I have a new nickname- Running Water. It's not some reference to the fact my pelvic floor ain't what it used to be or that I can quaff wine like water. No it is in fact my pub singer name. Whilst away with the girlies ( alright middle aged womenies ) we had much hilarity one night after a fantastic deli dinner spread chez nous. Chez nous by the way was a fantastic Dutch house, canal side just off prisengracht http://www.vrbo.com/147781 ). At some point during the evening it was suggested that we play pub singer a la Vic Reeves stylee. This was a well received suggestion until we had to decide who went first. Ever the shrinking violet I opted to go first with my rendition of Call me by Blondie. It was at this that we discovered that I sounded less pub singer and more Native American. I have to say it was the most funniest thing I have seen and heard in a long time, one sounded like a cleft palated mute, another Frank Spencer on speed, another a frenetic chicken. We all agreed that what happened that night had to stay in the room but as always at lunch the next day we couldn't help ourselves but to re-enact it.
In addition to the pub singer we discovered stroopwaffeln which are deceptively heavy biscuits, quite tasty, but something we found hysterically funny. I actually think this was less to do with the biscuit and more to do with the fact that we had been up since 4am. We played the old stand by game celebrity lookalikee with always contentious results. One friend of well endowedness got her boobs stuck under a table whilst running buddy 1 was presented by the staff with a banana complete with quickly fashioned foreskin and pubes much to the amusement of the restaurant staff( Sama Sebo best Indonesian in Amsterdam, you wont find it in any guide books ). The allocation of bedrooms was done pre arrival but was quickly rearranged once the highly sought after loft room was discovered to have near vertical steps for access and no toilet. This is not good for middle aged women who have poor bladder control and the need for midnight piddling. Never before has the phrase "a pot to piss in" been more appropriate as one party member missed out on the luxury level below complete with 2 toilets thus finding herself scouring the apartment for suitable receptacles to hold a middle of the night wee. Unfortunately this first night the said pot was not big enough and we spent much of the rest of the holiday pointing out suitable vessels.
We packed a lot into a short stay but the cycling had to be my fave. Particularly as we scooted round the warm autumn sun in the Vondel park with mum of three displaying her speedy prowess whilst others clearly had forgotten how to ride a bike. This culminated in taking in a beer at the Film museum sat in the warm sun and a rather attractive 40 something wealthy Amsterdammer offering to take several group photos. By the end of the afternoon we had all secretly plotted to leave the UK get a job in a coffee shop and ride a bicycle. Now how do we tell out families.
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