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Columns
Caressing the ego
Dazed but pleased I glance at my computer
screen. That was a wonderful compliment. Truly
wonderful. I feel a warm glow descending and
hear words slowly unfolding from sentences. A
voice stands up and speaks. It is a warm voice.
A voice full of ambition and potential. A voice
that puts an arm around me and caresses both
sides of my face. I believe I know this voice.
The sounds are familiar. I search my memory.
What voice performed such a sensual dance around
my ego before? Ego! Who caresses it and why?
The sun shines intensely as I arrive in Utrecht,
rushing through traffic. How could I expect to
find a quick and easy parking spot near Neude,
in the heart of the city? I am lucky, don’t ask
how, and start to run towards Le Journal, where
my business appointment should have started at
least half an hour ago. Running women, always
amusing. I see a bus driver shaking his head and
slow down. My dress flutters in the wind. It is
the sun that makes me decide to go still slower.
Around here a feeling of happiness takes hold of
me, a feeling of my own worth. No, I am not
quoting from any spiritual magazine like
Happinez. We spirituals of the twenty-first
century, not impeded by church morals or
otherwise inhibiting dogmatic bastions, can feel,
may feel, want to feel. Okay. So I am happy.
Fine. And how long is this going to last? Well,
at least till I have reached the end of this
very long street. Five hundred metres is my
guess. Out of the corners of my eyes I scan
antique shops and a picturesque bakery. I have
no time to step inside. Not necessary either.
My appointment lasts exactly two cups of coffee
and a bitter lemon. Working in the sun. I look
at the covers that my designer has come up with,
and together we make a long to-do list for the
final things that have to be arranged. The girl
with the bill asks if the sales tax needs to be
separately shown. Well, that’s quite alert of
her. I am no longer in a hurry and walk back to
my car. Wow, another five hundred metres of
sweet happiness. I almost trip over a sidewalk
café chair as I suddenly hear next to me: ‘Hi
there, beautiful!’ Should I say more? What I
mean is, at one time it might have been normal
to be whistled at on every corner, but my
trade-in value for fresh eighteen-year-old girls
contributes to me not remembering when I was
last whistled at. The compliment comes from a
handsome bloke in his thirties (!) standing at a
sidewalk café with a blond beer in his hand. He
laughs. So do I. When I look back I see his
mates punching him in the side with their elbows.
Thanks, guys. The finish of this floating
kilometre was more than worth it. My ego is
fully dented out and now flitters around the sun.
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Written on 26 Mai 2010 |
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