In praise of the electric kettle

And, we're back in Amsterdam again. What a relief! There's a part of me that believes that I'll never actually come home from one of these trips (which can make traveling with me somewhat stressful) OR that when we get home, the apartment will have burnt down. Luckily, the latter was not an option this time, given the frequent visits by our makelaar; I just wished we'd asked her to buy us some milk so that we could have had a cup of tea when we got in, instead of having to brave the "delights" of Albert Heijn at 7 pm on a Saturday evening.

In fact, the worst part of the trip home was the layover at Heathrow for 3 hours. I love flying with Virgin, don't get me wrong, but from the point that we touch down at Heathrow until we touch down at Schiphol, I wish we'd flown KLM/Northwestern direct to Amsterdam. I was so tired yesterday that I walked into the men's toilets in the BMI lounge and stood, staring bemusedly at the urinals, trying to work out how women would use them, before realizing I was in the wrong place.

It is lovely to be back in an air-conditioning-free zone, though. I woke up this morning not looking like the Bride of Frankenstein, for once, and I've yet to receive an electric shock off our carpet. I have clean socks and underwear, and -- best of all -- an electric kettle! In fact, an electric kettle would be my desert island "luxury" item (complete with generator, teabags, and milk, of course). I don't understand how people survive without them: Kettles on a gas hob take far too long to boil, and you can't make hot Ribena using a coffee machine. Even the crappiest hotel room is significantly improved by the presence of a kettle and tea set.

After living outside the UK for seven of the past 10 years, it turns out that you can take the Dumpling out of Britain, but you can't take Britain out of the Dumpling. Or something. I'm still tired.