Mallemolen

In the spring, we moved into a tiny house on a street named Mallemolen ('crazy mill') named after a mill that (milled?) there till 1693. Mallemolen is a cul de sac. You turned off the main street and suddenly disappeared into a jumble of old houses with small gardens and ivy-hung, whitewashed walls.

There’s a decent kitchen, so I’m more inclined to cook. When I’m hungry, sometimes I read about Thai food. Red curry, yellow curry (vague memories of chanting 'red lorry yellow lorry') green curry, massaman, tom ka...the smell of lemon grass... Sometimes, when cooking, I feed the craving for spice by scooping seeds of green chillies into stir-fried tuna. Later, as we eat, watching re-runs of Midsomer Murders, (aging laptop balanced on a shoe box on the bed), the chillie bites through savoury shreds of fish. (The first time I made shrimp Thai red curry I shaped a hill of white rice in the middle of the plate, turned it into a minaret with a cone of pateh bean sambal. Spooned the glutinous shrimp in a half-circle round the hill. my flatmate photographed it, with a silver fork laid alongside)

I'd wake up every day to the sound of seagulls. Dull light streaming through the blind of the skylight. The bathroom is in the attic. Has an aluminium floor with a herringbone design. The shower head looked vaguely like an old fashioned telephone. There’s a skylight as well. Sometimes, when I shower, I see a bird circling, way above. And a chimney. Shaving mirror on an extendable metal arm. On holiday mornings I listen to the kettle boiling-up the morning tea and picture the croissants in our tiny fridge, waiting to be eaten with honey from Clingendael park. The label tells you which bush the bees fed on. Metallic clinks of spoon against china. The tv switches on. Animal Cops. News. ('A cell phone video captures justice, Taliban Style.')

We bought a white couch with a comfy, worn look. I like lying on it and watching the garden, people, the huge orange cat from next door, who looks perpetually concerned. (Once, when we returned late at night, he was in a solemn conference with Percival, the black rabbit, who is also our neighbour.) Another cat, (black, with a small moustache of spotted white fur, bushy tail) likes to perch on a stump in the fence. When we cook, he arches on the window sill. Peers in curiously. Rushes in whenever the door is open, runs upstairs and disappears under the bed. Strange chap.

Outside, there’s a small iron table, three chairs, flowerpots, and an old fashioned garbage can. When it’s sunny, I like to sit in the garden. Read Coetzee ('Disgrace'). (I'm trying to read it in French so half of it is guess-work. It's a dry, Japanese-garden of a book. Bleak as an office desk). Feet on another chair. Listen to rustling in the hedge. Bees. Mug of tea (sweet, with condensed milk) on the window ledge.