He plunged his arm in up to his elbow, ‘Luckily I hadn’t wee’d yet,’ and was just able to retrieve it. His phone no longer worked, not even after being left on the radiator for some hours to dry.
The main reason Mr Verlaat is upset is that it means he can no longer Wordfeud.
‘What can’t you any more?’ asked Mrs Smit.
‘Wordfeud,’ said Verlaat.
‘That’s just Scrabble. A pretentious kind of Scrabble,’ Mrs Slothouwer sniped.
‘Oh, I’ll gladly play Scrabble with you, Mr Verlaat,’ Mrs Van Dam said hopefully.
He did not take her up on the offer.
There are a few residents who stare at their iPhone or iPad all day, observed by the mystified rest. Usually they’re only checking their screens to verify that nobody is trying to reach them, but occasionally they’ll Skype or chat with their children or grandchildren. They prefer to do this when there are as many people in the vicinity as possible. In making the others listen in, they wring from their audience not only admiration, but also envy of all that modern hoo-ha.
Tuesday, 17 March
The States-Provincial and Water Boards elections are tomorrow. The Water Boards have created even more confusion than the Provincial States.
‘It’s about the dikes,’ Graeme told Mrs Duits.
‘And what does the 50Plus Party think about the dikes?’ Duits asked him.
‘Like everyone else, 50Plus probably thinks we should have dikes that are nice and high. There aren’t many political parties that would press for lower dikes and more floods, I shouldn’t think,’ Graeme explained patiently. ‘So it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference how you vote on the Water Boards ballot. Just fill in one of the little boxes – any one – with a red pencil.’
That was most reassuring to Mrs Duits. She decided to colour in the box corresponding to her favourite number: 7.
‘And in the case of those Provincial States, I can just vote for 50Plus, can’t I?’
‘You can, but it wouldn’t be very sensible,’ Graeme replied, then walked away, leaving Mrs Duits more bewildered than ever.
It’s a beautiful spring day. I’m taking off for a ride with Geert later. Seeing us on our scooters, people have already given us some fine nicknames: Chip and Dale, Laurel and Hardy, and the best one, if you ask me: Urbi and Orbi.
We are fond of our monikers.
With the wind at our backs, we can gun it to 25 kph. ‘Not until we’re out on the open road, of course,’ Geert says with a grin.
Wednesday, 18 March
We’re having another of our international dinners out tomorrow. Leonie has made a reservation and refuses to give even a hint, and that’s how it should be. The minibus is ordered for 18:00. Which means there’s plenty of time to rest beforehand, so that later we can give it our all.
The world 200 metre sprint record has been broken by two seconds. It now stands at 55.48 seconds, and Charles Eugster is the current record holder. I’m talking about the speed record for people over ninety-five. Eugster began training when he was ninety-four.
‘I want this to prove that you can take on challenges at any age,’ the newly minted record holder declared. Wise words, Charles.
I’ve worked out that on average, his speed was nearly 13 kph. After the race he did need a little nap.
It seems there’s also a ninety-year-old pole jumper, who has cleared 2.18 metres. I don’t know if I’d dare to watch him do it.
When I told Evert, he said he wouldn’t mind trying to smash the world white wine drinking record.
I have to go and vote, but I’m still undecided.
Thursday, 19 March
A couple of weeks ago I quoted De Gaulle, who said, ‘Growing old is a shipwreck.’ The honourable Henk Krol of the 50Plus Party, whose talent for subtlety is without compare, has come up with another naval metaphor: ‘The cabinet is a sinking ship trying to stay afloat by tossing the elderly overboard.’ Henk Krol, you may remember, is the man who cheated his own employees out of their pensions. I have become a political activist for the first time in my life these past few days, touting the slogan: Be smart. Don’t vote for Krol. Evert thought Blackball Krol was stronger.
I once saw a sign in a snack bar that said: Be smart, eat apple tart. Now there’s a catchy slogan!
Fortunately, 50Plus and the other OAP parties haven’t garnered many seats. If the geriatric crowd had a voice on the Water Boards, they’d squabble over every little ditch, and within a year half the country would be under water.
We’re not too concerned in here about election outcomes threatening the good governance of this country.
Mrs Quint thinks someone sabotaged her miniature seedling gardens. When one of the carers suggested that watering them five times a day might be too much of a good thing, Quint said it was nonsense. She watered her seedlings no more than three times a day.
‘But they aren’t aquatic plants, Mrs Quint.’
‘I know that. I think someone else overwatered them.’
Friday, 20 March
We had a Belgian meal, but to be honest I don’t really know what was so typically Belgian about it, except for the tasty chips and the extensive beer menu.
Not that it made much difference, because we had a most enjoyable evening at Restaurant Lieve in Amsterdam. Leonie blushed as we showered her with compliments on her choice. ‘Your cheeks match your scarlet frock perfectly,’ Evert complimented her.
In order to get the club members a little excited about our upcoming travels to Bruges in the spring, I informed them that we will be paying a visit to the world’s only museum dedicated to fries. The news was enthusiastically received.
Belgium has recently decided to name the chip shop a national treasure.
Mrs Schaap’s Canta was defaced with illegible black graffiti. Schaap was terribly upset, and just sat there sobbing and snivelling for at least an hour, now and then pulling a hanky from her sleeve. She must have been carrying that same hanky around for weeks, by the looks of it; the sound it made gave it away as well. It crackled a bit the first time she unfolded it to blow her nose, before wiping her eyes with it. The nurse offered her a packet of tissues, but Schaap declined, declaring them unhygienic.
Bakker tried to cheer her up: ‘There’s not much you can do to that old Canta that will make it look worse.’
After an hour listening to her sobs, Geert got fed up and stomped downstairs. In five minutes he’d got rid of the graffiti by rubbing it with a special paste. Good as new. ‘That spray paint was inferior,’ he diagnosed. ‘Clean as a whistle again, Mrs Schaap.’
Snorting with joy, Mrs Schaap flung her arms round Geert. I saw him shudder, and I don’t think it was with delight.
Saturday, 21 March
The Old-But-Not-Dead are staging a coup.
I was at Evert’s for a game of chess when Ria, Antoine and Edward stopped in for a chat. The conversation turned to the Residents’ Committee, which has been moribund for almost two years, ever since it was annulled by internecine warfare. The members of the committee were ready to kill one another over such momentous issues as the bingo prize policy, or the timing of the annual outing. Two of them have since kicked the bucket, but no one knows whether there was any direct correlation between their demise and the committee’s internal feud.
A few weeks earlier I’d had the bright idea that we should ask Stelwagen to call for new elections.
‘I sincerely doubt,’ I told my friends, ‘that any of the other residents are still willing to serve on that committee. So if we’ll all throw our hats in the ring just before the application deadline, the Old-But-Not-Dead members will be positioned to take over the Residents’ Committee lock, stock and barrel.’
There was great enthusiasm for this plan, and so the missing Club members were rounded up. A small technical problem remained to be solved, however. Evert can’t technically be part of the committee because he’s in sheltered accommodation, and besides, there’s only room for five mem
bers anyway. The problem was easily solved – we’ll just appoint an advisory board of three. That way the whole Club will have a say. Once elected, we can make use of the amenities to which the committee is entitled, such as a place to meet, a budget and administrative support. Moreover, Stelwagen will have to meet with us at least twice a year, and provide us with information about the board of directors’ decisions. I already look forward to the subtle power struggles that are bound to ensue. Evert said he was primarily interested in seeing the other residents’ faces when they hear that the mandatory residents’ fee has been quadrupled.
‘That should bring about a few conniption fits,’ he said.
Geert and Leonie were delegated to approach the director about calling a new election. They’re the two least likely to rouse suspicion.
We are already high-fiving one another over our imminent coup. I understand that nowadays one doesn’t high-five any more, one fist-pumps. But that, from the sound of it, may require a bit too much exertion.
Sunday, 22 March
The outrage! A ninety-six-year-old woman walking with a Zimmer frame in South Amsterdam was mugged and stabbed in the stomach. Between sips of tea, many a call for the reinstatement of the death penalty was heard.
‘And preferably administered very slowly,’ Bakker said.
I think a psychiatric institution is a better solution, myself.
The old lady was able to flee and call the police. That she did so was a source of wonder and admiration. It also speaks volumes about the mugger’s fleetness of foot. He surrendered to the police not long afterwards.
The result of this deed on the part of a presumably extremely disturbed individual is that you’ll see even fewer old people daring to go out at night.
Man often suffers most
From the adversity he fears
But never actually appears.
Thus has he more to bear
Than God in His wisdom thinks fair.
I didn’t think it was the right moment to recite this little verse.
I popped in to see Grietje. She has become a sort of senile Florence Nightingale, ministering to the others on the ward. She seems content and happy in the chaos of confused, anguished and angry old people all around her.
I have great respect for the nursing staff, who, armed only with angelic patience, try to keep the patients’ lives bearable. Although out of the corner of my eye I did glimpse a nurse confiscating a teddy bear from a lady. Who then proceeded to caress the biscuit tin instead.
Every time I visit Grietje’s ward, I think: let me not forget to get cracking on my own death-with-dignity ending.
Monday, 23 March
In Flanders they have come up with an idea to solve the problem of elderly housing: a shipping container in the back garden of their children’s house. These can be erected in one day, and removed in one day too. Upon removal, don’t forget to check if gramps or granny is still in there.
The containers are prefab and ready to go; all they need is a few of old Dad’s or old Mum’s favourite knick-knacks. Nice and close by for the caregiver, yet you maintain your privacy. It won’t work if you live in a flat, unless you can install the container on the strip of lawn down below. But you’d risk having kids from the neighbourhood kicking their football against it all day long.
The Belgian plan was discussed at teatime with many a shake of the head.
‘A storage container instead of a house. A storage unit for people who are deemed superfluous.’ Leonie gave a deep sigh.
Evert remarked that a food hatch might come in handy.
Quizzical stares all around.
‘That’s poppycock,’ said Mr Verlaat bombastically. He loves that word, poppycock, and employs it often. So often in fact that nobody bothers asking him what he means by it.
‘Indeed. Very poppycock,’ the lady sitting next to him said, nodding.
This afternoon Geert and Leonie are going to Stelwagen’s office to put in a request for a new Residents’ Committee election. The Old-But-Not-Dead members are on tenterhooks. We have already decided that once we are the Residents’ Committee, we’ll hold the management’s feet to the fire about the renovation or demolition plans.
Tuesday, 24 March
The director agreed to consider the request for a Residents’ Committee election, and will give us her answer within a week. Geert didn’t get the sense that any suspicions were raised.
After procrastinating for weeks, I have finally turned my attention to the pamphlet from The Euthanasia Society, A Dignified Self-Determined End of Life, which I’ve had lying around for over a month. It isn’t easy to be actively engaged in your own death, leaving as little as possible to chance. An uneasy and complicated pill to swallow, and I don’t feel like writing about it right now.
Wednesday, 25 March
Stop the press! Care homes can now rent a time machine. Some young people have fashioned a transportable room furnished in the style of the 1960s, with a kitchen, screening room and dance hall attached.
The idea is to give old people a chance to rewind and reset. People who insist on just sitting there silently nodding dully over their cup of tea must be encouraged to revisit the years of their youth. Once they see the old Philips radio, the dresser with photos and a cross-stitched rendering of a Vermeer street scene on the wall, they’ll automatically perk up. Let them dwell on memories, gaze at old photos, play an Elvis record or prepare a pudding with the skin on top. Maybe even dance a waltz. What they can’t do, sadly, is light up an unfiltered Caballero with a genuine Ronson lighter.
Visitors to the nostalgia room are further stimulated by volunteers asking engaging questions such as: ‘What did you do back then?’ and ‘What did you like best?’ and ‘What do you wish you could still do now?’
It appears that the room usually does manage to give them a bit of a lift, but the problem is how to keep them animated once they’re back in the year 2015. They’ll probably sink right back into their old funk, complaining even more loudly than before that everything was so much better in the old days.
The nurse did think Mrs Strikwerda’s wheelchair seemed to be dragging a bit, which made her have to push harder, but actually Mrs Strikwerda’s hand was caught in the spokes.
‘She was making this high-pitched sound, but I thought she was singing,’ the nurse wailed. Strikwerda was taken to A&E for an X-ray. Luckily nothing was broken.
‘I’m fine, really,’ she said over and over again, waving her bandaged hand. She found it quite funny herself.
Thursday, 26 March
I am waiting for a warm, sunny spring day to go fishing with Geert. It’s been at least sixty-five years since I sat on a riverbank with a fishing rod. As a boy I’d often fish in the canal behind our house with a friend. We competed all summer long, and I remember the end score was 57–55, but I don’t know which of us caught the most. The fish we hooked were almost always undersized or even smaller. Removing the hook was my least favourite part. Sometimes it was caught in an eye, in which case I’d leave it to my mate to get it out. We used bread as bait because the thought of threading worms or maggots on the hook disgusted us.
What fascinated me about fishing was the intense indolence of it. I would like to see if I would still enjoy that. Geert has a rod I can use, and he’s promised to remove the fish from the hook for me. I’m curious to see if blissfully staring at a float bobbing in the water is as much fun as I think it will be.
Some of the ladies are against fishing as a sport, but Geert just shrugs.
‘It’s a sport that doesn’t require you to move a lot, and that suits me just fine.’
‘Yes but,’ said Mrs Bregman, ‘fish feel pain, it’s been proved.’
‘What goes on inside a fish’s head will no doubt forever remain a mystery,’ Edward said with a doleful grin, and a wink.
‘Fish do cry, but you can’t see it because they’re under water,’ Mrs Smit declared.
Geert said he would bring a handkerchief f
or the fish next time.
Friday, 27 March
The royalists are rather disappointed in our King. He has shortened his birthday celebration: it’s to last from just 11 a.m. to 1:15 p.m. A two-hour party; Dutch frugality at its best. Willem doesn’t want any koekhappen, or cake-biting, at his birthday; nor does he want to have any other traditional Dutch party games. And there are to be no gifts from his loyal subjects.
Pieter van Vollenhoven, always the most enthusiastic koekhapper, is staying home. In protest, perhaps? The old Queen Mother isn’t going either, but at least that’s something we can understand. She’s had it with waving. I bet she’s staying home to work on a lovely King’s Day drawing.
This year the city of Dordrecht has been chosen to host the festivities, and they are honouring the King with a maritime parade. Nostalgia for the Soestdijk Palace parade of yore grows by the year. Stuff your maritime parades; give us a 5-metre-long spice cake graciously accepted from her subjects by our favourite queen, Juliana. In those days three policemen were enough to patrol the grounds. In 2015 the security preparations need a tome as thick as the telephone book. At the risk of sounding like a tiresome old bore, is this progress? Can we ever go back to the time when no one was afraid of terrorists, and the spice cake didn’t have to go through the metal detector?
Scientists are busy trying to coax a living specimen out of a dead mammoth’s remains. The believers among us think it is blasphemous: ‘Never place thyself upon God’s throne to reinvent Creation.’ Those of us who don’t believe in God, or believe in a God who’s a bit more easy-going, were quite taken with the idea of a couple of mammoths roaming the heathlands of the Veluwe.