THE LACK OF SEAGULLS

On a late Summer day, when it is overcast, and mercifully not hot, one seeks self-indulgence. That being a pipe filled with a fine English style flake Virginia pipe tobacco, a mystery novel by a somewhat prolix author, and a cup of tea. One wishes one had a crumpet.

I don't think I've ever had a crumpet. What the heck is that?

It's defined as a small unsweetened English griddle bread, which when toasted is allegedly perfect for melting butter. Rather like a commercial brand of muffins which I haven't eaten since my grandmother passed away. Good as a basis for marmalade or melting Cheddar.
On second thought, if I haven't had them in so long, I probably don't need a crumpet.
Bugger the crumpet.

I am, however, now also fondly remembering the croissants made by that splendid bakery in Valkenswaard, slightly over a block north from the Stadhuis. Flaky, crisp enough to hold up, not like the greasy wads called croissants over here.

Best stick with the tea, pipe tobacco, and shitty novel. The detective appears to be an idiot. He has ignored several crucial bits of evidence, and seems unnecessarily focused on the delicate underwear found in the bushes of the estate. Which, given that there is nobody in residence there who would wear them -- other than the public schoolboy of dubious predilections home for the summer -- seems peculiar on his part. Rather.
Does he have a 'thing' for underwear? How very British!


We Dutch, as is well known, have no dubious predilections.
And most of us habitually wear underwear.
This must be said.

Perhaps I should put some on?

I haven't shaved and showered yet. Still in my sleepgarb. There's a turkey vulture sitting on my clothes clutching my wallet and screaming "it's mine! My baby! It's mine!" He is convinced that at some point I will yoik it out of his grasp, perhaps distracting him with a shiny object or the prospect of dead seagull for lunch (he hates dead seagulls), at a moment when I'm planning to leave the house.

He is correct. Instead of the dead seagull, I will use something else, and like crumpets there are no dead seagulls here. They are not conducive to happiness.

There are also no vegetables. Which will suffice as a pretext for heading over to Chinatown and having a pastry in late afternoon followed by a smoke while wandering in the alleyways. As if I needed one.



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