Girls aloud.

Coralie, Mum, Tatiana - washing up., a photo by zoeinbrussels on Flickr.

Coralie, me and Tatiana, washing up after a lovely roast on the Saturday evening. I still find it strange that my daughters are twins as they are so different - although Richard didn't think so.

Whoops, November just went.

We had a lovely visit from the girls, despite the weather and the short duration of the stay. Both Coralie and Tatiana managed to come over without any Sterling whatsoever, so when we went shopping I had to forward money to them. They were as surprised as I was to see christmas decorations up in shops already as well as hearing the faint jingle of christmas songs, but apparently it's quite normal over here in mid-November. Since their departure back to Brussels, I have noticed some absolutely dreadful decorations going up, and neighbours appear to battle with one another as to who gets more lights on their houses. The kitsch - it's so bad that it's somewhat amusing.

Unlike Crewe's christmas lights. Oh dear. The turning on of the lights in town was at the end of November and, well, there's not much I can say apart from where are they, surely that's not it? The inside of the market centre has been nicely done, but they do like electric blue christmas lights. Electric blue isn't really a colour that I'd associate with this time of year, but hey ho, this is all a learning experience. I'm not sure what I'm learning, but I'm definitely experiencing something.

We've given decorating a temporary break as we can't really start on the dining room until all the rubbish from Richard's house is properly boxed or put up on eBay. As I wait for that to happen, all sorts of things that we thought were fine are now proving the opposite. For example, the day I went to clean the bottom of my wardrobe. I removed a pair of suede shoes to find that they were going moldy. The wardrobe was a made to measure one and is fitted against an exterior wall although there is a hole in the back of the cupboard allowing me to get to the sockets there. The wall was wet. Great. My first thought was condensation which appears to be correct as ever since I have been airing the room more thoroughly on a daily basis, the wall appears to no longer be wet. I need to find large supplies of silica gel now.

The living room has a damp streak from the ceiling to the picture rail. What is causing this is anyone's guess, but at least it hasn't got worse. Since I have started airing the room, the condensation has cleared up on the window sill and patches of mold have appeared around the skirting board. Water has leaked down the side of the bath to the kitchen ceiling causing a pretty, damp patch.

I'm not a fan of new houses, but at least in my last house, I had been the only owner since it was built and so knew of any problems (the bloody shower), but this house is old and needs more air bricks.

I am trying to introduce birds other than just starlings and sparrows into my garden without blowing my budget out of proportion. Bird food and feeders have turned into quite an industry here whereby you can enter shops entirely dedicated to selling such stuff. I was hoping that Richard would bang together a bird table for me as I am not going to splash out on an elaborate bird feeder hanger thing. If anybody has an idea on making a cheap mix of sunflower seeds etc to attract smaller birds, I'd be very grateful. That feeder is empty within two days as it stands. I don't like hanging the feeders off my apple tree either, but there's no where else, really.

And that really is all. I've applied for a couple of jobs, found out that I was entitled to the Belgian chomage for up to 4 months after I moved over here - IF I'd signed up over here straight away. Thanks for telling me, Belgium - I did ask if there was anything I had to do when I moved here and was told "nothing".

I do know that I have to sign up at the Belgian Embassy, something that I've not yet done. I'll get around to it, after all, now that Belgium has a government, it may count.

What for is a good question.

I'm still here. Just.

Belgium is now high on my shit-list as it fails miserably to give me or tell me anything that I need to know. And that is after I ask for it. Nicely. What will happen to my pension is anybody's guess, what will happen to the few euros left in my bank account over there is bleak and yet my lawyers are still chasing me for money. These requests from them leave me cold as I have told them the situation: no job but desperately looking, no JSA and my house has started to chew generously into my bank account. Fuck off.

Richard and I have finally moved into the house as you have naturally guessed from the dire lack of posts. The bedroom is finished although it could do with some pictures, the bathroom is finished although I still need to clean the tiles and there is an issue involving a shower door to attach to the bath. If anybody specialises in shower doors, I could be an interesting challenge for you. The guest bedroom is finished although pictures are needed in there too, as well as two bedside cabinets. The living room is also close to being finished - we can relax in it, which is good enough. The dining room, hall and landing need to be finished and we haven't even started in the dining room. We eat off a cupboard door on top of a work bench in the kitchen, rammed up against the fridge/freezer which is a bit annoying, but there isn't anywhere else to eat.

Coralie and Tatiana are coming to visit on Friday for a very short stay so I can show them how people climatise in this part of the world. It is absolutely useless to judge what to wear by looking at those already out and about outside as on a hot day they will over-dress to the point of excess, and on a cold day, people tend to walk around in t-shirts and shorts. They're a funny bunch, up here. They will also get to see grown men cycling around town on their child-size BMXs, knees sticking out at right-angles, no lights and basically a threat to all drivers.

I can't wait to see my daughters. I'll treat them to PIES.

I'm going home. Back to Belgium.

This country has started to drive me absolutely mad. The house is almost ready to live in as all rooms bar one have been decorated and just need the final polish and eventual hanging up of pictures etc, etc.

I went and signed on at Crewe's wonderful Job Centre where it seems to be cool to be seen hanging outside, covered in tattoos, cider in hand, dressed in a tracksuit while trying to keep a Staffie in control as you talk about how long you've spent inside. Obviously, the longer, the more impressive. I didn't quite fit in with that lot so decided to go inside and meet the charming, flame-red haired Wendi. I was pencilled in for the appointment as 'Zowie' which did, admittedly, make a change from the usual 'Zoey' or 'Zoei'. And I thought Belgium had problems spelling my name....

I followed Wendi, burdened with all my papers that I had been told to bring in, as she wobbled slowly to her desk.

"Right," she started, "What is your full name?" and then proceeded to ask me the usual, mundane questions that I get asked each time I go there.

"Have you got a Form 301?"

A blank cloud loomed over me as I wondered what on earth this could be. A fine? A speeding ticket?

"No, but I have brought in everything that they told me to bring in when I called Chester. Some is in French and some in Flemish - but I was told that that wouldn't be a problem as you have translators here."

Wendi studied the papers and slowly looked up at me and gave me a smile that meant, quite evidently that she wanted to say "like fuck we have" but instead chose to say "I'll take copies of these, if that's alright with you?" After about an hour of going through the papers that I had previously filled in, stating my address and wish to receive corresspondence there (errr.....where else?), my marital status, lack of dependent children, bank account, address (again), vital statistics and so on, I signed the papers, was told to sign on the next day and would be told how much JSA (Job Seeker's Allowance) I'd be entitled to within the next 2 weeks.

I signed on again but had still not received this mysterious letter from Chester and so, after having been told at the Job Centre that I wasn't entitled to anything, decided to make a few calls of my own. After having called the third number given by numerous people at numerous other numbers, it appears that I should be in possession of a U1 form proving that I was in the Belgium system when in Belgium.

The following day, I received a letter telling me that I was not eligible for JSA. No reason was given at all, just the fact that I am not, apparently, eligible for JSA. The letter was sent to.....Richard's.

Not the address that I put down on the papers that I filled in.

I decided to call the number given on the letter to ask why I am not eligible for JSA, simply to see what explanation they would give me.

"You need an U2 form."
"U2? What about the U1?"
"You need to provide an U2 form by next Friday."
"Belgian post is very slow, you know."
"You also need a letter giving you authorisation to seek work in this country."
"But I'm an EU National - surely I can WORK in this country?"
"No, I am sorry, but I'm reading by the guidelines and you definitely need this letter."
"And where do I get this letter from?"
"Oh, I'm sorry - I can't help you there."

I have carried on looking for work but have made it clear for my adviser that I really shouldn't be as I don't have this letter of authorisation from....well, your guess is as good as mine.

And then I went and called Belgium today for my U2 form.

Several pounds poorer and after dealing with a country which refuses to speak French - if you are a francophile and they're not - and I may be slightly closer to getting that U2 form.

It will take 4 weeks to arrive. If I qualify.

I'm thinking of moving elsewhere now.

Honey, May 1974 - 6 September, 2011.

Eulogy at Honey's funeral by Patrick Devitt (I have taken the liberty of substituting Honey for her real name.)

My friend Honey lived an extra-ordinary life. She died before her time and we miss her. Trying to sum up such a life is impossible. Honey could be remembered as anyone of the following:
Honey the Artist – who sought to bring beauty to world, who sought to challenge and confront her audience, to ask them to stand back and observe or to move in to see the detail, to challenge their own perceptions.

It was Honey the Artist, I met first in Glasgow in 2000, she invited a bunch of students to watch some performance art in some downtown gallery. I believe she even promised a free glass or two of wine. So being a fan of a free drink, I trooped along. Little did I know that was how I would meet one of my greatest friends ever while being sworn at by a German eating Bratwurst. We shared many laughs and memories over the years, this brings me to the second Honey.

Honey the Friend – my friend Honey was a firm and mighty friend, putting herself out for those around her. Her friend, Marianne, who cannot be with us today, asked me to recall one of her fondest memories of Honey. After a serious operation in Brussels, Marianne needed some assistance getting around, Honey stepped up and organised a rota of friends to come around and take care of her.

She had a habit of producing some unusual gift for her friends, including a jar of Marmite on one occasion. She had an unusual sense of humour and anyone who saw her painted car Malcolm would certainly agree. Our friend had a generous spirit and a way of making things happen for her friends.

It was as a mother that Honey really came into her own. She took great pride in her beautiful children. They are the very expression of Honey, her creativity, her joy and sometimes her sheer devilment. In her children, I see Honey’s poise and grace, her creativity and curiosity, her playfulness and mischievousness. They are the very best of her. She took great solace in you. You gave her great comfort. In each of you I see part of your mother.

In her eldest daughter, I see Honey’s art, the beauty of creation, a beautiful young lady from afar and when you get to know her you see her, like her mother’s art you find complexity and sincerity that warms the soul.

In her son, her little man, I see the playful side of our Honey. Whenever I would visit Honey, I remember her son using me as a climbing frame. You have such joy in you, and you share it so generously, just like your mother.

Her little Pema, who I am just getting to know, you helped her mother fight, you gave her the energy to fight, you spurred her on to confound everything she was told. One of the things I will remember most about my friend was her spirit, her determination, her sheer will – she was fierce.

Another Honey – Honey the Warrior. After Honey was diagnosed with cancer, she was not given long to live, she fought, she fought hard, she survived. She endured pain. She kept going. She made sure her children would be well cared for.

To those of us charged with their care, help them remember their mother for the strong and complex woman that she was. For the sometimes daft and funny woman she could be. For the artist that she was. Know that we, her friends and loved ones, will be there to support you as you help these wonderful children grow and develop.

To those of us left saddened by Honey’s passing, I say remember! Remember her joy, remember her Spirit, remember her creativity, remember the friendship she gave each one of us. Our Honey was many things to many people: friend, counsel, lover, mother, foil and inspiration. Our lives are richer for having known her. We each have our own memories of Honey, hold them in your hearts, share them with her children, share them with each other and in doing so remember!

I will always love and miss my friend; she was taken from us too early. I know she does not suffer anymore. I know she is in a better place, I know that she is watching over us all, especially her children. May you grow to be like your mother, true of heart, creative and wise, fierce and determined and always thoughtful of others.

Honey was my friend and I will miss her but I feel her strength and love here today, so we do not say goodbye but see you later.

Killing me softly.

I have been lazy and ignored this little corner of the internet while I carry on wishing that I win the lottery week after week - if only I gambled my money away in such a fashion, allowing me to get professionals in to finish off my house and landscape the garden properly. As it stands, the main bordello bedroom has been completed, including lighting. So far there are no pictures on the wall as Richard's taste in art greatly differs from mine. But I have had the fitted wardrobes done and although designed by a female there is no way in hell that I can hang a dress in my wardrobe. I'll have to hang them in the guest bedroom's wardrobe, when we get it.

Slowly, the house is coming together although it is still a bit of a very dusty building site.

We are getting to know our neighbours, although only by sound on one side. Some very friendly Polish people live there, or at least, there is a man who smiles at us a lot whenever he tends to his roses in his front garden. As he and several friends were enjoying a barbecue the other day one of the men decided to have a good, long pee against the hedge separating our gardens just as Richard went out to get the washing in. Even the Belgians, who are well known for having a pee here, there and everywhere, don't tend to pee in front of their friends at a barbecue.

Perhaps it's an English thing.

I am still enjoying my visits to ASDA and its little 'Vulture Corner' where I can buy some fantastic deals when they reduce the prices. I bought a £6 joint of beef yesterday for 44p and 2 trays of chicken goujons worth £4 each for £1 each. I never got such deals in my local Delhaize in Belgium so it's like winning the lotto here. Well, sort of.

Today we went to a Boot Market, and although I have been to one in Liverpool, it was fun. We came back with four books, a bottle opener, a leather bracelet to replace Richard's broken one and three antique glasses. Oh, and Richard bought a stack of ancient copies of the Daily Mail (of all papers) dating from 1952-69. I'll burn them next week.

It's back to prepping the hallway, landing and dining room tomorrow.

My back really hurts.

Go on Richard, correct my apostrophe's. Snigger.

Impossible

Richard: Zoe, I tell you something and 5 minutes later it's gone, hasn't it. It's like fucking Mission Impossible in this house, isn't it. I feel like adding "This message will self destruct in 5 seconds" after everything I say.

I do love you though.