Good morning cajon

This morning, i woke up playing the cajon.Last night's dreams consisted of owning a stage for a short while. Accompanied by a good guitar player and a couple of microphones, we delighted a low-key but cosy venue with a series of light-hearted covers before a couple of songs we'd wrote ourselves.

I played bare foot and Jason Mraz and my gran were at the bar.

Dreams can now be even more versatile. The little rock box is full of purcussion and goes well with anything acoustic, beachy or jazzy and it's a shame you cant really see it in the picture.

For someone who's developed an annoying habbit of playing hand-drums on the table after dinner, on the desk at work and on the handlebars of his bike... i think it's a step in the right direction.

What the fuck is a cajon? Answer here.

Letters typed in strawberry blonde

Dear Birthday Girl,
I bought and wrote you a card last week. The words more carefully thought and written than the words on this screen. Then i realised i no longer have your address. Our reason, season and lifetime seems a distant reality now but thoughts and memories of you and us are regulars at the mind cafe. Memories with a smile. That's close enough for pop rock and pure enough for ratpack.

A blaze of strawberry blonde hair on a distant cyclist, the sweet & soft sound of a Scandinavian accent lost in Amsterdam, a casual conversational reference to fjords or the northern lights, the memory of the mind is jogged in many ways.

Stepping inside the van Gogh museum this weekend, i was un-prepared for the mind jogging, but there it was. The wispy hair on the famous self-portrait wears the same strawberry blonde tone as yours.

For a man who seemingly lead a rather complicated existence, Vincent van Gogh decided to be an artist for a beautifully simple reason, "to give a meaningful souvenir to the world". At least that's what the leaflet said...

If i was as talented as Brett Dennen and had produced a souvenir as good as this, i'd dedicate it to you:

'Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened' is what it says in the favourite quotes section of your facebook profile.

I am smiling.

I miss you but i'm smiling.

Happy Birthday.

Powered by our own shapely thighs

The morning gathering took place again.

A Dutch rush-hour is a little different to the other global scenes of 9am and 5pm chaos. New Yorkers hustle and bustle accompanied by a take-out coffee amidst a sea of yellow cabs. City gents in London respond to grey skies and light drizzle with a modest yet expensive raincoat. Ever committed office occupants in Seoul cram the subways long before 9am and long after 5pm.

I've always practised a more relaxed approach to a journey to work. A David Brent-esque boss once told me that if i'm going to be late, be an hour late and not just 10 or 15 mins , "enjoy your breakfast". Or was that actually a David Brent quote from an episode of The Office? I forget.

The attitude seems to fit perfectly here in Amsterdam.

A Dutch bicycle will only go as fast as it's owners legs, and a cycle journey to work is never a really a chore. Each morning, i roll up to the intersection of the A9 ring-road. There's no cycle path under or over so i'm forced to wait for the little red bike to turn green on our own designated cycle traffic lights. As it's a busy road, the ceremonious changing of colours can take a while.

After a minute or two, a gathering has occured and we make quite an impressive number. Several bikes, a couple of mopeds, a woman with a strange bike/SUV combo (she has two children safely seated and strapped on the bike aswell as herself), all two-wheeled attendees at this mornings silent disco. Each individual entertained by his/her own iPod headphones. Some of us sing out loud. Some of us play purcussion on our handlebars. Older or more conservative group members just smile or tap a foot to a silent rhythm.

Everything is OK.

More than OK.

As the red cycle vanishes and a green cycle appears, we shuffle and wobble into place like a nervous orchestra. SUV woman takes a surprising lead only to be overtaken by the mopeds. He goes left, she goes right and to my soundtrack of the Pulp Fiction theme tune, it seems like we're following a script we collectivley and subliminally revised during last nights dreams.

He is dressed in an expensive suit and probably earns an anual salary of three figures, she's a fashion designer and has a desk diary full of appointments with world famous names. He works at McDonalds on the Leidseplein and i don't really know what i do here yet. But more importantly, in our own wobbly orchestra, as in every moment outside our little 9-5... we all smile as we are all one.

This is Amsterdam.

I like it here.

My crazy aunt Amsterdam

As a little human in this big world, i always looked forward to mum & dad waltzing down the stairs and proclaiming they were heading out for the evening. Rather than being a reflection on the company of my parents, i looked forward because it would mean a grandparent or two would babysit me and my even littler sister.

While the lingering quality of parental purfume and aftershave slowly departed the hall, the little humans enjoyed close to complete freedom of the biscuit tin, the cake tin & the TV and a much later bedtime. I've never had a token crazy aunt to babysit me but i imagine it's a pretty similar deal. Maybe her cothes would be brighter than grans and she might use the words 'fuck', 'shit' and 'bastard' more.

These days i'm busy scratching the surface of life in my favourite city, and trying to get used to operating a mildly corporate mentality between the hours of nine and five. Once again, i'm a little human but now i'm being constantly guided by my new-found crazy aunt, the city of Amsterdam.

She is a little bit crazy, lays down some strange rules yet has nearly no rules for other things, she fines me if the lights on my bicycle don't work, but she gives ample opportunity for sex, drugs & rock'n'roll, she's dis-functional but owns a wisdom born on a higher level, a bit mad but ultimatley a whole lot of fun, smiles and freedom. No boundries.

If the British Ukelele Orchestra weren't so British, i'd swear they were from Amsterdam: