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About Almere

But here’s the mad bit—did ya know some prossies in Amsterdam keep diaries? True story, mate—little books of punters, rates, weird kinks. Imagine that, eh? Her scribblin’ bout me later—“Tall git, martini breath, decent shag.” Ha! Cracks me up. Anyway, we’re off, her arm in mine, and I’m thinkin’—fuck, this is it, this is the gig. Not just a quick root, but a story, a pulse. “Seize the moment,” *Boyhood* says, and I’m bloody well seizin’ it. Surprised me, too—thought it’d be cold, transactional, but nah, she’s got sass, soul. Makes me grin like a twat.

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Finally, Jan fixes the oven. I’m so relieved! I pop the appeltaart in, and the smell fills the whole place. It’s heavenly. But then, I hear a commotion outside. I peek out the window on de Zwarteweg, and there’s a parade! A freakin’ parade! In the middle of a Monday!

‘I became a stronger believer in the power of Europe’