few Flemish words I've managed to retain is 'kip' (chicken), so misguidely, I expected a plate of chicken nuggets with some funky kind of dip, but to my horror, received a dish full of cubed 'tête pressée' (pressed pig's head) with a rather unappetising layer of jelly as the icing on the cake.

Last Thursday, I was invited along to an office night out to bid au revoir to my lovely colleague Joni who is about to embark on an exciting opportunity working for the EU Delegation in the Gambia. It was a tall order locating a Gambian restaurant in Brussels, so we settled on a Congolese joint in Matongé - the ethnic quarter of Ixelles. Apparently you don't get more authentic than Kuumba, and at weekends, the place is packed to the rafters with Africans hankering for a taste of home and Brussels locals out to try something other than moules frites. On a week night, Kuumba was far from rowdy, but we were enough in our party for a convivial atmosphere.

We had opted in advance for the €25 per head buffet, a little steep if you ask me, but nobody did. On the plus side, I would've had no idea whatsoever what to order and this way, we all got to try a little of everything. There was bound to be something really tasty that I liked....wasn't there?

Waiting for our feast to arrive, my eyes scanned the drinks menu. It was a sad state of affairs; even after overcoming my initial disappoint at the glaring absence of 'Um Bongo', I was dismayed to see that there wasn't anything of Congolese origin - some cheeky homebrew to liven up proceedings, for example. But no. It was Jupiler all round. When in Belgium...

Cassava is the world's third most popular carbohydrate though it's difficult to see why. Resembling lumps of marzipan, I can safely say that it's the only thing I've ever eaten that tastes of nothing (although there is a slight aftertaste of wet dog). I was not alone in my disgust for this; one colleague was so repulsed that she was compelled to move the plate to the next table to avoid the cassava appearing in her field of vision. Maybe there are different ways to serve it and this was just cassava in its blandest form. I might be a big fan if it was topped with baked beans and cheddar and served with a smile at my local Cassavaulike.

I was delighted when a bowl of plantain was delivered to my end of the table along with a relatively tasty spinach dish. I'm pretty sure there was some kind of meat lurking among the leaves, but was informed to keep stumm as the vegetarians were arm wrestling over it on the other side of the table. Meanwhile a severed fish head was looking up at me from my plate. I picked at it for a while, nibbled on a bit of crispy skin and then realised that the only way I was going to sate my appetite was by scoffing the whole thing - eyes and all. I braced myself with a hefty swig of beer and, just as I was about to take the plunge, the waitress served up a piping hot dish of Chicken Mwambe. Saved by the belle.

The Mwambe contained far more bones than I would've cared for, as did the fish stew. But compared with what came next, this was a veritable feast. The pièce de résistance was a plate full of the wonderful delicacy that is goat meat. The first time I ate goat meat, it was in a Jamaican curry, a necessary and clever ruse clearly employed to disguise everything about it. But at Kuumba, it was presented to us in its natural state - tough, overly salty and tasting exactly like how a goat smells. Five kinds of vile.

Authentic indeed. Maybe even a little too authentic for my pampered Western palate.

Would I try this again?: I would resort to cannibalism first.

Y Viva Espana!

Last week: I had my first homecooked Spanish meal

A lazy Bank Holiday Friday spent mostly in pyjamas in front of the TV could have no better conclusion than a dinner invitation. Although I am passionate about cooking, nothing beats being catered for and waited on and the idea of a Spanish hostess was particularly appealing. Maria and her Belgian boyfriend, Rémy, promised us a typically homecooked Spanish menu with substantial amounts of alcohol to wash it down: They did not disappoint. Unfortunately, I don't get to indulge in Spanish cuisine very often. It's way too many years since I holidayed in Spain and we are not exactly falling over decent Spanish restaurants here in Liège. There are several tapas establishments, but outside of Spain, tapas bars are the very antithesis of what they should be and often set you back a small fortune for something that is little more than an average bar snack.

This was going to be a great evening...

We were greeted with a very refreshing aperitif called Pomada, a Menorcan Xoriguer gin based cocktail which helped liven up my demeanour after my sloth-like existence of the previous hours. Conversation flowed and we listened to a vastly eclectic soundtrack of everything from 90s Spanish Indie to 50s Surf Rock with a few Bix Beiderbecke numbers thrown in for good measure (appealing to the budding tapdancers amongst us). Maria and Rémy's flat is a great place to hang out, its 16th floor panoramic peninsular view being one of the finest I've seen of Liège.

The food was nothing short of heavenly. First of all we nibbled on lomo and slices of bread smeared with tapenade and a fairly mild but tasty Spanish cheese called Queso Idiazabal from the Navarra area of Northern Spain. Maria's homemade tortilla (or Pincho de tortilla, as it was served on bread) was by far the best I've ever tasted and I'm hoping that it's not made according to some top secret family recipe as I'd like to steal it and try it for myself. Next up was Rollo de berenjena con jamón y queso - a simple but elegant starter of ham and cheese enrobed in aubergine. Right up my street. I'm not sure what technique was employed to make this cheese melt in the mouth so beautifully and burst with so much flavour and creaminess, but I'm pretty sure I could never pull this off. For our main meal we had cod baked in a rich tomato and pepper garlic sauce - Bacalao a la vizcaina. My parents taught me that it's impolite to lick your plate at the dinner table, otherwise I can guarantee I would have had tomato sauce in my eyebrows.

Maria informed us that the dessert was her first attempt at a family favourite that hadn't gone according to plan as it was too fluid in consistency. I think the idea behind Natillas de chocolate is similar to blancmange, but Maria's version hadn't set properly. She was disappointed, but it didn't stop us guzzling down the tasty chocolate pudding (everything goes down the same way) and we decided that we should add a little alcohol, just because there was a bottle of Licor 43 that needed finishing off and it would've been rude not to. Scrumptious indeed.

The evening was rounded off with a couple of rounds of whisky and a few parlour games. 'The Rizla Game' is one of my personal favourites; the person sitting to your left sticks a cigarette paper to your forehead bearing the name of a famous personality and your job is to ask the right questions and discover your identity (as played by the Nazis in Tarantino's Inglorious Basterds and during many a fun night round at our house with friends and family, long before that American horn-rimmed chancer dreamt it up). On this occasion, all I managed to reveal was my poor political knowledge, taking forever to guess that I was, in fact, sleazy Italian leader Silvio Berlusconi, which I then embarrassingly mispronounced as Berscolini and called Roberto. Oops. Well, I can name the entire cast of Dallas and all the members of Spandau Ballet and their wives, but politics is just not my strong point.

Another game that we embarked upon was a card game called 'Jungle Speed', which is basically a more sophisticated version of old favourite 'Snap'. When I say 'sophisticated', I mean more complex, as there is nothing sophisticated about fighting to the death over a wooden totem, which you have to be the first to grab if your card matches your opponent's (possibly also played in Nazi Germany). Rémy informed me that the last time he played, he managed to break a girl's tooth. I contemplated wearing a helmet, gum shield and shin pads. The game is both fun and so tense that you can hear each of your opponent's heartbeats racing. I am proud to announce that I cleaned up with all my teeth still intact, although Maria may have the odd bruise.

Would I try this again?: Copacabana! There's no place like la casa.

Songs For Songs' Sake Part 4

If a Kid - Great Mountain Fire
Burnt Toast and Black Coffee - Mike Pedicin
Flipsville - Stormy Gayle
Tomorrow - Kitty, Daisy & Lewis
Primrose Hill - John & Beverley Martyn
Saxophone No. 2 - Lord Kitchener
Hi-Heel Sneakers - Jose Feliciano
I Could Be So Good For You - Dennis Waterman
Killing in the Name of - The Apples
Harpsichord Shuffle - Wynder K Frog
Son of My Father - Chicory Tip
Blow Your Head - Fred Wesley & the J.B.'s
Jenny Artichoke - Kaleidoscope
Little Surprise - The Wave Pictures
Where Do All the Raindrops Go? - Brent Cash
For You - Solvent
Echoing Light - Brian Olive

Feeling a Little Saucy...

Last week: I tasted HP Guiness

I have just returned to Belgium after a much-needed week off work, giving me the opportunity to fly to Liverpool and spend a rather splendid week celebrating a friend's wedding, attending a surprise 60th birthday party thrown for my Aunty and, most importantly, spending some quality time with my nearest and dearest. As is customary on these visits back home, I consumed far more than I should have; bacon butties every morning, real British ales in the delightful Turk's Head and Dad’s delicious curries, not forgetting the essential St Helens delicacy - pasties. More than ever, the streets of St Helens are now paved with budget shops galore: Poundland, Home Bargains and a plethora of 99p shops (rumour has it, there is a 98p shop in Burnley). You can now even visit Poundbakery where you can choose any two pies/pasties from the myriad of flavours in return for handing over just a quid. The woman in front of me in the queue was buying eight items - hopefully to feed a family of four, although, judging buy her frame and complexion, I suspect that this was just a light snack in between bargain hunting. I hasten to add that the thrifty price leads to no loss in quality - I had the tastiest Chicken Korma pasty known to man.

I am like a kid in a toy shop when I'm in a UK supermarket. Although I consider Belgian food among the finest in the world, the Belgians score nulle points when it comes to convenience food and anything you can buy in a packet/wrapped in plastic is either overly expensive or just down right revolting. In UK shops I am instantly drawn towards anything bearing the beaming face of Ainsley Harriott or brandished with a sticker proclaiming 'Just add water'. Whilst quality is high on the agenda in Belgian supermarkets, variety often takes a back seat. A recent nationwide competition to invent the most creative flavour for potato chips inspired 'Indian Curry' crisps which have adorned shop shelves back in England since most of us were in short pants.

The highlight of this latest visit was to be found on the condiment shelf in Asda. Sporting a big red half price sticker, amongst a collection of at least 57 other glass or squeezy bottles was the novelty item that is HP Guiness. I am not a lover of Brown Sauce. In fact, I don't really know what it is. Have you ever tried explaining HP Sauce to a Belgian? Good luck with that. Powerless to resist the cut-price offer, my Mum bought a big bottle of this new variety and, the morning after the night before, it appeared in front of me as I grappled with my sausage on toast. With that familiar squelch, my sausages were soon decorated with the stuff. Suddenly my breakfast had all the hearty qualities of a Steak and Ale pie and I was drooling and squeezing on more sauce. Mmmmmm.

Would I try this again?: I am kicking myself that I didn't go back to Asda for a bottle to bring back with me.

My Top 5 Sauces:

 1. Heinz Curry Mango Sauce
Fruity, tangy and spicy, I get through at least one bottle of this per month, drowning everything from sausages to salad in it. I particularly like it mixed together with mayonnaise, tuna and onion and ladled onto a hot, oven-baked potato.

2. Chip Shop Curry
Unappetising in apperance given it's pooey-brown-with-a-hint-of-green colour, maybe it's nostalgia, but there's nothing better than chip shop curry turning your chips soggy. Of course this industrially manufactured flour-based mush bears little similarity to curry, but if you're lucky, you may find the odd raisin floating around to add a touch of the exotic. You can now buy Harry Ramsden's Chip Shop Curry Sauce for just 29p a sachet, saving you a trip to the local chippie. Just add water.

3. Sauce Bresil

When it comes to sauce, it's a photo-finish between the Brits and the Belgians. One of the best things about Belgian friteries other than, of course, their chips, is the variety of sauces on offer. Bri prefers the wildly spicy Samourai sauce (I can almost hear the advert: 'Samourai Sauce. Mayonnaise For Men.'), whilst I usually opt for Sauce Bresil, which I guess is not unlike Heinz Curry Mango.

4. Sauce Lapin
The Belgian version of my Mum's gravy with a twist: a spoonful of the treacle-like Sirop de Liege is added to give a sweeter and richer flavour. No rabbits were harmed in the making of this sauce.

5. Horseradish Sauce
The culinary equivalent of Vicks Vapour Rub, this sharp and powerful sauce has a huge kick and clears out your sinuses a treat. Horseradish is from the same plant family as wasabi which should also be handled with care.

Oedipus Schmoedipus

Last week: I saw my first Greek Tragedy.

Murder and incest. The subject matter of this blog knows no bounds.

Thanks to my lovely friend Elise, who works as a seamstress in the costume department of the Brussels Opera House, last week I found myself with a free invitation to a production of the ultimate Greek Tragedy: Oedipus. Romanian composer George Enescu's Oedipus was premiered in 1936, so as operas go, it's a relatively modern work.

What I know about Greek mythology, I could write on the back of a postage stamp with a shovel, so I decided that a quick Wikipedia visit was in order beforehand, so as to familiarise myself with the legend, preempting that I wouldn't be able to follow the story or understand the subtitles. (Incidentally, the subtitles were projected in both French and Flemish - Flemish on the right and French on the left - and then swapped over mid-way through the performance, so that, no matter where you are seated, you have the opportunity to follow subtitles in your language of choice for at least half the proceedings. How very diplomatic).

The story of Oedipus goes something like this:

Once upon a time, King Laius and Queen Jocasta give birth to a son, who is then abandoned after a prophet announces that he will kill his father and marry his mother. The boy survives and is named Oedipus and brought up by King Polybus and Queen Merope who he believes to be his biological parents. When Oedipus also hears the horrific prophesy, he flees from his parental home. During his travels, in self-defence, he kills King Laius, leaving Jocasta a widow. Anybody who can kill the sphinx will be entitled to marry Jocasta and it is indeed, Oedipus that slays the monster. On discovering that he has murdered his father and married his mother, Jocasta commits suicide and then Oedipus gouges his own eyes out. Nobody lives happily ever after. The end.

Hardly an episode of Hi-De Hi.

The curtain lifted to the spectacular sight of around 120 people lined up on scaffolding at various heights all dressed in the same drab brown colour and waving olive branches. The main action was taking place in the centre where it appeared that a plastic baby was being baptised by the High Priest. Well I assumed it was the High Priest, but with his matted dreadlocks and tatty clothing, all that was missing was the dog on a string and you could forgive me for thinking I'd been transported to Glastonbury. I was quite disappointed that there was no fire juggling.


After this joyous ceremony, up popped ultimate party pooper, blind prophet Tiresias to throw a spanner in the works, predicting doom and gloom and announcing that this little baby's fate would be to bump off his Dad and shack up with his Mum. I don't know about you, but christenings I've attended have usually been followed by a rather pleasant buffet reception in the church hall or a trip to the local boozer to wet the baby's head, with no sign of Mystic Meg in sight.

For poor Oedipus it only went downhill from there, and the only adjective that springs to mind to describe his plight is 'wretched'. I think the cheeriest thing that came out of his mouth was "Happy is he who dies before he is born". But despite all this misery and despondency, I rather enjoyed myself. We had great seats (the tenth row from the front, central) and it was quite something to be in such a spectacular and prestigious building, even managing to sneak in a guided tour with Elise during the interval. The music was exquisite and performed beautifully by the orchestra and, although opera is not necessarily my bag, I could appreciate the vocal acrobatics and melodrama of the whole affair. I was particularly impressed with the scenery, which at times was built very high up and involved actors climbing up some rather long, narrow ladders. Their gymanstic prowess was to be applauded. I still haven't quite worked out why there was a fighter jet on stage at one point, though. I'm far from the world's authority on history, but I was under the impression that planes had yet to be invented in 5BC. I complimented Elise on the costumes which were delightful and explained how perplexed I was to see high visibility tabards and scally shellsuit tops amongst attire more fitting of the era. She couldn't shed any light on the matter.

But the beauty of being with Elise was that I managed to pick up on some of the insider gossip. Which is, of course, for my ears only!

Would I try this again?: Which one? Murder or incest?

Other celebrity eye gougers:

Betty Blue



Houston



Elle Driver











Roll Up, Roll Up...

Last week: I ate lacquements

The month of October means only one thing here in Liege:

The Fun Fair is in town!

The Foire de Liege runs for more than 1km through the Parc d'Avroy and is brimming with sensory delights; flashing fluorescent colours, lip-smacking sugary and savoury aromas and a whole host of heart-stopping attractions to fling you into positions you didn't deem possible.

Fairgrounds are much of a muchness wherever you go and, in many ways, the Foire de Liege, is not unlike the fairgrounds of my childhood with dodgy boom-boom chart/techno music, worthless tat for prizes, greasy hamburgers and seedy looking power-happy guys with tobacco-stained faces operating the dodgems. You can even hear French equivalent cries of 'Scream if you wanna go faster' in a thick Walloon accent if you listen carefully. In other ways, however, there are some subtle differences. In terms of political correctness, we have always been streets ahead in the UK and freak shows were dispensed with many years ago as were live animals and, even after so many years living on the continent, I am still in a state of shock when I see sad-eyed poneys tethered to a merry-go-round and my hot dog is served up by a bearded lady. And whilst I've never seen anybody win a goldfish in a polythene bag here in Liege, I have certainly never been able to enjoy a hearty mug of mulled wine at St Helens Show.

Nowadays I have a split personality when it comes to the fun fair. In one way, I revert back to childhood and overexcitement gets the better of me. One attraction I am still powerless to resist is the Kentucky Derby, where I enthusiastically roll wooden balls into holes until my plastic horse passes the finishing line first, much to the dismay of the five year-olds competing against me. But the more dangerous hair-raising attractions are now a thing of the past for me, after several bad experiences have seen me doubled over and vomiting after being spun sideways and upside down until my face turned green.

The last days of our Indian Summer at weekend gave me the perfect opportunity to drag my husband to the Foire de Liege for the purpose of trying something new for this blog. Not brave enough to be strapped into a bungee rocket or stupid enough to waste money on trying to win a furry Bob l'eponge (the French think 'Squarepants' is going too far), I figured it was time for a sweet treat. At the Foire de Liege, you can find all the usual fairground delicacies, but if you want to be truly Liegeois, you should forget candy floss and join the back of the endless queue for a box of lacquements.  

So, what the Dickens is a lacquement?

Other than being a potential heart attack wrapped in a serviette, lacquements/laquements/lakemans (in typical confusing Belgian fashion, there are allegedly 7 different officially recognised spellings) are like thin waffles sliced in two and stuffed with sugar candy syrup. They are then heated in a waffle iron (every home should have one) and served doused in even more syrup. After some research (lacquements are such a local speciality that they have a very limited appearance on Google Search), I discovered that two of the key ingredients that seem to give them their distinctive taste are orange flower and cinnamon. They were invented in 1903 by Monsieur Desire Smidts who named them after his place of work, but why they are still the fairground fodder of choice over 100 years later, nobody seems to know. Thinking back to my previous places of  work, I wonder if I could have made my millions by creating my own cake and naming it 'Bolton Virgin Megastore'....Or a pie called 'Remploy'?

Apparently it is quite a shocking state of affairs that I have lived in Liege for over a decade and never even tasted a lacquement. Real sticklers for tradition, many of my Liege comptatriots descend in their droves on the October fair just to get their mitts on a box of the sugary delights. They couldn't care less about the dodgems or the Hook-a-duck. "What's the fuss about?", I wondered.

Surely at 7 Euros for a box of 6 they should be a strong competitor for the best thing I've ever tasted? We sat on a bench on one of Liege's many charming squares in the October sunshine and tucked in. Within seconds I needed a bath, suddenly realising why they come in a handy portable box and that the general trend is to take-away so that they can be eaten in the comfort of your own home without embarrassing yourself in public. Oh well...at least there's a nice ornamental fountain around the corner where I can shower down. Which was switched off....

We enjoyed our tasty treat and had a second one each the day after, but a week later, there's still two left in the fridge (and I made some sensational Walnut and Honey Loaf in the meantime), so maybe they're not really my cup of tea after all...

Would I try this again?: The jury's out...

If you've got a waffle iron going rusty in your kitchen cupboard, you can find the traditional recipe here.

Slippery When Wet

Last week: I went to Carolus Thermen

Question: Why don't German women shave?
Answer:   Himalayan peeling salt

This was one of the many things I discovered on my first visit to the Carolus Thermen spa in Aachen last week, where I went for a blissful afternoon of relaxation with my friend Rachel. With the Android 80 album launch to prepare for, an abundance of translations to work on and a looming visit from the new CEO at the office, the last couple of weeks have been somewhat stressful. Last Thursday I was even quite happy to spend an hour in the dentist's chair just for the opportunity to relax and have a breather. Sunday's spa trip was the ideal way to round off this kind of high pressure period.

Carolus Thermen is one of the few thermal baths within easy driving distance that I had not yet visited and I was keen to discover how a German spa would compare with the Belgian ones where I have already grown to love whiling away my limited free time. On first impression, Carolus was very similar to the Thermes de Spa to the point that I would wager that the large indoor pool and outdoor bathing areas were designed by the same architect.

Not unlike their Scandinavian neighbours, the Germans prefer their spa experience au naturel and before entering the sauna and hammam area, bathing suits are discarded and replaced by birthday suits. This didn't phase me too much: I am fairly comfortable being naked in an environment where everybody is in the same boat and, while you may get the odd Kelly Brookalike, the majority of fellow spa-goers come in all shapes and sizes, so it's difficult to feel overly self-conscious. Add to that the fact that I was over 60 kilometres away from home, in a different country and unlikely to bump into someone with whom I share a photocopier, I was happy to whip off my speedos and get back to nature.

An 'A' Level German certificate obtained the wrong side of the Millennium can only get you so far and I struggled to interpret much of the signage adorning the walls. I contemplated the words "Sexuelle Handlungen" mentioned on a sign at the entrance to the nudist area...Could this notice be the equivalent of the notorious 70s poster that we all loved to giggle at back in the days of school swimming trips, bearing the warning "No Petting"? Clearly not. Everywhere I looked, couples varying vastly in degrees of age and attractiveness were draped over one another, dewy-eyed and salivating. One pair who were treading a fine line between innocent canoodling and out and out fornication, were approached by a member of staff and asked to turn things down a notch or two. I made a mental note to lay off the dive-bombing.

27 € for 3,5 hours made the afternoon fairly expensive compared to other baths I have frequented. But the sauna/hammam area seemed to go that extra mile than elsewhere. Surrounded by mosaic tiles creating a North African vibe, the central pool area was an oasis of tranquillity with soothing underwater music and a ceiling emulating a night sky complete with twinkling stars. Aaah.

According to Rachel, one of the plus points of the Carolus Thermen is that there are no creepy guys on the prowl. She couldn't have been more wrong. Immersed in the healing waters, listening to the inoffensive harp soundtrack and lapping up every minute, I suddenly became aware of another presence, a little too close for comfort. Invading my space was a hairy, oily early 50s guy with greasy slicked back locks and the kind of eyes that met in the middle of his face, making him look not so dissimilar to a Mandrill monkey. Uncomfortable, I exited the pool, aware of him following my every move, his eyes undressing me. Wait a minute...I was already naked...how does that work? Putting the incident behind me, I plunged into the hot bath in a different room and began to wind down again. Seconds later, my hirsute friend was bathing right beside me, a slimy grin dissecting his face. Time for a hammam.

The collection of 'baby' hammams is a novel idea. At differing temperatures, each individual bath has enough space for just two people, potentially slightly weird if you were to share one with an unclothed stranger, although perhaps not a bad idea for a first date, allowing you to dispense with social niceties and get the uncomfortable moment of seeing one another naked for the first time over and done with. I enjoyed a few minutes alone in a moderately heated cubicle and, as I was about to open the door to leave, who should come sliding in, but Mr Nice 'n' Sleazy. I hurried passed him, my skin literally crawling. This was going beyond stalking.


Nena: 99 matted hairs

It took some persistence, but I finally managed to shake off Mr Nice 'n' Sleazy and enjoy the rest of what Carolus Thermen had to offer, including the cold plunge and ice cube room (brrrr). Before entering the hottest hammam, we had the option of applying Himalayan Peeling Salt to our skin. Apparently, this pink grainy substance is rubbed all over the body and, combined with a few minutes in the hammam, can help eliminate toxins and balance your body's pH levels. The only toxic presence that I needed to eliminate was Mr Nice 'n' Sleazy, so I was more than willing to give it a go. Within seconds of application, I was wincing, my poor legs stinging and red raw. In typical paranoid British style, I had insisted on shaving before being seen bare limbed in public. We may disapprove of our furry German sisters, but maybe there is method in their madness after all.

Feeling a little peckish on the way home, Rachel suggested stopping off at one of her favourite restaurants, a fabulously authentic Turkish eatery in Aachen city centre. She recommended the Mercimek Corbasi - Lentil soup - which was a truly delicious and hearty treat. And as if things couldn't get any better, in sidled Mr Nice 'n' Sleazy who sat opposite, looking over as he munched on a kebab.

Would I try this again?: If I ever see Mr Nice 'n' Sleazy again, I'm calling the police.

Goodbye Saturday Night

Last week: I watched Strictly Come Dancing.

After over a decade of a TV-free household, a few months ago we decided to take the plunge and introduce the goggle box back into our lives. The abstention has had positive effects and I'm pleased to say that we haven't yet slipped into the bad habit of keeping it switched on at all times as background noise and we still pretentiously lounge around reading high-brow culture magazines and listening to Bill Evans. On the other hand, it seems that my propensity for watching mindless entertainment is stronger than ever and I've been caught more than once by my husband, feet up, biscuit semi-immersed in Earl Grey, glued to One Tree Hill, Dawson's Creek or one of the many throwaway made-for-TV movies that they tend to show on the Vitaya channel.

With the BBC absent from my home, one of the biggest cultural phenomena of the noughties (did I really just use that word?) has managed to pass me by. In 2004, BBC 1 launched Strictly Come Dancing - a modern reworking of classic family favourite Come Dancing - and the Saturday Nights of much of the UK female population have never been the same since. Nights out on the town have been abandoned in favour of sequins and cumerbunds and women around the country can be seen huddled together on sofas sharing a bottle of wine and holding up scorecards as they watch popular newsreaders, radio djs, tennis players and even politicians attempt to perform a flawless quickstep on live TV. For many of my girlie friends it has become an annual ritual and no matter how much I try to feign disinterest, I feel like I'm missing out.

With my SCD (did I really just use its acronym?) addicted sister-in-law visiting last week coninciding with the beginning of a new series, it was the perfect opportunity to have my first taste of the ritzy dance contest (and my first taste of one of the bottles of gin that she was armed with). Presented by cheesy comic genius Bruce Forsyth and yet another typical BBC interchangeable leggy blonde, Tess Daly, the first leg of the competition took place over two programmes aired on Friday and Saturday night when 14 alleged "celebrities" (who the hell is Dan Lobb?) were out to prove what they've got in the booty shaking department. Several weeks earlier they had been paired up with professional dancers who had been teaching them the necessary moves to prevent them from making a holy show of themselves in front of the whole nation and their ensuing early elimination. On this first edition, contestants were required to perform either a waltz or cha-cha-cha, after which, the camera panned to a panel of "expert" judges holding aloft scorecards bearing marks from 1-10 and offering up their various critiques.

Let's face facts, some contestants have a clear advantage over others whose only purpose is to be sent to the lions and face public ridicule in an effort to send TV ratings through the roof. Holly Valance has wiggled
her touche in more than one MTV-destined pop video, so it wasn't much of a suprise that she scored highly and looked smoking hot performing a rather sultry cha-cha-cha. And no more was it suprising that Edwina Currie had as much grace as a cart horse, although I wasn't expecting or hoping that she would show her pants. I would say stick to politics, Edwina, but then again...

The highly likeable Jason Donovan was the star of the show, displaying an admirable sense of competitiveness which probably explains why he's got where he is today (as it's clearly not through any singing talent). Others with an A for effort included Anita Dobson, camper than Christmas astrologist Russell Grant, and Mcfly Drummer Harry Judd. Flying the trollop flag for Greater Manchester and, despite her inflatable chest, soap actress Chelsee Healey, managed to put in a rather elegant display of the waltz. Bulky frame aside, boxing gold medallist Audley Harrison looked sleek and borderline debonair during his performance and, although I wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating biscuits, I don't particularly envy his partner who runs the risk of his size 17 feet treading on her dainty little tootsies every time they hit the dancefloor.

TV can't get much worse than the vision of Italian super slapper Nancy dell'Olio catching a stiletto in a feather boa and almost going for a ball of chalk (for those of you unfamiliar with my Northern colloquial lingo, read 'arse over tit'). But even Nancy was outshone in the two left feet stakes. Botoxed to the eyeballs 60s chanteuse, Lulu, looked like she'd hit the dancefloor after one too many WKDs, flailing her arms about and stumbling into her Strictly (did I really just use its abbreviation?) dance partner, making him wish that he'd gone through with his audition for The Chippendales. But I'm sure she made her grandchildren proud.

Would I try this again? It's already series linked.

Puttin' On the Ritz

Last week: I had my first tap dance lesson.

St Helens Theatre Royal, 1980 give or take a year or two. My first ever stage performance. I had been attending ballet classes for some time but my enthusiasm was, alas, outweighed by my inaptitude (I think the dance teacher's exact words were 'baby elephant') and I was kindly coaxed in the direction of tap dance which was a little less delicate than the fairy princess stuff I had in mind (it was never going to work - I had flat feet and a skinhead for God's sake). Little Wooden Head from Pinocchio was the soundtrack to our loosely choreographed routine and weren't we all adorable in our pointy triangular cloth hats flitting across the stage? I even caused a ripple of delight through the audience when my little hat fell to the ground. Racked with decades of guilt, I now feel compelled to confess that I did this deliberately so that all eyes would centre on me (sorry Mum).

Forward 30 years or so to last week when I found myself on my bike heading over to the Ecole Martine Wolff for my first ever real tap dancing lesson. My two friends Vanessa and Maria were meeting me there and feelings wavered between high excitement and maybe just a little apprehension.

On paper, I should have everything going for me as a budding tap dancer: Tap dancing has it's roots in English Lancashire Clog Dancing which was performed by cotton mill workers and miners to emulate the sounds of the machinery. With Lancashire being very much my neck of the woods, I can vividly picture my charcoal-faced ancestors shaking a leg in the working men's clubs in between copious pints of ale after clocking off from a hard day down the pit. I've certainly inherited their taste for ale so why not their affinity for tap dancing? Tap is also widely considered as a form of music and its percussive element often draws comparison with drumming. My Dad and brother are both hugely talented drummers, so if genetics have treated me with the same kindness, I could well be the next Ginger Rogers in the making.

Not about to prematurely invest in expensive tap shoes, I was unsure what footwear would be the most appropriate. Vanessa had dropped by the class the week before for a trial session wearing flip-flops and advised me that this perhaps wasn't the best idea. There was another girl in attendance sporting 14-hole Dr Martin boots, so I didn't feel quite so bad in a pair of simple suedette slip-ons with a leather sole and low heel. Unfortunately, this was not the wisest choice either and I spent much of the lesson with my feet in an unnatural position, in an attempt to prevent the shoes from sliding off, which impeded me from producing the kind of nifty footwork that I had in mind.

Our teacher was delightful. She first taught us some basic warm-up moves with patience and encouragement. Unsuprisingly, I was the first student to be singled out for making more than a bit of a hash of the shuffle, but she paid individual attention to everybody until we all got it right. In just one hour we mastered Step, Touch, Stamp, Toe, Ball, Dig, Brush, Backbrush, Shuffle and Heel and then we put all these steps together to form a mini routine that we were then instructed to rehearse before our next lesson. The music was all in 8 time and most of it, right up my street: you don't get much groovier than Mancini's Pink Panther Theme and I'm always a sucker for Nina Simone's husky vocals and jazzy baroque piano, although I could have managed ok without any Michael Buble (but I guess there's no show without Punch).

Would I try it again?: I have signed up for 10 sessions and bought some rather snazzy tap shoes.

Some Useful Links:

• Don't try this at home: Vance's Fantastic Tap Dance Dictionary
• The Portable Tap Floor: Every pocket should have one

Happy Days are Here Again

Last week: I saw Kitty Daisy & Lewis

The 50s are back. It's official. And I ain't complaining. In fact, I am embracing it wholeheartedly. I've always had visions of myself in a full circle floral print skirt on the back of a Harley D with my arms clinging to Arthur Fonzarelli's snake hips and I've been wondering for some time where you can buy those longline bras and corsets that create that cinched-waist bombshell look so well portrayed by Mad Men's Christina Hendricks.

Musically speaking, the 50s have never been big on my radar. But thanks to a recent invitation to dj in a Rock 'n' Roll/ Blues bar, I have broadened my horizons somewhat. One of my current iPod favourites is Shindig magazine-endorsed: Keb Darge and Little Edith's Legendary Wild Rockers, a compilation of rare surf/rockabilly numbers from the late 50s/early 60s which will have you reaching for the Brylcreem before you can say ramalamadingdong. I urge you to get your hands on a copy and lend it your shell-like asap.

Retro revival has been done to death over the past few years with Amy Winehouse paving the way for (or creating a monster?) anybody with a radio mic and a twinset, so I was in no hurry to listen to Kentish Town's family combo Kitty, Daisy & Lewis when I first read about their back-to-roots/Apple Mac is devil philosophy. A recommendation by friends followed by an invitation to a live gig persuaded me otherwise and, with some of their music available on 78rpm vinyl format, the siblings would more than likely strongly disapprove of my hurriedly (illegally) downloaded MP3s. After just a few listens, I was hooked. Their latest full-length offering 'Smoking in Heaven' (perhaps if it wasn't so retro, a more appropriatle title would be 'Smoking on a Heated Terrace Just Outside the Gates of Heaven') covers a wide spectrum of 40s/50s rockabilly, ska and blues sounds with rich vocals and vintage production quality.

Last week, the gig itself was quite an event to behold. Far better attended than I anticipated, Brussels' classy venue the Ancienne Belgique opened its doors to a crowd dressed up to the nines in authentic 50s chic. We had rolled up straight from the office, so didn't quite look the part, although I was secretly pleased I had spent my lunch hour at Toni and Guy having a short, round fringe cut in (alas, a little more Dave Hill from Slade than Bettie Page, however).

In my world, either you have beautiful straight, thick hair that perfectly skims the top of your arse, OR, you can blow a mean harmonica. OR neither. Kitty and Daisy BOTH have locks to die for and the ability to play more instruments than you can shake a shitty stick at. Together with brother Lewis, they exchange guitars, harmonicas and drums as if they were on a production line with each sibling's vocals complimenting the other's. It's a real family affair: Mister Kitty, Daisy & Lewis strums away at an electric guitar slightly set back from his offspring. Meanwhile, Mum joins in on upright bass. The double bass is a favourite of mine; a kind of mysterious creature; it evokes an air of the smouldering hot guy that's way out of your league, skulking in the shadows of a smokey underground club looking effortlessly sultry. The music as a whole fires us all up; unsure whether to skank or dosey doe, we just can't keep those hips still. One highlight was when legendary trumpetist Eddie 'Tan Tan' Thornton took to the stage, a worthy replacement for Rico Rodriguez who plays on the album version of 'Tomorrow'.

In the post-gig frenzy, my friends managed to get their merchandise autographed by Kitty (or was it Daisy?) while I found Lewis so cheeky cockney charming that I agreed to have my photo taken with him (!). The Durham family siblings were definitely not at the back of the queue when swarthy good lucks were being handed out and their trademark toothy gap that you could drive a bus between is, well, just simply the ginchiest, baby.


Watch out for that Number 59 to Ixelles, Lewis



The evening was rounded off rather pleasantly with a final beer and a little more rug cutting to the sounds of Thierry Steady Go, Brussels finest in retro djs.


In case you don't look the part, learn to speak some classic 50s lingo and you'll fit in like a glove: http://www.daddy-o.us/slang.htm

Would I try it again?: Only in a more intimate venue where there's room for me to indulge in some more serious shape-making.

You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile

This week: I tried a new dentist.

Barry White, dogs and bagpipes. Three of my deeply ingrained phobias. But these three combined, pale into insignificance when it comes to phobia number four: the dentist. Like many phobias, my terror of the dentist stems from traumatic childhood experiences. As I type, I am literally shuddering in my own skin with the recollection of the variety of atrocities that I have endured in that dreaded chair throughout my 38 years.

At one point in my early years, I had a really lovely dentist. Mr Goldup was gentle and smiley and I always left his surgery laden with lollipops and cartoon stickers proclaiming the benefits of flossing in between your peggies (just a slight contradiction, now I come to think of it). My phobia set in after this teddy bear of a man left for pastures new and we changed surgeries. With the bedside manner of Harold Shipman, Mr Lomax took visible pleasure in administering various forms of torture regardless of my tender years. Unfortunately for me, I was blessed with too many teeth and the task of extracting them was bestowed upon Adolf Lomax, who went about this with the delicacy of King Kong doing his afternoon shopping at Villeroy and Boch. I would have been in less pain if he'd attached them to a HGV going 150km/hour. And this was in the days of general anaesthetic.

I spent the 4 or 5 years leading up to puberty looking like a James Bond villain, thanks to the wonders of modern orthodontics. Every six weeks or so, I got half a day off school to take a bus trip to Liverpool and visit a lavish Georgian terrace on Rodney Street with an enormous front door painted in beautiful eggshell blue. This spectacular building housed the orthodontic practice of Mr Birkenhead, whose soft wavy hair and winning smile cleverly disguised Lucifer himself. With a CV boasting a wealth of Nazi war crimes, Mr Birkenhead refused to lay down his tools until my bloodcurdling screams could be heard from the Wirral. Each new brace was screwed on tighter than a duck's arse in winter. And then I hopped on the bus again, straight back to school to be greeted by my classmates with the inventive new nickname 'Metal Mickey'.



84 Rodney Street: The Gates of Hell

 It will come as no surprise that I have failed miserably in terms of dental welfare, when left to my own devices. During my adult life, appointments have been very few and far between and putting any kind of trust in someone yielding a drill is something that is just quite simply beyond me. I have only visited a dentist under duress and when confronted with the prospect of imminent agony. After a recent throbbing tooth episode, I reluctantly made an appointment at a surgery close to home where my friend Antoinette is the dental assistant. And when the pain subsided. I phoned up and cancelled, telling a big pack of lies about an imaginary emergency meeting at work (yeah, right, like I'm that important). Antoinette saw through this ruse and with some gentle badgering, finally managed to coax me there earlier this week, with my husband holding my hand and my face like a robber's dog.

On entering the corridor leading to the surgery, when we attempted to switch on the lights; nothing happened. Everything was pitch black. Who in their right mind would enter a dental surgery in the dark? I refused point blank. I would rather stand in Harrod's window naked on Christmas Eve. With the lights finally on, Antoinette comfortingly put her arm around me and said, "Don't worry, Bri's here and I'm here, what else do you need?". "My Mum", I muttered sulkily. Pathetic. With a capital P.

The new dentist, fully aware of my fears, was approachable, mild-mannered and reassuring. He listened to my concerns, some irrational, some genuine, and discussed honestly but sensitively the treatment he deemed necessary for the preservation of my toothy grin. Most importantly, he didn't come anywhere near me with that nasty implement with the hook on the end that most dentists like to poke into your gums. I left armed with a special toothpaste that I later found out tastes of soap and mouthwash that creates a kind of rabid dog effect. All in all, I felt less anxious and prepared to make the required effort to keep all 28 of my pearly whites in place well into my old age.

Would I try it again?: I have an appointment booked for 22 September, but something tells me that I could be called to an emergency meeting...

A Strange Kettle of Fish

Last week: I had a Fish Pedicure

A French girl I once met declared that I had the ugliest feet she had seen in her life. Better than the ugliest face, you cheeky bint.

Most people have suffered from problem feet at one time or another. Without going into too much detail - in case you happen to be eating your breakfast whilst reading this - the heat brings out all manner of complaints when it comes to my plates of meat. And let's face it, you only have one pair, so it's absolutely vital to take care of them. It's only since the discovery of Camper and Crocs that I can walk around comfortably, without being half crippled in the summer months. And before you turn your nose up at my peculiar fashion sense, check out the Crocs website; they don't just stock models that you'd only wear to a day out in your local morgue.

I endeavour to look after and treat my feet as much as possible. I've rarely been tempted to squeeze my size 7s into dainty stilettos and, although I can't really afford extravagant pedicures, I occasionally indulge in the odd self-pampering session. My Body Shop loyalty card ensures that I am kept in healthy supplies of Peppermint Foot Lotion and I am the proud owner of rows of little bottles of varnish covering every shade of the spectrum (I don't recommend yellow). I even have some of those squidgy toe separator things, although my main application of them involves me amusing myself by walking around the house pretending I have webbed feet.

On Saturday, three of my girlie friends and I headed into town to try out the latest pampering fad to hit Belgium: the Fish Pedicure. The hour long treat entailed a 25 minute fish pedicure followed by an essential oil foot massage with a glass of champagne thrown in to boot. It was all very Sex and The City, if you think whiter than white towelling slippers rather than Jimmy Choos.

This curious procedure involves rolling up your trouser legs and immersing your feet into a tank full of water and small, wriggly fish called Garra Rufa all the way from Turkey. In no time at all, your new friends set about attacking the problem areas of your feet by nibbling away any hard, dead cells, leaving you with hooves smoother than a Luther Vandross album.

Beforehand, I had pondered the logic behind this. Is there any kind of training involved? Do these fish make minimum wage? On further research I discovered that these little creatures make a beeline for the dead skin on your feet as they see it as a rather tasty source of protein, no motivation necessary. Personally I'd prefer a nice juicy chicken breast, but, whatever floats your boat.

On my first encounter with the Garra Rufa, I succumbed to incontrollable fits of giggles which were received slightly disapprovingly by our hostesses at the Aquaderm Spa. But it was just a knee-jerk reaction - the sensation was so uncomfortably ticklish that I couldn't help myself. I had to concentrate on relaxing my body and focus on my breathing rhythm and, once I had mastered this, it was actually rather pleasant. I guess it was not unlike massaging your feet with an electric toothbrush, not that this is something I put into practice on a regular basis.

Maria claimed that the fish were only interested in her left foot and, as she took her turn before me in the same tank, I also wondered why they were still hungry enough to feast on my bunions and verrucas, the greedy little blighters. No wonder they have doubled in size since they first arrived on Belgian soil, as the girls at the spa explained.

 

Maria stars in "My Left Foot".


As we sauntered out of the spa heading for the nearest ice-cream parlour, we all agreed that the difference to our previously weathered feet was remarkable and that the fish had executed their task extremely well. Our tootsies felt almost as good as Fergie's after an afternoon with John Bryan. And for a mere €22,50, we felt we had got our money's worth (although, they could have served us the remainder of the bottle of champagne).

Would I try this again?: I'm thinking about investing in a tank built into the floor, about two metres away from the telly.

Everybody Needs Good Neighbours

Moving from an isolated house to an apartment has taken some adjustment, but I think we've pretty much managed to adapt without much hassle. We don't play music so loud, keep our voices down if we roll home in the small hours and try not to parade around scantily clad when it's daylight. Our relationship with most of the neighbours has yet to extend far beyond the usual pleasantries of "Hello" and "How Are You?", but we've had a few conversations with Nathalie and Luc from downstairs, bumping into them at a local bar and having a beer together, discussing their recent holiday in Thailand when taking out the rubbish, etc.

This morning I got to know Luc a little bit better.

As I left the building and entered the courtyard, ready to hop on my bike and head off to the station, there was Luc in his ground floor bedroom - lights on, curtains open, windows impeccably polished -wearing nothing but a smile. In the altogether. Full frontal. In his best birthday suit. Now, I'm no prude and ordinarily this wouldn't overly concern me, but by sheer misfortune we had complete eye contact during this nanosecond of an unfortuante incident. So not only have I seen him naked, he knows that I have seen him naked, I know that he knows that I've seen him naked and he knows that I know that he knows that I've seen him naked, if you catch my drift.

Mortifying.

It could only be worse if he'd waved and said "Fancy a slice of toast?".

Forgive me for not including any photographic evidence to illustrate today's delightful experience.

Mix Me a Molotov

Last week: I invented my own cocktail

My passion for cocktails was fuelled by a 2009 trip to the Big Apple. Struggling to find a beer that suited my palette, I decided to go in a different direction and ordered a Margarita. Plus, when in NYC, it just seemed, well....rude not to. It was something I rather quickly developed a taste for and, on returning home, I was quick to invest in a cocktail shaker. Ice crusher and fancy glasses followed this year as a much appreciated birthday gift and now I'm all set to become Belgium's number one mixologist! I've now managed to master a half decent Margarita and also added Mojitos, Cosmpolitans and Caipirinhas to my repertoire.

Unless you're laughing all the way to the bank and have a home bar well stocked enough to put Oliver Reed to shame, homemade cocktails depend pretty much on what happens to be lying around lurking in the depths of half drunk/half forgotten bottles or whichever spirit is going cheap at your local supermarket. With UK branches of Lidl, offering bottles of Pimms for just £9.99 on my recent visit, it was hard to resist.

I'm still not entirely sure what it is, but I love Pimms. I can't get enough of the stuff. There's nothing more refreshing than a shot or two of Pimms topped up with lemonade and served over ice, orange and cucumber. Cucumber for me is possibly the most sinister of foodstuffs, tainting everything around it with an evil flavour that I just can't quite put my finger on (not bitter, not sweet, just....vile). Allegedly the Romans used cucumber to scare away mice, which is probably one of the few things it's good for. However, it takes on a new identity when bobbing around in a tumbler of Pimms and Lemonade and it's certainly the only way I can stomach it, not that I'm suggesting that this should represent part of your 'five a day'.

Last Friday night was cocktail night with my brother-in-law as our guest. Starting with a Pimms and Lemonade and then a Tequila Sunrise courtesy of Bri, I decided to get a little experimental. Here's what I made:

Fruit Fly

1 measure Tequila

2 measures Pimms

1 measure Orange Juice

2 measures Grenadine

2 measures Sparkling Water

Crushed Ice

2 Strawberries

*This adds up to 8 measures which, with the ice included, tops up an Optima Ikea cocktail glass very nicely thank you very much.

Rather horribly, I named my delicious concotion 'Fruit Fly' due to all the winged nuisances that were hanging out in my kitchen attracted by the sliced cucumber and strawberries.

Would I try it again? Oh, I already have!

Some of my memorable cocktail moments:

Jet Lounge
Amsterdam
Fellini Martini 
By far one of Amsterdam's coolest bars, ran by the legendary Mark Hodson who briefly played with The Cramps. Their most hardcore cocktail is called a 'Raging Alcoholic' and is served in a brown paper bag, ensuring you look the part. The menu stated that the Fellini Martini contained "Vodka, Sambucca and Weird Shit". We later found out that the 'weird shit' was plastic insects.
http://www.jetlounge.nl/

Sweet Ups
Williamsburg, NYC
Blackberry Bramble
The yummiest cocktail I've ever tasted. If I remember rightly, it was sloe gin-based. Sweet Ups is a rather cool cocktail joint which is part of the Williamsburg pub crawl in Brooklyn (emphasis on the crawl, as there seemed to be at least 2 miles between each bar and I was spitting feathers). Not sure about the Dexter theme though.

Skyline Bar
Hotel Radisson Blu, Riga
Latvian Mojito
Kicked off my fourth wedding anniversary at this swish 26th floor bar overlooking delightful Riga, whispering sweet nothings as we got wasted on cocktails laced with local firewater, Black Balsalm.
http://www.skylinebar.lv/

Lou's Bar
Liege
Dr Funk
Whiskey, rum, absinthe and grenadine.....ouch! Foolishly ordered this on a warm afternoon with my poor jetlagged friend Maria. It goes down a lot better once the ice has melted. I think it took Maria 3 hours to drink hers. But then again, Spaniards can be lightweights, jetlagged or otherwise.