‘It can’t possibly be more overcooked than usual,’ Mrs Heineman ventured to remark. ‘Just put it in the blender for a lovely potato-cauliflower shake.’
Cook almost blew his top, and as far as I’m concerned, Heineman should be offered a place in the Old-But-Not-Dead Club.
Sunday, 20 December
With all the terrible things happening in the world, there is fortunately also some good news, for Antoine was proud to report that United Airlines, the world’s largest airline, will start serving genuine Oss stroopwafels on all its flights. The Dutch wafer – ‘heavenly caramel between two crisp waffles’ – will be enjoyed high up in the sky by some 138 million international passengers a year. Antoine was beaming. He may be forgiven: he was born in Oss.
Graeme decided that the other major airlines had now lost their competitive edge for good, and suggested we all buy shares in the stroopwafel industry.
Jazz is a bit difficult for beginners, especially improvisational jazz. Yesterday afternoon the entire Old-But-Not-Dead complement went to Bimhuis, Amsterdam’s jazz heaven. It brought out every cliché under the sun.
‘It is nice to watch,’ said Leonie.
‘And rather clever, too,’ Geert thought.
‘But you can’t exactly clap along,’ Ria remarked.
Edward thought he had seen the drummer before, at the special needs farm.
In short, Graeme, who had arranged the outing for us, wasn’t having a very good day.
‘I suppose this kind of jazz may be a bit hard to understand,’ he had to admit. We consoled him afterwards in the café, and a few drinks later he was on top of his game again.
We spent the rest of the evening discussing the decision to send Christmas cards to our worst enemies: Mrs Slothouwer, Mr Pot and Cook. To keep them on their toes.
Monday, 21 December
I was born in an age that had neither TV nor cars. There was one person in our street who had a telephone. We were allowed to use his phone to ring the doctor if necessary. I never went on holiday, and no one I knew had ever been in an aeroplane.
Today, with the exception of one or two stubborn old coots in this home, there isn’t anybody who doesn’t have a TV, computer or telephone. You can speak to anyone at any time and any place, and you can travel to the other side of the world in a single day.
My parents owned one Bible and one old encyclopaedia. Today, thanks to the computer, every household has access to more information than the greatest library in the world.
People of my generation have seen so much ‘progress’ that we can’t keep up. Over the past ten or fifteen years, I have started slowly but inexorably to lose my grasp on the world. I now gaze at it with mild bemusement from a fitting distance.
The young people don’t have much of a grasp on what’s happening either, but they don’t care. They think the world is just the way it is, and they barely notice that everything is constantly changing. I assume that in 2090 teenagers of today will look back on their lives with similar befuddlement.
That’s about it from Hendrik the Philosopher.
‘I’m reading here that there are all kinds of bugs mixed into our food. Mealworms, buffalo worms, morio larvae, crickets and grasshoppers. Creatures I’ve never even heard of,’ Graeme said at elevenses.
‘What kind of food are those creatures mixed into, then?’ asked Mrs Schaap worriedly.
Graeme looked it up in the article.
‘They’re in pasta, in chocolate and in sandwich spread, for example.’
Mrs Schaap decided never to eat pasta or chocolates again. Sandwich spread wasn’t something she ate anyway.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if our cook put them in our Christmas dinner too,’ said Leonie, ‘and if they’re free-range, that’s entirely possible. Free-range maggots, for example.’
The people sitting close to her shuddered, aghast.
‘Don’t worry, just kidding,’ she said. ‘And besides, I’m not having dinner here on Christmas Day.’
Tuesday, 22 December
The election of a new Old-But-Not-Dead member was cancelled at the last minute. Just before we were to vote, Ria and Antoine made a suggestion: considering that it is always possible that we’ll lose another member, why not be proactive and take on both candidates at once, on a probationary basis?
‘It may sound a bit crude, but the harsh reality is that it won’t take years for another one of us to die, so we might as well spare ourselves the trouble of choosing between them by accepting both of these excellent candidates,’ Antoine said solemnly. The logistical problem of squeezing more than eight passengers into the van is to be solved on a case-by-case basis – unless we left the driver home. It’s true that six of the members still possess a driving licence, but not one of them would dare to ride in a van chauffeured by him or herself now.
We immediately informed Mr Okkie and Mrs Heineman of their selection. They were both extremely honoured, and accepted the offer. Mrs Heineman’s name is Lia. Now we have a Lia and a Ria. Which could lead to some mix-ups, but a good mix-up now and then can’t do any harm. Mr Okkie said it was OK with him if we just called him Okkie.
Yesterday’s Residents’ Committee meeting with Director Van de Kerkhof was uneventful. Kerkhof took great pains to be noncommittal on the subject of our home’s future, and we took great pains to keep our powder dry for the great offensive that’s yet to come.
The meeting was over in less than forty-five minutes. Kerkhof seemed to be satisfied, suspecting nothing. We’d like to keep it that way for a little while longer.
Wednesday, 23 December
I was mortified. I had just paid for my eggs, Christmas chocs and fresh parsley at the supermarket checkout, when a gentleman in uniform sporting a big ‘S’ (for Security) pin posted himself officiously in front of my shopping cart. Could he just have a look in my cart? I probably blushed scarlet, and felt myself breaking into a sweat. Of course the gentleman could have a look. Triumphantly he pulled a tube of mayonnaise from beneath my plastic shopping bag and held it up.
‘What have we here? Would you please come with me to the office?’
Pitying looks all around me.
I stammered, ‘Oh, I totally forgot, no, really. It must have slipped under my bag by accident. I’ll go pay for it at once.’
Would I come with him anyway, please, since it was too late to pay for it now? I tried to make it clear to the store detective that I’d never risk getting arrested for shoplifting a measly 78 cent tube of mayonnaise, but he was a man of principle, or perhaps he had a boss who forbade his staff to think for themselves. I was marched through a gauntlet of head-shaking customers, or so it felt to me, to a small office somewhere over to the side. There the assistant manager gave me a talking-to as if I were a toddler. I found myself in a humiliating, impotent position, forced to humbly nod yes and amen.
He ended his sermon with, ‘Normally we report every shoplifting incident, but just this once I won’t call the police.’
At that point I did manage to recover my dignity a bit, just in time, or I’d have felt like a terrible coward for the longest time.
‘I seriously doubt the cops will come running for an old codger’s accidental theft of something that’s worth 78 cents,’ I said, ‘but do by all means call the police, I implore you.’
The manager was left nonplussed by this masterful turning of the tables, if I may say so myself. No, fine, I could go now.
‘I should like to see you call the police anyway, just for the record.’
‘No, sir. Just go.’
‘Then I’ll do it myself.’
I was gently pushed out the door.
Couldn’t I pay for the mayonnaise, at least? I could. I handed him €1 and said, ‘Keep the change.’
At home I was able to relate what happened with my head held high. Geert fell out of his chair laughing. He’s thinking of going back to the same market and shoplifting a tube of mayonnaise himself.
Thursday, 24 December
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Geert was assigned by Ria and Antoine to make a Dutch shrimp cocktail for the Christmas supper, and the recipe called for a pinch of paprika. Leonie, who was designated to be his assistant/supervisor, looked at the jar and did a quick calculation.
She cocked her head. ‘This jar is twenty-seven years past its date,’ she told him. Geert wasn’t fazed. Yes, that could be right, he said, since that spice rack was a gift for his fortieth wedding anniversary, in 1988.
‘No one will notice. It isn’t a twenty-seven-year-old liver sausage.’
‘But the paprika is rock hard, you won’t even get it out with a hammer and chisel. Isn’t that a good reason to buy a fresh jar?’
Sulking, Geert went to the shops and returned with a big, brand-new spice rack, to show that it wasn’t because he was a skinflint that he’d had some spices slightly past their expiry date.
‘All my spices will now be good for many years past my own expiry date,’ he grunted.
Everyone is busy getting ready for the Christmas supper. Antoine is the head chef, Ria is the sommelier, and Leonie the general dogsbody. The preparation of a Christmas spread worthy of the Old-But-Not-Dead demands some creativity, now that we can no longer use the kitchen in Evert’s sheltered accommodation flat. Where necessary, the home’s rules concerning cooking in the rooms get stretched just a bit. With no serious consequences, so far at least. Would-be tattletales probably realize they’re looking at serious trouble if they tell on us.
Someone posted a note on the board putting us on notice that there will be a fire drill on Christmas Day. The note soon disappeared and was replaced with an announcement by the management that it was a mistake, and that the fire alarm would not go off at Christmas. The cat, however, had been let out of the bag.
‘But what if a fire should break out, what then …?’
Friday, 25 December
Christmas is a backdrop against which a solitary pensioner heating up his microwave meal only stands out all the more poignantly. According to the Institute for Social Research, no less than 74.6 per cent of all people over eighty-five lived alone in 2014, as compared to 65.8 per cent in 2002. If you don’t have children who like to have dear old Dad or Mum over for Christmas, you are better off here in the care home. Especially if you’re in the Old-But-Not-Dead Club.
As it happens, the latest happiness statistics from the same institute are quite positive. The average Dutchman gives his life a 7.8 ‘happiness quotient’. Not bad. I am trending in that direction myself these days. The pills are doing their work.
It is notable that the average Dutchman thinks that he is doing well, but also thinks that the country itself is doing poorly. This paradox seems to be a typically Dutch phenomenon.
I completed most of my work for the Club’s Christmas dinner yesterday: with the help of my electric kettle I boiled nine eggs, peeled them, cut them in half and spooned out the yolks. Ria and Antoine are well aware which tasks I can and cannot be entrusted with. In a little while they’ll drop off their exquisite filling for my devilled eggs. I’ll pipe it out in pretty rosettes using a pastry tube. I practised yesterday with instant mashed potatoes, but you couldn’t tell it was supposed to be roses. It looked more like a wildflower bouquet.
In a few hours I shall put on my best suit and the new shirt I bought; it has some glittery thread woven through it. A bit daring, but the saleslady thought I could carry it off. And who am I to contradict her?
Saturday, 26 December
Inviting the probationary members to our Christmas supper was a great idea. Between the two of them they filled, both literally and figuratively, the empty space left by Evert. Except for the fact that he makes a great deal of noise when he eats, Okkie is definitely an asset. Leonie brought up his loud chewing with some tact:
‘Sitting next to you at dinner means there’s no need to put on any music, Okkie-boy.’
Graeme asked if the sound effects were a cultural thing; our friendly Turk replied that it’s the Greek Orthodox, in fact, who are the noisiest masticators.
‘See, now you’ve learned something about other cultures,’ he added.
Lia immediately felt at ease with us. She has a merry laugh, which made her ample bosom shake rather dangerously close to the soup.
‘Not to worry, Hendrik, I know exactly how and where they’re hanging,’ she said upon seeing my worried expression. Evert would have got on with her famously.
The food was outstanding, but perhaps we’re growing a little blasé on that front. Okkie and Lia were in heaven, raving about the delicious dinner, whereas the rest of us took it almost for granted that our star chefs Ria and Antoine would wow us with the most delectable dishes. We wound up singing Christmas carols. Geert and Edward were barred from joining in, but Okkie had a surprisingly good voice, and Lia a lusty alto.
Sunday, 27 December
It was the wrong way round, for me. I am the type who likes to save the best for last, and I’d have liked to see the order of our two Christmas dinners reversed. The feast with my friends on Christmas Day was just about perfect, and yesterday’s dinner with the other residents was a bit of a let-down in comparison. Whereas, objectively speaking, it was quite adequate. Although one does have to like pork cutlets in a cream sauce, as I do, because that’s been on the Boxing Day menu since the year one. Nicely pink inside, and for that reason invariably sent back to the kitchen by several of the diners.
‘I don’t like raw meat,’ said Mrs De Grave, and she made her husband, sitting next to her like a dead little bird, send back his as well. They were sitting directly across from me.
‘With his stomach, it’s especially important for him not to eat raw meat,’ Mrs De Grave explained, ‘because he’ll catch salmonella before you know it.’
When, fifteen minutes later, the cutlet came back cooked to extreme well-doneness, Mrs De Grave complained that it was dry.
With table companions like these, it isn’t easy to stay in a good mood. Luckily I was warmly squeezed in between Ria and Lia, two charming ladies who amply made up for the sour couple opposite. Not only did Lia impress me with her engaging, witty conversation, but she also managed to work down great quantities of food. She must have put away at least a pound of Brussels sprouts.
‘The sprouts are scrumptious, Henk, give me another spoonful, will you?’ She also finished our across-the-table-companions’ tiramisus, because the De Graves were worried about the raw eggs.
After two days of Christmas, I am tired of all the eating, drinking and sitting, and am therefore giving myself a day of abstinence. Which seems to be the fashionable thing to do these days. I’ll go out for a couple of strolls, partake of nothing but bread and cheese, restrict my drinking to tea, and read a good book. I’ve posted a sign on my door: ‘NO VISITORS PLEASE’. My legacy from Evert.
Monday, 28 December
When it comes to swallowing anti-depressants, I am in the company of a million of my compatriots. I never realized there’s so much depression in our country.
The pills work quite well in my case. Some weeks ago, whenever I found myself fretting about the insignificance of everything, I would get the blues. Nowadays, when I find myself contemplating how man is less than a grain of sand in the desert, it actually gives me comfort. The greatest human in the world is but a mote of dust in the universe. That applies even to Ronaldo, no matter how high he leaps when he scores. Ronaldo chalks up a goal, and the billions of stars in the sky just keep turning.
‘None of it matters, so you might as well enjoy it, Hendrik,’ I tell myself, and the best thing is: I believe what I’m telling myself once again.
It’s true that antidepressants can easily lead to addiction. Once you start taking them, it’s hard to give them up. Fortunately the doctor and I agreed that at my age, addiction wasn’t such a big problem.
‘You’ll just kick the habit in the coffin,’ Okkie postulated when I mentioned it to him.
Tuesday, 29 December
‘We live in a fireworks-
free zone, but the young people refuse to comply.’
‘So where’s the police?’
Someone had seen two officers hanging out at the fritter stand at the shopping centre, and had gone up to them.
‘It’s all very well standing here calmly having a fritter, meanwhile, just up the street, we’re getting blown sky high by the firecrackers, rollator and all.’
‘You seem quite unscathed, for someone who was just blown up,’ the fritter vendor remarked. The cops had proceeded to drive past our building a couple of times and had told a few boys to move along.
Old people are by nature rather skittish, but it takes on epidemic proportions on the last days of the year. The fear of being startled guarantees that the slightest bang will make people jump. Most of the residents won’t set a foot outside between Christmas and New Year’s as a result.