I started Dutch classes. Those who know and love me, (or who have ever been trapped in a corner and forced to listen to me), will know my ongoing saga with trying to register for Dutch lessons.

In short there was paperwork, some meetings and a few deeply confusing phone calls.

And then I started them. My husband quickly renamed them my ‘biweekly ritual humiliation’.

My decision to learn Dutch came shortly after the realisation that it was pretty messed up to force total cultural immersion and bilingualism on my kids, but avoid it myself. So, after much paperwork, I started Dutch lessons. Because how hard can it be, right?


Imagine you are drunk at a party and a confident person with a good tan starts chatting with you in English. Then suddenly, and without warning, they start talking backwards to you. They maintain the same kind of sounds, word pattern, spacing and intonation. So for a while you are unclear as to whether your ears have suddenly broken or the language has changed. Now try to imagine actually carrying out conversation with this person.

My life. Twice a week. Till I graduate out of the beginner class.

I was born in Ireland, grew up in England and met my Cornish husband in Catalonia. We lived in the Netherlands with our two differently wired kids before all moving to Yorkshire. I spend my days parenting, writing and being amazed at all that Sheffield has to offer.

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